It's a sad but true fact, and I just have to get over it. I am never going to be surrounded by people at a party while I tell jokes that make everyone laugh uproariously. I am not ever going to be on television, or even at a local comedy club on open mic night, enlightening the world with my witty observations. I'm just not that funny. Oh, I may occasionally get in a good one-liner, but that is the extent of my funny. I do laugh at my own jokes, but I don't think that counts.
I do have a comedic strength, however. I don't always get it when people are joking around with me, so I am a perfect straight-man for someone. I just don't always pay attention to the cues when other people are being sarcastic or are joking, so I walk right into whatever joke is being played. I am therefore pretty confident that I could be a good partner in a comedy team, especially since I have no ego about getting top billing. I've always seen myself as a good consigliere, not as the boss. So I could easily play a supporting role, even if it meant getting hit in the face with a pie. Do people even find 'pie in the face' comedy funny anymore? I think the last time I saw a pie fight it was in Blazing Saddles, one of the best comedies EVER made. Anyway, at one point the action moves into the studio cafeteria, and a food fight ensues. Good times.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Communication is Key
Whenever I would go out with my girlfriends, way back before electricity, there seemed to be some form of nonverbal communication that would evolve amongst us. This might have been shrugs, glances, a rolling of the eyes, or a head nod. This would allow us to hold silent conversations about people around us without being rude. For example, if a large woman wearing orange stilletto clown shoes came into my visual field, I might get my friend's attention and then lean my head in the direction I want them to look. We would then share a "OMG" look between us; rejoicing in the fact that neither of us chose to wear our orange stilletto clown shoes that evening. We could do this sort of thing many times during the course of an evening, nobody else ever noticed, and nobody's feelings were damaged in any way. Life was good.
Then I got married. I love my husband dearly, but he has not a subtle bone in his body, and he does not pick up on nonverbal cues at all. Same situation as above with him, the first thing my dearest does is say really loudly, "WHY ARE YOU KICKING ME?" I try to head him off with a head shake, a 'universal' cue to stop. This is followed by, "WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOUR NECK?" Moritifed, I usually turn several shades of red, and am forced to resort to glaring at my sweet darling from across the table. "WHY ARE YOU MAKING THAT TWITCHY FACE AGAIN? ARE YOU HAVING A SEIZURE?" My response at that point is both verbal and nonverbal forms of profanity. I suppose that I should be thankful that he doesn't notice the shoes and start talking loudly about them.
But how do you teach those sorts of nonverbal cues to someone who never picked them up in the first place? I've made several attempts over the years, mostly unsuccessful. An episode of one of my favorite shows, The Middle, had two of the characters working out some nonverbal communication signals between them using those signals normally seen in baseball. I thought that was a great idea. Unfortunately, I hate baseball, and don't know all of their signals. My other idea is to create a picture communication book like the one I have for my 2 year old, but instead of pictures of cars and cups and such, it will have pictures of me making faces, shrugging, nodding, winking, etc., with captions underneath indicating what these nonverbal cues mean. I think that extreme a measure might become necessary, especially during this time of year and the local penchant for thinking that thongs are acceptable shopping attire. And I'm not talking about the shoes...
Then I got married. I love my husband dearly, but he has not a subtle bone in his body, and he does not pick up on nonverbal cues at all. Same situation as above with him, the first thing my dearest does is say really loudly, "WHY ARE YOU KICKING ME?" I try to head him off with a head shake, a 'universal' cue to stop. This is followed by, "WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOUR NECK?" Moritifed, I usually turn several shades of red, and am forced to resort to glaring at my sweet darling from across the table. "WHY ARE YOU MAKING THAT TWITCHY FACE AGAIN? ARE YOU HAVING A SEIZURE?" My response at that point is both verbal and nonverbal forms of profanity. I suppose that I should be thankful that he doesn't notice the shoes and start talking loudly about them.
But how do you teach those sorts of nonverbal cues to someone who never picked them up in the first place? I've made several attempts over the years, mostly unsuccessful. An episode of one of my favorite shows, The Middle, had two of the characters working out some nonverbal communication signals between them using those signals normally seen in baseball. I thought that was a great idea. Unfortunately, I hate baseball, and don't know all of their signals. My other idea is to create a picture communication book like the one I have for my 2 year old, but instead of pictures of cars and cups and such, it will have pictures of me making faces, shrugging, nodding, winking, etc., with captions underneath indicating what these nonverbal cues mean. I think that extreme a measure might become necessary, especially during this time of year and the local penchant for thinking that thongs are acceptable shopping attire. And I'm not talking about the shoes...
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
A Little Depression
I've been a bit out of sorts these last couple of weeks. One reason is that I've got some sort of infection working its way around my head, and we all know how odd the world seems when your head is stuffed full of snot instead of crazy dreams. The dreams are much less likely to make you dizzy, I think.
It's the end of the school year, and since I hate having to drag kids out of their summers to test them, I have been scrambling to grab them during this last week of school. Only problem is that this is when my campus is having field trips and honor assemblies and what-have-you celebrations. So the times I can pull kids is limited by that. Plus, there's some guy in my frakkin' office grading benchmarks. He actually has his own office, but he's using mine for some reason, and spreading all the scan trons all about and then taunting me by leaving the door open. So my stress level has been off the charts.
Another reason I'm a little down is that it has become apparent to me that my husband is a better Mom than me. It's true. He's much more understanding and definitely less likely to lose his temper with Zane or give up trying to figure out what Zane is saying. (quick tip: "ten q" is "thank you") This bothers me. A lot. The other day the daycare teacher was using her VERY FIRM VOICE to let me know that Zane has had some behavior problems, and I immediately felt like it was all my fault. But it probably is! I have NO idea how to do this parenting thing, and I've made mistakes. So I'm a bad mom, in my own estimation, even though I'm probably repeating what I learned from my own mom. Yeah, I learned to be a spaz from my mom! Xanax for all! I am sure that I'm exaggerating somehow, but in my present mood I can't help it. I just keep thinking of that scene in Parenthood where Steve Martin is yelling through a megaphone at his son, who is up on a roof shooting at people and hoping that Zane isn't completely traumatized by his childhood.
Probably all I need is a good night's sleep.
It's the end of the school year, and since I hate having to drag kids out of their summers to test them, I have been scrambling to grab them during this last week of school. Only problem is that this is when my campus is having field trips and honor assemblies and what-have-you celebrations. So the times I can pull kids is limited by that. Plus, there's some guy in my frakkin' office grading benchmarks. He actually has his own office, but he's using mine for some reason, and spreading all the scan trons all about and then taunting me by leaving the door open. So my stress level has been off the charts.
Another reason I'm a little down is that it has become apparent to me that my husband is a better Mom than me. It's true. He's much more understanding and definitely less likely to lose his temper with Zane or give up trying to figure out what Zane is saying. (quick tip: "ten q" is "thank you") This bothers me. A lot. The other day the daycare teacher was using her VERY FIRM VOICE to let me know that Zane has had some behavior problems, and I immediately felt like it was all my fault. But it probably is! I have NO idea how to do this parenting thing, and I've made mistakes. So I'm a bad mom, in my own estimation, even though I'm probably repeating what I learned from my own mom. Yeah, I learned to be a spaz from my mom! Xanax for all! I am sure that I'm exaggerating somehow, but in my present mood I can't help it. I just keep thinking of that scene in Parenthood where Steve Martin is yelling through a megaphone at his son, who is up on a roof shooting at people and hoping that Zane isn't completely traumatized by his childhood.
Probably all I need is a good night's sleep.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Songs that Spark Memories
I was driving to a baby shower and the Def Leppard song "Photograph" came on, which I love. I love it because it reminds me of the beach in Ocean City, Md, when I was just out of high school. I hear that song and I am instantly transported back to a time when I had no responsibilities, lots of time to play, and actually looked pretty good in a bathing suit(if I put on a suit now, my stalker Captain Ahab shows up). I can remember walking along the boardwalk with my friend Michelle, and every store had tons of Union Jack shirts for sale. Every store was also playing this song. It's a happy memory for me.
I can also remember the very first time I had one of those "Love at First Sight" moments. I was 17, I think, and working at Roy Rogers. This guy walked in and the song "You Can Do Magic" just started playing in my head and I was transfixed. I think I even gave him extra fries. I don't remember what he looked like at all, anymore, but the feeling I had shows up when I hear that song.
I can't be the only person who has experienced this connection of a memory with a favorite song. Has this happened to anyone else?
I can also remember the very first time I had one of those "Love at First Sight" moments. I was 17, I think, and working at Roy Rogers. This guy walked in and the song "You Can Do Magic" just started playing in my head and I was transfixed. I think I even gave him extra fries. I don't remember what he looked like at all, anymore, but the feeling I had shows up when I hear that song.
I can't be the only person who has experienced this connection of a memory with a favorite song. Has this happened to anyone else?
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Writing
I used to be a fairly decent writer, I think. I used to love to write about everything. I had a journal, I loved getting to write compositions for English classes. I especially loved it when the teacher liked what I wrote and even better, when he or she read it to the class. I can remember my seventh grade teacher, Mrs. Benevides, reading one of my creative writing assignments to the class and laughing while she read it(I wish I had a copy of whatever I wrote, because I don't remember what the assignment was). That made me happy, to have made someone laugh with something I had created. I wasn't the most popular person at my school, and in my near future was a big fight with a girl named Carol who WAS the most popular person at my school(I told her that I couldn't fight her because she had halotosis, but she went home and looked the word up. Oops.), but for that brief moment, all was right with the world.
I also remember that I took a creative writing class in 9th grade, and made the mistake of getting up to turn in my assignment when the teacher was talking. I was listening to what she was saying. Most people CAN walk and listen at the same time, after all. But this teacher blew a gasket and started yelling. She gave me a failing grade on that assignment, too. I can remember being so angry looking at that 'F'! Not my first experience with the whole "life isn't fair" concept, but I didn't do any extra writing after that for a long time.
In high school I slowly got back on the writing wagon and signed up to be a reporter for the school paper. I started writing some poetry, a little here and there. (I stopped keeping a journal sometime in high school, I don't remember when. I just got busy with life, I guess. I also didn't want my college room mate to see me writing and ask questions. I suppose I was afraid that she would give me an F.) But in college I experimented with more poetry and other aspects of writing, including some erotica. I got brave enough one day to send one of my poems about relationships to Cosmopolitan to see if it might get published, since I'd seen other poems in the magazine. I got my poem back, not with a business-like letter saying 'thanks, but no thanks', but just some obnoxious comment scribbled on the top of the page in pencil. Something along the lines of "this sucks donkey balls", only more Manhattan-ish. I didn't really care that they didn't like what I had written, art being subjective and all that, but their form of 'rejection' was pretty crappy.
I went back to writing just for myself, and hoarding it all like Smaug, never letting anyone else see it. I did submit one poem and it was published in a school district magazine that highlighted the artistic talents of teachers. Most of the writing I've done over the past twenty years, however, has been work-related, clinical-based, and not very creative. There's really only so many words you can use to describe an IQ test. I've tried starting up journals again and again, but I just don't have the time to be consistent about it, and I was feeling guilty if I didn't write every day. Something had to change. So I did. I started this blog.
I still like to write, I've discovered. I'm incredibly nervous about anyone else actually READING it, and a little jealous of people like my friend Jill who is incredibly witty on her blog. My purpose in writing my blog, besides to use my brain more creatively, is just to write for the fun of it. No pressure. If I don't manage to get to a computer for a couple of days, it's okay. I hope to learn how to add pictures and links and stuff, but it's not a 'have to' sort of thing. And if nobody but me reads my blog, that's okay too.
I also remember that I took a creative writing class in 9th grade, and made the mistake of getting up to turn in my assignment when the teacher was talking. I was listening to what she was saying. Most people CAN walk and listen at the same time, after all. But this teacher blew a gasket and started yelling. She gave me a failing grade on that assignment, too. I can remember being so angry looking at that 'F'! Not my first experience with the whole "life isn't fair" concept, but I didn't do any extra writing after that for a long time.
In high school I slowly got back on the writing wagon and signed up to be a reporter for the school paper. I started writing some poetry, a little here and there. (I stopped keeping a journal sometime in high school, I don't remember when. I just got busy with life, I guess. I also didn't want my college room mate to see me writing and ask questions. I suppose I was afraid that she would give me an F.) But in college I experimented with more poetry and other aspects of writing, including some erotica. I got brave enough one day to send one of my poems about relationships to Cosmopolitan to see if it might get published, since I'd seen other poems in the magazine. I got my poem back, not with a business-like letter saying 'thanks, but no thanks', but just some obnoxious comment scribbled on the top of the page in pencil. Something along the lines of "this sucks donkey balls", only more Manhattan-ish. I didn't really care that they didn't like what I had written, art being subjective and all that, but their form of 'rejection' was pretty crappy.
I went back to writing just for myself, and hoarding it all like Smaug, never letting anyone else see it. I did submit one poem and it was published in a school district magazine that highlighted the artistic talents of teachers. Most of the writing I've done over the past twenty years, however, has been work-related, clinical-based, and not very creative. There's really only so many words you can use to describe an IQ test. I've tried starting up journals again and again, but I just don't have the time to be consistent about it, and I was feeling guilty if I didn't write every day. Something had to change. So I did. I started this blog.
I still like to write, I've discovered. I'm incredibly nervous about anyone else actually READING it, and a little jealous of people like my friend Jill who is incredibly witty on her blog. My purpose in writing my blog, besides to use my brain more creatively, is just to write for the fun of it. No pressure. If I don't manage to get to a computer for a couple of days, it's okay. I hope to learn how to add pictures and links and stuff, but it's not a 'have to' sort of thing. And if nobody but me reads my blog, that's okay too.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Thunderstorms
Whenever it storms, I think of my cat Morris. The very first time I saw him, he was soaking wet. I remember the day very well, it was Saturday, October 17, 1998. The Great Flood of 1998. My first cat Isobel and I were hanging out, watching the news about all the flooding that was taking place, when we heard a soft knocking at the door. Curious, I opened the door...and there was Morris. (He had been scratching at the door, but since he had been declawed he didn't really have anything to scratch with.) He was drenched and mad as hell about it. He looked at me, as if to say "Don't. Say. One. Word." I looked at him, laughed out loud, and told him to come in. And he did, which is the smartest thing Morris has ever done. I got a towel to dry him off, but he was having none of that. He just curled up in a corner and started giving himself a bath. Isobel looked at Morris and I could tell that she was not pleased, but she didn't move from her comfy spot on the couch.
Isobel had a name for Morris, and that name was Dum-Dum. You could just see it in her look whenever Morris was around her. Occasionally she would just smack him in the head, as if she was trying to reboot him. Morris never even blinked. We figured out that Morris was around three when he showed up at my door.
Since that day, Morris and I have had many adventures. Most of our adventures have had to do with him doing something very stupid and me having to rescue him, such as his adventures with local dogs. Morris likes to eat toilet paper, french fries, and bbq sauce. He's a messy eater, more like a steam shovel than a cat, but he's super finicky about his world. He likes to jump on top of open boxes and fall off of window sills for no apparent reason. It's been a learning curve for both of us.
Morris hates the vet, and they aren't too fond of him, either. One of the vets doesn't have any problems with him, but the other usually requires several technicians to come help her just for his yearly exam. One time they ended up sedating him so they could examine him and he was still fighting them even though he couldn't move very well. Another time they took him out of the room to check his bladder, and it took every available person in the building to do whatever it was they did, and Morris was screaming that unearthly screech that cats do the entire time.
Fortunately, for the vet as well as Morris, he is a healthy cat!
Isobel had a name for Morris, and that name was Dum-Dum. You could just see it in her look whenever Morris was around her. Occasionally she would just smack him in the head, as if she was trying to reboot him. Morris never even blinked. We figured out that Morris was around three when he showed up at my door.
Since that day, Morris and I have had many adventures. Most of our adventures have had to do with him doing something very stupid and me having to rescue him, such as his adventures with local dogs. Morris likes to eat toilet paper, french fries, and bbq sauce. He's a messy eater, more like a steam shovel than a cat, but he's super finicky about his world. He likes to jump on top of open boxes and fall off of window sills for no apparent reason. It's been a learning curve for both of us.
Morris hates the vet, and they aren't too fond of him, either. One of the vets doesn't have any problems with him, but the other usually requires several technicians to come help her just for his yearly exam. One time they ended up sedating him so they could examine him and he was still fighting them even though he couldn't move very well. Another time they took him out of the room to check his bladder, and it took every available person in the building to do whatever it was they did, and Morris was screaming that unearthly screech that cats do the entire time.
Fortunately, for the vet as well as Morris, he is a healthy cat!
Thursday, May 13, 2010
The Bills Come Due
The bills from my little tachycardia episode are slowly trickling in. First was my THREE mile ambulance ride--1000 dollars, pre-insurance. Then the ER physician, who I think I saw a grand total of about 20 minutes about two hours after I arrived--600 bucks, of which my share, after the insurance, is 319 dollars. Finally, there is my hospital bill, the total charges being 4467.09, of which I am expected to pay 631.77. I shudder to think what these bills would be if I had actually been having a heart attack.
On all the bills is this "contractual adjustment", which means that my insurance company negotiated a lower rate with these facilities. As far as what the insurance company pays, not me. I guess I'm supposed to be grateful, because at least I have some form of insurance. But I'd be lying. It's all a big ripoff as far as I'm concerned.
On all the bills is this "contractual adjustment", which means that my insurance company negotiated a lower rate with these facilities. As far as what the insurance company pays, not me. I guess I'm supposed to be grateful, because at least I have some form of insurance. But I'd be lying. It's all a big ripoff as far as I'm concerned.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Mother's Day
I get kind of depressed on Mother's Day. And tearful. I can't even watch television because there might be a car commercial that just gets me bawling. I used to think it was because I wasn't a mom, particularly after I miscarried Zoe in 2003. Now I AM a mom, in fact, instead of just in my dreams. But I'm still getting all teary, just sitting here thinking about it. Geez. I hate to cry. I especially hate to cry in front of people. I don't know why. My family is so very NOT about crying, or showing emotions of any kind, and that may be why. Maybe I held back my tears so much that there's some sort of overflow. Maybe it's hormonal, and there's no particular reason other than a chemical one. I don't know. But these days it seems like I'll just all of a sudden start crying for absolutely no reason, and then I want to just bang my head into the nearest wall.
There's a perception that if you are crying that you are a hysterical female and not someone you can count on. Nobody likes to deal with criers, including me. People will stop telling you stuff. Men will think you're weak or someone who can't be trusted to make hard decisions. Whatever. I know myself, and I know that just because I am crying doesn't mean I can't smack the crap out of somebody. The crying will just make the person I smacked feel sorry for me.
Anyway, this is my second 'real' Mother's Day. This year, since Zane is in daycare, I got a little box of Hershey's kisses and a card that my boy scribbled on himself. Hopefully, I will also get a kiss from my little one, but Zane is a boy on the go, and he may be too busy to stop for a kiss until he's sleepy. Boys are like that.
Tomorrow I would love to sleep late, wake up to breakfast(bacon and eggs with toast and coffee) in bed, take Zane to see his cousin Tristan play soccer, be able to relax a little with a massage and a pedicure, and end the day with a nice dinner with my extended family. What is probably actually going to happen is this: Zane will be up at 4:30am and I will have to get up with him because it is "my turn". Nobody will make me breakfast, so I will make it myself, and then I will eat it cold because Zane will have some minor emergency happen right when I sit down to eat. I won't be able to go to see Tristan play because there will be some other minor emergency happening right about the time I want to leave, which may or may not include Zane falling asleep. And since nobody has said a word about what we are doing after Tristan's game, we probably won't do anything and I'll be eating lukewarm pizza with Zane for dinner. All in all, a typical every day when you are a Mom.
Reality and fantasy don't have much in common, do they? :-)
There's a perception that if you are crying that you are a hysterical female and not someone you can count on. Nobody likes to deal with criers, including me. People will stop telling you stuff. Men will think you're weak or someone who can't be trusted to make hard decisions. Whatever. I know myself, and I know that just because I am crying doesn't mean I can't smack the crap out of somebody. The crying will just make the person I smacked feel sorry for me.
Anyway, this is my second 'real' Mother's Day. This year, since Zane is in daycare, I got a little box of Hershey's kisses and a card that my boy scribbled on himself. Hopefully, I will also get a kiss from my little one, but Zane is a boy on the go, and he may be too busy to stop for a kiss until he's sleepy. Boys are like that.
Tomorrow I would love to sleep late, wake up to breakfast(bacon and eggs with toast and coffee) in bed, take Zane to see his cousin Tristan play soccer, be able to relax a little with a massage and a pedicure, and end the day with a nice dinner with my extended family. What is probably actually going to happen is this: Zane will be up at 4:30am and I will have to get up with him because it is "my turn". Nobody will make me breakfast, so I will make it myself, and then I will eat it cold because Zane will have some minor emergency happen right when I sit down to eat. I won't be able to go to see Tristan play because there will be some other minor emergency happening right about the time I want to leave, which may or may not include Zane falling asleep. And since nobody has said a word about what we are doing after Tristan's game, we probably won't do anything and I'll be eating lukewarm pizza with Zane for dinner. All in all, a typical every day when you are a Mom.
Reality and fantasy don't have much in common, do they? :-)
Thursday, May 6, 2010
A Difficult Choice
After all the tests, the stress test, the heart monitor, the echocardiogram...I finally got to see the doctor this afternoon. He looked a bit unkempt, but he said that he had a cold, so that might be part of it. He had also kept us waiting for about an hour. So that went into the minus column. He seemed friendly enough and he explained things very well, which was a plus. Essentially he told me that in every heart there is a sort of A straight to B circuit in the heart that keeps things moving along. What I had was a sort of Y circuit, which creates a problem called tachycardia. I'd probably had this wiring since birth, it just hadn't had a reason to manifest until now. It's not dangerous, just annoying.
I asked about the other tests, but Dr. B didn't want to talk about those. He wanted to talk about what to do about my wiring problem and he didn't need those other reports to do that. (another minus) He gave me my choices: do nothing, continue to do what I was doing(taking medication), or have an ablation, which would involve a catheter inserted into an artery(which creeps me right out.) and mucking around. He was very clear about what the surgery would entail, including a hospital stay. I asked him again about the tests that had been run, but he didn't want to talk about it. ???
Finally I asked him what he would recommend. I just wanted his opinion, not for him to make up my mind for me. This doctor shied away from that as well. Which kind of pissed me off. All I wanted was to know what he thought and what he would do as a measure of comparison for myself. I am fully capable of making up my own mind, but I like to hear what other people have to say because it adds perspective. I still make my own decisions, I just like to gather information. So his refusal to give me that bothered me.
My husband got upset because he thought that I had already made a decision to do the surgery. I had told the doctor that I needed some time to think about it, and he was okay about that. A plus in that column. So I have a month to decide.
Part of me wants to do the procedure because then I won't have to worry about it anymore. It's scary when your heart is racing so fast and you are so weak because of it. Another part of me wants to just keep on doing what I am doing with my medicines. A third part of me wants to just bury my head under my pillow and hope it goes away.
It didn't help that when I got home and took a nap I had a horrible nightmare. I was getting out of my car to go into my house, which in the dream was on the site where the Heart and Vascular Institute is, but were townhouses instead of medical offices. As I look to the south I see a wave of fire rolling toward us. Larry is standing on the other side of the car, and he is completely incinerated while I watch. I turn and look toward my house, and the front door is open and my son Zane is running toward his Mama, and he is incinerated as I watch. The wave of fire just rolls on, and destroys everything around me, but not me. I finally was able to wake myself up, but I am still feeling the dread and the horror and the intense sadness about that dream and trying to think of what it might mean.
So I have three choices and I need to be smart about it and gather all the information I can to make a good choice. Any comments or advice would be helpful.
I asked about the other tests, but Dr. B didn't want to talk about those. He wanted to talk about what to do about my wiring problem and he didn't need those other reports to do that. (another minus) He gave me my choices: do nothing, continue to do what I was doing(taking medication), or have an ablation, which would involve a catheter inserted into an artery(which creeps me right out.) and mucking around. He was very clear about what the surgery would entail, including a hospital stay. I asked him again about the tests that had been run, but he didn't want to talk about it. ???
Finally I asked him what he would recommend. I just wanted his opinion, not for him to make up my mind for me. This doctor shied away from that as well. Which kind of pissed me off. All I wanted was to know what he thought and what he would do as a measure of comparison for myself. I am fully capable of making up my own mind, but I like to hear what other people have to say because it adds perspective. I still make my own decisions, I just like to gather information. So his refusal to give me that bothered me.
My husband got upset because he thought that I had already made a decision to do the surgery. I had told the doctor that I needed some time to think about it, and he was okay about that. A plus in that column. So I have a month to decide.
Part of me wants to do the procedure because then I won't have to worry about it anymore. It's scary when your heart is racing so fast and you are so weak because of it. Another part of me wants to just keep on doing what I am doing with my medicines. A third part of me wants to just bury my head under my pillow and hope it goes away.
It didn't help that when I got home and took a nap I had a horrible nightmare. I was getting out of my car to go into my house, which in the dream was on the site where the Heart and Vascular Institute is, but were townhouses instead of medical offices. As I look to the south I see a wave of fire rolling toward us. Larry is standing on the other side of the car, and he is completely incinerated while I watch. I turn and look toward my house, and the front door is open and my son Zane is running toward his Mama, and he is incinerated as I watch. The wave of fire just rolls on, and destroys everything around me, but not me. I finally was able to wake myself up, but I am still feeling the dread and the horror and the intense sadness about that dream and trying to think of what it might mean.
So I have three choices and I need to be smart about it and gather all the information I can to make a good choice. Any comments or advice would be helpful.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Lessons in Tantrumming
Yesterday my wonderful, usually happy, son threw a serious tantrum. He kept asking for something, but whatever he said was in some other language, probably Chinese. I asked him to "show me", and he dutifully took me by the hand and pulled me into the kitchen. There the helpfulness vanished, because I still had no idea what he was trying to say, and told him so. He was frustrated and began to cry and yell at me. I was frustrated too, because I am usually good at figuring out what he is saying, and because I hate it when kids cry. Especially my own.
Zane went to the fridge and opened it. I thought that he might reach in and get out what he wanted, so our problem would be solved. Unfortunately, what he wanted was not in the fridge. I continued to say that I didn't know what he wanted. More crying and yelling, including "Mama, tut op!" "Tut op" means "Shut up". (The only one in the house who is ever told that is my MIL's yappy dog who barks at the sound of a leaf falling from a tree three miles away, usually at whichever time is most inopportune. So even though we don't say "shut up" to each other, we have said it enough to the dog that Zane picked it up. Lesson learned the hard way.)
We went to the pantry, Zane crying and yelling at me the whole way. Ever helpful, I held up several different items that I knew he liked. None of those were what he wanted. More crying and screaming. Now I was being told to "Go!" and was getting hit and having stuff thrown at me. So I threw my hands up in the air and told him to let me know when he was done, and left the room.
You would have thought that I had dumped him out of my car out in the middle of nowhere and taken off. OMG, the drama! I considered making popcorn for the show, but I was supposed to be ignoring him in the next room. Finally he wound down a little, and came to me and said a word I understood: "Ba". Bath.
I was so very happy to be able to understand that, and Zane was happy to have his request finally accepted. And for the 20 or so minutes that we were in the bathtub, life was wonderful for Zane and me. We splashed and played. He was even in a good mood when I finally let the water out of the tub, dried him off, and put his jammies on(this evening we were sporting a Thomas the Train ensemble). I was relieved that Zane was in a better mood, and settled in to watch American Idol.
Whereupon the theatrics started up again. Whatever it was that Zane wanted in the first place, he still wanted it, apparently, and my son is a very stubborn child. From what I could see/hear of AI, Zane's tantrum was the better show, but my ears were starting to bleed from the noise. In desperation, I decided that I was going to film him with my camera phone so that I could share the fun with my husband when he got home. I wanted Zane's father to share my pain.
So I have a video of my son screaming and yelling and crying--until the Kindle commercial came on. He was quiet during that, even peeped his head around the corner to watch it. Then he started up again, running into the kitchen to get away from Mom with the camera. He finally calmed down enough to say "Ca".
"You want a cracker?"
"Ca."
"Which cracker do you want, this one(Ritz) or this one(Saltines)?"
"Ca." Saltines were the choice for the evening. I gave him two crackers, and life was good. Too bad all of life's problems can't be solved with a couple of saltine crackers!
Zane went to the fridge and opened it. I thought that he might reach in and get out what he wanted, so our problem would be solved. Unfortunately, what he wanted was not in the fridge. I continued to say that I didn't know what he wanted. More crying and yelling, including "Mama, tut op!" "Tut op" means "Shut up". (The only one in the house who is ever told that is my MIL's yappy dog who barks at the sound of a leaf falling from a tree three miles away, usually at whichever time is most inopportune. So even though we don't say "shut up" to each other, we have said it enough to the dog that Zane picked it up. Lesson learned the hard way.)
We went to the pantry, Zane crying and yelling at me the whole way. Ever helpful, I held up several different items that I knew he liked. None of those were what he wanted. More crying and screaming. Now I was being told to "Go!" and was getting hit and having stuff thrown at me. So I threw my hands up in the air and told him to let me know when he was done, and left the room.
You would have thought that I had dumped him out of my car out in the middle of nowhere and taken off. OMG, the drama! I considered making popcorn for the show, but I was supposed to be ignoring him in the next room. Finally he wound down a little, and came to me and said a word I understood: "Ba". Bath.
I was so very happy to be able to understand that, and Zane was happy to have his request finally accepted. And for the 20 or so minutes that we were in the bathtub, life was wonderful for Zane and me. We splashed and played. He was even in a good mood when I finally let the water out of the tub, dried him off, and put his jammies on(this evening we were sporting a Thomas the Train ensemble). I was relieved that Zane was in a better mood, and settled in to watch American Idol.
Whereupon the theatrics started up again. Whatever it was that Zane wanted in the first place, he still wanted it, apparently, and my son is a very stubborn child. From what I could see/hear of AI, Zane's tantrum was the better show, but my ears were starting to bleed from the noise. In desperation, I decided that I was going to film him with my camera phone so that I could share the fun with my husband when he got home. I wanted Zane's father to share my pain.
So I have a video of my son screaming and yelling and crying--until the Kindle commercial came on. He was quiet during that, even peeped his head around the corner to watch it. Then he started up again, running into the kitchen to get away from Mom with the camera. He finally calmed down enough to say "Ca".
"You want a cracker?"
"Ca."
"Which cracker do you want, this one(Ritz) or this one(Saltines)?"
"Ca." Saltines were the choice for the evening. I gave him two crackers, and life was good. Too bad all of life's problems can't be solved with a couple of saltine crackers!
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