Author's Note: As I have mentioned before, I do not have to rely on false story fodder to pad my blogs. My real life proves an ample source of antics about which to write. This particular entry is no different. No names, locations, or details have been changed to protect the still-scarred victims of this tragedy. What you are about to read is, unfortunately for me and humorously for you, completely true. I couldn't make this one up, folks.
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July 12, 2008 was honestly the best day I've ever had. I woke up on the morning of my wedding to a cloudless cerulean sky, my stomach filled to the brim with nervous energy-- the only thing I'd allowed to fill it for several days. My mom and I readied ourselves in hoodies and sweatpants, and together with my future mother-in-law we made our way to the salon. Coiffed and beautified, I stopped at Starbucks on the way to the church for a liquid breakfast, and was greeted by my bridesmaids in our church choir room, where we spend the next few hours dancing to music and applying false eyelashes. The day was a whirlwind--pictures, tuxedos, flower girls, lipstick touch-ups, processional, vows, ring exchanges, cake, flowers, and even a thunderstorm in the middle of the ceremony, which everyone told us meant good luck. A reception followed, with amazing food, a beautifully decorated dance floor, chocolate fountain, and even an Indianapolis Colts groom's cake in honor of R's favorite team. We made our way out of the church and into my new red Pontiac, and off we were, bride and groom!
The plan was to spend that night and next day in Atlanta, from where we would fly to the Domician Republic's Oasis Hamaca resort. As we neared the interstate, R realized he'd forgotten his passport, and we made a quick stop at our apartment, stepping over the 3 groomsmen sharing our luxurious 600 square feet for the night before traveling back to their respective homes. And finally, we were ready to leave.
We were exhausted when we arrived at our hotel--well, at least one of us was. We made our way upstairs to our suite, feeling like there were scarlet A's pinned to our chest at the sight of us sharing a room even with our shiny new wedding bands in place. We readied ourselves for bed (me wrangling myself into some Victoria's Secret spandex obstacle course, while R relaxed naxed on the bed watching ESPN). And for a good ten minutes, I sat in our hotel bathroom trying not to have a panic attack. Though I have been on birth control since I was 15 (yes, people, for a MEDICAL condition), I was for some reason petrified of becoming pregnant on our honeymoon. I was also petrified of the, ahem, act required to get me pregnant. I'd had several good girlfriends of mine share their wedding night experiences, all of which were horror stories, and I was pretty sure this wasn't going to be like it is in the movies. I will spare you details, but let me say that I now understand why many women need to be drunk for this to happen for the first time, and that there was not enough Ibuprofen in the country to get me through that night. I apologize to my kidneys for the amount of antiinflammatories I took that week.
The next day started off well--I noticed I was feeling a bit rundown and that my throat was scratchy, but chalked it up to the stress of the wedding. That night at dinner, I noticed that swallowing was becoming more and more painful. As my body still thinks I'm 6 years old, I get tonsillitis 2 or 3 times a year, and I could tell another attack was coming. I told R we needed to find an urgent care facility first thing in the morning--and pray that we make our noon flight on time.
The doctor I saw that morning pronounced me inflamed, and wrote me a prescription for an exceptionally strong antibiotic. I asked him if this would interfere with my birth control pills, and he assured me they would not. We made our way to the hotel to gather our things, and waited to get my medicine filled at the local Wal-Mart. 50 dollars and nearly 2 hours later, we were sprinting full-speed through Hartsfield-Jackson airport, and made it to our gate about 30 seconds before they closed the door to the plane.
Our flight to Miami was uneventful. We spent our 2 hour layover searching for something I could eat without tearing apart my throat. As we approached our gate, we heard the announcement that our flight had been delayed another 3 hours due to bad weather. I paced up and down the airport looking for something to do, while R worked feverishly on his laptop to try and establish an internet connection. Finally, we were allowed to board.
We landed in the Dominican Republic around 10 pm. We left this plane and boarded a quaint local plane to take us into the city for our final destination at the resort. After being seated for about half an hour, the flight attendants told us in broken English we were waiting for clearance to take off. Another 30 minutes rolls by, and we still haven't moved. The captain came on the loudspeaker asking if there were any volunteers who would like to stay the night and fly out the next morning. A couple with two small children left the plane to stay behind. Unfortunately for us, this meant that their baggage must be removed from the cargo area of the airplane. And being that it was just after 11:30 pm, the baggage handlers were in the middle of shift change, and we had to wait another 45 minutes for a new crew to arrive, unload the bags for the couple and their kids, and reload the other passengers bags. We finally took off around midnight, and landed in a city about 10 miles from our resort an hour later.
We pass through customs, weary and looking forward to a shower and some sleep, and arrive at baggage claim. R's bag flies out onto the conveyor belt quickly, and he goes to get us a shuttle to the resort. I wait, pacing up and down the tiled floor, growing more and more dismayed as the crowd around us thins and I am the only one left standing. I break into my first round of tears that night, tired and sick and jet-lagged, as I realize all I have with me is a single backpack with T-shirts, lacy bras and thong panties, and my makeup. All of my actual clothing, including any semblance of pants, is in my lost bag. All of the dresses I planned to wear to our romantic dinners, all of my shoes, and most importantly all of our toiletries, are gone. In our haste at the airport in Atlanta, R had to transfer his toiletries to my suitcase as his bag was over the weight limit ( he's not exactly a travel-with-the-clothes-on-your-back kind of guy). And so we are on our honeymoon with no toothbrushes, toothpaste, deodorant, soap, or anything to disguise our natural body odors after a night of unairconditioned planes. R gently leads me from the lost baggage counter to our shuttle, afraid I will completely lose it at any moment. I remember we shared the shuttle with a group of college kids on a summer vacation. They were bombed out of their minds and were having an exceptionally good time in the backseat together. R tried to put his arm around me and I snapped "Don't touch me" through my tears and oh-so-sore tonsils.
We arrive in our room and collapse on the bed, and I cry myself to sleep. R keeps looking at me, dumbfounded, probably thinking to himself that he just married a well-disguised manic depressive and that we're gonna need some Lithium up in this girl. He finally coaxes me out of bed the next morning, and I shower to the best of my ability while trying not to let the water get in my ears/eyes/or mouth, which is pretty easy since I have no shampoo to wash my hair, no soap to wash my skin, and no razor to shave my legs. Oh, and our resort wasn't exactly a Ramada Inn where you can call up to the front desk and ask for toiletries. The entire week we were there they brought us a grand total of three towels, and recommended a local shop for our toiletry purchases. Apparently, "all-inclusive" doesn't get you toothpaste.
We went to breakfast in an open-air pavilion where we found exotic fruits, animal parts I didn't recognize, and milk that had probably never heard of pasteurization. I tried not to sip down flies with my coffee. We then walked over to the local store to restock our toiletry bag. R gathered Dial soap, a tube of toothpaste, a can of shaving cream and a razor, two deodorants, and two small bottles of shampoo and conditioner. The elderly woman up front wrote up our purchase as R reached for his wallet. "One hundred twelve dollah", she said, gesturing with her bony brown fingers at our items on the counter. "We take American dollah". R stared blankly at her unsmiling face. "For this?", he said incredulously. "Si, for dis," she replied. We must have had "miserable, desperate, and utterly ignorant Americans" written on our faces, but we certainly weren't THAT ignorant. We decided to get the soap, toothpaste, and deodorant and make do until my bag was supposed to arrive that day.
I called the front desk to check on the bag, and was told it had not come. I called the airlines, who told me the bag had been sent to Miami by mistake and should be sent to me by tomorrow. R and I decided to go to the beach for the afternoon. We passed through the gates to the resort, flanked by armed guards on either side. And I do mean armed. Like, Sylvestor Stallone in Rambo 3 armed. I have never been to a place that required AK-47's and scud missiles for security, but R assured me it was just a precaution. We walked down to the beach and noticed a strange line off to the side, and saw as we got closer that it was a barbed-wire fence. When we asked the beach umbrella rental guy what was up with the fence, he told us it was the line crossing from the DR into Haiti, and not to ever cross it as it was very dangerous on the other side. Of course, it was not the picture of serenity and security on OUR side, but I kept this to myself. Sure enough, as we walked the beach there were Haitians beckoning to the tourists, offering to braid our hair, sell us cheap rum, or be our personal marijuana supplier while on the island. Don't think I wasn't tempted by mind altering substances at this point.
Since we had no sunscreen, we decided to head back from the beach early. On the way back to the hotel, a cheerful young Dominican man waved at R in greeting. The two of them shook hands. The guy actually spoke English and told R it was good to see him again, and that he could meet with us now if it was a good time. I turned to R with a question in my eyes. "Who is this guy?" I asked. "What's he talking about?" "Oh, that's Eddie," he replied ( ah yes, a popular Dominican name). " I met him last night when checking in. He said since we're visiting the resort he can get us some free T-shirts. I figured you could use the clothes right now."
"R, I'm sure he's trying to sell us something. And seeing as how shampoo is considered a market commodity down here, I'm sure its something expensive we do not need."
10 minutes later we were in Eddie's office, free hats and ugly t-shirts in hand, listening to Eddie detail the various types of timeshares he had available. R has a soft heart for salespeople, while i was not born with this particular trait. He kept pleading with me with his eyes, asking me to go gentle on the guy. Finally, as Eddie's manager came to the table to close our deal, he asked us which share would best suit our needs. "As I've made clear from the beginning, NONE OF THEM. We are NOT BUYING. Can we go now?" I said. Our conversation and Eddie's friendliness were pretty much over after that.
After another lovely open air buffet of octopus and fried plantains, we headed back to the hotel. As I climbed into bed, I searched the TV channels for something to make me a little less homesick. 4 channels of soccer, more soccer, local Dominican news, and what must have been the Latin version of American Idol were our choices. R decided to amuse himself with checking work emails. "Hey, what's the name of the antibiotic you're taking?", he asked me. "Avelox," I said. "Why?" He casually said, "Oh, there's an article on here about how some woman sued the doctor who gave it to her since she got pregnant with twins while she was taking it. She was on the Pill, too, just like you. Isn't that crazy?" And for the second night in a row, I cried myself to sleep.
The next day gave us great weather and even some fruit I recognized at breakfast. We rented a beach kayak and stayed in the water most of the afternoon. I called the front desk who did not sound sorry at all as they told me that my bag had not arrived. We went back to the hotel to get changed for a run. R and I have both been longtime runners, and I especially like to run in new places. We got our iPods and headed out into the late afternoon sun. We were gathering quite a bit of attention as we ran past the Uzi-toting security guards. Apparently, people don't exercise recreationally in the DR, and we caused quite a stir making everyone wonder why the two white kids were running circles around the resort. R headed up to the room a few minutes before I did to grab a shower. I finished my miles and returned to the room to clean up. After dressing in my fanciest pair of running shorts and R's timeshare T-shirt, we headed to dinner at one of the resort's restaurants.
The restaurant was Dominican-Mexican, complete with a basket of tortilla chips on the table. I ordered fairly normal chicken fajitas, and with the help of the "pineapple smoothies" (read--margaritas) they gave us, I felt my throat begin to soothe and my body finally relax. We had fun people-watching, and R, who fancies himself the conquistador of the Spanish language, valiantly attempted to talk with the waiters. After our meal, we decided to head back to the hotel.
I first noticed something was wrong when our key card didn't work. I knew it wasn't a case of being laid next to a credit card or cell phone, as both were in our room. We headed to the front desk, and they reactivated our keys, unable to explain to us why they had been deactivated in the first place. We entered the room, and I saw immediately it was more of a mess than when we'd left it. My eyes scanned the room, searching for our valuables--R's laptop was still there, and my purse and wallet had not been touched. However, both of our iPods and some of our wedding cash that we'd received as gifts, were gone. R began to tear through the room searching for them, but I knew we'd never see them again. I was so upset I couldn't speak. We were in a foreign country, with the locals less than fond of our presence, and there was no way we would see our things again. We weren't in the US, where you can sue the hotel for stocking your minibar unproperly.
The hotel sent their Dominican Barney Fife up from the "security" department and he conducted a search of our room as well. He looked particularly uncomfortable sorting through my belongings, which amounted to mass quantities of lingerie and oversized T-shirts. After he left, I spent an inordinate amount of money to call home on my cell phone, and begged my father to fly a plane down here and remove me from the pit of hell into which we'd been cast. I truly believe he would have done this, except my mother talked some sense into us both and convinced me to go to sleep.
I couldn't fathom falling asleep in this room that had been burglarized. It was probably a staff member, and they had the ability to break in at any moment. This didn't seem to bother R, who drifted right off into a deep sleep. I, on the other hand, sat up with a flashlight in my hand (our room's electricity liked to blink on and off about 10 times a night), alternating between sobbing and blowing my nose. I don't know how I managed to go to sleep that night, but awoke the next morning with puffy eyes and a sick feeling in my stomach.
Finally, mercifully, it was our last day. My luggage, having just arrived the day before, was a welcome sight, and i must have brushed my teeth for a good twenty minutes, relishing the feeling of clean. We went to the front desk to check out, and they requested R go back to our room and bring them the lock from our room safe, which we obviously never used. They told him a fee would be applied if we did not bring it down before check out. With our flight departing in less than 2 hours, I argued in my best Spanish that they were lucky I wasn't setting the room on fire at this point, and that they could walk their own Dominican feet up there to collect the lock. The staff didn't budge, and R headed back to the room.
He returned looking pale and wide-eyed, as if he'd just seen something supernatural. Seeing as we were residing in Satan's lair, I feared the worst. "What happened?" I asked. He told me as he was walking back to the front desk, he crossed paths with a machete-wielding local who was cutting mangoes from the trees lining the path. R said the man looked at him, made the universal slash-across-the-throat gesture with his machete, and began to chase him, muttering in Spanish all the while. Thankfully, R is a fast runner, and soon lost the portly pirate in the tree-lined paths down to the front office. I prayed silent thanks as I embraced my husband. It was then that the shuttle to the airport pulled up to the curb, and I trampled a grandmother and multiple small children to get on the bus. It was time to get the heck out of here.
When we landed back in Atlanta, the first strains of English wafted to my ears, and again I cried, this time with happiness that I was back in the States. R and I drove home, back to our miniscule apartment, and unpacked my still-packed suitcase. As we laid in bed that night, he told me how sorry he was for the awful experience we'd had. He assured me he'd make it up to me.
We've had many wonderful vacations since that fateful trip to purgatory and back. We've been to Chicago, the beach, the mountains, and Gatlinburg, all amazing trips that gave us the memories we should have had our first year. But we have survived, and on July 12th, we will again celebrate the best day before the worst days of our lives. And yes, we can both laugh about it now, knowing that we are a Dr. Phil show waiting to happen. But please, do us a favor--be warned, and never, EVER, visit the website http://www.cheapcaribbean.com/. If you do, I assure you that you will return from your trip divorced, maimed, robbed, and ill, or some combination of the above. In this case, saving money just might cost you your life, or at the very least, your sanity.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Life Versus Death
You know all those people who claim that Spring is their favorite season of the year? They walk around espousing the wonders of the climate change, the foliage coming to life after months of hibernation, and the joy of greenery and fresh air after being cooped up inside all winter. I suppose this might be true if you don't live in Tennessee. First of all, our state is the pollen capital of the world, and lucky allergy sufferers like me run the risk of anaphylactic shock from walking outside to get our mail. It's hard to enjoy a nice walk in the park without your Epi pen getting in the way. Also, spring is the time of year that the barrage of nasty weather begins. For example, we have weathered 4 storms already this year that produced tornados, hail, and widespread wind damage. I do not do particularly well with these storms. Ask my husband, who is usually the one who takes my phone call as I frantically dial over and over, curled up in blankets and surrounded by pillows on the couch, flashlight in hand and Jack Russells at my side, screaming that Paul Barys said its the big one and we're all going to die so please get home soon. In other words, I find little to be redeeming about Spring.
It does, however, contain my favorite holiday. Easter has always been as much fun for me as Christmas. I love watching kids do Easter egg hunts, helping make a special meal, and spending time with friends and family. Plus, lets not forget the church fashion show on Easter Sunday as all the ladies try to outdo each other in their new dresses. But on a serious note, I find the Easter holiday to be the most hopeful day of the year. It is the day that reminds me that we are children of a Living God.
I have kept coming back to a particular passage in Luke as I've been doing my devotionals this week. All of the Gospels have a slightly different version of the discovery of the empty tomb, and I find Luke's wording the coolest of all. Chapter 24 opens with the women who were present at the crucifixion going to visit Jesus' tomb on the third day. " They found the stone rolled away from the tomb, but when they entered, they did not find the body of the Lord Jesus. While they were wondering about this, suddenly two men in clothes that gleamed like lightning stood beside them. In their fright the women bowed down with their faces to the ground, but the men said to them, "Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here; He has risen!" (Luke 24: 2-6)
That question is crazy-good. These women were followers of Christ. They went everywhere with Him, saw Him heal the deaf and blind and cast out demons. They listened to His sermons, they pondered the meaning of His parables. They ate with Him, prayed with Him, and were taught by Him. They had heard Him say that He must be crucified, and that on the third day He would rise again. And yet they went to the tomb early that Sunday morning fully expecting to find a body.
How could their faith be so small? In some of the other gospels, when Jesus appeared, Mary didn't even recognize Him until He spoke her name. The Son of God stood before her, and she still missed it. I must admit, I am no better than Mary. I probably wouldn't have made it as far as the tomb.
We are just like the disciples (at least, I know I am!). We look for life--purpose, meaning, fulfillment, happiness--among a world of death, sin, destruction, and evil. We fully expect to find what God tells us isn't there. We search for the vibrancy and lifeblood that Christ promises through a relationship with Him as if its buried treasure and someone threw away the map. All of it is spelled out for us, through the Word of God, the Word made flesh--Jesus Himself.
I find so many aspects of Jesus to be mind-blowing. Among them is the fact that He prayed for me while in the Garden the night He was taken into custody. In John 17, Jesus turns His attention from His disciples to His future followers: "My prayer is not for them alone. I pray also for those who will believe in me through their message...I have given them the glory that you gave me, that they may be one as we are one." (John 17: 20-22). While Jesus was literally sweating droplets of blood, He took the time to consider me. He knew that I would not have the ability to look inside an empty tomb and see physical proof of His promises fulfilled. He knew I would have to take His word for it. He knew that the only way I would ever find life is to shirk the death this world tries to offer me, and to choose Him instead.
Thank you, Jesus, for dying for us. Thank you for dissecting the fear out of death, and conquering the grave. Thank you, most of all, that we don't have to search anymore. You are life, and life abundantly.
It does, however, contain my favorite holiday. Easter has always been as much fun for me as Christmas. I love watching kids do Easter egg hunts, helping make a special meal, and spending time with friends and family. Plus, lets not forget the church fashion show on Easter Sunday as all the ladies try to outdo each other in their new dresses. But on a serious note, I find the Easter holiday to be the most hopeful day of the year. It is the day that reminds me that we are children of a Living God.
I have kept coming back to a particular passage in Luke as I've been doing my devotionals this week. All of the Gospels have a slightly different version of the discovery of the empty tomb, and I find Luke's wording the coolest of all. Chapter 24 opens with the women who were present at the crucifixion going to visit Jesus' tomb on the third day. " They found the stone rolled away from the tomb, but when they entered, they did not find the body of the Lord Jesus. While they were wondering about this, suddenly two men in clothes that gleamed like lightning stood beside them. In their fright the women bowed down with their faces to the ground, but the men said to them, "Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here; He has risen!" (Luke 24: 2-6)
That question is crazy-good. These women were followers of Christ. They went everywhere with Him, saw Him heal the deaf and blind and cast out demons. They listened to His sermons, they pondered the meaning of His parables. They ate with Him, prayed with Him, and were taught by Him. They had heard Him say that He must be crucified, and that on the third day He would rise again. And yet they went to the tomb early that Sunday morning fully expecting to find a body.
How could their faith be so small? In some of the other gospels, when Jesus appeared, Mary didn't even recognize Him until He spoke her name. The Son of God stood before her, and she still missed it. I must admit, I am no better than Mary. I probably wouldn't have made it as far as the tomb.
We are just like the disciples (at least, I know I am!). We look for life--purpose, meaning, fulfillment, happiness--among a world of death, sin, destruction, and evil. We fully expect to find what God tells us isn't there. We search for the vibrancy and lifeblood that Christ promises through a relationship with Him as if its buried treasure and someone threw away the map. All of it is spelled out for us, through the Word of God, the Word made flesh--Jesus Himself.
I find so many aspects of Jesus to be mind-blowing. Among them is the fact that He prayed for me while in the Garden the night He was taken into custody. In John 17, Jesus turns His attention from His disciples to His future followers: "My prayer is not for them alone. I pray also for those who will believe in me through their message...I have given them the glory that you gave me, that they may be one as we are one." (John 17: 20-22). While Jesus was literally sweating droplets of blood, He took the time to consider me. He knew that I would not have the ability to look inside an empty tomb and see physical proof of His promises fulfilled. He knew I would have to take His word for it. He knew that the only way I would ever find life is to shirk the death this world tries to offer me, and to choose Him instead.
Thank you, Jesus, for dying for us. Thank you for dissecting the fear out of death, and conquering the grave. Thank you, most of all, that we don't have to search anymore. You are life, and life abundantly.
Friday, March 11, 2011
I'm Not Quite Dead Yet
For anyone out there who needs some humor therapy today--you're welcome. Please read on.
Now that R has a new job that doesn't come with a 45 minute commute, we have the unique opportunity to ready ourselves for work and leave the house at the same time. This has been an interesting experience, as I had forgotten how long R takes in the shower and how much mirror space he hogs. I love having him home with me, but do not love applying eyeliner in a sauna-like bathroom with a fogged-up mirror and R's old boxers thrown lovingly across my sink.
This morning entailed the usual--get up, wrangle myself into scrubs, halfhearted attempt at hair and makeup, dance around the cats as I try to prepare breakfast, finally succumb to the cries of our kitty with a weight problem and give her yet another scoop of cat food, dig for not-so-buried treasure in said kitty's litter box, dodge the other cat on way to dump kitty poo in the trash can outside, herd two perky Jack Russell terriers outside into the floating remains of our soggy backyard, and finally, hunt for keys for a good 10 minutes before realizing they are in my pocket.
R gives me a quick kiss goodbye and heads out. I'm about 3 minutes behind him, and am backing out of the driveway when I notice a very old, very familiar Honda Civic speeding towards me. R, whom many have mistaken for the 89-year-old Buick-wielding Grandma on the interstate, is the most cautious driver I know, and my concern mounts as he frantically motions for me to roll down my window.
Per his usual, R's message is succinct yet unexpected: "I just saw two dead guys. Follow me!"
And off he goes, chief investigator for CSI: Ringgold as he flies through our neighborhood and covertly pulls in behind a white pickup truck at the entrance to our subdivision. I pull up beside him and he stage-whispers to me: "Look in the truck! They're both dead as they can be!" He then dramatically pulls out of our road to head to the interstate, leaving me to check out the scene of the crime.
The death scene is, of course, eerie to say the least. The dawn has just broken over the horizon, and the morning's first rays of light are timidly peeking through the trees, casting shadows down on the abandoned white truck. I peer into the driver's window and see two men, both dressed for construction work in jeans and T-shirts. Sure enough, the driver is not moving, head slumped against chest and cell phone pressed against his left ear with a pale hand. I wonder who was on the other line, if they have any clue of what has just happened, if they have already called for help. His passenger looks no better, eyes closed and head resting similarly against his chest. They don't appear to be injured and there is no broken glass or sign of damage to the truck. Could they have both had heart attacks simultaneously? Have they taken an overdose of something? Was Sonic's breakfast burrito too much to handle? I pull out my cell phone and begin dialing 911.
As I press the send button I survey their faces. They look stereotypically peaceful, as though at perfect rest. In fact, if I didn't know the grisly truth, I'd almost say they were slee---
HOLY MOTHER!! THE DEAD ONE IN THE PASSENGER SEAT JUST SAT UP!! HE JUST SMILED AT ME, FOR PETE'S SAKE!! WHAT THE HECK IS GOING ON?!?!?
It's at this point they both appear to have been awakened from their naps. Perhaps it had something to do with the chick in bright pink scrubs peering into their truck for evidence of fatal flesh wounds while they slept.
"911, what is your emergency?"
I am, for the first time in 26 years, at a loss for words. What am I supposed to say? "Well, my husband found these two dead guys but its all good now since they just woke up"? Right. My weekend plans do not include a trip to Moccasin Bend or federal prison, so I decide to do the mature thing and hang up.
The men are now taking sips from their respective cups of coffee and starting the truck's engine. Here's a note, sirs: You're going to need more help than pedestrian caffeine can offer IF PEOPLE ARE MISTAKING YOU FOR DEAD. Here's hoping they got the Red Bull or espresso shots they needed to make it happen.
Oh, and thanks for leaving me at the scene of the crime to deal with two dead men by myself, babe. I know I'm an awesome nurse, but even I am not that good.
Here's to a death-free Friday!
Now that R has a new job that doesn't come with a 45 minute commute, we have the unique opportunity to ready ourselves for work and leave the house at the same time. This has been an interesting experience, as I had forgotten how long R takes in the shower and how much mirror space he hogs. I love having him home with me, but do not love applying eyeliner in a sauna-like bathroom with a fogged-up mirror and R's old boxers thrown lovingly across my sink.
This morning entailed the usual--get up, wrangle myself into scrubs, halfhearted attempt at hair and makeup, dance around the cats as I try to prepare breakfast, finally succumb to the cries of our kitty with a weight problem and give her yet another scoop of cat food, dig for not-so-buried treasure in said kitty's litter box, dodge the other cat on way to dump kitty poo in the trash can outside, herd two perky Jack Russell terriers outside into the floating remains of our soggy backyard, and finally, hunt for keys for a good 10 minutes before realizing they are in my pocket.
R gives me a quick kiss goodbye and heads out. I'm about 3 minutes behind him, and am backing out of the driveway when I notice a very old, very familiar Honda Civic speeding towards me. R, whom many have mistaken for the 89-year-old Buick-wielding Grandma on the interstate, is the most cautious driver I know, and my concern mounts as he frantically motions for me to roll down my window.
Per his usual, R's message is succinct yet unexpected: "I just saw two dead guys. Follow me!"
And off he goes, chief investigator for CSI: Ringgold as he flies through our neighborhood and covertly pulls in behind a white pickup truck at the entrance to our subdivision. I pull up beside him and he stage-whispers to me: "Look in the truck! They're both dead as they can be!" He then dramatically pulls out of our road to head to the interstate, leaving me to check out the scene of the crime.
The death scene is, of course, eerie to say the least. The dawn has just broken over the horizon, and the morning's first rays of light are timidly peeking through the trees, casting shadows down on the abandoned white truck. I peer into the driver's window and see two men, both dressed for construction work in jeans and T-shirts. Sure enough, the driver is not moving, head slumped against chest and cell phone pressed against his left ear with a pale hand. I wonder who was on the other line, if they have any clue of what has just happened, if they have already called for help. His passenger looks no better, eyes closed and head resting similarly against his chest. They don't appear to be injured and there is no broken glass or sign of damage to the truck. Could they have both had heart attacks simultaneously? Have they taken an overdose of something? Was Sonic's breakfast burrito too much to handle? I pull out my cell phone and begin dialing 911.
As I press the send button I survey their faces. They look stereotypically peaceful, as though at perfect rest. In fact, if I didn't know the grisly truth, I'd almost say they were slee---
HOLY MOTHER!! THE DEAD ONE IN THE PASSENGER SEAT JUST SAT UP!! HE JUST SMILED AT ME, FOR PETE'S SAKE!! WHAT THE HECK IS GOING ON?!?!?
It's at this point they both appear to have been awakened from their naps. Perhaps it had something to do with the chick in bright pink scrubs peering into their truck for evidence of fatal flesh wounds while they slept.
"911, what is your emergency?"
I am, for the first time in 26 years, at a loss for words. What am I supposed to say? "Well, my husband found these two dead guys but its all good now since they just woke up"? Right. My weekend plans do not include a trip to Moccasin Bend or federal prison, so I decide to do the mature thing and hang up.
The men are now taking sips from their respective cups of coffee and starting the truck's engine. Here's a note, sirs: You're going to need more help than pedestrian caffeine can offer IF PEOPLE ARE MISTAKING YOU FOR DEAD. Here's hoping they got the Red Bull or espresso shots they needed to make it happen.
Oh, and thanks for leaving me at the scene of the crime to deal with two dead men by myself, babe. I know I'm an awesome nurse, but even I am not that good.
Here's to a death-free Friday!
Monday, February 14, 2011
You Can't Wrap That In A Box
Ahem, your attention, please: Cue the Mormon Tabernacle Choir singing the Hallelujah Chorus, or perhaps the hoofbeats of the Four Horseman of the Apocalypse, because I have an announcement to make.
R has a new job! ( I'm having to restrain myself from excessive punctuation. Please imagine infinity plus exclamation points inserted here.)
In the less-than-bustling economic times in which we currently live, this is exciting news for anybody. But for us, exciting doesn't quite cover it. Please allow me to wax poetic with a bit of background.
R and I have an unusual story of meeting, courtship, and marriage. We met and dated long distance for the first 4 months of our relationship, with him residing two states away from me. Shortly after we met, he received a call for a job interview with a company that is located 45 minutes from where I live. He took the interview, got a job offer, and made the decision to quit his job and move 4 hours south to live and work close to me. If I haven't mentioned the fact that he is the most selfless man I've ever known, I guess here's a good place for it. I was overwhelmed that someone I had basically just met would do this for me.
At this job he was promised many things. Being young and naive, we both believed the myths of "compensation time" for hours over 40 per week, a set schedule of 8-5 Monday thru Friday, and the fact that our (unborn) first child's soul would not be demanded by this particular company.
Everything started off innocently enough, with the occasional late night or Saturday spent at the office. Since I was working for a hospital at the time, my hours were also unpredictable, and it wasn't a big deal. We were married 8 months into his new career, and I enjoyed seeing him come through the door of our miniscule apartment each day around 6 pm. Of course, this didn't last forever. Apparently, when our honeymoon period was over, so was the honeymoon with his employer.
R's hours began expanding, and he would often leave work past 8 and 9 pm. A forty-five minute drive home (and that's with no traffic) would put him home many nights past 10, with dinner cold on the table and me passed out in bed. This was obviously not ideal. Couple this with the stress of me changing jobs, and we were not happy campers most of the time. I especially felt frustrated, since I had changed positions in order to have a work schedule that aligned with what R's was supposed to be.
At least we still had the weekends, right? Those two precious days coveted by the Monday thru Friday folks everywhere became less frequent for R. Many weeks, he would return late on Friday night, be woken by a phone call from work at 2 AM on Saturday morning, and have to return to the office later that day, being too exhausted for anything except bed when he returned home. Our trips to visit his family in Indiana, which we used to take every couple of months, got cut short and eventually spaced out due to his work schedule. There were several months that I recall when R got no weekends--and virtually no days off. In fact, the month after we celebrated our first anniversary, R was required to work the entire month of August, rotating shifts from day to night, with no day off for about 5 weeks. As previously discussed, R's sleeping habits are not ideal to begin with, and this wreaked havoc on his poor overworked brain. He was not able to get decent rest, and as a result began to suffer migraines brought on by insomnia. As also previously discussed, I'm not the touchy-feely Florence Nightingale he thought he married, and after 5 weeks of my sleep being disrupted because his sleep was disrupted, I truly felt we couldn't survive this way for long.
The holidays also presented a problem each year with R's job. Leaving town before 6 pm was usually impossible, and so our Thanksgiving Eve's were spent logjammed on the interstate with the 728,000 other motorists stupid enough to leave the night before a major holiday. Commence with tears and gnashing of teeth on my part. We would spend Christmas here, leave the day after to go visit his folks, and return the day after New Year's, refreshed and ready to be up at 5 AM the next day for work, throroughly rested after a 9 hour trip with multitudes of traffic.
I don't want to sound like a whiner, though I've been lovingly labeled as such by those close to me for years. After all, he had a JOB, which was more than many folks could say. Above all, we were thankful for this. But this particular position was taking its toll. I felt like a single mother of 2 rambunctious Jack Russell terriers, one persnickety Calico and the rotund Ruler of the house, our Queen Bee tuxedo cat. I ate dinner alone every night, with the aforementioned cats and Fox News as my companions. By the time R was home, I was irritated, he was exhausted, and both of us were fed up. This continued for the next two and a half years.
Fast forward to Thanksgiving of 2010. R was currently involved in another month-long, swing-shift, no-days-off-for-you project. We had plans set to go visit R's family in Indiana, as is our yearly tradition. I got a call from R the day before we were supposed to leave. He sounded tired and defeated as he told me he had to work through the holiday, and we would be staying here for turkey day. It broke my heart for him. R is not a complainer, and he would never whine or moan about his circumstances (that's why he married me!). But I knew it was killing him. He stumbled home on Thanksgiving day around noon, fell straight asleep, and was back to work at 6 pm the same day, where he finished out two more weeks before a day off.
We had been praying for a new opportunity for R for at least 2 years. We knew that relocation would eventually be required of us at this position, which was an option neither of us wanted. R was also going to be switched to a pure swing shift schedule after the new year began: 4 days on, 4 days off, 4 nights on, 4 nights off, and so on. This would be ok for someone with normal REM sleep cycles, but I knew it would make him, quite literally, sick and tired.
For two years we have prayed for something different, for a job that would use R's talents without taking advantage of his dedication. We prayed for something that would give us a balanced life, where we can share a meal and have an hour or two together each day. We prayed daily for this, both together and separately. I took the Bibilical concept of "stand at the door and knock" to the extreme. I was basically taking a buzzsaw to the door in order to bust that mother down with how much I was praying. And yet, for many long months, we didn't receive a single phone call.
Thankfully, R took some vacation days after Christmas to take a trip to see his family. While relaxing at his parent's house, I was engaged in my new favorite activity: scouring online job boards and looking at the listings for anything that resembled what R does. At this point, I was willing to apply to Walmart on his behalf so at least I could see him while I did the grocery shopping. One of the sites happened to list a vacancy with a company in our area, in need of a person to fulfill a position similar to what R does now. As I was using R's laptop, I had his resume saved on my desktop. A few clicks later, and I kinda sorta applied to the job for him. I figured nothing would come of it, so what do we have to lose?
The next day, we were driving back home when R's cell phone rang. His phone didn't stop ringing for the next 3 hours. That day, we received calls from 4 different recruiters, representing jobs with companies in our area. I was shell-shocked. As soon as we arrived home, R was sending them updated resumes and arranging for phone interviews the following week.
Overwhelmed doesn't describe it. We had seen such a long dry spell that we became convinced we'd have to relocate or perhaps fake death and enter the Witness Protection Program to find a way out of R's current job. God used those 4 phone calls to pour some hope back into my parched heart. I was starting to feel that I was allowed to dream again--to petition God on behalf of my spouse, to ask Him for what we needed. And to end that prayer with a smile, firmly assured that He was listening.
Fast forward to 1/31/11. It's not just a regular Monday morning: its the day of interview number 3 with a local company, and one that R is excited about. It is also the day before he is scheduled to begin shift work. The first of February also happens to be my birthday, and I was bummed about not being able to see him until 10 o'clock that night. His interview is at 8 AM, so I call him at 10 to see how it went. No answer. 11:30, no answer. 1:00, no answer. I'm starting to wonder if water-boarding or the Spanish Inquisition is part of this company's interview tactics when R calls me. Apparently they have been swilling lobster and champagne from a fancy local restaurant since 11:30, at which point he left for lunch with the vice president and department head. I'm thinking this might be a mark in our favor. They told R he would hear a decision within the week.
The next day is as gloomy as they come, which I've come to expect from being born in the grayest month of the year. R sends me an email in his usual abbreviated cryptic style: "I just got a phone call."
Being the impatient one in our marriage, I call him every 30 seconds until he answers his desk phone. He confirms it was a call from the company that interviewed him yesterday, but they only left him a message asking for a call back. I try to go back to my work as if nothing is going on, but by this point I am completely useless with nervous energy.
I get in my car to leave, and as I am pulling onto the interstate, R sends me a text telling me that the new company has made an offer: increase in pay, more vacation time, weekends free except the occasional project, and no swing shifts. I want to take this opportunity to apologize if any of you were next to me on I-24 that day as I began my celebration. I managed to navigate home through tears, screams, and singing atop my lungs to pop songs on the radio.
I will never forget the look on his face as he came to meet me that night at dinner. He looked visibly lighter, unburdened and unfettered in a way I had ceased to recognize. My heart, in much the same way, felt as though it would fly away from sheer joy. It was the happiest day we have had since we've been married.
I know that this is not an unusual story, and that I shouldn't have been surprised by its ending. Sometimes when God allows a trial to be in our lives for an extended period, we forget what its like to live unburdened and unafraid. He offers this to us, regardless of circumstance, and its my fault when I choose not to take it, to stay mired down in the muck of my disappointment. God is King. The Psalms tell us that "He sits in the Heavens, and does what pleases Him." I owe Him my everything because He saved my life, but He owes me absolutely nothing. How often I forget that. Instead I expect Him to act as the Court Jester, to come singing and dancing for me when my spirits are low, to entertain me with pleasure so I can forget my pain. I am so glad that He loves me enough to make me uncomfortable.
I am also undeniably grateful that there are times when He answers my prayers with a resounding "YES". I don't deserve it: my salvation, His forgiveness, His grace, His mercy, my health, my family, my husband, or my husband's new job. I don't deserve the next breath I take, or the ability to type on this very keyboard. There is nothing that I can do to deserve the greatness that He is.
I suppose that's why we have the expression, "You can't put God in a box". It's because the gifts, blessings, and grace that flow naturally from His spirit are truly uncontainable. Thank you, Jesus, for your gifts, no matter what packagin they may have, for "every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows." (James 1:17) Amen!
R has a new job! ( I'm having to restrain myself from excessive punctuation. Please imagine infinity plus exclamation points inserted here.)
In the less-than-bustling economic times in which we currently live, this is exciting news for anybody. But for us, exciting doesn't quite cover it. Please allow me to wax poetic with a bit of background.
R and I have an unusual story of meeting, courtship, and marriage. We met and dated long distance for the first 4 months of our relationship, with him residing two states away from me. Shortly after we met, he received a call for a job interview with a company that is located 45 minutes from where I live. He took the interview, got a job offer, and made the decision to quit his job and move 4 hours south to live and work close to me. If I haven't mentioned the fact that he is the most selfless man I've ever known, I guess here's a good place for it. I was overwhelmed that someone I had basically just met would do this for me.
At this job he was promised many things. Being young and naive, we both believed the myths of "compensation time" for hours over 40 per week, a set schedule of 8-5 Monday thru Friday, and the fact that our (unborn) first child's soul would not be demanded by this particular company.
Everything started off innocently enough, with the occasional late night or Saturday spent at the office. Since I was working for a hospital at the time, my hours were also unpredictable, and it wasn't a big deal. We were married 8 months into his new career, and I enjoyed seeing him come through the door of our miniscule apartment each day around 6 pm. Of course, this didn't last forever. Apparently, when our honeymoon period was over, so was the honeymoon with his employer.
R's hours began expanding, and he would often leave work past 8 and 9 pm. A forty-five minute drive home (and that's with no traffic) would put him home many nights past 10, with dinner cold on the table and me passed out in bed. This was obviously not ideal. Couple this with the stress of me changing jobs, and we were not happy campers most of the time. I especially felt frustrated, since I had changed positions in order to have a work schedule that aligned with what R's was supposed to be.
At least we still had the weekends, right? Those two precious days coveted by the Monday thru Friday folks everywhere became less frequent for R. Many weeks, he would return late on Friday night, be woken by a phone call from work at 2 AM on Saturday morning, and have to return to the office later that day, being too exhausted for anything except bed when he returned home. Our trips to visit his family in Indiana, which we used to take every couple of months, got cut short and eventually spaced out due to his work schedule. There were several months that I recall when R got no weekends--and virtually no days off. In fact, the month after we celebrated our first anniversary, R was required to work the entire month of August, rotating shifts from day to night, with no day off for about 5 weeks. As previously discussed, R's sleeping habits are not ideal to begin with, and this wreaked havoc on his poor overworked brain. He was not able to get decent rest, and as a result began to suffer migraines brought on by insomnia. As also previously discussed, I'm not the touchy-feely Florence Nightingale he thought he married, and after 5 weeks of my sleep being disrupted because his sleep was disrupted, I truly felt we couldn't survive this way for long.
The holidays also presented a problem each year with R's job. Leaving town before 6 pm was usually impossible, and so our Thanksgiving Eve's were spent logjammed on the interstate with the 728,000 other motorists stupid enough to leave the night before a major holiday. Commence with tears and gnashing of teeth on my part. We would spend Christmas here, leave the day after to go visit his folks, and return the day after New Year's, refreshed and ready to be up at 5 AM the next day for work, throroughly rested after a 9 hour trip with multitudes of traffic.
I don't want to sound like a whiner, though I've been lovingly labeled as such by those close to me for years. After all, he had a JOB, which was more than many folks could say. Above all, we were thankful for this. But this particular position was taking its toll. I felt like a single mother of 2 rambunctious Jack Russell terriers, one persnickety Calico and the rotund Ruler of the house, our Queen Bee tuxedo cat. I ate dinner alone every night, with the aforementioned cats and Fox News as my companions. By the time R was home, I was irritated, he was exhausted, and both of us were fed up. This continued for the next two and a half years.
Fast forward to Thanksgiving of 2010. R was currently involved in another month-long, swing-shift, no-days-off-for-you project. We had plans set to go visit R's family in Indiana, as is our yearly tradition. I got a call from R the day before we were supposed to leave. He sounded tired and defeated as he told me he had to work through the holiday, and we would be staying here for turkey day. It broke my heart for him. R is not a complainer, and he would never whine or moan about his circumstances (that's why he married me!). But I knew it was killing him. He stumbled home on Thanksgiving day around noon, fell straight asleep, and was back to work at 6 pm the same day, where he finished out two more weeks before a day off.
We had been praying for a new opportunity for R for at least 2 years. We knew that relocation would eventually be required of us at this position, which was an option neither of us wanted. R was also going to be switched to a pure swing shift schedule after the new year began: 4 days on, 4 days off, 4 nights on, 4 nights off, and so on. This would be ok for someone with normal REM sleep cycles, but I knew it would make him, quite literally, sick and tired.
For two years we have prayed for something different, for a job that would use R's talents without taking advantage of his dedication. We prayed for something that would give us a balanced life, where we can share a meal and have an hour or two together each day. We prayed daily for this, both together and separately. I took the Bibilical concept of "stand at the door and knock" to the extreme. I was basically taking a buzzsaw to the door in order to bust that mother down with how much I was praying. And yet, for many long months, we didn't receive a single phone call.
Thankfully, R took some vacation days after Christmas to take a trip to see his family. While relaxing at his parent's house, I was engaged in my new favorite activity: scouring online job boards and looking at the listings for anything that resembled what R does. At this point, I was willing to apply to Walmart on his behalf so at least I could see him while I did the grocery shopping. One of the sites happened to list a vacancy with a company in our area, in need of a person to fulfill a position similar to what R does now. As I was using R's laptop, I had his resume saved on my desktop. A few clicks later, and I kinda sorta applied to the job for him. I figured nothing would come of it, so what do we have to lose?
The next day, we were driving back home when R's cell phone rang. His phone didn't stop ringing for the next 3 hours. That day, we received calls from 4 different recruiters, representing jobs with companies in our area. I was shell-shocked. As soon as we arrived home, R was sending them updated resumes and arranging for phone interviews the following week.
Overwhelmed doesn't describe it. We had seen such a long dry spell that we became convinced we'd have to relocate or perhaps fake death and enter the Witness Protection Program to find a way out of R's current job. God used those 4 phone calls to pour some hope back into my parched heart. I was starting to feel that I was allowed to dream again--to petition God on behalf of my spouse, to ask Him for what we needed. And to end that prayer with a smile, firmly assured that He was listening.
Fast forward to 1/31/11. It's not just a regular Monday morning: its the day of interview number 3 with a local company, and one that R is excited about. It is also the day before he is scheduled to begin shift work. The first of February also happens to be my birthday, and I was bummed about not being able to see him until 10 o'clock that night. His interview is at 8 AM, so I call him at 10 to see how it went. No answer. 11:30, no answer. 1:00, no answer. I'm starting to wonder if water-boarding or the Spanish Inquisition is part of this company's interview tactics when R calls me. Apparently they have been swilling lobster and champagne from a fancy local restaurant since 11:30, at which point he left for lunch with the vice president and department head. I'm thinking this might be a mark in our favor. They told R he would hear a decision within the week.
The next day is as gloomy as they come, which I've come to expect from being born in the grayest month of the year. R sends me an email in his usual abbreviated cryptic style: "I just got a phone call."
Being the impatient one in our marriage, I call him every 30 seconds until he answers his desk phone. He confirms it was a call from the company that interviewed him yesterday, but they only left him a message asking for a call back. I try to go back to my work as if nothing is going on, but by this point I am completely useless with nervous energy.
I get in my car to leave, and as I am pulling onto the interstate, R sends me a text telling me that the new company has made an offer: increase in pay, more vacation time, weekends free except the occasional project, and no swing shifts. I want to take this opportunity to apologize if any of you were next to me on I-24 that day as I began my celebration. I managed to navigate home through tears, screams, and singing atop my lungs to pop songs on the radio.
I will never forget the look on his face as he came to meet me that night at dinner. He looked visibly lighter, unburdened and unfettered in a way I had ceased to recognize. My heart, in much the same way, felt as though it would fly away from sheer joy. It was the happiest day we have had since we've been married.
I know that this is not an unusual story, and that I shouldn't have been surprised by its ending. Sometimes when God allows a trial to be in our lives for an extended period, we forget what its like to live unburdened and unafraid. He offers this to us, regardless of circumstance, and its my fault when I choose not to take it, to stay mired down in the muck of my disappointment. God is King. The Psalms tell us that "He sits in the Heavens, and does what pleases Him." I owe Him my everything because He saved my life, but He owes me absolutely nothing. How often I forget that. Instead I expect Him to act as the Court Jester, to come singing and dancing for me when my spirits are low, to entertain me with pleasure so I can forget my pain. I am so glad that He loves me enough to make me uncomfortable.
I am also undeniably grateful that there are times when He answers my prayers with a resounding "YES". I don't deserve it: my salvation, His forgiveness, His grace, His mercy, my health, my family, my husband, or my husband's new job. I don't deserve the next breath I take, or the ability to type on this very keyboard. There is nothing that I can do to deserve the greatness that He is.
I suppose that's why we have the expression, "You can't put God in a box". It's because the gifts, blessings, and grace that flow naturally from His spirit are truly uncontainable. Thank you, Jesus, for your gifts, no matter what packagin they may have, for "every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows." (James 1:17) Amen!
Friday, January 14, 2011
Broken Pottery Is A Dish Best Served Cold...And Preferably To Your Husband
It's all fun and games until someone swallows a shard of ceramic pottery.
Before Adult Protective Services intervenes and takes me into custody for spousal abuse, I'd like to state my case. I was lovingly preparing dinner (that is, microwaving leftovers) for R two nights ago when it all started. I reached into my cabinets to find a plate for his food that was being nuked, and instead of a dinner plate, one of my serving bowls came crashing down onto the counter, narrowly missing my head. It was broken, of course, but it was a pretty clean break, just two or three large pieces. I swept up the broken ceramic and dumped it into the trash, cleaned off the counter, and went on with the food preparations, thinking nothing of it.
R calls me at lunchtime yesterday with a timber of panic in his voice. "Babe," he asks, "Could anything sharp have fallen into the chicken pasta you packed for my lunch last night?" My immediate response is no, as I don't make a habit of slipping hypodermic needles into dinner just for kicks and giggles. He goes on to tell me that he felt something sharp go down his throat while swallowing, and his throat is now sore. The memory of the broken pottery comes back to me, and I tell him that a dish did break while I was warming up dinner and packing his lunch for the next day, but it wasn't anywhere near the food itself. A small shard must have somehow fallen into the plastic lunch container from the counter.
Now, I am an RN by trade. My husband was quite excited at this prospect when we first met, with visions of me serenely sponging his feverish forehead in the night and rushing to his aid at the first sign of illness. Some nurses I have met are like this. However, the majority of us are not Florence Nightingale, and when our soliders fall ill, our first reponse is more like, "Take an aspirin and suck it up. You'll be fine in the morning." I am reminded of my own mother at times like these. As a child, when my brother or I got sick, her response was, without fail, to "get up and get dressed; you'll feel better once you get to school." Most of the time, she was absolutely right. There were also the unfortunate occasions that yes, we did feel better at school, but only because we emptied the contents of our upset stomachs in the classroom in front of our teachers and friends.
"Honey, I honestly think you'll be fine. It could not have been a very large piece at all, and you'll probably pass it with no trouble. Don't worry about unless your stomach starts hurting, and go eat something soft with fiber in it. That'll help to get rid of it."
My hubby sounds much less convinced. There are some things you should know about R before we go any further in this story. Go Google "hypochondriac". R's face is the first hit you will see. If you tell him this, he will likely spend all night on the Internet researching hypochondriasis and diagnose himself with everything life-threatening under the sun. In R's mind, headache=inoperable brain tumor, stuffy nose=Ebola virus or swine flu, sore muscles=multiple sclerosis or ALS, and coughing=congestive heart failure.
This wouldn't be so bad if he would allow medication to help him for simple symptoms. Pharmaceutical companies and the FDA invented the term "side effects" for people like my husband. When I offer him ibuprofen or Tylenol for a pounding head, he looks at me aghast, accusing me of putting him into renal and/or liver failure, respectively. The first and last time I gave him Benadryl he was so wired that I found him trying to fix the wallpaper in our kitchen at 3 AM. We have tried many medicines for his bouts of insomnia, even the natural supplement melatonin, which he claimed made his heart race and gave him sweaty palms. He also refused to take them for more than one or two nights, convinced he would experience addiction, subsequent withdrawal, and "brain shrinking" from too many doses. Last weekend, he was given a Z-pack of antibiotics to help clear a sinus infection. I tried to rip off the side effect profile and trash it before he noticed it, but of course he spent the next half hour debating whether or not to take those two tiny pink pills because of "potential QT-interval prolongation and ventricular arrhythmias" listed on the warning label. As R is not a practicing cardiologist, he didn't even know what this meant, but was sure it would happen to him. I tried to dissuade him from worrying, but what do I know? I'm just a CARDIAC nurse.
All of these factors in combination made for quite an interesting night in the Long household. R was still concerned about his "bleeding, raw" throat, so I told him to call his doctor. The doc saw him that afternoon, told him his throat was moderately irritated, and that most likley he will have no problems, but to watch for abdominal pain and eat lots of soft foods with fiber. She also gave him a piece of information which was the kiss of death for R: "Go to the ER if you have any severe abdominal pain. It would be rare, but the object could potentially perforate your stomach wall." In R's mind, this translated to "Compose your funeral music and tell your wife what flowers you want on the casket. You will undoubtedly be dead by Sunday."
I receive no fewer than 12 calls from the time R sees the doctor until he arrives home. One conversation was particularly muffled, as R was double-fisting slices of white bread and eating his fourth banana while huddled in the Kroger parking lot next to his office as he updated me on his "condition". When he arrived home, I asked what he wanted for dinner (besides enough Valium to put a team of oxen down), and he said the doctor advised him to eat oatmeal and other high-fiber foods. I made him a bowl of oatmeal, a plate of eggs, and yet two more slices of white bread for toast. He asked if the eggs were okay to eat with his "perforated stomach". Please congratulate me on holding off the rolling of my eyes until I left the kitchen.
That night as we were going to bed, the fiber tango began, and R spent quite a bit of time in the restroom. I asked to see the contents of the toilet bowl before they were flushed to check for blood, but he assured me he was fine. Finally it is 11 pm, and the lights go out. I assure R before going to sleep that he is perfectly fine, the fiber is flushing his system, and the offending pottery will probably be passed in the AM if it hasn't already. I turn onto my side, sinking into my pillow in blissful silence.
11:10. R: "I can't sleep. What if my stomach rips open and I have to have an operation?" Me: "You're fine. Stop worrying, think of something pleasant, and please try to go to sleep."
11:13. R: "Are you sure? I feel like I'm gassy and need to burp." Me: "Let it loose. You probably have gas from all that fiber."
11:17. R: " I never burp this much at night. Something's wrong." Me: "You burp our pet's names to them as part of their good-night ritual each evening. I'm telling you, everything is fine. Sleep."
11:30. R: "I feel like I need to go to the bathroom again. What should I do?" Me: "Get out of bed, take five steps to your right, locate toilet, and sit down. If you need help with the rest, I can glove up and dig in."
11:35. R: "I just went to the bathroom again. Something's wrong." Me: "It's just the fiber doing its job, honey. Relax. Please."
Sometime after this I fall asleep. I am awakened well after midnight with R rooting around the refrigerator for something. R: " I needed some water because I was thirsty. My stomach is starting to feel funny. I'm scared something's wrong." Me: "Your stomach is hurting because you are concentrating on your stomach and how you are scared of it to start hurting. You're psyching yourself out. Everything is going to be fine. PLEASE let me sleep."
1:30. R: "My stomach has that feeling that you get when you need to go poop. What's happening?" Me: "What's not happening for me is sleep. Please, just use the restroom and try to relax. Do you want a melatonin to help you sleep?" R: "Why are you trying to give me heart palpitations?!?!"
2:45. R: "Please don't get mad. My stomach has that growly feeling that you get when you're hungry. Is that a bad sign?" Me: "The spare bedroom is located at the end of the hallway. Please take one of the cats with you for comfort, and BE QUIET SO I CAN SLEEP."
4:00. R is shaking as if possessed with scarlet fever or a demonic force. Me: "What's wrong? Are you cold?" R: "I'm scared that my stomach is going to rip open. I just can't seem to relax." I begin to get out of bed. R: "Wait, where are you going? A, why are you leaving?" Me: "I'm going to find those other pieces of pottery and finish the job if you don't LET ME GO TO SLEEP!!!!!!
We both got about three hours of rest last night. R finally fell asleep around 4:15, and managed to survive the night. Whew. It was touch-and-go there for a while.
I know I sound like a terrible wife and nurse. But in all honesty, I speak to patients all day long who claim a number of symptoms, most of which originate in their mind. I have learned the difference between when to worry, and when to shut the heck up and go to sleep. My husband probably never will. But I will not love him any less for it. He is my gurantee that life will be interesting.
R is surviving the day thus far, and I have assured him that I picked through his packed lunch for syringes, subcutaneous needles, fiberglass, and shattered window panes. Hopefully, we have weathered the worst of the Great Pottery Poisoning 2011. Tonight, however, I am tempted to smuggle home some Propofol and pretend its a vanilla protein shake. And if I want to get any semblance of rest this weekend, I just might go a little Dr. Conrad Murray on my husband (but only the version that helped Michael Jackson "sleep"--not the one that killed him!)
Before Adult Protective Services intervenes and takes me into custody for spousal abuse, I'd like to state my case. I was lovingly preparing dinner (that is, microwaving leftovers) for R two nights ago when it all started. I reached into my cabinets to find a plate for his food that was being nuked, and instead of a dinner plate, one of my serving bowls came crashing down onto the counter, narrowly missing my head. It was broken, of course, but it was a pretty clean break, just two or three large pieces. I swept up the broken ceramic and dumped it into the trash, cleaned off the counter, and went on with the food preparations, thinking nothing of it.
R calls me at lunchtime yesterday with a timber of panic in his voice. "Babe," he asks, "Could anything sharp have fallen into the chicken pasta you packed for my lunch last night?" My immediate response is no, as I don't make a habit of slipping hypodermic needles into dinner just for kicks and giggles. He goes on to tell me that he felt something sharp go down his throat while swallowing, and his throat is now sore. The memory of the broken pottery comes back to me, and I tell him that a dish did break while I was warming up dinner and packing his lunch for the next day, but it wasn't anywhere near the food itself. A small shard must have somehow fallen into the plastic lunch container from the counter.
Now, I am an RN by trade. My husband was quite excited at this prospect when we first met, with visions of me serenely sponging his feverish forehead in the night and rushing to his aid at the first sign of illness. Some nurses I have met are like this. However, the majority of us are not Florence Nightingale, and when our soliders fall ill, our first reponse is more like, "Take an aspirin and suck it up. You'll be fine in the morning." I am reminded of my own mother at times like these. As a child, when my brother or I got sick, her response was, without fail, to "get up and get dressed; you'll feel better once you get to school." Most of the time, she was absolutely right. There were also the unfortunate occasions that yes, we did feel better at school, but only because we emptied the contents of our upset stomachs in the classroom in front of our teachers and friends.
"Honey, I honestly think you'll be fine. It could not have been a very large piece at all, and you'll probably pass it with no trouble. Don't worry about unless your stomach starts hurting, and go eat something soft with fiber in it. That'll help to get rid of it."
My hubby sounds much less convinced. There are some things you should know about R before we go any further in this story. Go Google "hypochondriac". R's face is the first hit you will see. If you tell him this, he will likely spend all night on the Internet researching hypochondriasis and diagnose himself with everything life-threatening under the sun. In R's mind, headache=inoperable brain tumor, stuffy nose=Ebola virus or swine flu, sore muscles=multiple sclerosis or ALS, and coughing=congestive heart failure.
This wouldn't be so bad if he would allow medication to help him for simple symptoms. Pharmaceutical companies and the FDA invented the term "side effects" for people like my husband. When I offer him ibuprofen or Tylenol for a pounding head, he looks at me aghast, accusing me of putting him into renal and/or liver failure, respectively. The first and last time I gave him Benadryl he was so wired that I found him trying to fix the wallpaper in our kitchen at 3 AM. We have tried many medicines for his bouts of insomnia, even the natural supplement melatonin, which he claimed made his heart race and gave him sweaty palms. He also refused to take them for more than one or two nights, convinced he would experience addiction, subsequent withdrawal, and "brain shrinking" from too many doses. Last weekend, he was given a Z-pack of antibiotics to help clear a sinus infection. I tried to rip off the side effect profile and trash it before he noticed it, but of course he spent the next half hour debating whether or not to take those two tiny pink pills because of "potential QT-interval prolongation and ventricular arrhythmias" listed on the warning label. As R is not a practicing cardiologist, he didn't even know what this meant, but was sure it would happen to him. I tried to dissuade him from worrying, but what do I know? I'm just a CARDIAC nurse.
All of these factors in combination made for quite an interesting night in the Long household. R was still concerned about his "bleeding, raw" throat, so I told him to call his doctor. The doc saw him that afternoon, told him his throat was moderately irritated, and that most likley he will have no problems, but to watch for abdominal pain and eat lots of soft foods with fiber. She also gave him a piece of information which was the kiss of death for R: "Go to the ER if you have any severe abdominal pain. It would be rare, but the object could potentially perforate your stomach wall." In R's mind, this translated to "Compose your funeral music and tell your wife what flowers you want on the casket. You will undoubtedly be dead by Sunday."
I receive no fewer than 12 calls from the time R sees the doctor until he arrives home. One conversation was particularly muffled, as R was double-fisting slices of white bread and eating his fourth banana while huddled in the Kroger parking lot next to his office as he updated me on his "condition". When he arrived home, I asked what he wanted for dinner (besides enough Valium to put a team of oxen down), and he said the doctor advised him to eat oatmeal and other high-fiber foods. I made him a bowl of oatmeal, a plate of eggs, and yet two more slices of white bread for toast. He asked if the eggs were okay to eat with his "perforated stomach". Please congratulate me on holding off the rolling of my eyes until I left the kitchen.
That night as we were going to bed, the fiber tango began, and R spent quite a bit of time in the restroom. I asked to see the contents of the toilet bowl before they were flushed to check for blood, but he assured me he was fine. Finally it is 11 pm, and the lights go out. I assure R before going to sleep that he is perfectly fine, the fiber is flushing his system, and the offending pottery will probably be passed in the AM if it hasn't already. I turn onto my side, sinking into my pillow in blissful silence.
11:10. R: "I can't sleep. What if my stomach rips open and I have to have an operation?" Me: "You're fine. Stop worrying, think of something pleasant, and please try to go to sleep."
11:13. R: "Are you sure? I feel like I'm gassy and need to burp." Me: "Let it loose. You probably have gas from all that fiber."
11:17. R: " I never burp this much at night. Something's wrong." Me: "You burp our pet's names to them as part of their good-night ritual each evening. I'm telling you, everything is fine. Sleep."
11:30. R: "I feel like I need to go to the bathroom again. What should I do?" Me: "Get out of bed, take five steps to your right, locate toilet, and sit down. If you need help with the rest, I can glove up and dig in."
11:35. R: "I just went to the bathroom again. Something's wrong." Me: "It's just the fiber doing its job, honey. Relax. Please."
Sometime after this I fall asleep. I am awakened well after midnight with R rooting around the refrigerator for something. R: " I needed some water because I was thirsty. My stomach is starting to feel funny. I'm scared something's wrong." Me: "Your stomach is hurting because you are concentrating on your stomach and how you are scared of it to start hurting. You're psyching yourself out. Everything is going to be fine. PLEASE let me sleep."
1:30. R: "My stomach has that feeling that you get when you need to go poop. What's happening?" Me: "What's not happening for me is sleep. Please, just use the restroom and try to relax. Do you want a melatonin to help you sleep?" R: "Why are you trying to give me heart palpitations?!?!"
2:45. R: "Please don't get mad. My stomach has that growly feeling that you get when you're hungry. Is that a bad sign?" Me: "The spare bedroom is located at the end of the hallway. Please take one of the cats with you for comfort, and BE QUIET SO I CAN SLEEP."
4:00. R is shaking as if possessed with scarlet fever or a demonic force. Me: "What's wrong? Are you cold?" R: "I'm scared that my stomach is going to rip open. I just can't seem to relax." I begin to get out of bed. R: "Wait, where are you going? A, why are you leaving?" Me: "I'm going to find those other pieces of pottery and finish the job if you don't LET ME GO TO SLEEP!!!!!!
We both got about three hours of rest last night. R finally fell asleep around 4:15, and managed to survive the night. Whew. It was touch-and-go there for a while.
I know I sound like a terrible wife and nurse. But in all honesty, I speak to patients all day long who claim a number of symptoms, most of which originate in their mind. I have learned the difference between when to worry, and when to shut the heck up and go to sleep. My husband probably never will. But I will not love him any less for it. He is my gurantee that life will be interesting.
R is surviving the day thus far, and I have assured him that I picked through his packed lunch for syringes, subcutaneous needles, fiberglass, and shattered window panes. Hopefully, we have weathered the worst of the Great Pottery Poisoning 2011. Tonight, however, I am tempted to smuggle home some Propofol and pretend its a vanilla protein shake. And if I want to get any semblance of rest this weekend, I just might go a little Dr. Conrad Murray on my husband (but only the version that helped Michael Jackson "sleep"--not the one that killed him!)
Friday, January 7, 2011
Imperfectly Worthy
Nietszsche wrote that "Without music, life would be an error." If I were a few hundred years older, I'm sure I would've beat him to the punch on that quote. Music has always been more than a source of entertainment for me. It is my favorite way to worship and spend time with God. It is my therapy after a bad day. It is the one and only reason I can make it through a 6 mile run. And it is a tool that my Creator uses to show me things about myself. He frequently uses it as a mirror, holding it in front of my face so that I am able to see what He sees. I am learning that God's truth about me is the one vision that truly matters.
All this to say that I got some new CD's for Christmas, and as is my habit, I have played certain tracks on repeat for the last 2 weeks. Now, I am somewhat of a music snob. I like people to think my music taste is oh-so-unique and impossibly hip. In reality I have everything from Wilson Phillips and the Jackson 5 to Puerto-Rican hip-hop and ghetto booty music on my iPod. You will find teeny-bopper favorites such as Miley Cyrus, Avril Lavigne, and Adam Lambert on my shuffle playlist, as well as Kelly Clarkson, Katy Perry, and the Black Eyed Peas. Don't judge me--I've got Bright Eyes, Ingrid Michaelson, and Muse on there to redeem myself.
The track serving as the current object of my affection is Sugarland's "Every Girl Like Me". In between the admittedly vapid lyrics is the chorus, which reads, "And I am not perfect, but I know I'm worth it." Make sure you listen to it with Jennifer Nettles' voice behind it, as it has a much greater impact. Eleven little words in the middle of a country song. Not much to write home about, right?
Well, I write home about most everything. And these words have had a significant impact on me. I've heard a theory that people, especially women, fall into one of 3 categories: pleasers, performers, and overt controllers. "Overt" is a key word, since all of these are forms of control. These are the parts we play in order to get our needs met. For years as a painfully shy and insecure teenager, I thought I was a people pleaser. I couldn't stand for people to think negatively of me; one word or comment could send me into a tailspin of depression. As I got older, one of my good friends pointed out to me that I wasn't so much a pleaser as a performer. Yes, I want to make people like me--but only because if people like me, then I must be doing a good job. I am a natural student and straight-A maker. I'm that crazy person at the gym running 12 miles before work so that I "get it done". Dinner is planned and made at our house for a week at a time and frozen into individual portions. I can vaccum, listen to an audiobook on Spanish vocabulary, feed my cats, do a load of laundry, and talk to my husband on the phone all while updating my Facebook status. If multitasking were a country, I would be its Empress.
The problem with being a performer is that unless you have a steady supply of methamphetamines at your disposal, you get tired. All the time. And when you sit down to rest, you immediately feel guilty because you could be using that time to write thank-you notes for Christmas gifts or creating a litter of kittens out of all the cat hair you just vacuumed from the carpets. A 3 mile run isn't good enough, despite the fact that your hip is hurting and your body is telling you to stop. And how dare you go to bed at night when the dishwasher needs to be emptied, there is laundry in the dryer to be folded, and the bathroom isn't sparkling? You slacker!
Point? I get a high out of doing things perfectly. But as I am imperfect, I beat myself up for failing. Much of my insecurity comes from fear of failure. I'm too scared to do fill-in-the-blank because I'm not pretty/skinny/smart/likeable/funny/good enough. I am always falling short.
That's where the Sugarland lyrics come in. As usual, I was listening to them during a run. My usual soundtrack of "ugh, I'm so fat" was blasting over my iPod headphones, and the chorus passed a couple of times before I really heard it. "I am not perfect, but I know I'm worth it". I don't have a perfect body, but I deserve to feel good about myself. I am not a perfect wife, but I can ask my husband for what I need. I am not a perfect nurse, but I can accept the thanks my patients give me instead of dismissing it. And I am far from a perfect child of God, but I still have a place reserved in His lap at the end of the day.
I believe perfectionism is one of Satan's sharpest arrows. He loves to make me believe that if I do things well enough on my own, then I have no need of a Savior. He also takes delight in kicking me when I fail, making sure I feel too beaten down to get up and try again. My Father, however, relishes my imperfections. If he wanted a perfect daughter, he would have made me a robot. He likes that I sing off-key at the top of my lungs in the car. He smiles at the fact that I can't get through a meal without wearing half of it on my shirt, and that when it is raining outside its guaranteed that I will slip and fall in front of a large crowd of people at some point during the day. He doesn't mind that I have no sense of direction and got lost on the way back to my own house on my first date with my husband. He loves me despite the theme park of roller coasters my emotions emulate from day to day. He loves me perfectly, even though I am unbelievably imperfect. His word says that His strength is made perfect in my weakeness. I'll try to remember that next time I'm doing pushups and can't get past 5.
I am not perfect, but that doesn't take away my worthiness. Because no one can take away what it is given to me by my Savior. His peace, His love, His truth--no force can separate God from His children. Remember that if you pass me at the gym, singing out loud to the Pussycat Dolls--there is no judgement here!
All this to say that I got some new CD's for Christmas, and as is my habit, I have played certain tracks on repeat for the last 2 weeks. Now, I am somewhat of a music snob. I like people to think my music taste is oh-so-unique and impossibly hip. In reality I have everything from Wilson Phillips and the Jackson 5 to Puerto-Rican hip-hop and ghetto booty music on my iPod. You will find teeny-bopper favorites such as Miley Cyrus, Avril Lavigne, and Adam Lambert on my shuffle playlist, as well as Kelly Clarkson, Katy Perry, and the Black Eyed Peas. Don't judge me--I've got Bright Eyes, Ingrid Michaelson, and Muse on there to redeem myself.
The track serving as the current object of my affection is Sugarland's "Every Girl Like Me". In between the admittedly vapid lyrics is the chorus, which reads, "And I am not perfect, but I know I'm worth it." Make sure you listen to it with Jennifer Nettles' voice behind it, as it has a much greater impact. Eleven little words in the middle of a country song. Not much to write home about, right?
Well, I write home about most everything. And these words have had a significant impact on me. I've heard a theory that people, especially women, fall into one of 3 categories: pleasers, performers, and overt controllers. "Overt" is a key word, since all of these are forms of control. These are the parts we play in order to get our needs met. For years as a painfully shy and insecure teenager, I thought I was a people pleaser. I couldn't stand for people to think negatively of me; one word or comment could send me into a tailspin of depression. As I got older, one of my good friends pointed out to me that I wasn't so much a pleaser as a performer. Yes, I want to make people like me--but only because if people like me, then I must be doing a good job. I am a natural student and straight-A maker. I'm that crazy person at the gym running 12 miles before work so that I "get it done". Dinner is planned and made at our house for a week at a time and frozen into individual portions. I can vaccum, listen to an audiobook on Spanish vocabulary, feed my cats, do a load of laundry, and talk to my husband on the phone all while updating my Facebook status. If multitasking were a country, I would be its Empress.
The problem with being a performer is that unless you have a steady supply of methamphetamines at your disposal, you get tired. All the time. And when you sit down to rest, you immediately feel guilty because you could be using that time to write thank-you notes for Christmas gifts or creating a litter of kittens out of all the cat hair you just vacuumed from the carpets. A 3 mile run isn't good enough, despite the fact that your hip is hurting and your body is telling you to stop. And how dare you go to bed at night when the dishwasher needs to be emptied, there is laundry in the dryer to be folded, and the bathroom isn't sparkling? You slacker!
Point? I get a high out of doing things perfectly. But as I am imperfect, I beat myself up for failing. Much of my insecurity comes from fear of failure. I'm too scared to do fill-in-the-blank because I'm not pretty/skinny/smart/likeable/funny/good enough. I am always falling short.
That's where the Sugarland lyrics come in. As usual, I was listening to them during a run. My usual soundtrack of "ugh, I'm so fat" was blasting over my iPod headphones, and the chorus passed a couple of times before I really heard it. "I am not perfect, but I know I'm worth it". I don't have a perfect body, but I deserve to feel good about myself. I am not a perfect wife, but I can ask my husband for what I need. I am not a perfect nurse, but I can accept the thanks my patients give me instead of dismissing it. And I am far from a perfect child of God, but I still have a place reserved in His lap at the end of the day.
I believe perfectionism is one of Satan's sharpest arrows. He loves to make me believe that if I do things well enough on my own, then I have no need of a Savior. He also takes delight in kicking me when I fail, making sure I feel too beaten down to get up and try again. My Father, however, relishes my imperfections. If he wanted a perfect daughter, he would have made me a robot. He likes that I sing off-key at the top of my lungs in the car. He smiles at the fact that I can't get through a meal without wearing half of it on my shirt, and that when it is raining outside its guaranteed that I will slip and fall in front of a large crowd of people at some point during the day. He doesn't mind that I have no sense of direction and got lost on the way back to my own house on my first date with my husband. He loves me despite the theme park of roller coasters my emotions emulate from day to day. He loves me perfectly, even though I am unbelievably imperfect. His word says that His strength is made perfect in my weakeness. I'll try to remember that next time I'm doing pushups and can't get past 5.
I am not perfect, but that doesn't take away my worthiness. Because no one can take away what it is given to me by my Savior. His peace, His love, His truth--no force can separate God from His children. Remember that if you pass me at the gym, singing out loud to the Pussycat Dolls--there is no judgement here!
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Fat Kids Unite!
I hope I'm not breaking any copyright laws here, but there's a Facebook group that makes me laugh everytime I see its name. It's called Fat Kids United. I'm hoping that its creator is not one of the 3 people currently following my posts, and that I'm free to use it as the springboard for this entry.
One of the things I find most entertaining about this group is looking through the pictures of its members. And, thanks for not asking, but I know you're probably wondering, so let's get this out on the table--I am not one of these people. I find it hilarious that many members of this group are, according to their profile pics, the people who probably beat fat kids up in middle school or made them cry on the bus. Why? Because many of them are blonde, tanorexic, and model for Victoria's Secret on the side while putting themselves through school for a degree in dietetics. Apparently, it makes you cool if you love chocolate chip cookie-dough ice cream, as long as you look like you don't eat it. Look at me! I eat Oreos for breakfast and I'm totally down with French fries but I'm still a complete hottie! Doesn't that make me so, like, ironic?
You know when its awesome to be fat? That would be a rousing NEVER. And why am I so sure of this? Because I, dear readers, am the original cool fat kid.
I remember being a normal weight when I was a kid. It wasn't until my middle school years, which tend to bring out everyone's blossoming physical attributes such as acne, hairiness, and braces, that I began noticing I was different. I was the funny girl, always getting in trouble for talking in class, and had plenty of friends. I was smart, if you didn't count math as an important subject, and got along well with my teachers. What's not to like?
It became clear that I was different from the girls in my class, who possessed long, straight, blonde hair, big blue eyes, and lithe, athletic frames. I, on the other hand, began to see firsthand the effects of my Puerto Rican heritage. It is of note that the word "skinny" does not exist in PR's dialect of Spanish. We come from short, thick, hearty, waistless stock--tall and willowy just doesn't cut it in the sugarcane fields, you know. I also was blessed with hair that would make Diana Ross and Cher cry with jealousy. It adamantly refused to lay flat against my head, no matter how hard my mom and I tried. And because I was constantly trying to make it behave rather than working with its natural curl, I walked around with a strange, Brillo-pad type wedge attached to my head. And let's not forget the times I cut it short in an attempt to make it more "manageable"--I ended up with one of the great pyramids of Egypt atop my shoulders.
I remember when kids started making fun of me for being chubby. It would hurt for awhile, but when I got home from school and reunited with my friend the Doritos bag, it seemed somehow less painful. I began to see that I would not be accepted based solely on appearance, so it became clear I'd have to stand out in another way. And as we fat girls know, what better option than to be The Smart Girl With A Great Personality?
So boys asked me for homework help rather than asking me to the movies. That was okay. The guys at my school were not of the high caliber I was searching to find. I excelled in school, taking as many advanced placement classes and extra credits as I could. I was polite to teachers, made my friends laugh, and mostly stayed out of everybody's way--well, the best I could, being "fluffy". I had a group of 4 girls and 4 guys that I hung out with constantly, and I knew they always had my (wide) back. I even wrangled myself a boyfriend in 9th grade, and went to my senior prom with my best guy friend. I had a huge crush on him, but of course never let on. I knew that he got grief from his friends from offering to be my date, and was too embarrassed to ever let him see how I felt.
I tried to ignore my weight as it skyrocketed in high school. But there were always events that brought it back to mind. Each time we had class photos, I saw how much more there was of me compared to everybody else. When we got measured for our choir dresses, I was the only one who needed a size 18. My denial came to a swift end when I went back to my doctor for a sore throat that had been getting worse despite antibiotics I'd gotten the week before. As the nurses (yes, two) tried desperately to find a vein in my huge arms to test my blood for mononucleosis, I heard the doctor say to my mom: "Well, the antibiotics were prescribed for a normal weight teenager, around 120-130 pounds. She's 200." I knew they thought I didn't hear them, but those words will never be erased from my memory. I was the weight of someone on the defensive line of the football team. I outweighed my friends, teachers, and even some of my friends' parents. I didn't have a "1" in front of my weight like everyone else did. I was two-frickin-hundred pounds. How in the world did this happen?
After I graduated high school at an estimated 205-210 pounds, I decieded I wanted differently for myself. People who know me and my weight-loss story ask me what made me change. Alot of times I tell them that I knew I wanted to go into nursing, and wanted to be a healthy example to my patients. That was part of it. The other part is that I didn't want to be invisible anymore. Like every 19 year old, I wanted to be asked out, go to the movies with someone, hear someone tell me those magical three words: "A, you're beautiful". I wanted love, beauty, attention, acceptance, appreciation--all those things that seemed given freely to those around me. And so I started. Walking, on the treadmill, got my out of breath in 15 minutes. But I kept going. I stopped drinking my beloved Coke and Dr. Pepper, and began my love affair with diet caffeinated drinks. The fast-food drive-thru workers at Taco Bell and Arby's quit sending me Christmas cards as I was no longer a repeat customer.
I started running. Me, a fat chick! I did everything--ancient and embarrassing Sweatin' to the Oldies tapes, lifitng dumbells, doing crunches, clipping exercise routines out of fitness magazines. And by the time I reached my junior year in college, I had made it. I was 125 pounds. My pants were a size 2-4, with the occasional zero thrown in there just because I could. And life was different.
Different because I could go up the stairs without wheezing, my blood pressure was normal, and I could run for 8 miles at a time without stopping. Different because people, for the first time in my life, SAW me, and didn't immediately pity, dismiss, or ignore me. Different because my body was no longer a source of ridicule. And yeah, I got asked out a bit more.
Long story--longer, I realized that being thin was freaking awesome, but it wasn't the answer. Never being able to eat what your friends are eating, obessesing over calories, getting up at 4 AM to make sure my running was done, and feeling utterly controlled by food sucks. I was hungry--ALOT. I got very good at telling people I had just eaten dinner or had a big lunch or my stomach wasn't feeling well, so I didn't have to eat in front of them. I couldn't watch cooking shows without lusting after the meals. I smiled coyly when people would ask me, "Don't you ever just want a Snickers bar?" I saw that I was turning to food as I always had--first for comfort, and now for control. Had I been less squeamish about vomiting, I have no doubt bulimia would have gotten a grip on me. And because no one can restrict themselves forever, I began reaching for some of my old favorites.
It was around this time that I met my husband. I was embarrassed that I wasn't as thin as I was previously when we met. I was terrified he would wake up from the spell I'd cast on him one day, and see me as the fat girl I really was. But his eyes never saw that in me. From the start, he told me each and every day how beautiful I was. It wasn't easy to believe this, as he had the perfect physique with 2% body fat. But being with R made me realize that when he says something, he means it. And when he said I was pretty, he really truly meant it.
Being happy and in love isn't exactly great for dieting, though. All the runs we went on together didn't negate all those romantic dinners we had afterwards. R eats very healthfully, but can eat anything and everything he wants without gaining, and I figured that perhaps I'd acquire that ability simply by hanging around him--skinny by osmosis. Not so much. I probably picked up 25-30 of the pounds I had lost from the few months before I met R until the time we had our second anniversary. The Christmas that he gave me a treadmill was sort of a wake up call. He says its for both of us. Right. More like both of my thighs.
It is a thorn in my flesh, this battle with my body. I am learning this time around, as I am attempting to lose weight and be healthier once again, that its not about the Krispy Kremes. Its about a scared, depressed, lonely girl, who desperately wants to feel fulfilled--to feel FULL. And if she can't be full of love and happiness, she might as well fill herself with whatever is available.
God created me--my saggy boobs, round tummy, pancake butt, and man-calves. He created my natural curls, my deep brown eyes, and my full cheeks. He created my stomach to growl for food, and He created my heart to hunger constantly for Him. I will never find what I'm looking for, and am cursed to remain hungry, if I keep searching for it in the eyes of men, even my husband, or at the bottom of a pint of ice cream. The journey is ongoing. Today I will hit the gym and watch my carbs. It is, after all, the hardest season of the year to lose or maintain weight. And I will cry out to my Maker, my High Priest who is able to sympathize with my weaknesses. I am conviced that means that Jesus knows exactly what it feels like to be the fat girl no one wants. But oh, how He wants me. And always, always, will. Thank you Jesus for teaching me my beauty, day by day. Thank you for not giving up on this "fat kid". Thank you for making me perfect in You.
One of the things I find most entertaining about this group is looking through the pictures of its members. And, thanks for not asking, but I know you're probably wondering, so let's get this out on the table--I am not one of these people. I find it hilarious that many members of this group are, according to their profile pics, the people who probably beat fat kids up in middle school or made them cry on the bus. Why? Because many of them are blonde, tanorexic, and model for Victoria's Secret on the side while putting themselves through school for a degree in dietetics. Apparently, it makes you cool if you love chocolate chip cookie-dough ice cream, as long as you look like you don't eat it. Look at me! I eat Oreos for breakfast and I'm totally down with French fries but I'm still a complete hottie! Doesn't that make me so, like, ironic?
You know when its awesome to be fat? That would be a rousing NEVER. And why am I so sure of this? Because I, dear readers, am the original cool fat kid.
I remember being a normal weight when I was a kid. It wasn't until my middle school years, which tend to bring out everyone's blossoming physical attributes such as acne, hairiness, and braces, that I began noticing I was different. I was the funny girl, always getting in trouble for talking in class, and had plenty of friends. I was smart, if you didn't count math as an important subject, and got along well with my teachers. What's not to like?
It became clear that I was different from the girls in my class, who possessed long, straight, blonde hair, big blue eyes, and lithe, athletic frames. I, on the other hand, began to see firsthand the effects of my Puerto Rican heritage. It is of note that the word "skinny" does not exist in PR's dialect of Spanish. We come from short, thick, hearty, waistless stock--tall and willowy just doesn't cut it in the sugarcane fields, you know. I also was blessed with hair that would make Diana Ross and Cher cry with jealousy. It adamantly refused to lay flat against my head, no matter how hard my mom and I tried. And because I was constantly trying to make it behave rather than working with its natural curl, I walked around with a strange, Brillo-pad type wedge attached to my head. And let's not forget the times I cut it short in an attempt to make it more "manageable"--I ended up with one of the great pyramids of Egypt atop my shoulders.
I remember when kids started making fun of me for being chubby. It would hurt for awhile, but when I got home from school and reunited with my friend the Doritos bag, it seemed somehow less painful. I began to see that I would not be accepted based solely on appearance, so it became clear I'd have to stand out in another way. And as we fat girls know, what better option than to be The Smart Girl With A Great Personality?
So boys asked me for homework help rather than asking me to the movies. That was okay. The guys at my school were not of the high caliber I was searching to find. I excelled in school, taking as many advanced placement classes and extra credits as I could. I was polite to teachers, made my friends laugh, and mostly stayed out of everybody's way--well, the best I could, being "fluffy". I had a group of 4 girls and 4 guys that I hung out with constantly, and I knew they always had my (wide) back. I even wrangled myself a boyfriend in 9th grade, and went to my senior prom with my best guy friend. I had a huge crush on him, but of course never let on. I knew that he got grief from his friends from offering to be my date, and was too embarrassed to ever let him see how I felt.
I tried to ignore my weight as it skyrocketed in high school. But there were always events that brought it back to mind. Each time we had class photos, I saw how much more there was of me compared to everybody else. When we got measured for our choir dresses, I was the only one who needed a size 18. My denial came to a swift end when I went back to my doctor for a sore throat that had been getting worse despite antibiotics I'd gotten the week before. As the nurses (yes, two) tried desperately to find a vein in my huge arms to test my blood for mononucleosis, I heard the doctor say to my mom: "Well, the antibiotics were prescribed for a normal weight teenager, around 120-130 pounds. She's 200." I knew they thought I didn't hear them, but those words will never be erased from my memory. I was the weight of someone on the defensive line of the football team. I outweighed my friends, teachers, and even some of my friends' parents. I didn't have a "1" in front of my weight like everyone else did. I was two-frickin-hundred pounds. How in the world did this happen?
After I graduated high school at an estimated 205-210 pounds, I decieded I wanted differently for myself. People who know me and my weight-loss story ask me what made me change. Alot of times I tell them that I knew I wanted to go into nursing, and wanted to be a healthy example to my patients. That was part of it. The other part is that I didn't want to be invisible anymore. Like every 19 year old, I wanted to be asked out, go to the movies with someone, hear someone tell me those magical three words: "A, you're beautiful". I wanted love, beauty, attention, acceptance, appreciation--all those things that seemed given freely to those around me. And so I started. Walking, on the treadmill, got my out of breath in 15 minutes. But I kept going. I stopped drinking my beloved Coke and Dr. Pepper, and began my love affair with diet caffeinated drinks. The fast-food drive-thru workers at Taco Bell and Arby's quit sending me Christmas cards as I was no longer a repeat customer.
I started running. Me, a fat chick! I did everything--ancient and embarrassing Sweatin' to the Oldies tapes, lifitng dumbells, doing crunches, clipping exercise routines out of fitness magazines. And by the time I reached my junior year in college, I had made it. I was 125 pounds. My pants were a size 2-4, with the occasional zero thrown in there just because I could. And life was different.
Different because I could go up the stairs without wheezing, my blood pressure was normal, and I could run for 8 miles at a time without stopping. Different because people, for the first time in my life, SAW me, and didn't immediately pity, dismiss, or ignore me. Different because my body was no longer a source of ridicule. And yeah, I got asked out a bit more.
Long story--longer, I realized that being thin was freaking awesome, but it wasn't the answer. Never being able to eat what your friends are eating, obessesing over calories, getting up at 4 AM to make sure my running was done, and feeling utterly controlled by food sucks. I was hungry--ALOT. I got very good at telling people I had just eaten dinner or had a big lunch or my stomach wasn't feeling well, so I didn't have to eat in front of them. I couldn't watch cooking shows without lusting after the meals. I smiled coyly when people would ask me, "Don't you ever just want a Snickers bar?" I saw that I was turning to food as I always had--first for comfort, and now for control. Had I been less squeamish about vomiting, I have no doubt bulimia would have gotten a grip on me. And because no one can restrict themselves forever, I began reaching for some of my old favorites.
It was around this time that I met my husband. I was embarrassed that I wasn't as thin as I was previously when we met. I was terrified he would wake up from the spell I'd cast on him one day, and see me as the fat girl I really was. But his eyes never saw that in me. From the start, he told me each and every day how beautiful I was. It wasn't easy to believe this, as he had the perfect physique with 2% body fat. But being with R made me realize that when he says something, he means it. And when he said I was pretty, he really truly meant it.
Being happy and in love isn't exactly great for dieting, though. All the runs we went on together didn't negate all those romantic dinners we had afterwards. R eats very healthfully, but can eat anything and everything he wants without gaining, and I figured that perhaps I'd acquire that ability simply by hanging around him--skinny by osmosis. Not so much. I probably picked up 25-30 of the pounds I had lost from the few months before I met R until the time we had our second anniversary. The Christmas that he gave me a treadmill was sort of a wake up call. He says its for both of us. Right. More like both of my thighs.
It is a thorn in my flesh, this battle with my body. I am learning this time around, as I am attempting to lose weight and be healthier once again, that its not about the Krispy Kremes. Its about a scared, depressed, lonely girl, who desperately wants to feel fulfilled--to feel FULL. And if she can't be full of love and happiness, she might as well fill herself with whatever is available.
God created me--my saggy boobs, round tummy, pancake butt, and man-calves. He created my natural curls, my deep brown eyes, and my full cheeks. He created my stomach to growl for food, and He created my heart to hunger constantly for Him. I will never find what I'm looking for, and am cursed to remain hungry, if I keep searching for it in the eyes of men, even my husband, or at the bottom of a pint of ice cream. The journey is ongoing. Today I will hit the gym and watch my carbs. It is, after all, the hardest season of the year to lose or maintain weight. And I will cry out to my Maker, my High Priest who is able to sympathize with my weaknesses. I am conviced that means that Jesus knows exactly what it feels like to be the fat girl no one wants. But oh, how He wants me. And always, always, will. Thank you Jesus for teaching me my beauty, day by day. Thank you for not giving up on this "fat kid". Thank you for making me perfect in You.
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