Personal blog of christian
writer & fallible mom
Katy McKenna Raymond
in Kansas City, Missouri
Katy is represented by
Rachelle Gardner at
WordServe Literary
Read more Katy at
LateBoomer.net
Recent Posts
- Soul Train
- Live Out Your Dream And Discard The Box
- Tears In A Bottle
- From The Young Mom I Once Was, To You
- I Can’t Help Falling
- What A Difference Ten Years Makes
- The Next Best Thing To Robert Redford
- The Memory Keeper’s Daughter
- Where Have All The Years Gone
- Fun With Kiki Cullen
- Stuck On Mom
- Ten Years Later, Our Girls From Northern Ireland Remembered
- The Thrift of Grief
- Job Security
- The Party’s Over
Syndicate
E me at katy @ ngenius.com
Leave Of Absence
I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but I don’t get out much.
OK, if you count ER runs, well then, yeah. I know right where the only working blood pressure cuff is in every ER in town. I think I may even be on the payroll of a few Kansas City hospitals. In fact, by now it would be only fair to have a big fat 401K with my name on it, to which St. Joe Hospital, or maybe Research Medical Center, or possibly Menorah Med Center are contributing 3% per month just because I keep showing up.
I haven’t told you about last Thursday’s trip to the ER because it keeps occurring to me that you might not find my life as hugely exciting as I do. And to keep things interesting, I’m not going to tell you about it now, either.
Suffice it to say that nobody got admitted, so I didn’t get to perform my usual duties as a medical records clerk, respiratory therapist, physical therapy tech, orthopedic consult, and chaplain-in-training.
I can only hope the 3% still got kicked in.
The truth is, we all need a change of scenery now and then, even if we lead thrilling and fulfilled lives as almost-full-time non-professional caregivers.
And if I’m not going to see the green of a hefty retirement fund with my name on it, I might as well see the fabled forty shades of green as the airplane Doug and I are flying in breaks through the clouds and lands in Ireland, don’t you think?
We booked the flight yesterday, just in time to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day tomorrow. We leave (and when I say “God willing,” I really mean it) on April 25, and won’t be back until mid-May.
I’ll have more to say about this in the coming weeks, I’m sure. And I hope to blog from Ireland and Scotland because, well, I want to share the happiness in every way I can.
If you happen to be a visitor at any of the hospitals in Kansas City while I’m gone, don’t let on that you miss me, OK? Maybe they won’t notice that I’m not showing up for work.
And I’d really hate to lose that 3%.
Brush
Here’s a fun Thursday question for you: Have you had any so-called “brushes with greatness”? Or degrees-of-separation from greatness which you’d like to tell us about?
I just left a comment over on Michael Main’s site about my close familial relationship with David McCallum. Remember him, from the TV show “The Man From UNCLE”? Yeah, well, we’re cousins! It’s true! He has not quite acknowledged me at this point in time, but my father and he are from the same dinky town (Kilsyth, Scotland) and Dad explained the relationship in detail to me when I was a kid.
I had a lot of pen-pals back then, and I just KNEW that when David McCallum found out that he had an American cousin he’d never met, that he wouldn’t be able to LIVE WITH HIMSELF until he established a life-long connection with me.
Let me tell you this: I’m a LOT closer to Dave Barry!
As for me, I get my biggest thrills at book signings. I met Dr. Laura at Barnes and Noble here in Kansas City a couple of years ago, and I’m still excited. And Jan Karon, who wrote the Mitford books? I’ve met her on three different occasions, including in line in a ladies room. She is a doll.
I’ll throw Doug’s brushes in here, too. I have to say, they’re pretty impressive, and I’m a tad jealous. He used to help line up entertainment for corporate meetings, so he’s gotten to meet Dennis Miller and Bill Cosby. In addition, he sat in a restaurant booth in Santa Monica back-to-back with King Hussein of Jordan. The king’s wife, Queen Noor, was also enjoying lunch, along with his two adult sons, and (Doug loves this part) Maria Shriver!
When Doug and his work buddies got in their taxi after lunch, it so happened that Maria was running out of the restaurant to hop in her car, which was parked directly in front of the taxi. She ran between the two vehicles just as the taxi started to move forward, and Doug screamed out to the taxi driver in what can only be called an act of heroism, “MARIA!!!!!!”
The cabbie slammed on his brakes, Maria and Doug’s eyes met, and she flashed him that amazing Kennedy smile. What had just happened was not lost on her, and we are certain that she still recounts the tale to the Governator to this day: Doug Raymond saved her life.
You might as well know that ever since this happened, my guy has had a little crush on Maria. It’s OK, I understand. After all, how many regular guys get a chance to be a knight-in-yellow-armor to Arnold’s woman?
Still, I guess I’d feel like Doug and I were even in the brushes-with-greatness department if only David McCallum would acknowledge my place on his family tree. Maybe I forgot to include a self-addressed-stamped-envelope?
Yeah, I’ll bet that’s it.
Anyone you’d like to mention here? Let’s drop some names, people!
Mute
OK, even when the TV’s on mute (and you really only have it turned on at all so that you can keep up with the tornadoes blowing through Missouri and Kansas) you can learn more about the crazy world in which we live than you ever thought possible.
Last night, Doug and I half-watched a PBS fundraising show which featured the guy who wrote the Rich Dad Poor Dad books. His wife also spoke, and related the story of how she became financially independent by the age of 37. Evidently, her hubby pushed her out of the financial nest by encouraging her to begin to purchase real estate on her own, and she now controls millions of dollars worth of property.
“I want my husband,” she told the audience, “but I don’t need him.”
I understood what she was saying. She emphasized the importance of a woman being able to stand on her own, and mentioned the frightening statistics about women of all ages and how often they fall into poverty. I told Doug I wouldn’t mind a chance to develop some holdings, like the Proverbs 31 woman who “considers a field and buys it.”
No sooner had Doug agreed that some financial independence on my part might be a very good thing, than it was time for the fundraising portion of the program. I almost clicked the mute button, but something told me to keep listening.
A woman in her thirties was the emcee, and she sported the biggest, blondest hair since Farrah Fawcett. She held up the DVDs that were being offered for a generous donation, and said with a non-PBSian sultry expression, “Isn’t THAT what we’d all love to have? A Rich Daddy!”
Doug and I almost died laughing, and I swear the emcee licked her lips. A Rich Daddy? Did she mean a Sugar Daddy? Had she been listening to the presentation at all?
The skies are still stormy this morning, and so the TV is on—tuned into Montel. The volume is all the way down, but I looked up a few minutes ago and saw the captions running across the screen. (Sometimes, it pays to be deaf.)
“My average date with a Sugar Baby runs me about $2000,” said the man who calls himself a Sugar Daddy. “My most expensive date set me back around $40,000.”
I had to turn up the volume. I know, I’m weak. But I had to know: How could a single date cost the man 40 grand? Turns out he bought the woman a car.
Sugar Babies, in case you don’t know, are “ambitious” women who want nothing more than to “be taken care of” and “pampered.” Sugar Daddies are successful men who want to “cut to the chase” because they don’t have a lot of time to spend dating women who aren’t going to put out. The Daddy gives the Baby EVERY SINGLE THING money can buy and in return, she gives him the one thing money isn’t supposed to buy.
And to think I felt a little guilty yesterday because we went out to breakfast and spent $16.
“You’re very lucky I’m a cheap date!” I called out to Doug, who was in his office preparing for a conference call and completely oblvious to my muting of Montel.
“Thanks!” he called back.
It’s not much, but I think we understand each other.
Ashes For Beauty
“When is Easter this year?” Mom asked me yesterday. “Your sister Mary is already planning her menu.”
I figured I’d throw a little math test Mom’s way, just to see if two plus two still equals five.
“Well, Mom, Lent is the forty days leading up to Easter, right?”
“That sounds right, I guess.”
“And last Wednesday was Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent, so that means—”
“We’ve already had Ash Wednesday?”
“Mom, we got ashes together when you were in the hospital, just like we did last year when you were in the hospital.”
“I don’t remember.”
That’s the thing about ashes, isn’t it? We’re scared of them, really, maybe even a bit superstitious. We put them out of our minds as soon as we submit our foreheads to the sign of the cross, hoping against hope that we haven’t somehow hastened our own return to dust.
“Thou art dust, and unto dust thou shalt return.”
As the day of ashes wears on, we glance in the mirror once or twice and wonder if we should cleanse ourselves of the smudgy mark of faith that stopped looking like a clear statement of belief hours ago.
We stop remembering why remembering the fragility of our mortal state is so essential to apprehending the grace of Jesus to carry on.
I don’t remember, either, Mom. After a lifetime of ashes, how quickly I forget.
Even so, something happened to us in those hospital rooms, something stronger than death and as eternal as love. We’ve gone down to the grave together twice now, Mom, and we know something of the power of His resurrection that we couldn’t have known otherwise.
Beauty for ashes, ashes for beauty. Till the end of our days on earth, when the ashes forever blow away.
Cradle Attraction
Who knows how these things happen.
One day, you’re a sexy young chick with handsome suitors whose attentions you don’t appreciate at all, because you don’t have the good sense God gave asparagus.
The next day, you’re a soccer mom, too busy to even notice that men besides your beautiful husband might still be looking. And even if they are, you don’t care. It would take more energy than you can spare to have an affair, and besides, you’re just not that kind of girl.
And then the next day—and believe me when I say that it seems like the VERY NEXT DAY—geezers are vying for your company.
Maybe you don’t know what I’m talkin’ about. But trust me: you will.
I arrived at Starbucks today with an entire fifteen minutes to spend alone, just me and a good book. There were lots of empty tables, so I didn’t feel a bit guilty about plopping down in a brown velvet chair, next to an empty chair and an empty couch. I figured if some people came in who needed the space, I’d happily move to a little table.
But like I said, the place was loaded with open space.
I hadn’t taken a sip and read two sentences before a bona fide geezer—albeit a nice looking and well-groomed one—stashed his hardback novel in the cushion of the couch and went to get his coffee. I felt a bit embarrassed because in the adjoining room, I could see my pastor and all the associate pastors having their Monday morning Starbucks meeting. I sure wouldn’t want them to think that I had a geezer on the side.
I didn’t start up a conversation with the old fellow, because well, I’m shy. He seemed content enough to bury his nose in his novel, and I breathed a short sigh of relief. Until, that is, the next geezer entered the store.
You guessed it. He got his coffee and made a beeline for the upholstered chair right next to mine. I had placed my drink and my keys on the table between our chairs, and he added not only his latte but his keys, too. Just so I’d get the message right off the bat that we have a lot in common, I’m thinking. And perhaps to give notice to the other geezer that he’d marked his boomer chick territory. Yeah, that’s probably it.
Once again, I kept reading my book about learning to live a generous life, but I gotta tell you, I was feeling pretty stingy about entertaining these guys with my sparkling personality right about then. And I’m sure I saw Pastor Nathan point and then Pastor Tom look over his shoulder at the small crowd their erstwhile parishoner had gathered unto herself.
I stayed in my chair only long enough not to hurt the feelings of either Geezer Number One or Geezer Number Two, because I’m sensitive that way. And then I made my escape without a single word.
Anyway, I thought you’d like to know that even though you think of me as eternally young, apparently it’s official: Katy Raymond is a Geezer Magnet.
I have a feeling there’s no going back.
Recap
“It does not do to leave a live dragon out of your calculations, if you live near him.” - J. R. R. Tolkien
Several of my readers have emailed me, just to make sure I’m alive. That is so sweet, and yes, I am. Alive, that is. Sweet? Not so sure about that one!
But this one thing I have done, for what it’s worth: I’ve included the dragon in my calculatons.
These past ten days have been as bizarre as any I’ve lived through, and it’s a good thing God kind of gave me a heads-up on the level of insanity I might expect from the Mama front, or I wouldn’t have made it through.
Let’s just say my mother completely melted down upon admission to the hospital. I guess maybe she had some kind of mild flu bug, which caused a fever and vomiting for 24 hours, but should it have also caused unabated weeping for 48 straight hours? Should it have caused her to scream out for help when her call button was right there on her lap? To panic like a lost child when I left the room for three minutes to use the bathroom?
“I just wanted to see your face,” she sobbed upon my return.
Believe me, these days my face ain’t much to look at. I jump every time I pass a mirror. I call it aerobics for old tired chicks.
In her five days as an inpatient, she became the phone terrorist from Hello. She couldn’t figure out how to dial the phone, but she had all of our numbers on a sheet of paper and she prevailed upon nurses, respiratory therapists, lunch tray passers, and housekeepers to burn up the lines.
The calls came first thing in the morning and late at night, but the theme was always the same. The callee had to come NOW. She couldn’t explain what was wrong, or how she felt, or what kind of help she needed. But she was frantic, and desperate, and generally off her rocker.
They finally decided they didn’t know what to do with her. On Wednesday she was told that Thursday she could go home, to her assisted living apartment. I spent an entire day making sure that didn’t happen. Thursday afternoon, while I was in an MRI machine, my sister Bridget got her moved into a nursing home, for therapy and hopefully to get her medicines figured out further.
An endocrinologist really took on her insulin problems in the hospital, and I think she’s on a better track now. She was having far too many low blood sugar episodes, and at high risk of a hypoglycemic coma.
Since she’s been in the nursing home, she’s acted saner than at any time in the past year. She is speaking coherently for the most part and has calmed down considerably from her high anxiety levels of just a few days ago.
I love the doctor who will care for her in the nursing home, whether she’s there just a short time or for the long term. He is very on board with trying to continue to get her off of unnecessary and harmful prescription drugs. He thinks medications are the likely culprit in her overall condition, and I agree. But getting a doctor to take on such a “project” is nearly impossible outside of a geriatric psych setting.
We’ve already tried that route, by the way. Three and a half years ago. Eleven days in the psych ward. They got her off of four or five narcotics, but no sooner was she out in the “real world,” than she was able to add to her stash again. It’s an ongoing battle.
One wonderful thing: We’ve gotten to pray with Mom more in the last ten days than ever before. It’s been encouraging.
That’s all I’ve got. It’s not much, I know. Thanks for hanging in there with me.
Move Over
How many people does a school bus hold?
I’m not sure, but there were more passengers in this one than is legal in most states, I knew that much. The air in the closed up bus smelled fetid, and the windows—which several strong people had attempted to wedge open—wouldn’t budge.
Still, it wasn’t too impossible to imagine a tropical breeze if I closed my eyes and let the speed with which we sailed along the highway deceive me. I did just that for a few precious minutes, but when I came to my senses the awful truth hit me with a fresh wave of claustrophobia.
The bus driver was my mom.
I ran from the middle of the bus to the front and faced my mother. She didn’t turn to look at me, but kept the pedal to the metal.
“Mom! What are you doing? You haven’t driven a car for four years, and if I remember right, you weren’t too good at it even then…”
I shot a glance out the front window. We were in the passing lane on the freeway, and Mom wasn’t dawdling, either. She was pushing 75, I’d say, but the needle on the speedometer was spinning in a frantic circle, first clockwise and then counter, like a life out of both time and control.
No one else seemed alarmed. There were no screams from the frightened bus riders, no reason to think they’d figured out that Mom didn’t exactly have a license to drive this thing.
“Mom, you’ve got to let me drive. It’s our only hope.”
It was then I realized an even more sobering truth. Her body was stiff, her hands gripped the steering wheel with a catatonic ferocity, and her legs extended straight out in front of her, jerking from pedal to pedal with abandon.
“No,” she said. “I’m driving this thing my way.”
She couldn’t move herself from the seat and wouldn’t, anyway. All I could do was try to gain control of the pedals, if only for long enough to steer the bus onto the left shoulder.
I dropped to my knees and then all fours, inching forward until my entire body was wedged in the small space around her legs. Somehow I removed her feet from the pedals and my right hand took over. Then, with a strength I did not know I could summon, I reached up and grabbed the wheel.
Without seeing anything at all but the floor of the bus, I pulled the wheel gently to the left, all the while slowing the bus with my other hand until it finally came to a complete stop.
“Hey, what’s going on?” someone yelled from the back. “We were making good time. What’s the hold up?”
I stood to my feet, shaking uncontrollably. “My mother is not a bus driver. And she’s not well. Can anyone here drive this thing?”
Silence, and then another cranky passenger. “What’s wrong with you? Why don’t you drive the bus? You seem pretty good at it to me.”
I jolted awake at that, shaking uncontrollably. All the way to the hospital to be with my mother, I cried out to God.
“I can’t drive this bus! Please don’t make me drive this bus!”
Until finally, I heard an answer. “I never asked you to drive it, did I? Only to pull it off the road and park it there. And believe me, you couldn’t have done even that without help.”
“But, God, all these people. And my mother…I’ve got to get her where she’s going…”
He didn’t say anything else, but somehow in the middle of my cries, He let me know the truth.
God is driving this bus.
Most Meetable Or Not, We’ve Got To Stop Meeting Like This!
I have to admit that when I was getting ready to head to the ER this morning, I started shaking and sweating pretty violently. And kind of bawling, well…hysterically.
It’s not that I’m not used to the routine by now. Mom falls on average every three to four weeks, with varying degrees of injury. In between falls, there are doctor visits, medicine adjustments, diagnoses of cataracts and diabetic retinopathy, blood work and chest x-rays to check for congestive heart failure, numerous episodes of dangerously low blood sugar, etc.
And that’s just in the last three weeks.
I’m used to it, but I’m exhausted. And sick myself. And have been on and off umpteen antibiotics for my ear, had a horrible sinus migraine lasting ten days, made seven visits to doctors including an ENT, an opthalmologist for my swollen optic nerves, and a brain surgeon, endured a bizarre episode of antibiotic-induced diarrhea that very nearly was the (rear) end of me, etc.
And that’s just in the last three weeks.
I’ve got a big break coming until Thursday, when I do the tunnels. Yeeeck. CT of sinus and MRI of everything else in my head (optic nerves and acoustic nerves, specifically). At least I thought I’d have a break, but it turns out Tunnel Day will actually BE the break.
And that’s not easy to say when you’re claustrophobic.
My mom? She’s been admitted. No broken bones, which is a miracle. When I heard she “couldn’t stand” after the paramedics got her off the floor, I figured she’d broken a hip. Turns out her blood pressure was something like 83/54. She still says she didn’t fall, but that she called for help and the pill-passer came into her apartment.
“But, Mom, why did you call for help?”
“Because I couldn’t get up, silly.”
She had gotten up from bed with a sudden assurance that she was about to have diarrhea (like daughter, like mother), trailed the nasty stuff across the carpet (with every step, making a stronger case for the wearing of underwear—don’t ask), and that’s where they found her, somewhere just short of the bathroom. She’d evidently passed out, or had a small seizure, but she has no memory of the event.
I sure hope this hospital stay results in some answers. She needs her medications adjusted as an inpatient, where she can be closely monitored and supervised. It’s possible that recent adjustments downward in her insulin dosage and one of her seizure meds resulted in her two blood pressure meds becoming more efficient, effectively causing her blood pressure to plummet.
The admitting doc came in to see her this evening, and said they’ll be checking for a heart arrhythmia, which he suspects, and that she shouldn’t imagine going home any time soon. They put a bedside commode one step from her bed, and she can’t even go there without a nurse attending her. The upright position is one in which her blood pressure is currently in dive mode.
I’m concerned that I’m becoming less of a viable candidate in the Share the Love Blog Awards for that most coveted title of “Most Meetable In Real Life.” Surely you people have more fun things to do than hang around with a chick as desperate for a day’s entertainment as I seem to be!
It’s your call. But if you think I’m most meetable, I’m afraid we’ll have to meet in the hospital cafeteria!
It’s Not Rocket Surgery. It’s Saturday.
I knew that since it’s Saturday, it’s risky to get in the shower. I’ll only attempt it if Doug’s available to answer the phone call when it comes.
So I stepped into and then out of the shower, and Doug was standing in front of me by the time I’d grabbed a towel.
He didn’t say anything for ten full seconds, and neither did I. He knew that I knew. Who needs words?
“Your mom fell,” he said. “She’s in an ambulance on her way to the hospital.”
I didn’t say anything, so he continued.
“She says she’s not in pain, but she can’t stand.”
Um. Yeah. It’s Saturday once again.
Most Treatable In Real Life?
First the good news, and then the so-far-so-good news.
The good news is that in spite of my pervasive proclivity for posting in a very nearly posthumous condition about antibiotic-induced diarrhea and unresolved bodily bacteria, my readers have decided to make me a finalist in two categories in the Share the Love blog contest!
(Wow! Really long sentence, huh? Apparently the diarrhea has spread to my fingertips.)
To the left, you’ll see two icons. One is to vote for fallible in the “Best Design” category, which means a lot to me, because my designer is my hubby and tech guy, Doug. We worked on the design together, and the basic elements were my ideas, but I am worthless without his amazing talent. If you’d like to see another example of his design work, a beautiful blog which is still almost virgin as far as actual posts go, take a gander at Doug’s site. Inspiring, huh?
If you click on the other icon to the left, you can vote for me in what is likely the Best Ever category in blog contests: The Most Meetable In Real Life!
I may not be the best writer, the one with the most valued opinions, or the funniest. But you know what? I couldn’t be happier than to be thought of as Most Meetable. I’ve met quite a few of you, in fact—Lisa in Topeka, Bethany in Nebraska, Lisa Samson when she lived in Baltimore, Robin Lee Hatcher and Jeanne D. and Michael Number Four at a writers conference in Nashville, Deb Raney in Kansas, and the list goes on.
I’ve had the singular experience of standing in a long line in a public restroom (does that surprise anyone considering my recent subject matter?), having someone overhear me say my name, and then hearing her shout, “Hey! You’re Fallible!”
How many people can say THAT?
So if you believe that I’m Most Meetable In Real Life, please cast your vote for me. (All votes must be in by Monday, I think.) And then, just to test your theory, we’ll hook up at Starbucks!
Now for the so-far-so-good news. It’s possible that I’m not only meetable, but treatable. At least, the medical establishment hasn’t given up on me yet.
Saw the ear-nose-throat doc yesterday and I loved her. She knows my otoneurologist and my opthalmologist personally, and holds both of them in high regard, as I do. She wants to coordinate a plan of action with the other docs, after I see my otoneur tomorrow. CT scan of sinuses and MRI of head to try to figure out what’s going on with my body from the neck up. She said no more antibiotics until further notice, and no more Augmentin ever.
I had ischemic colitis in 2002 (a stroke of your colon. Actually, my colon, so not to worry!) and I believe I came within one run to the toitie of antibiotic-induced colitis this time around. Or maybe I’ve had it and have just managed to avoid hospitalization by the grace of God. Whew!
I’m resting today. I have to psyche myself up for “the tunnels.” I’m feeling more confident now, though, that everything will, um, come out OK. Thanks so much for your prayers!
And many thanks also for your votes. I love you people!
Sheesh.
When you key in a few words to do a simple google search to try to figure out what the heck is wrong with your ears, sinuses, optic nerves, and possibly brain, and the first gazillion results are all PDF docs, that’s not usually a good sign. Just so you know.
Furthermore, when almost all the results identify themselves as “scholarly,” and are fine-print academic papers involving the case studies of two groups of people—those who are extremely dead and those who are only mostly dead—well, that’s not typically great news, either.
Yeah. That’s right. Cipro doesn’t kill it. Amoxocillin can’t touch it. And 4000 mg. per day of Augmentin landed me in bed for a week, sicker than ever. “In bed,” by the way, is a relative term, meaning my relatives are in bed WAY more than I am. I am actually wearing a thin spot in the carpet between the bed and the bathroom.
I’m too weak to run when I have the runs (more than thirty times in a four hour period last night), but don’t cry for me, Pale Beige Carpet. I promise that you are not in mortal danger as long as Depends stays in business.
Anyway, the Augmentin got discontinued by the doc this morning when he looked into my dumb (and deaf) ear and pronounced me as infected as always, maybe more. Only now, he’s just a tad worried that I could be having a little bout of Asperigillus, which is a fungal infection that can result from repeated rounds of antibiotics that don’t accomplish the purpose for which they’ve been sent forth into the world.
So tomorrow I’m seeing an ear, nose, and throat doc, and on Friday I’m seeing my good old otoneurologist (ear-brain doc), who performed my brain surgery in 1999. Between the two of them, google, and God, I sure hope a diagnosis and effective treatment can be had.
If I’d ever taken piano lessons, I probably would have mentioned it during the course of being fallible, so you know I don’t have a musical bone in my body. You deserve better than this constant “organ recital,” and I’d like to give it to you, believe me.
But right now, I got nuthin.’ Well, except for…um, you’ll have to excuse me. I gotta make another run.
The Daring Wordsmith
Astute fallible reader and commenter Kathryn (aka Daring Young Mom) commented on my previous post that she loves the term “Momeopathic” and that she intends to use it, as well.
Of course, I sincerely hoped I’d coined the term, but no. A quick Google search reveals an astonishing 58 occurrences of the word in the known universe, and while that’s not very many, it certainly dashes my coining hopes.
On the other hand, I found it bizarrely entertaining that the word’s meaning (while still vague in my antibiotic-induced fog) apparently has to do with my life in a much more pertinent manner than how I’d meant it, which was that my mom has all the answers.
Here’s a book about raising cattle that sheds (ha-ha) a little light on the use of the word:
“THE TREATMENT OF CATTLE. George Macleod. (1981) 1981 rep. Pub: CW Daniel, UK, imported to NZ by Weleda.
Many farmers are concerned about the side-effects and build up of resistant strains of bacteria due to the continued use of antiboitics. The aim of the momeopathic approach is to build up the health of the herd and increase the resistance of its members to disease. Homeopathic remedies are all derived from natural sources.”
Kathryn, between you and me, girl, I think we’re safe to keep using this little gem however we see fit!
Momeopathic Remedies
Today is the first time I’ve seen my mom since Sunday. I’ve just been too sick to get there, but I don’t think I’m contagious, so I finally decided to haul my sorry behind over to pay a visit.
Mom couldn’t believe that the massive doses of Augmentin don’t seem to be working their magic, and she was as sympathetic as she’s been any time in recent memory. So much so, in fact, that she went into full Protective Mama Bear mode, put on her Doctor Mom hat, and came up with three very extremely ingenious cures.
“You need to laugh more,” she offered. (This coming from a lady who hasn’t let out a good one since 1999.)
“I do?” I asked. “I think I laugh a lot.”
“Oh, you laugh,” she said, “but it’s not the right kind of laughter.”
“It’s not?”
“Is it coming from your heart?”
“Sometimes…” Now I was starting to doubt myself. Here I’d always thought I was a person of excellent cheer, one who believes in the Scriptural principle that laughter is good medicine.
“It won’t cure your ear infection unless it comes from your heart.”
She had me there. We went on to talk about lots of different subjects (my niece’s husband who’s in the hospital, my daughter’s job opportunity with health-impaired kids in our local school district, and the crazy ways parents relate to their teenagers these days).
I told Mom about a lady I used to know who talked about her son as if she was a law enforcement officer. “She was one step away from appearing on Cops,” I said. “Instead of saying she had a fight or an argument or a disagreement with her kid, she said they’d had an altercation.”
Mom chuckled. “She obviously didn’t know how to use that word correctly, did she?” Then she reflected for a moment before continuing. “I think if you were to have an altercation, your ear would be cured.”
I decided to keep the conversation moving forward, at least I hoped that’s the direction it was moving. We ended up talking about my brother John, and how Mom adores him and thinks he’s the most handsome man in the world.
“He came in here last week in his all black suit, black socks, black shoes, and black wool overcoat. I told him he looked fantastic.”
“He’s a good looking guy, all right,” I said.
“And he wears those wrist cuffs,” she added.
“Cuff links?”
“Yes, cuff links. You know what you need? Ear cuffs.”
“Ear cuffs? For my infection?” I thought maybe she was thinking of those earring hoops that fit snugly around your lobe. “How would those help?”
“They’d fill up your ears so there isn’t room for anything else.”
Sometimes, Mom fills my soul till there isn’t room for anything else. And makes me laugh from somewhere deep in my heart.
Hang A Chad, Baby!
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Antibiotics Backwards R Me
I mean, really. How many antibiotics should one girl take?
It all started in September—although I must say I’ve found the word “all” to be increasingly problematic, as it seems to have become more relative as time goes on. It used to be when I said “all,” I could count on myself to mean just that. But now?
I don’t know any more. Surely, it didn’t really “all” start in September, did it? All of it? Everything that has started, ever? That hardly seems possible, even to me.
OK. So this part of it started September 18, the day I flew home from the American Chrisian Fiction Writers Conference in Nashville. That was the day my weird finger problem (which turned out to be a ganglion cyst, for which I had a tiny operation on January 9) became disgustingly infectious.
Thus began this present darkness, which consists of round upon round of largely ineffective antibiotics, and the dragged-out, exhausted, and generally pathetic malaise that accompanies the imbibing thereof.
Before this part of it started in September, I’d been on way too many courses of meds already, for the pesky recurring ear infections that have become my lot these past couple of years. So, see? There really IS a before before it all started.
The meds cleared up my finger in September, and then I needed them again in October for my ears. (I am deaf in one ear, and will do anything to attempt to preclude hearing loss in the other ear…) By December, my finger was re-infected , and surgery was scheduled for the very minute the next round of antibiotics even halfway resolved the bacterial condition.
After the January 9 surgery, I enjoyed several days without antibiotics before my ear became infected AGAIN. Since then, I’ve completed one round of meds with no positive results whatsoever, and beaucoup pain to boot, and now am on yet another antibiotic for the same blooming infection.
This time—and all you mothers of young children will appreciate this—Augmentin. Yikes!! The doc has me on mega-doses and the…um…gastrointestinal side effects are, well, disturbing.
So, yeah, I’m still sick. The last time I had rip-roaring fun was with Dave Barry, and if you remember right, that was in the midst of a bodacious migraine. I take my fun where I can get it, folks, and so should you!
Life is too short not to enjoy it, don’t you think? Sheesh. I’m looking forward to another good day any time now—the sooner, the better.
