A November to Forget

It's the last day of November and I sit here eagerly anticipating the end of the month. This has been a month that has tested the mettle of this family and has shown me personally that I am a lousy sick person beyond my (and the rest of my families') wildest expectations. 

It started with a solo trip to Toronto to see my family. Of course, I had started getting the November snurffles. November has never been the healthiest month for me. My immune system seems to give up the ghost and lay itself open for attack from any evil, opportunistic, slimy, ravaging, malignant virus that is out there looking for a mucous membrane in which to burrow and begin reproducing itself into a swarming mass of reprehensible and deadly clones, who's only pleasure is ensuring that I am brought to my knees by attacking my sinuses, lungs and throat. I left Seattle armed with my lozenges, my Nyquil and a bag full of tissues in case it got really ugly. This was Saturday.

On Monday, my husband calls to say he is on the way to pick up my older son from school because he has a headache. As any normal, self-respecting Mom would say, "A headache? But he has a math exam this afternoon!" Perhaps I should say any self-respecting, empathetically challenged, normal Mom who's son is not doing well in math, would say. To make a long story short, on Tuesday, which was Election Day so I was already wound up, my husband calls to let me know he is on the way to Emergency at Children's Hospital with my aforementioned son who is doing poorly in math. Not to mention that his headache was getting worse and a rash had taken over his extremities and the doctor's at the local medical clinic told my husband to get him to the hospital ASAP. He will keep me updated. I am having a lovely lunch with my friend at her beautiful home and now I am concerned. 

I head over to my brother's to watch the election results, when my husband calls back and tells me they are performing a spinal tap, which they so nonchalantly refer to as a lumbar puncture. At least spinal tap conjures up mental images of 18" plaster Stonehenge replica's and Christopher Guest, as opposed to visions of this giant needle being thrust into my son's spine as he lays there helpless and in agony.

My brother is now on the computer trying to find me flights back to Seattle. At this point the next flight is at 7AM the next morning. I'm on the phone all night with my husband and younger son. I have to wake my dad up at 4:30AM to let him know I have to leave. My dad is 91 and did not take well to being woken up and told that his grandson is very ill and I have to head home immediately. I also had to leave without saying goodbye to Mom who was expecting me back to see her the next day at her nursing home.

I am suppose to land in Seattle at 12PM. I switch planes in Vancouver. The flight is cancelled and I will have to wait until the next flight at 2:30PM. That flight is delayed until 4PM. My son has been admitted to hospital, he is in isolation, even morphine and Dilaudid(l?) did not take the pain away. Guess what? The desk people at Air Canada are subjected to a full-on ballistic meltdown by a frantic mom trying to get home to her son. I am not prone to such behavior, in fact, I tend to deal with major issues fairly stoically and calmly. This, however, was NOT pretty.

Finally get back to Seattle at 5PM. Take a taxi directly to Children's and spend the next week in isolation with my son. On the Thursday, he began to have these pain episodes where he would be writhing on the bed and he would come out of these with complete amnesia. I mean not knowing who he was, where he was or who any of us were. Imagine reaching out to your child to comfort them and having them pull away and hide under the blanket because he didn't know you. He would go through these episodes again and then come out of it with no memory of the pain, but remembering everything else. Sometimes he came out of it hallucinating instead of the amnesia...you know....people were purple and these 2 red lights were trying to get into the room to hurt him. Not to mention the footsteps in the bathroom. At one point the neurologist was observing him when he went through one of these and he was stymied. I guess I had seen a few of these already and being somewhat jaded, commented that if the amnesia stayed, I would have a Tabula Rasa son who I could then convince to clean up his room. He was not amused. Doctor's have no sense of humor.

Who we really needed was House. 

We left the hospital after every imaginable test that can be done had been performed on my son with out having a clue as to what caused the problem. Thankfully they ruled out all the icky things that it was not, but we left with a diagnosis of viral encephalitis of unknown cause that resolved itself on its own. 

We also left the hospital with a PICC line (Peripherally Inserted Central Catheter) in my son's arm. He had blown out 3 veins from one drug they were giving him intravenously. The doctor said it was kind of like having sulfuric acid pumped into your veins. Oh Yippee. They finally decided that inserting the PICC line was the answer. This is a process that is similar to having an intravenous inserted, however, they thread a line that is about 2 1/2 feet long through your vein until it reaches the vena cava that goes directly into the heart. Because this vein is so large, it dilutes the medicine when it dumps in there, therefore freeing you from the agony of having it blow out the vein in your arm as it burns its way through to the heart. Perhaps they could have done this prior to him having 3 ex-veins? 

Anyway, they wanted to keep him on this drug for a few more days until they were sure he had recovered and they received results from a last minute test back. And who was going to administer the drug while he was home? Moi. They call it infusing, which to me sounds like putting herbs in olive oil and letting them sit to flavor the oil. I had to be trained to infuse my son, which, while seemingly very easy when the nurses were doing it, was actually pretty complicated in that you had to keep everything sterile while you were preparing it. Now, I don't know about you, but my house is far from a sterile environment, what with a dog, parrot, hamster, 2 snakes and 2 geckos - not to mention 2 boys. Zak is still alive, however, with all limbs intact and no sign of septiscemia, so I guess I did OK.

I have to say, Children's is an amazing hospital and I want to thank them for their care and attention. If he had to have become seriously ill, I am glad he did it in Seattle. I would have been happier if he had done it in Toronto, however, as The Hospital for Sick Children (fondly known as Sick Kids) is also excellent, and I wouldn't be having nightmares about the hospital bills that should be rolling in anytime now!

Paradise Found/Lost/Looking For

We live in a small town outside Seattle. Actually we live outside a small town, outside of Seattle. We moved here about 2 years ago from a much larger town outside Seattle. It was one of those serendipitous things - my husband and youngest son were out fly fishing and my husband grabbed one of those real estate brochures off a sign along the road. He brought it home and I looked at him askance, like "Are you  nuts? I have a rough enough time living 15 minutes outside of Seattle, let alone 45 minutes." Men. Ya know you can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em......hmmmmmm.

Anyway, a couple of months later, the whole family ended up heading out to the same river for an afternoon and 'Lo and Behold', there is another real estate brochure thing on another 'For Sale' post on the same road. OK, so now it's a "sign"; like the one I had driving up to make my first skydive, but was in a motorcycle accident instead, fracturing 2 vertebrae. THAT was a sign. Do NOT, under any circumstances, hurl yourself out of a plane at 7,000 feet, no matter what kind of adrenalin rush it provokes; with just this flimsy bit of silk attached to your back, you hope and pray will open and prevent you from spiraling down at terminal velocity towards certain death or at least monumental debilitation if you're lucky enough to survive by getting snagged in a tree - kinda like relying on a condom. But I digress..... yet again.

So we grab this brochure and all we see is this view of mountains and river. I mean, forget what the house looked like, those mountains! That river! Next thing ya know, (OMG, I have been watching waaaaaay too many Sarah Palin video's - you betcha), I'm calling the real estate agent listed and setting up an appointment. We bought the house 2 days later and never looked back. Well, occasionally I look back as I am leaving Seattle to head home, but then I pull onto our road.....what can I say?

WOW, that's a lot of blah blah to get to the point that prompted me to write this. 

When we moved in, a couple lived across the street. They were not overtly friendly and seemed quite a bit older than us. The previous owner of the house we bought had told us that they had lost their son in a car accident some years ago and they spent a lot of time in the house drinking. Not that we don't do the same thing, however, we're not trying to drown our sorrows, but yet again, that is a topic for another time.

Needless to say, our paths never really crossed. I met with the woman who lived there, in her driveway, after we had come home from an extended absence in Europe, only to find we had no water, (we share a well with a few other homes). She was very quiet and seemed very shy. I introduced myself and we spoke briefly, but that was it. We noticed the house had gone up for sale and we asked our real estate agent, who has now become a good friend, what the story was. She said the house was a mess, literally falling down, but other than that, she had no information. 

The house sold and we met our new neighbors, well 1/2 of them, a few months later. Last weekend, our neighbors came over and informed us that someone had come on to their property and shot at them in their mobile home, twice. Luckily the bullets did not penetrate the interior. The person took off before my neighbor could get a license plate number. That was really weird, because I had heard the shots, (actually, I heard 3 shots, not just 2), whilst in a comatose state as I fell asleep. You know, that state where you feel like you are falling, but you're not quite asleep yet. I had asked the kids the next day if they had heard shots, and they hadn't. I figured it was Sarah Palin going for the elk that run through our area on a regular basis.

Apparently, the woman I had spoken to was only 48 and she died in September. I had thought she was much older after I had met her. She was younger than me. After delving more into her background, I found out that her son had been 18 when he lost control of his car in town and smashed into a tree. There was no alcohol involved. He had been a senior at the local high school and was one of their major football stars...we're talking scholarship kind of major. She had been a nurse at the local hospital and when I read her memorials on-line at the funeral home, I began to get very emotional.

The police are investigating and feel, as we do, that the shooting was not random. I don't know the whole story, but there was a lot of stuff going on in that family and I think there is a certain resentment towards our new neighbors. They have totally gutted the house and are rebuilding while living in their motor home on the property. 

Our reaction was astonishment and then a bit of shock set in. My husband and I started talking gates, motion sensors, a gun. Our neighbors have put up major lights, motion sensors, video surveillance, and now lock their gate. 

And I sit here wondering about all that drama going on across the street from me and us sitting here totally oblivious. I am feeling isolated, insulated, separated. I feel a shadow of the terror that our neighbors must have experienced when they realized they were being shot at; the pain of losing a son that seeped it's way into that house, wrapping itself around the heart and souls of our old neighbors, even rotting the house to its' very foundations. The house was collapsing around them and they were collapsing from within. I ask what would motivate someone to shoot at the new owners of the house? What frustration or agony came spewing forth, gripping that persons' psyche and extruding itself though the barrel of a gun? And we were oblivious to that blackness drowned out by the river hurtling below us; wrapped in our cocoon of water, mountains, Douglas firs, Western hemlock and giant cedars. I don't think I will look at this place we called Paradise in the same way ever again.

 

 

Politically Un-Political

I promised myself that I would not get political on this blog. I feel that since this is mostly, or at this point, only, read by friends, my political ideology is well known, if not universally agreed with - even though I am correct and if you don't agree with me, you're wrong.

So I am not going to get political. But I did have one of those "Aw Crap" moments a couple of days ago. My very best friend who is completely at odds with me politically, well she thinks so anyway, probably for good reasons, had sent a political cartoon via email to all her 500 million friends, one of which is me. Obviously, it was an anti-the ONLY obvious choice for POTUS cartoon. Of course, being somewhat of an ass on occasion, I zapped back an article written by a respected party member of the Darkside criticizing the exact point the cartoon was trying to make.......and yup, you guessed it.....hit "REPLY ALL".

Ooooooops!

Needless to say, I didn't realize it until I began to get emails from all these unknown persons mostly lambasting me for taking the cartoon too seriously and informing me as to what a terrible person I am. Thank goodness for one email from someone on that list I actually knew, who thanked me for the email and said they found it very informative, (AHA! a potential crossover voter, me thinks whilst rubbing my hands together and MWAHHAAAAAing.) She was laughing because she figured I had not meant to send it to anyone but my girlfriend and thought it all a great gaffe.

So I sheepishly sent another email, purposely replying to all and apologized if I had offended anyone whilst trying to explain that my girlfriend and I have had this ongoing feud for 11 years now and how the email was really just meant for her and of course her husband who I once had a major F-you argument with about.....ummmmmm....politics. 

I guess my point is is that arguing and even slapping your best buds about the head and shoulders because they are wrong and you are right, is OK 'cause you love each other. It's no fun preaching to the choir and it's no fun getting in these conversations with strangers because they really might slug you. So who best to torment than your friends and in my case, my dad, because he's wrong too. Mind you he's 91 years old, God bless him, so he has an excuse.

What scares me is that there are a LOT of people on both sides out there right now, who are going to freak if the candidate of their choice is not elected. The tension is palpable, the rhetoric ugly and friends and families are walking on eggshells with each other if they happen to be on opposite sides of the political fence. This country has become so polarized because so many people seem unable to respect the opinions and beliefs, both morally and politically, of others and who feel the need to insist that it's their way or the highway; that disagreement is a sign of weakness or stupidity; that you're a bad person if you think a certain way. 

Aside from inheriting 2 wars, a ruined economy, a disintegration of  respect for the US globally, the true threat of terrorism and what actually causes it and thus what we can do to prevent it, the next Prez will probably have to deal with a bubbling cauldron of unrest, mistrust and hatred of some Americans for other Americans that could potentially be much more overt than it is now.

The moral of the story is - do NOT press REPLY ALL, hug your friends and family even if they are wrong and watch what you say when in an establishment that is obviously full of people who don't know what they are talking about.

Seattle Drivers or How to Get Nowhere Fast

Now that I am driving again, I feel it my duty to rant about drivers in Seattle and it's environs. 

I will preface this by saying that I learned to drive in Toronto. Toronto drivers are well known for their aggressiveness. In addition, I was born and raised, during my formative years, in Montreal, which might account for an inborn sense of considering the road MINE when I am driving upon it.

The first thing I noticed upon moving here, is that most drivers are extraordinarily courteous. For example, when 4 cars are stopped at a 4 way stop, you could be there for 5 minutes while each driver insists that you go, no you go, no you. Now normally, I look at it as the first driver to stop is the first to go, or it's the first driver who puts his foot on the gas and starts through the intersection whilst giving you the finger. I do play the game as long as a) I am feeling particularly patient that day, b) I didn't sleep the night before, so a short nap is not unwelcome or c) I cut someone off on the highway the day before and feel the need to atone.

In defense of myself, or at least my driving, I do not normally cut people off on the highway. I do, however, have a problem with the way people here enter onto a highway. When entering a highway where cars are going 70mph, (the speed limit,) then those loooooong entrance ramps are meant for you to accelerate up to speed so that you can merge into traffic safely. But nooooooooo, the ramps here are perceived as a means to increase your speed to about 45, maybe 50, if you're a real daredevil, and then jump in with various possible consequences, including the person driving the speed limit having a massive heart attack when you merge in front of him/her going 50. 

One more rant. When at an intersection waiting to turn left, please move into the intersection. Do not wait at the line. You see, I am behind you and the traffic is heavy and there's a bazillion cars behind me and if you wait for an invitation delivered to you on a silver platter, we shall all expire from carbon monoxide poisoning. Pull into the intersection and when there is a break in traffic or the light turns orange, MOVE! Do not move however if the asshole coming from the opposite direction decides to run the light. No...that is not a good thing.

 

Death, Drunks, Ghosts and Scarlett

I just got off the phone with my friend Gail and she was wondering why no blogging lately? I also had some emails asking the same thing. Well truth be told, once I was able to start driving again, I had to catch up on 2 weeks worth of stuff not done and still get all the stuff that currently needed doing done. The juices are running again and I shall now continue to spew forth.

So where was I? Oh yeah. Jorge passed on a few of days after the last post. We had a proper burial, giving him a primo spot in the garden and our cute cement raccoon is now his headstone. The choice for headstone was obvious, as living out in the country, one never knows when some carnivorous creature will smell out his last resting place and decide that rotting hamster makes a nice snack. 

Of course, we had to get an immediate replacement for Jorge so as to assuage the sadness and remorse of my younger son. Thus, we now have Thistle, another cute critter who runs on that stupid wheel all night, making me close my bedroom door to drown out the whirring and then having to put up with my dog head-butting it when he decides he wants to move from HIS room into our room for the night...or vice versa. 

Whatever happened to a period of mourning? Is it so easy to just make yourself feel better by replacing one loved one with another? I guess in the case of dead hamsters the answer is a resounding YES. I know it worked in the case of some divorced friends I know. Mind you I was just barely separated from my first husband before I met my current husband. But then again those exes were just emotionally dead, not physically. OK, trying to be a non-judgmental human being, I'll go with whatever floats your boat. Perhaps mourning is highly over-rated. It wasn't so long ago that women had to wear black for a year and keep there faces veiled before they could kick up their heels. I loved Scarlett O'hara in Gone With the Wind after Charles, her first husband, had died and she said the heck with the black dud's, I'm going dancing. 

I like the Irish tradition of having a wake when someone dies. I can live without the women keening part, but I do appreciate that it celebrates the life of the person, that there is a certain gaiety involved and that you can drink a lot...which probably is partly responsible for the gaiety....makes much more sense to me than all the grieving and mourning stuff. Besides I like drunks as long as they are amusing. I hereby order the few of you who actually make it to my funeral to come only after you've had a few. Trust me, you really don't need to come, 'cause I won't be sitting there with a pen and angelic paper writing down the names of those who are absent so I can come back and haunt you. Really...I won't....OK, I will, but only if you really ticked me off while I was in your face.

Critters: Coming, Going, Almost Gone

Ode to Deer

Dear Deer

So innocent and spotted
At this stage you’re a fawn
I watch through windows laughing
As you crap upon my lawn

‘Tis not manure I’m lacking
My dog gives more each day
It’s the blossoms you are snacking
That leads to my dismay.

I love my garden blooming
Worked hard to make it so
But you, so nonchalantly
Eat the blossoms ‘ere they grow.

I see now drastic measures
Are the order of the day
My dog and I come bursting forth
To scare you all away

Yet you stand there and you stare at me
Like “What’s your problem, lady?”
And I stare into those big doe eyes
And retreat to somewhere shady.

While I watch your steady munching
Your ears twitching to and fro
I think about toy M-16’s
My youngest son does stow

I think of plots and mayhem
Of hunters I could call
Then without a backward glance
You’re no longer there at all.

Yeah, Yeah - Wadsworth isn't rolling over in his grave.....yet!

I should probably be writing Ode to a Hamster. I am afraid that Jorge, my younger son's much beloved and abnormally long-lived hamster is looking close to requiring the Final Rights. As hamsters go, Jorge has been a wonderful pet. He has never bit anyone; is very tolerant of the indignity of being dug out from his nest under his running wheel at all hours of the day to be paraded in front of strangers and man-handled unmercifully by the younger ones. Personally, if my husband dragged me out in the middle of the night to show me off to his friends and passed me around to be cuddled and petted......OK, never mind.....I just realized that is not a place I want to or should go. Anyway, we are bracing ourselves for the next hamster funeral. I say next, because Jorge comes from a long line of now ex hamsters, may they RIP.  I guess if my metabolism ran as fast as theirs, I would probably die in 3 - 4 years as well. 

At the opposite end of the spectrum is our parrot, Paulie, who will probably outlive us all....well my husband and I anyway.....unless of course, my husband and older son have anything to say about it. He is an endearing, annoying, infuriating blue-crown conure which, unfortunately, is akin to having a perpetual 2 year-old child who lives for 35-40 years. While I have nothing against 2 year old children, having had two of them myself, it has always been appreciated when they become 5 year old children who can then be reasoned with on occasion. I mean, eventually they stop having temper tantrums if they don't get what they want, and they stop insisting they must talk to you just as you get on the phone. They are also potty-trained by then and while the occasional accident is tolerable, they do not insist on pooping all over your shoulder. Then again, my kids never sat on my shoulders for any length of time except maybe at the Disneyland parade, so perhaps that is an unfair comparison. 

Well, Jorge is still alive.  I keep going over to his cage and blowing a little poof of air on him to see if he reacts.  I'm probably contributing to the poor things' demise by giving him heart palpitations every time I check on him. I imagine being that small and feeling something breathing on you is probably not a comforting event. I'll just peak in from now on and keep the tissue-lined shoebox prepared.

Mumteenth Times

Maybe I should start a new blog called The Mumteenth Times. Ya know, "I have told you (insert number) teenth times not to/to (add your own issue)." I figured that since I mentioned this blog was partially about 'Motherhood', I should speak to this concept even though I am asking myself just what this concept entails. 

noun

1. the state of being a mother; maternity

2. the qualities or spirit of a mother

3. mothers collectively

-adjective

4. having or relating to an inherent worthiness, justness, or goodness that it is obvious or unarguable: legislation pushed through on a motherhood basis.

YIKES!

I guess I adhere to the first definition as I have two boys. I also distinctly remember being hugely pregnant twice and the gross details, down to each and every contraction, of their births, so I must have gone through maternity.

Can someone explain the 2nd definition?  Just what are these qualities or spirit of being a mother?  Or are these explained in the 4th one.....Holy Crow! the inherent worthiness, justness, or goodness that is obvious or inarguable?

Can I have that tattooed on my forehead and chest. On my forehead so my kids can read it before they start arguing with me and telling me I am unfair and what do I know anyway and on my chest backwards, so I can read it in the mirror at night before I go to bed after one of those arguments, when I begin second guessing myself and wondering if I was wrong and why the heck am I a mother anyway, and how did I get here when I can't even take care of myself half the time.

It used to be so easy when the kids were babes; even when they were young kids. I mean, I was Mum....it was obvious, I was in control, all knowing, on a pedestal, could do no wrong. But now, my older son, at the ripe old age of 14, is taller than me and my younger son, who isn't as tall as me yet, has inherited his father's stubbornness and love of arguing. (My husband claims that those are the traits he inherited from me, but this is MY blog.)

Suddenly, the definition of "Mother" has become less, well.....defined. The lines have blurred, the control has diminished, the pedestal has disappeared, or at least shrunk and I am always wrong. A friend once told me that this is a sign that I have done a good job, (so far), as a parent and I should pat myself on the back. (I should probably say "we" have done a good job as my husband has had some say in this, but it's still MY blog.) Then why do I sometimes feel like I should be whacking myself on the back with a whip while wearing a hair shirt under my bathrobe as I wander around the house chanting, "I am not worthy."

Hmmmmmmmmmm?????

24, Changing Oil, Looking Up/Within

First, I want to thank you for your encouraging emails and comments. Believe it or not, they have made a huge difference in allowing me to having something to focus on (and I use the term loosely), other than my lap and feet. 

I couldn't have imagined how isolating it is not to be able to look at people when I was talking to them or 'listening' to TV as opposed to watching it. My family has become addicted to '24' and we have been catching up on the seasons over the last year or so. Of course they offered not to watch it while I have been hanging around face down, but I told them to go ahead and that I'd watch it on my laptop after. Well that was NO fun at all! Oh well, while they were watching all the action, you know, Jack torturing people or being tortured and who had been kidnapped AGAIN, I was catching up on old movies......and I mean old.....I have a penchant for Laurence Olivier, Peter O'Toole, Richard Burton in those old Shakespeare movies that my family would rather drill holes into their heads than watch.

I did go the doctor yesterday and, HALLELUJAH!, I can look up again. I still can't lie on my back, but what does one do on one's back anyway? At least that you can't do in a different position. I mean, rats, no changing the oil in the car for at least another week? 

I still can't drive until this gas bubble has completely resorbed, but that's not such a bad thing since Dad is the 'acting' chauffeur. I get to laze in bed in the morning while the rest of the family is hustling around trying to get out of the house......hmmmmm. I could've gotten used to that! Jak, my youngest, however was thrilled to hear that I was better and more importantly, would soon be able to drive again. "Does that mean you'll be grocery shopping soon?" I think we've had enough QFC roast chicken to last us all a lifetime!

Now for some profundity, because I feel the need to add some in here to keep from being maudlin. I had never heard of David Foster Wallace until I read an excerpt from a commencement address he gave to the graduating class of 2005 at Kenyon College. I found it on a website, which one totally escapes me at the moment, possibly The Atlantic? The following is an excerpt from the excerpt from the Wall Street Journal, but you can read the entire thing at:

http://online.wsj.com/article_email/SB12217821196645607-lMyQjAxMDl4MjExOTcxODkyWj.html

"A huge percentage of the stuff that I tend to be automatically certain of is, it turns out, totally wrong and deluded. Here's one example of of the utter wrongness of something I tend to be automatically sure of: Everything in my own immediate experience supports my deep belief that I am the absolute center of the universe, the realest, most vivid and important person in existence. We rarely talk about this sort of natural, basic self-centeredness, because it's so socially repulsive, but it's pretty much the same for all of us, deep down. It is our default-setting, hard-wired into our boards at birth. Think about it: There is no experience you've had that you were not at the absolute center of. The world as you experience it is right there in front of you, or behind you, to the left or right of you, on your TV, or your monitor, or whatever. Other people's thoughts and feelings have to be communicated to you somehow, but your own are so immediate, urgent, real - you get the idea. But please don't worry that I'm getting ready to preach to you about compassion or other-directedness or the so-called "virtues." This is not a matter of virtue - it's a matter of my choosing to do the work of somehow altering or getting free of my natural, hard-wired default-setting, which is to be deeply and literally self-centered, and to see and interpret everything through this lens of self.

David Foster Wallace committed suicide Friday, Sept. 12th (the same day I had my surgery!?) at the age of 46......perhaps because he could not succeed in altering or getting free of this hard-wired setting? Is it even possible to do so? 

Food for thought.

UPDATE: Seems the address is not working when you cut and paste, but it does work if you type in the URL. It's from the Wall Street Journal, Sept. 19, 2008 in the BOOKS section.

To See or Not To See, Detached Retinas, Etc.

I just had surgery for a detached retina. I have always had a mortal fear of going blind. It used to be of dying, but now that I'm older and closer to that eventuality, that fear seems to have eased somewhat. Especially since after 50 I just started counting backwards, figuring if I reach zero, I will have done pretty well. But going blind has always freaked me out.

I am such a visual person. I need to see things to understand them. I need to read the directions, (at least 3 times), I need to see the math, (except for my bank balance, that's one area when I have to HEAR "Sorry, your debit card has been refused.") Show me a picture, draw me a diagram. I can't even listen to audiobooks because my mind starts wandering and wondering about what I am seeing; like who's the freaking idiot who just tried to cut me off and why are you going 70 in the passing lane when the speed limit is 70, you moron. OK, so I'm an aggressive driver, but that is a direct result of having spent my Drivers Ed years and most of my adult life in Toronto. It's hard to get into the PNW driving head space. But I digress and that is a whole other post.

I am on day 11, yes you read that right, DAY ELEVEN, of having to keep my head perpendicular to the floor 24/7. Without the gross details, they repaired the retina and then put a gas bubble in my eye which expands upon coming in contact with body temperature and pushes the retina back against the eyeball, holding it in place until it heals. Now picture yourself in a diving bell. You know, those big brass helmet things with the round glass faceplate. Imagine being in one of those under the sea and walking into a gasoline slick; all those neat psychedelic colors swirling around in puddles at the gas station. Well that's what it looked like seeing through my left eye. 

Now imagine starting to come back up to the surface through this gas slick and your face plate is halfway out into the air, but the bottom half is still submerged. There's that line across your vision sloshing around. That's where I am at now. Eventually, they tell me, the bubble will resorb and I will no longer be walking around in the middle of a bad acid flashback. Oh and my vision should be OK again in a few weeks/months after my pupil undilates and is no longer looking in the opposite direction to what I am staring at.

In the meantime, I have become very well acquainted and familiarized with my toes and their nails, a relationship once the sole responsibility of my pedicurist person and have gleaned all the intimate details of my lap and how it spreads depending on what I am wearing, (I will never wear shorts again and sit down). And I have had nightmares of going blind. 

I have heard that apparently given the choice to regain one sense, most people who have some degree of blindness and deafness would prefer to be blind. I guess the loss of your auditory sense would be very isolating. But for me, not to see would be catastrophic. At least if I was deaf, I could still read, still be independently mobile, watch CNN (junkie), write, see my kids grow and change, make sure they're wearing non-grease stained T-shirts out to dinner and have at least made an attempt to comb their hair. I could still tell my husband he has stuff on his face and see the laughter in his eyes when he's perpetually taking advantage of my gullibility. I could still watch my dog eat peanut butter, step over the dry cleaning I placed in front of the door so I wouldn't forget it, and be able to get totally P.O.'d because I can't find my glasses, keys, cell-phone. 

Being deaf? Well......no screaming parrot, no "Mum, Mum, Mum!!!", when I'm right in the middle of a good part of a book, no having to listen to the sound of politicians irritating voices, no Rage Against the Machine, I'd miss Trent Reznor though, no whining and complaining (my own generally...but I guess I would still hear the voices in my head...mwaaahhahah). 

Granted, being selectively hard of hearing has it's advantages, but I can't imagine loosing my sight. 

Contact

I am lousy at making phone calls, answering phone calls, returning phone calls - yes, and I know it's rude and unconscionable and yet most of my friends and family still put up with me and continue to call. This is a good thing, as it would not be at all unlike me to just disappear into the ether of the place I live, unknown to any but my husband, 2 sons and the various animals we shelter. It doesn't help either that, because we have moved so much, our friends and family are strewn like maple keys all over the landscape of this earth of ours. 

I have discovered, however, that I am pretty good at returning emails and I don't mind leaving messages on other people's phones - in fact I could probably carry on a presidential debate via phone messages alone. But I also know that I love to write and perhaps some of you who have thrown your hands up in disgust at me, or don't know/like me well enough to be that persistent, not to mention those of you who probably have better things to do, will get sucked into here every now and then. - you know, like leaves into the eaves.