Since my absence has reduced Heidi to inquiring after me on my best friend’s blog, I thought it prudent to write a post before too much speculation is sparked as to my whereabouts.

I’m here.  I’ve been here.  At this moment I am propped against my headboard with a warm flaxseed aromatherapy pillow– which was a gift from Sharon–draped across my neck.  I’ve only just a few minutes ago stepped out of the jacuzzi where I sat slumped down in the water so the jets could massage my neck muscles.  In other words, I’ve got a doozy of a tension headache going on.

My last real post was full of excitement about my pending trip to Las Vegas to see Phantom of the Opera.  My life is such a great one that I get flown to big cities for the sole purpose of enjoying live theatre for my birthday.  I am lucky and, believe me, I know it.

The trip was perfect.  My mom and I flew in, dumped our bags in the hotel room and promptly walked to Harrah’s and stuffed our faces at their fabulous buffet.  I have two words for you:  Cream.  Puffs.  I seriously could have eaten those cream puffs until I puked.  I even developed a method for how I best liked to eat them:  I bit about a quarter of the pastry off of the top and then sucked the cream out before popping the rest in my mouth and letting my eyes roll back in my head as the perfectly flaky crust melted in my mouth.

We waddled out of Harrah’s to the Caesar’s Palace Forum for some light shopping before showtime.  My mother admired a tiny pair of high-heeled sandals before noticing they were Jimmy Choo’s.  Holding a pair of Jimmy Choo’s in her hands seemed to be a spiritual moment for her on par with my experience with the cream puffs.  We did remarkably little damage at the Forum shops.  I bought a Brighton ankle bracelet and she bought a picture frame for my nephew who is due to push his way into this world sometime this month.

On our way to the Venetian, where Phantom is performed, we wandered into the mothership:  Sephora.  The lip glosses, blushes and mascaras, oh my!  I fell in love with a lip gloss only to forsake it when I learned it cost $42.00 for a little tube.  I bought a new blusher by Laura Gellar and my mom used Amazing Concealer to touch up my dark circles.  I touched up my mascara and smacked some gloss onto my lips and we were ready to hit the Venetian.

The Phantom of the Opera:  If I told you that I sat with happy tears rolling down my cheeks for parts of the show, would it convey just how much I loved it?  If I told you that I had goosebumps when the overture played, would you understand?  Would you appreciate my wonderment if I told you that I gasped and couldn’t breathe again for a moment when the drapes were pulled away as the opera house was revealed to us in it’s full past splendor?  Oh, my God.  I loved it. I proudly wore a pink and silver sparkly Phantom tee-shirt the next day on my trip home.

On the way back to our hotel, my mother stopped at an outdoor bar and ordered a drink.  Before she’d made up her mind which drink, exactly, she’d like to order, the young bartender began tossing and juggling bottles and cups and ice scoops in the air, stopping only long enough to squirt several different colored juices in a cup.  Mom watched confusedly for a second, certain that she’d not specified a drink, before asking, “What are you making?”  He flippantly answered, “Somthin’ sexy,” and kept up his elaborate choreography.  My mother, who is rarely at a loss for words, simpered, “Oh.  Okay,” just as he plopped a cherry and lime wedge in her cup and offered it to her with a flourish.  And a price tag of $10.00.  It was priceless.

The trip was perfect.  I am glad I finally had an opportunity to write about it.  My birthday present this year will be another trip to another show.  I can’t wait.

I have more to write, more to say.  But my husband has informed me that he is fading fast into the Land of Nod and I must sign off if I wish to spend any time with him before morning.

Adieu.

the circle of life

My friend Brenda came over tonight and cooked my favorite meal for all of us. On the menu was: brandy-blue cheese steak, rosemary and blue cheese mashed potatoes, green beans cooked with almonds and bell peppers, and rhubarb-blueberry cobbler. I was so thrilled that she was cooking for me that I also cooked one of her favorites for her: mandarin orange cake.

This was the first home-cooked meal any of us have had since before my surgery so I was even more grateful for Brenda’s selfless gift to me.

I’ve been thinking about how so many people have formed a protective circle around me and fussed over me and taken care of me ever since my hysterectomy was scheduled. I still can’t believe it. I can’t believe so many people care about me — and in such a fierce, protective, loving, and tender way!

But I was talking to Jellyhead last night about it all and I told her that all of the kindness and protectiveness is making me feel very good about myself and the way I have lived my life. I hope that doesn’t sound arrogant.

It’s just . . . I’ve always tried very hard to be tolerant (though I hate that word), kind, loyal, and giving. I am very much an alpha-female who hits the world head-on, make no mistake about that. I’ve never thought striving to be kind and good meant that I have to be a doormat. You’ll not find anyone who will tell you I am meek and mild. But you’ll also not find any who say that I am hard-hearted or cold.

I’ve never strived to be good to anyone because of what I thought I might get out of it. I am simply a very sensitive person who can’t find it in herself to contribute any more hatefulness or pain to this world.

I tried to attend my 11 year old’s basketball game last night — a feat that turned out to be too ambitious for four days post-op. As I painfully made my way toward the door so Brad could take me home, a woman ran up to me and exclaimed, “Are you okay? Oh, I saw you were in the hospital and I was SO worried!” I explained that I’d been in the hospital for a hysterectomy. “So WHAT are you doing here? Huh? Go home and rest!” She led my by my elbow and I swear she would have hauled me over her shoulder to the car if I’d resisted.

That woman was a former patient of mine who happens to work in the business office of our hospital. She had a health problem that landed her in CCU years and years ago. I was her nurse. She was frightened to find herself in a critical care unit at such a young age. I was kind to her. I was gentle with her. I let her talk. I treated her the way I would wish to be treated in the same situation.

And now she is nearly tripping over herself to help me.

Another friend of mine saw my name on the OR schedule the day before my surgery. She saw that I was supposed to be on the 7th floor at 5 AM. She called me (but I wasn’t there so Brenda answered my phone) and insisted that I come to her unit at 6:30 so I could get some extra sleep and so she could assure that I was well-taken care of.

She happens to be the same friend who went into premature labor a few years ago. While she was on bedrest, I visited her often and took her books to read and pretty flowers for her hospital room. When she had the baby, I brought a gift and told her how beautiful her daughter was. I was kind to her.

And she was so happy to help me when I needed it.

I could go on and on with the stories. I could tell you that I’ve been Brenda’s biggest fan and staunchly loyal friend and colleague for many years and that’s why she has bent over backward to take care of me. I could tell you that I have friends whom I have pampered and showered affection upon when they needed it most and now I am the one being showered with gifts and love and attention.

I could tell you that I worried and cared for my step-father and fought fearlessly with his physicians so that he would have the best possible care when he was very sick and required emergency surgery a couple of years ago. I sat by his bedside and nursed him and loved him for days on end.

And he was at the hospital waiting for me the morning of my surgery. He warned the nurse to be careful with my little veins.

No, I never once considered that my personal policy of kindness, gentleness, love and loyalty would reap such rewards for me in my time and need. But I am so honored to be here to see how such things work in the circle of life.

And I am especially happy that my friend Brenda loved me enough to make me brandy-blue cheese steak tonight!

Thanks Brenda!

side effects

Well, here I am. Back home, minus a uterus. I like to think of it as the new, improved version. Heather 2.0, if you will.

I have been struck, utterly overwhelmed, completely awed by the outpouring of love and support from family and friends this week. I don’t know what I have ever done to merit such affection and devotion but I have been so thankful for the kindnesses bestowed upon me of late.

I woke very early Tuesday morning so to be at the hospital by 6:30. I moved about my bedroom by the warm light of a red-shaded bedside lamp, making sure I’d gathered all that I would need during my hospital stay. My husband watched me from his snug and warm place in the bed before stretching his hand out. I perched next to him and looked down, playing with his fingers. He leaned up and brushed away a rogue tear that had slipped down my cheek. “You scared?” I nodded. “It’s okay to be scared, baby.”

I called Brenda on the way to the hospital. I’d slept like a baby the night before the surgery and she’d slept not at all, watching my surgery in her dreams every time she nodded off. The day before, I’d made a joke that I was feeling confident about the surgery because Brenda would be there watching over me. “If I die when Brenda’s there, God really wants me. Because only God could stand up to Brenda and win. And even then, He might lose.”

My stepfather was waiting for me at the hospital. He’d gotten there before me despite the fact that it’s only a 10 minute drive for me and a 1 1/2 hour drive for him. And yet, I was not surprised that he beat me there in the least. He was that determined to be there for me.

The frantic flurry of activity that preceded the surgery is a blur to me. My parents and my husband’s parents were there. Brenda was there. My parents all behaved the same way they acted when I was in the hospital when I was twelve: My father stepped out of the room when the IV was started because he couldn’t bear it. My stepfather bravely looked on but told the nurse, “You have to be careful with her. She has teeny-tiny, fragile, little veins.”

A nurse slipped a pair of thigh high TED stockings on my legs after I’d shed all of my clothing and been enveloped in the voluminous, breezy hospital gown. Sharon called to ask how I was doing and I groused that I’d never felt so ugly and un-sexy in my life. She quipped, “You’re wearing thigh highs without any panties. What could be sexier than that?”

My doctor and scrub nurse popped through the curtain to wave and answer questions. The respiratory therapist gave me a breathing treatment and asked me several questions which I answered only to have her snap, “Don’t talk! Breathe!” My anesthesiologist, well-liked and personally chosen by me, introduced himself to my family and smiled down at me before pushing something into my IV. The last thing I remember was reaching out to my husband and feeling his warm hand clasp mine tightly.

************************************************

Through the murky haze of sedation, I could hear Brenda order, “Heather! Wake up!” She says I was lying there looking half-dead one moment, occluding my airway and white as a sheet, and bolting upright the next moment and rubbing my head. Like, rubbing my head really hard with the palms of my hands. And fighting with my hair, causing it to tangle and mat.

When I woke up enough to be aware, my hair was neatly french-braided. That’s the type of friend Brenda is to me. She gently braids my hair for me when I am too sedated to appreciate it because she knows it will hurt to brush out the tangles later.

I wish I could remember more about those first several hours. I know that Brenda never left my side and neither did Brad, once he was permitted to see me. I know that I insisted on speaking with Sharon when I heard Brad or Brenda giving her updates on my condition and that I drunk-dialed her at least once. I know that my father and stepmother, inlaws, and my step-father all waited until they could see my face and be reassured I was okay before leaving the hospital. I know my husband and my mother stayed by my side until I was awake.

I remember my friend Angie calling me very soon after I was out of surgery but I don’t remember anything she said to me. Jellyhead called me bright and early Aussie-time and I’d been out of surgery for a couple of hours by then yet I still don’t remember anything she said, either. It doesn’t matter. What I remember is feeling loved. Very, very loved.

I received seven bouquets of flowers. I received several cards and phone calls. After my father called yesterday morning and I was crying because I was in pain and tired and the doctor was keeping me an extra day, I was the recipient of a soft, plushy stuffed animal with bright balloons tied to his ear. When my stepfather heard I’d been crying, he nearly drove the 90 mile stretch over here just to sit beside me. He told me to “just say the word.” The word I said was, “No.” I was okay. I really was.

The outpouring of love and support has only continued since I’ve been home. My mother, who was an invaluable help to me this week bought me some soft, feminine pajamas and some fuzzy slipper-socks to wear while I am recuperating. The woman who’s worked for us for years declared on Monday that she was going to take very good care of me and she has — she has come over every day at 1:30 when she gets off of her other job and she’s cleaned and done laundry and picked my children up from school. I tried to thank her today and she shushed me, “You do so much for me too, Heather. I am doing this for you now.”

I may have gone into the hospital for a hysterectomy but it’s my heart that’s been most affected. This feeling of being absolutely, unequivocally, and unconditionally loved has been the loveliest side effect I’ve ever experienced.

my life in pictures

I spent last weekend at my mother’s house. Some of our favorite family members were in town. Saturday night there were seven strong females, all with the same blood running through our veins, sitting in my mother’s living room drinking margaritas, kicking up our heels, and laughing. A lot.

After everyone left, my mother and I pulled out several dresser drawers full of old pictures and sifted through them — every single one of them –remembering and reminiscing, laughing and crying and, sometimes, hooting and hollering. Some of those pictures, they were vey, vey funny. Oh my.

I came away from the experience appreciative of how well my life has been chronicled. There are pictures from my babyhood and toddlerhood:

And pictures from my grade school days:

Pictures from high school in expensive formals:

Pictures from my college days that I can’t decide whether to burn or frame since they remind me that I used to have a killer bod:

(The piggyback picture is for you, Keith)

Anyone looking through those photos could see that I was much-loved and very spoiled. Not much has changed since then. I am still spoiled. My birthday present from my mother is to fly to Las Vegas for the weekend to see Phantom of the Opera or else spend a spa weekend in Dallas. Whichever I want. She still likes to buy me pretty clothes from time to time too. I wear a little red crushed velvet robe that was a gift from her quite often. It’s feminine and beautiful and it makes me feel like a princess.

Some things never change. I still feel loved and doted on. I love the picture of me in the cowboy hat because my stepfather grinned and stuck it on my head just before he snapped the picture –just because he thought it’d look cute. That was just before he asked me to dance a waltz and just after he’d proudly introduced me to several friends as his daughter.

I am loved. I’ve always known that but it’s only now that I’m realizing how much that love is in evidence in all of these old photographs.

And here I am now, happy and healthy and still having my picture taken by people who love me — in this case, my husband.

where i’ve been

Where have I been?

I’ve been volunteering at the school and ironing work shirts. I’ve been kissing tears away after flu shots and counseling about heart attack and stroke risk at health fairs. I’ve been hugging my body pillow as I sleep and chasing away nightmares at 3 AM. I’ve been watching in amazement as my little son learns to read and my older son learns to be himself.

I’ve been giving presentations to nursing students and going to lunch with old friends. I’ve been organizing birthday parties and mentoring colleagues. I’ve been calculating statistics and petting puppies. I’ve been singing in choirs and comforting best friends. I’ve been shopping for jeans and pacing hearts.

And, I’ve been ice skating with these people.

My brother, Brad, me, my stepdad

ties that bind

My grandfather was here for a stress test yesterday, escorted by an aunt who was much loved by me in my childhood. In truth, she is still much loved by me — only I love her warily, from afar.

This woman who is my father’s half-sister was so kind to me after my parents divorced. She and my other aunt, her sister, often took me with them for weekends in the mountains at the cabin they owned together. There are many happy memories from my childhood that are there only because of her.

Now that I am a grown woman, though, she seems irritated by me. I don’t know if it is my voice or the way I look or the way I talk or even merely my presence that bothers her. But always I sense that she is displeased by me.

Upon greeting her and my grandfather yesterday morning, my aunt affected a far away look, as if she didn’t notice I was there. I tried to shrug it off and chalked it up to the fact that she’d driven a long way early in the morning only to sit and wait in a hospital lobby.

But then my husband walked up. My husband whom she’s only met a few times over the last twelve years but whom she’s always adored. He draped his sports jacket around her at my uncle’s funeral many years ago and she’s loved him ever since. She says he reminds her of my Uncle James, her beloved husband who died of cancer far too young.

So, my husband walked up and her indifference melted into enthusiasm. “Brad? Are you Brad? Oh, my God! It’s been so long! So long!” She wrapped her arms around his neck and patted his cheek. He asked, “How are you?” She smiled and said, “You’re great.” He clarified, “No, I meant, how are you?” She grinned, “I’m good. But YOU are great.”

I tried not to be stung by the difference in the greeting she had given me versus my husband. I tried to reason that she thinks he’s great but he’s married to ME. Don’t I get points for marrying someone of whom she thinks so highly?

I stopped by my husband’s office a little later and asked, “What have you ever done that makes you so great? I’m her niece.” He just shrugged uncomfortably and reach out to stroke my cheek, consolingly.

Try as I might to thaw her, my aunt’s coldness toward me continued. I kept trying to please — making calls to locate a store that she needed to visit before she could drive home. I clocked out so I could sit with my grandpa while she drove to the store. I looked up a phone number for her so she could schedule another appointment for my grandpa.

Still, as we both stood over my frail grandfather as he waited for his procedure, she said, “I’m going to step out for a minute.” Knowing she was going to smoke and remembering how many times I’ve become lost in the labyrinth of halls and corridors that is our Radiology department, I asked, “Do you want me to show you how to get back to the front of the hospital?” She regarded me with a steely gaze and spat, “I think I know how I got in here, thank you very much.”

I blinked back tears and muttered something about how I still sometimes get lost and have to have Brad escort me through the hallways. A friend who works in the department sensed the tension and joked, “Yes, but that’s YOU, Heather! The rest of us know our directions.”

I left for a little while after that and had lunch with Brad and two colleagues. In such company, I felt grown up again, confident, capable. No one at that table — probably no one in the whole hospital — would have guessed that I had been shaken so by a few terse words from my aunt.

After lunch, I called my father and recounted the morning’s events to him, first in a quavery voice and, toward the end of the call, indignantly. He soothed me by saying that it wasn’t personal, my aunt treated lots of people, even him, in such a way and it had nothing to do with me.

I steeled myself and crossed the hospital to the nuclear medicine department to be present for the last part of grandpa’s stress test. The doctor asked us to step out and my aunt and I were left alone in the hall. She paced the corridor for a few minutes and then confessed, “I hate this hospital. It completely unnerves me to even step foot in this place.”

Understanding dawned on me slowly and I asked, “Ahhhh, that’s right. You spent a lot of time here when Uncle James was sick, didn’t you?” She nodded. I blinked and said quietly, “I miss him.” She blinked back sudden tears just as the doctor rounded the corner to talk to us.

Ever so subtly, the dynamic seemed to change. It was easy for me to love her again — even to forgive her for the wounds she’d inflicted on me only hours earlier. Soon, I kissed my grandfather good-bye and walked away. At the door, I turned and waved and said, “Drive safe. I love y’all.” My aunt waved, smiled and said, “Bye love. And thank you for all your help.”

And somehow, it was okay.

July 4th in pictures

Created with Paul’s flickrSLiDR.

Mother’s Day

It might be of interest to all of you that God once again proved he has a fantastic sense of humor by plaguing me with the ugliest, reddest, painful-est zit right above my lip right after I wrote that last post about real beauty being within. Coincidence? I think not.

Go ahead and laugh. I’ll wait.

*still waiting*

In other news, my Mother’s Day started out bright and early at 1:30 am when my stepmother, who had awaken in the night and decided to adjust her sleep number mattress, accidentally picked up the phone rather than the mattress remote. In her sleepy haze, she punched redial on her phone and called, you guessed it, me.

When I answered the phone, there was only a dial tone. I sat in my bed, crouched and shaking with dread fear that I was about to hear bad news — my grandparents were sick or dead, my brother had been in an accident, my father had a heart attack — you get the idea. I managed to dial the phone and my stepmother answered.

“Did you call me?”

“Oh, Heather. I’m so sorry. I must’ve dialed the phone in my sleep. I am so, so sorry.”

About that time, my father woke up and heard her telling me how sorry she was and he had a freak out similar to the one I had when my phone rang in the middle of the night and demanded to know why my stepmother was consoling me.

It’s nice to know that the pessimistic, over-reacting tendencies I have are hereditary.

So, I fell back asleep but had nightmares the rest of the night. I don’t do well with middle of the night phone calls.

It reminded me of the time a couple of years ago when my phone rattled me out of a sound sleep at midnight. I answered and my mother’s voice was on the other end sounding a little confused. She said, “Heather? Oh! I didn’t mean to call you. I was trying to call American Idol!” At the time, I thought I must be dreaming and tried shaking the dream-haze out of my head and going back to sleep.

What with my rather sleepless night, I was thrilled with my Mother’s Day gift: a morning home alone, away from the spawn of my loins and the man responsible for them, er, being spawned.

Yes, that’s right. For Mother’s Day, my family went to church and left me here all alone to sleep. I didn’t sleep; I talked on the phone to Sharon instead, but still. It was lovely. A morning alone!

The morning alone made the gift and handmade card that the youngest brought home from church even more endearing. He pointed out that he had written “I love you” on the card and I told him how touched I was by those few words. He shrugged and said, “It was written on a card. I just copied it down.” But he gave me a kiss and wrapped his sweet little arms around my neck after that and I told him I was glad I was his mother. He seemed pleased and consented to being pulled into my lap for more hugs and kisses.

The 10 year old woke me this morning with a card he had picked out. It said, “Mom, instead of flowers, or candy, or gifts, we bought you something you could really get some use out of . . .” Inside was a Do Not Disturb sign.

My children know me well.

I hope you all had a Happy Mother’s Day!

lightning

I stayed home sick today with a touch of a stomach bug. Rather than suffer overmuch with nausea, I took some medication and floated dreamily away on a Phenergan cloud. It was lovely . . . until I was jangled out of sleep by my father calling to tell me to take cover; a storm was coming my way. A bad one.

He was right and I am unashamed to admit that the storm was a scary one. It flipped me out a little. My concern with storms is always that I fear the lightning. The winds and rain rattle me little. But lightning? Terrifies me.

So, I rode out the storm and spent the rest of the day sleeping off the phenergan, the way I had intended to spend my morning had Mother Nature not intervened. It seemed that the storm had moved on and things would be fine. No more scary lightning.

At 6:00, my father called again.

Me: Hello?

Him: Heather.

Me: What?

Him: Your brother was struck by lightning.

And then he put down the phone. He PUT DOWN THE PHONE, people! I crumpled as I thought of my little brother, dead. Electrocuted. Two weeks before his wedding. Oh, my God.

Then my stepmother picked up the phone only to tell me that my brother was fine. He had a burn on his arm but was awake and alert and joking. The lightning had struck a truck he was leaning against. He and three other co-workers had all been hurt and transported to the hospital. The doctors were going to watch him overnight but they felt like he would be okay.

He would be okay.

Thank you, Lord.

like mother, like daughter

One of my mother’s pet peeves is when moviegoers open their cell phones in the theater. She doesn’t like the glare. Since my mother has never been the type to sit back and suffer quietly, the result is that she always leans forward and asks the offender to close their phone with the explanation that it “is practically blinding me!”

Me, I’ve never cared about the light from cell phones because I understand that many people, like my husband, are on call most of the time and have to look at their cell phones when they buzz to determine if the call needs to be answered. Also, there are lots of parents, like me, whose children are with a babysitter and they need to make sure the call isn’t from her. Plus, it doesn’t bother me because — it just doesn’t. What bothers some does not bother others. That’s just life.

What does bother me is that people tend to get pissy when my mom asks them to close their cell phones. Thus, when Mom and I were at a showing of Music and Lyrics on Saturday night and three teenage girls sat down in front of us and immediately flipped open their phones, I warned my mother (who was already leaning forward in her seat), “If you yell at them for opening their cell phones, I will be SO pissed.” She asked, “Why? It hurts my eyes!” I answered, “Because you do it at every. movie. we. see.”

I never expected my pleas to stop her, but they did. She sat back to enjoy the movie. I even offered, “I don’t mind moving somewhere else if the phones are going to bother you.” But she said she was okay and so we sat back to enjoy the show.

Except the girls were not just flipping their phones open long enough to turn down the ringer or check a call or text message. Nooooo, they actually started dialing numbers and sending texts and leaning toward each other and whispering and giggling and passing the phones between them.

After only a couple of minutes, I leaned forward, irritated, and said, “Hey. Take your stuff somewhere else!” One of the girls answered, “Why don’t you mind your own business and take yourSELF somewhere else!”

I looked at her for a second (I was bitch-slapping her in my mind. It was a lovely fantasy.) and said, “Uh-huh. I’m getting a manager.”

I did go find a manager and he agreed to ask the girls to leave but, by the time I returned, they had already fled. My mother said, “You scared them away. They left as soon as you walked out. I guess if I was a good mother, I would have followed them to make sure they weren’t beating you up.”

We enjoyed the rest of the movie and walked into the lobby afterwards. I feel like my mother exercised remarkable restraint in waiting until then to say, “Uh-huh. You didn’t want me to make a scene and yet you got into an argument with them?” I just smiled sheepishly and said, “Yeah, well . . .”

Later, when I was relating the story to Jellyhead, she remarked, “So that’s where you get your spunk and outspoken-ness!”

I couldn’t argue and I guess I have to admit that the old saying is true: Like mother, like daughter.