Some of you might remember when Coley first became very ill and I asked for prayers, blessings, etc. for her back in April.  She's been in and out of the hospital since April (but only on the ventilator that first time) with her lungs.  They've finally decided that she has hypersensitive 'something -something' pneumonia and think it's caused from the plaquneol (spelled wrong, I'm too lazy to look it up) she has been taking for 16 years.  They put her back on prednisone which is a "no no" because she has Stage 4 Lupus necro 'something something'  - we're talking kidneys here, and Cushings, all stemming from the 16 years of prednisone.  The list goes on but what I wanted to say was that she sounds great!  She sounds wonderful, like my old Coley.  I made raspberry jam and sent it to her and she was thrilled, although she's not allowed to eat any sugar until she gets off the prednisone because of the Cushings - awwww, poor darling.  Life is hard for her but the amazing part is listening to her laugh and joke about everything.  While she was in the hospital her husband bought her an orangutan stuffed animal and she got needles off the nurses to pierce him with.  He has his ears pierced, his nose, his lip and his belly button.  He sounds very cool. 

Only two more nights without my baby.  Still counting them down.  Tomorrow starts the big house clean.  It's going to have to be thorough because I'll be damned if I'm going to waste any time cleaning when he's home.  I've been sending him a video a day during his last week up there.  At first they were kind of sad and I think I was making him feel sad so I switched it out the last few days.  Here's today's video ~

I've been in Idaho for six years and in this house for three years.  I really love my house, not because it's grand, it's not, but because it's mine.  It's the first house I've ever owned and I was 43 yrs old when we bought it.  My first husband lost two houses to his ex-wife and refused to ever own a house again.  Talk about the shoe maker's kids going without shoes - he was an extremely talented carpenter and built beautiful houses every day!   (That was Jim, he has passed, and I don't hold grudges . . . love you buddy, miss you.)  Oddly, Brad, my now & forever husband, also lost two houses to his ex-wife.  And yet he was eager to buy a house for us to build a home in.  That makes this house the grandest of all houses, because it was given with such a loving and open heart.

I feel very at home in my house.  Idaho . . . well, not so much.  It feels more like a passing through kind of place.  It was good to get Jesse out of the city for his last four years of high school and he loves it here and the friends that he has made but I don't think he will stay either.  You can take the boy out of Florida but you can't take Florida out of the boy.   Now we're trying to work our way out, to move somewhere that has trees!  I need trees!  :0)

I'm a Cancer & true to form, a homebody.  My home is very dear to me, whether it's a rented apartment or a bundle of sticks & mortar attached to a mortgage.  I have also discovered that Brad feels like home.  I'd live in a tent with him if I had to and as long as I could rest my head against his chest and listen to his heartbeat - that would be home too.

I've been missing my Zoey dog.  I picked an assignment at Diving Deeper and did a little 20 minutes write about her today:


Something was in the road up ahead.  She squinted.  It was dusk, not quite dark, not quite light, that golden hour that she loved best except when she was driving.  Not-quite-night-night blindness, she had dubbed it.  She pressed lightly on the brake as she tried to discern just what was in the road.  It was big.  Oh joy of all joys, it was a turkey, no, better yet, two turkeys.  His turkeys.  She took her foot off the brake, moved it slightly to the right, and pressed down, hard, on the gas pedal. 

She was panting, like a dog, like she had found Zoey, laying in the grass, laying in a pool of blood, her tongue hanging out.  Her pupils dilated, like Zoey's.  Hot tears of hatred pooled and coursed down her cheeks, scalding them.  She felt the scream bubbling up in her chest, the scream of horror that she had first screamed when she discovered that someone had gut shot her sweet girl.  Poor Zoey, poor Zoey, don't die Zoey, I love you Zoey.

Two turkeys, then.  Huge turkeys. Revenge of the turkeys, she thought wildly.  Would they dent her car?  Yes, probably.  Her husband would be pissed.  She didn't care.  The male, huge and formidable, stepped slightly in front of the slightly smaller, plainer female, his wife probably.  The two pea brained dumb ass turkeys weren't even going to try to get out of her way. They thought they owned the road.  Mr. Turkey flapped his wings and she heard his gobbled scolding filter through the rush of summer air coming through her open window. 

- Your turkeys are going to die! she screamed, beating her fists on the steering wheel.

Mr. Turkey thrust out his feathered breast, large enough to feed a family of twelve, maybe more.  He was magnificent in his dying hour. He flapped his wings and lifted his bumpy beak, his red wattle waggling.  The female gobbled softly, frantically, as if to say ~ George, what are you doing?

 -Oh,  shit goddamn it all to hell! She slammed on the brakes, skidding slightly to the right before coming to a stop, her seat belt locking painfully around her hips and across her chest. The turkeys nodded to her politely and slowly waddled their way across the road home, their tiny ludicrous stick legs carrying their large bulk with amusing dignity.  She tasted metal and realized that she had bitten her lip.  She sucked on it, causing a jolt ofexquisite pain and muttered,-You lucky, lucky turkeys.

Her legs were trembling violently. She put her head back and closed her eyes, taking a deep belly breath, exhaling slowly through her nostrils.  She sawZoey, eyes soft, mouth open in a big happy doggy grin.  For months, the only picture of Zoey to flutter behind closed eyelids had been of her bleeding, dying, helpless.  She felt herself relaxing into this new snapshot of the past, there was her pretty girl.  Opening her eyes, she saw that the two turkeys were safely on the other side of the road, although Mr. Turkey was still giving her the eye and gobbling madly at her, as his wife pecked and gobbled at him.  The front door of the house, his house, opened and he stepped out, looking at her parked rig, his eyes steely.  Her Zen moment, absorbed but now released, had stopped the trembling in her legs enough to allow her to pull back on the road and  begin driving again.  She drove slowly, passing him by with her own steely gaze, her hand reaching out of the window, holding high and steady with her middle finger prominent and proud in the dying light of the day.


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Finally, finally the day has arrived!  Brad is coming home.  I probably won't have much time to spend @ Gaia for the next six days, as we plan to be attached at the hip.  But I'm sure I'll sneak a peek here and there.

Here's the song that plays on my phone when he calls . . . it's been ringing through my head all morning!

Just when I think I have it figured out, I discover that I don't know.  And that's a fact.

I believed that . . .
   my big brother was a hero

   that my dolls came alive when I wasn't in the room

   that I could fly with my Mary Poppins umbrella one day when the wind was just right

   that a semi came to the house after we fell asleep on Christmas Eve and my parents picked too out the toys that we wanted from there (this was after I stopped believing in Santa Clause of course.

   that my Mom should quit cutting my hair into short pixie's

   that my hair should be blonde (and long)

   that I was bad

   that God would save me if I prayed hard enough

   that my Grandpa was the coolest Grandpa in the world (still believing)

   that my Grandma made the most beautiful cakes in the world (still believing)

   that my weeping willow tree loved me back (still believing)

   that dogs are a girls best friend (still believing)

   that everything would be better when I was a grown-up

I went to visit a friend of mine yesterday.  She's actually more acquaintance than friend as we weren't close but I don't suppose that makes a difference.  She, Karen, had a massive stroke two or three months ago.  I walked right past her and asked the nurse if it was okay to go into her room, as the door was shut.  The nurse said,  "You just walked past her.  She's right there" and pointed to the patient in the chair that I had walked past.  I admit to  having the urge to run back down the hall and out of the building at that point.  I had noticed her, and thought "Oh that poor guy."  Beautiful Karen reduced to "oh that poor guy" as my first thought.  Her well-kept blond streaked hair gone.  In it's place short tufts of black hair streaked with gray.  (she had brain surgery to remove a clot so I'm assuming they shaved her head and this is what has re-grown).  She was in  one of those big cushiony chairs that recline and wheel.  A tube with white liquid formula hung from a pole, slowly tripping nourishment into her stomach.  She had a trachea with ugly black stitches around it.  Her once very round and juicy body has shrunk to mere skin and bones.
Her hands and feet were curled up in that way that brain damaged people's hands and feet curl up.  Her legs were covered in black hair.   I noticed black mustache hairs sprouting, black nose hairs.  Her eyes were goopy and her nose runny.  She had a huge red thing sticking out of her mouth, a mouth guard attached to keep her from grinding her teeth.  It looked like she was gnawing on a big dog toy. An attendant tried to pull it out for our visit but she wouldn't let go.  After I talked to her for a few moments she spit it out voluntarily and I gently wiped drool (a great deal of slimy drool), and blood away from her scabbed and raw looking lips.

Her blue, blue eyes stared at me fiercely and she answered my questions with a definite (defiant!) blink.  "I'm in here!"  those eyes said.  "It's me!"

Brad & Ryan stood in a corner, wide eyed.  Amanda came closer, then backed away, tearing up and unsure of what to do or say. 

I caressed her face.  I rubbed her cold arms.  I apologized for not recognizing her and told her I wasn't used to seeing her with dark hair. I tried to speak normally with her.  I kept reverting to "this sucks" and she would blink rapidly.  Did she have pain? Blink.  Was she frustrated? Blink.  I heard her sister & husband had come to visit a few days ago.  Blink Blink  This sucks.  Blink.  Are you tired? Blink.  This sucks.  Blink Blink.

What is the quality of life there?  She obviously knows what is going on.  She is "locked in".  She hasn't made any progress in nearly three months.  As a matter of fact, she has back pedaled a bit.  She used to laugh and cry.  She isn't doing that anymore.  I tried to hold her hand but she didn't seem able to reciprocate, her hand curled in a tight fist, whether my hand was wrapped inside of it or not.  She began to grind her teeth and I tried to put her mouth guard back in but she wouldn't open her mouth.  Or couldn't open her mouth? 

Again, the question of quality of life.  I know that I would not wish to be fed with a feeding tube and kept alive if that was my life.  Karen must be horrified.  She must be so lonely.  She must feel so trapped.  I kept wondering if I should ask her if she wanted to keep the feeding tube.  But that isn't my place.  I'm not even a close friend.  And what do I know, what if she is going to recover?  What is it's just slow going?

When we left, Brad made me promise to put a pillow over his head, to refuse feeding tubes etc.  Whatever it took not to leave him in that condition.  I agreed.  I think I'd want the pillow myself.  Is it a sin, choosing death, or is keeping someone alive with extraordinary measures (i.e. the trachea, the feeding tube) the sin?

Thought I'd share some pictures of my grandson.  It's a good thing, being a Grandma! 

Autumn was my favorite time of year while I was growing up in Michigan.  I loved the cool nights, warm-but-not-hot days, and the beautiful colors.  My parents often took us to the U.P. for a color tour and we would come home with little Indian drums purchased from the tourist-trap shops.  I loved those drums.  Autumn meant huge piles of leaves to jump in, gold, orange, and red leaves scratching their way under my clothes, causing terrible itching.  Moving the piles to the road and then lighting them on fire, roasting marshmallows from carefully chosen and sharpened sticks, trying to decide if the perfectly golden brown marshmallow or the burnt black taste of a  marshmallow turned to charcoal tasted better.  S'mores.  It meant popcorn balls, fresh cider, and caramel apples.

I missed the colors of autumn when I moved to Florida.  It still held some magic, though.  Autumn meant that summer was almost over.  It meant a feeling, almost imperceptible, of cooling in the air, relief in sight. 

Now I live in Idaho and I still miss the colors of autumn because we don't have many trees here.  I do have a maple in my front yard that turns a rather sickly yellow before the leaves dance to the ground.  I almost dread those leaves falling off because I love my tree and the green that it provides from May or June until mid-October.  Autumn in Idaho simply means that winter is on the way.  Winter is not my favorite season by any means.  Still, I do feel a little quickening of excitement as the nights begin to cool.  I start thinking about pulling out the afghan I was crocheting last winter and wonder if I will finally finish it this year.  It feels cozy  to lay under quilts with the kids in the evening, they watching T.V., me with a book.  I feel a relaxing, a softening.  My garden is winding down and there is relief, along with a certain sadness in that.  I won't have to continue peeling, coring, juicing, stewing, jelly-ing much longer. 

Autumn is that fleeting season.  Catch it while you can. 

Don't you hate it when you need to hold a laugh in and it just keeps bursting from you anyway?  Your body is shaking, little phsssssht sounds are escaping from your tightly closed lips?

Yeah.  Me too.

So, someone was asking for a fish tank on freecycle.org.  I just happened to have a 55 gallon & a stand with light in a closet in the basement.  I offered it several weeks ago and the dude finally came to pick it up with his buddy.  As they were carrying it out the door I noticed that the guy's pants were hanging pretty low so I kind of looked away, suppressing a grin.  Then he said, "Wait, stop" so I turned around and he was bending over, setting the aquarium down ~ and his pants were at his knees.  Either he didn't have underwear on or they went down too.  Oh man what a full moon!   I tried so hard not to laugh.  I went to Ryan and leaned over, hair over face to cover the smile, tried to pet Valentine who was growling, and then Ryan burst into laughter and that was just the end of it for both of us. 

Poor guy ran out of here with the goods and never even uttered a thank you.

I hope Samme doesn't mind if I post the same video he did today.  I keep watching it over and over again because it's so powerful.  Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I have three sons.  Maybe it has something to do with having a brand new grandson.  Maybe it has something to do with wanting a better world for all of our children.  Maybe he's an angel with a voice from heaven singing straight into my heart.

I tell my kids that they gave me my gray hairs.  When they do something that worries or scares me half to death, I tell them I probably just sprouted a dozen more, thank you very much.  I say that I have earned every wrinkle and paid a lot of money for every lump of fat.  I say that I would never consider plastic surgery.  To put myself at risk that way, to go under the knife, for vanity is out of the question. 

And then I try to get a new picture of myself to post up or to send to my faraway husband and picture after picture comes out, well disgusting.  I've never been photogenic, ever, not even when I was young.  Well, either that or I wasn't nearly as pretty as I thought I was! ha!  Actually I do believe that some people are more photogenic than others because my son, Derek, is a cutie-patootie and it's nearly impossible to get a decent picture of him.  My brother's wife is drop-dead gorgeous and capable of taking some horrifice pictures.  But back to the subject -

I've always been my own worst critic when it comes to photographs.  I hate my nose.  I wonder why the blue of my eyes never comes through.  I think my upper lip should be much plumper.  Why are my bangs always parted instead of covering up my forehead that I think is much too high?  My thighs look fat.   I'm used to all of that.  But now that I've hit the second half of my 40's, I'm seeing new things.  Lines around my eyes.  Jowls!  OMG, a double chin.  And double OMG, is my neck getting looser, am I going to get one of those waddle things?  My body, forget it, don't you dare take a picture of my body. 

And then I discovered a miracle button.  It says "fix it".  And it works!  Look ~

 
The hated nose almost disappears.  The blue eyes glow but no little lines.  Jowls?  What jowls?  That's a nice chin line there.  Smiles lines?  Nah!  Just a dimple.

Look here ~



Damn, I look hot!  It's magic!

I had to say all of this just in case any of you meet me in person before I reconsider that plastic surgery option.  I don't post the ugly pictures. 

I have a hunch that my answer is going to be the same as the majority today.  My children.  From the moment they were born I knew that I would gladly lay down and die for them.  I wouldn't hesitate.  Example ~ I took Derek, Zachary & Jesse to an amusement park in Ohio (Cedar Point, don't miss it if you're a rollercoaster fan) when they were somewhere around 9, 11, & 12 years old.  Towards the end of the afternoon a thunderstorm rolled in and the rides were closing down because of lightening.  We made our way back to the massive parking lot and were getting close to our car when the older two boys ran away from Jesse screaming, "Your hair is standing straight up in the air!"  I looked and it was!  I didn't need to scream, "run" to the other two boys because they were hauling ass away from Jesse.  I, on the other hand, ran towards Jesse, grabbed him, fumbled with the car keys for what seemed an eternity as I started to feel my own hair pulling skyward, and finally tumbled us both into the car.  I don't know if he would have been struck by lightening or not but I didn't think for a moment about my own life.  Only his. 

I wouldn't give up my life for God because the God I believe in gave me the undeniable will to live, therefore I doubt that he would ask me to submit and lay down my life just because he said so.  I feel that I would probably need some psyche meds if that message were coming through.

I wouldn't easily give up my life for my country unless it came back to my first answer and I absolutely had to in order to protect the lives of my children and their children.  I thank God for the heroes out there who are willing to do this. 

I probably would sacrifice myself for any child, not just my own.  How could I not?   And probably for my husband because I couldn't imagine life without him anyway. 

I don't like this question.  I feel like living today.

I never just go for the stumble.  I fall flat on my face.  I'm clumsy that way.