Sick of Being Sick

I don't know how people who are chronically sick stand it. It's just been a few weeks for me, and I'm losing patience real fast. Seems the strong antibiotic I took to get over pneumonia has killed off a lot of good bacteria as well as the bad bacteria. You know what happens when all the nice folks move out and leave their homes wide open...the riff-raff moves in.

And the riff-raff has moved in--on my tongue at first. It started with the black tongue that is common when taking an antibiotic. I thought it would clear up after I was done with the meds. Nope. It merely evolved. It became a "hairy tongue", and now it's become a full-fledged case of "thrush". Sunday night, my tongue began hurting. I thought maybe it was a taste bud gone bad and as the Bible says, "If thine eye offend thee, pluck it out". Well, I located a swollen taste bud in the central part of my tongue, and thinking "maybe if I just got rid of it"...I grabbed my small needle-nose pliers, latched onto the elongated taste bud, and pulled the stupid thing right off my tongue.

Who would've thought that a tongue with a dismembered taste bud would bleed so badly? I tried to yell at my husband to grab a wet wash cloth. He came in to see what I was blathering about, and found me trying to talk with a really bloody tongue. What a stupid thing to do.

Yesterday morning I woke up to sore tonsils and throat, and my tongue still hurt.  I felt generally sick again. I ended up going to the doctor, who gave me the diagnosis.  This stuff has spread to my throat and also my intestines.  I didn't tell her about my self-surgery.  I learned my lesson.  And in case you're wondering, the photo is NOT of my tongue.  I just tried to find an example of "thrush tongue" that wasn't horribly gross.

From now on, I won't sever anything other than skin tags.

My Turn

I didn't get to attend my little brother's first communion because I was sick. Yep, that's me in the chair all covered up. And missing one of the few times my little brother Mark ever sported wings.

Forty-nine years later, I'm still laying around in a big chair all covered up...and recuperating from pneumonia. This started coming on a week ago, but got really bad Thursday night. I think that's when the pneumonia set in. I missed making 14 batches of strawberry jam, but thanks to Mom and the hubby, it's made and in the freezer. It's a funny feeling to be laying around like a slug while others are doing your work. I had the same feeling when, as a kid, I'd hear the vacuum cleaner running early on Saturday mornings. That was all the alarm we needed to tell us to get up and help Mom clean up the house. (To this day, I can't stand to hear the cleaning lady at work vacuuming--I feel like I should be dusting or something.)

I think today's the turning point. My temperature's down to my normal 97.something. I can breathe a little deeper, even though the wheezes, squeaks and rattles are still there. My mind is coming out of the fog I've been in, and I no longer feel like I'm halfway between this world and the next one. The doctor's orders include staying home from work for the rest of this week. I'm hoping I'll feel good enough in a day or two to tackle some housework (ok, now you KNOW I'm sick).

Mom just called to see what I needed from the store. All I need is a loaf of bread and some vanilla ice cream. Thought I'd make a strawberry shake since I still have some berries in the fridge. My little bro Mark said he makes his shakes with our strawberry jam, and that sounded pretty good. I'll just claim I have a sore throat and need the shake to soothe the ol tonsils. Nobody will call me a liar, since I'm sick.

Thankfully, I had my mommy to take care of me while I was sick. I don't know why it is, but no matter how old a kid gets, when they're sick they want their moms. I guess that's because it's mostly the moms that took care of them when they were little. Mom was always there, no matter what time of the night. My dad slept through all those kid illnesses, and so did my husband. Just nature's way, I suppose.

Thanks, Mom. I love you.

A Shocking Turn of Events

Friday afternoon I was sitting in the waiting room of my chiropractor when I got a text..."Is Mom with you?" I texted back to my little sister, "No". Within a few seconds, the phone rang. Occasionally I have a sixth sense about things. I know the phone call did not carry good news; but I knew it would be ok.

First there was some small talk, then silence. I knew that silence would be followed by some jarring news. With her voice cracking, she said, "Mark's on his way to the hospital". She told me he was having problems with his heart; that it wasn't beating correctly and the doctor sent him to the hospital. I told her I had several friends with the same problem and it would be ok.


Mom and I headed north Saturday morning. At the hospital, Mark seemed pretty good--even with his chest thumping in crazy rhythms. The lines on the monitor zig-zagged with no regularity. When he stood, his pulse would go up to around 150. He was having some pain in his shoulder blade radiating to the front. And he was having problems walking without being able to catch his breath.


He admitted to having this problem for the past 15 years. About once a year, his heart will go out of rhythm, but will return to normal after four days. This time, the doctor wasn't messing around, especially with Mark's lightheadedness.

Sunday, Mark's heart was still not beating correctly so it looked like the "shock" would be a go for Monday. His doctor came in to see him and I asked if we could watch, or even hit the button for the big shock. No go. We'd have to sit in the waiting room. I even told the doctor of my experience shocking Mark with our electric fence. Nope. That didn't even work.

This morning, Mark had just been taken back by the time we arrived at 8. We'd been there earlier if we'd known, but they couldn't seem to be able to tell us what time they'd come for him. So we kept Mark's wife and daughter company for a couple of hours.


Finally, an Indian doctor came and told us that he did great. No blood clot, and it only took one shock to get the ol' ticker beating in rhythm again. He took us back to see Mark, who was being wheeled back to his room. Mark started in with his usual sick humor, telling everyone within earshot that he was clinically dead for five minutes and expected to go to Heaven. Instead, he went to hell and was greeted by Saddam Hussein. I asked if he saw the 72 virgins. He said he did, and there was a good reason they were all virgins.


Typical Mark.

In wrapping this up, I need to thank The Big Man above for watching over my little brother. Looks like we'll have him around a good long time to torment and tease. We'll expect the same in return.

Just like old times...except no more knock-down drag-out fights that were common between me and Mark. Now it's just hugs and "I love you's" between teasings.


Love you, little brother!

My Big Debut

I don’t know why she did it, but for some strange reason my sister volunteered *me* to speak at an an African-American Southern Baptist church. I’m not a speaker. I tend to stutter and talk very fast in front of groups of people. I don’t have a clue what they wanted me to speak about. But if my sister had this much confidence in me, I was going to do it. I got busy and wrote a mediocre speech. All I had to do was print it and rehearse it a couple of times.

My plan was to wait until Sunday morning to shop for an outfit, but I had in mind what I wanted to wear. I was going to buy a real pretty dress and find one of those big fancy hats to wear. I wanted to fit in and look like the folks I was going to address, even if I did have another skin color.

I headed off to Indy, wearing a loud floral matched pantsuit. I wore it all day Friday and then again on Saturday. I looked really skinny in it for some reason—like it had removed about 60 pounds from my frame. Sunday, I headed off to the mall to find that perfect outfit. Much to my chagrin, none of the stores were open at 8am on a Sunday morning. I went from store to store and kept finding great outfits and hats on display in the windows, but none of the stores were opening until noon.

I finally gave up and decided I had to wear my pantsuit for the third day in a row, and I hoped no one in the congregation would notice that it was beginning to stiffen up from the constant wear. But the really weird thing was, the slacks somehow turned into a skirt. Still, I didn’t look too bad considering my bare legs that I hadn’t shaved in weeks. But then I remembered I needed to put on makeup. Trouble with that was, I suddenly was sitting in a wheelchair and wasn’t capable of putting on my own makeup. Someone wheeled me to a table set up in the mall, and some kind girls were powdering my face and applying blush.

More interruptions…I had to find a place to hook up my laptop and print my speech. I found myself being pulled from place to place and not getting anything accomplished. And it was getting close to the time of the service.

I got out of the wheelchair and walked around a wall. On the other side, there stood my dad! I nearly passed out from the shock since Dad died over 18 years ago. Then I ran over and hugged him. He told me he hadn’t died 18 years ago, but was lost in Iraq for all that time. He looked so healthy and hadn’t aged one little bit, which only seemed a little strange. I was still mulling over how I could remember being with him when he died, but yet he didn’t die. And what was he doing in Iraq in the first place? He worked at Sears!

Still being dragged all over the mall, I gave up on printing my speech and decided to ad lib it. I would talk about my crazy preparation I was still going through. I would finish up the speech by talking about how there’s a lesson in everything and how even good things come from bad things. I was going to wow them, for sure. All I had to do was to keep my ideas in some sort of order and not start talking a mile a minute. So with half my makeup on, a dirty floral suit, and bare legs, I found myself in a beautiful large church. One of the church leaders met me and was walking me up the stairs to the stage. I was about to inspire a thousand African-American Baptists. They were going to love me—I just knew it!

Then I woke up. What a weird dream.

What Has This Got to do with Work???

I try...I really try to NOT listen to all the BS around me. I have noise-canceling headphones, but there are days that I really don't feel like listening to music or white noise while I'm working. Just today, here are just a few of the less-than-intelligent comments I heard from next door...

"Your hair looks cute!"

"It was all wobble-jello and bouncy."

"I'm leaving early today." (So what else is new?)

To top it off, I heard all about her labor of 32 years ago when she was telling a male co-worker all the gory details. He said it was because of the way she was built...you know...small hips.

Why does every workplace have one or more of these useless employees? Beats me, but they all do. Once in awhile, I could put up with this, but this talk goes on all day long, every day. I'd find another job, but it would just be the same thing.

Tired of complaining...it's time to go get a Margarita and forget the Doublemint Twins for awhile.

For Once in my Life

She had just addressed and stamped the letter, and it would be headed to Muncie the next day. The phone rang as she walked past. It was the mom of her best friend telling her that their friend Mona was in the hospital and might not make it. It didn't make sense. The letter she just finished was written to Mona...how could she be in the hospital fighting for her life?

Bonnie said that Mona had spinal meningitis. She had complained of illness, a headache, and pain in her neck, so she didn't go to class. Her roommates came home to find her unconcious. She was on a respirator and in a coma. The letter never got mailed.

38+ years later, Mona steered her motorized wheelchair down the aisle of a small chapel. The aisle was strewn with pink rose petals. Once she reached the groom, also in a wheelchair, a very scratchy and slow rendition of "For Once in my Life" came out of the sound system. The groom asked, "Is that you singing?". She said it wasn't, but then the familiar lyrics kicked in. She said, "Oh my God! It is!".

The tears had already begun for the three "girls" standing up for her. Then Mona joined them. She buried her face into the back of her little dog, who was poised on a pillow on Mona's lap. We all cried for the three minutes it took for the song to play.

The wedding ended in a few minutes. Then it was time for congratulations, hugs, and lots more tears.

Two of those four girls have lived fairly normal lives in the past 38 years. One girl was handicapped at age 18, and the other was a widow at age 19, left to raise a six-month-old baby boy. For one reason or another, those four girls hadn't seen each other in many, many years.

I wished I had kept that letter. I would've given it to the bride last Monday when we went to her wedding and stood up for her.

Why?

One teenage boy is in a hospital tonight getting radiation for a brain stem glioma in hopes of adding a little time to his short life. Another teenage boy is hell-bent on destroying his life when he has it all and just can't see it. God, please put peace in both boys' hearts. Help one boy sleep tonight and help the other one wake up before it's too late.