Who are You?

We have decided that aliens have abducted our youngest daughter and replaced her with and evil clone. Now, this is not our first rodeo with a pre-teen. But, this time around I swear we're dealing with needing to get an exorcist.

The other day, after one of many arguments, I looked at her and she gives me the deer in the headlights stare. I told her, "I don't know who you are, but would you please bring my daughter back?" 

She laughed. Does that mean she is a clone?

Here with Grandpa

(The good old days)

If There's a Matchstick, I'll Trip Over It

Yesterday I lost my footing and tripped. I felt my ankle go and I went down to the ground to pull off my shoe. The pain radiated up my leg to my hip. I began to cry. I rarely cry.

First, I was wearing shoes. I think this was a mistake on my part since I usually wear sandals. In fact, I always wear sandals. I just happened to put on my shoes so I could help my husband cut down a dead tree. I will never wear shoes again.

My husband proceeded to help me into the house. He was asking me what happened and I could not really say anything except there may have been a matchstick in the driveway that tripped me.

He wanted to take me to the emergency room. I hate going to the emergency room, especially on the weekend, I refused.

This morning my ankle is three times it's normal size and black. I had to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night. I crawled because I could not stand the pain when I walked. This morning I slid down the stairs on my rump because stairs and a hurt ankle don't mix. I wish I could crawl around downstairs but the wood floors hurt my knees.

I broke my ankle marching in the Battle of Flowers Parade when I was a teenager. I think tripped on one of those round yellow bump things in the road. All I can really remember was tripping. I marched the rest of the parade in pain. When I got home my father saw my ankle and rushed me to the emergency room.

My ankle looks pretty much the way it did back then. However, this time I hope it's only a sprain.

I'm waiting here for the clinic to open so I can get an X-ray done...


UPDATE: We went to the clinic. The doctor was more concerned about my blood pressure than my ankle! I do have high blood pressure. She said this was too high: 245/180. I explained to her I was, and have been, in an incredible amount of pain. She said she would give me a point or two for pain but not this much.

They gave me a dose of Clonidine to lower my BP. I was told at this point they would not release me until my BP went down.

Then she looked at my foot. She said, "Ouch, that looks painful!" Then she started pushing on it! I about jumped out of the chair.

She then told me it looks broken but they would take X-rays to be sure. I had to wait for X-ray because there were two ahead of me. It didn't matter much since I could not leave anyway.

I sat and waited, and waited, and waited. Finally the nurse came back to take my BP. 193/130. The doctor made me take another dose of Clonidine.

X-ray came to take pictures of my ankle. I was returned to my cubical to wait. My husband and little girl joined me there. Why should I have to sit there by myself? The little one was not too pleased to be there. In the waiting room there was toys to play with.

My husband was upset about my BP being so high. He wanted to know why I hadn't gone to see the family doctor to refill my BP meds. Well I have a reason, it may not be good for some but I have one, he retired.

The doctor came back with good news about my ankle, it's only a sprain. This was a relief. I could not imagine wearing a cast for weeks on end.

I still had to wait for the second dose of Clonidine to take effect and have my BP checked before I could leave. The nurse came back with a pair of crutches and a splint for my ankle. After he got me fitted and braced I was told I had to wait a bit longer, 20 minutes.

In a small cubical, with an impatient child, and a worried husband, 20 minutes is like an eternity...

The nurse came back and took my BP. 166/113. He left.

The doctor said since there was improvement, I could go. She prescribed Procardia, which I had been taking before my doctor retired. Really, I wanted a new doctor closer to home anyway. She referred me to another doctor up the road. She warned me I could have a stroke or heart attack with BP that high.

I realize my heath is important. I take pretty good care of myself. I take vitamins, exercise, and eat right (for the most part). I don't understand the high BP. I guess it's not for me to understand. I just have to take care of it.

Before I get chastized for not going to the doctor for the BP, I have been feeling pretty good. I monitor it at home and it's been high but not like what it was at the clinic.

Perhaps the sprained ankle was a warning sign. Thanks to it I'll be heading to another doctor for a follow-up...

Here's my poor ankle, this is after three days of ice and elevation. Granted it is a lot better than it was.

Here you can see the difference in size, still three days. I wish it would just go away.

My Old Dictionary

I pulled down my old dictionary and the cover pulled from the spine when I opened it. The sound it made was similar to a favored pair of pants ripping at the seam when they're exhausted (or the caboose has widened too much).

The old dictionary belonged to my mother. It was a gift to her from my grandparents when she got her Masters Degree. Though I have a newer dictionary, I prefer to use this one.

When I open the book the soft thin pages feel like silk between my fingers. The aroma that rises from it's pages is indescribable, not musty or fresh. I can see a faint tinge bordering each page. It darkens in the top corners.

If I were a detective, I could pull out my spyglass, brush, and fingerprint dust to expose the identities that made their discoveries here. I think of the little hands that held this big book and used it to learn. I wonder how many of them made it big or did nothing at all? If I were a detective, I could tell you.

This old dictionary has certainly seen better days. It worked during it's prime in my mother's classrooms. It molded and enhanced many minds in it's day. It retired to my mother's bookshelf and rested there until I filed it next to my dictionary.

I will continue to use this old dictionary because it likes to be used, whether or not it's spine is broken.

Can Negativity Squash Hope?

I was reading an article by David Servan-Schreiber about hope and healing that got me thinking. Is positive belief and hope enough? Can negativity squash hope?

The article started out telling a story of an HIV positive man who escaped AIDS much longer than expected. When asked of his treatment protocol he said he took natural supplements, ate right, and exercised. A doctor told him he had many patients following that regimen die. Then, sure as sunset, the man died. His hope and determination were squashed by some neggie nelly nay sayer, a doctor no less. At the end of the article Schreiber said patients should help themselves and instill hope in their bodies. This will do more than medicine alone.

Many years ago I had an experience with a negative person myself. My husband had bladder cancer. He went in for surgery and came out beautifully. His doctor was very optimistic about his recovery and survival.

My husband's ex-wife was a floor nurse at the hospital. She butted her head in his care when she found out he was in recovery, not her unit or specialty. I found her checking his IV and administering medication to him. My husband asked me to have her removed. After a heated discussion with the staff she was barred from initiating any care to him.

When he was moved to a private room she showed up for a visit. She walked in and told me, "we need to talk." I walked into the hall with her. She said a lot about nothing and then spouted out, loudly, "you know, he's going to die!"

I'll never forget that moment. I felt my chest get heavy and my heart sink into my stomach. I told her to leave. Thankfully she didn't come back. However, she planted the negative seed.

My husband heard her words. We did not discuss the conversation except he told me to ignore her. But I guess her statement was one he could not ignore himself. Less than a year later he was gone.

Growing up my parents taught me to think positively. They told me: "Think can do and keep not out of your life." I get it now, but then I thought they were bonkers.

Positive thinking is the mainstream for success, health, and happiness. Every day I see something that reminds me of the power of positivity.

Hope and positivity go hand in hand. When confronted with something, or someone, negative we should turn tail and make it positive. Difficult? Yes. Impossible? No.

Good Girls, Bad Girls, and Joyrides

A great blogger I follow, Swubird, posted The Getaway recently. I comment to him a lot about various similarities in my life to some of his posts. Today I am going to reveal a little about myself that is not widely known.

In my youth I was a "good girl" with bad tendencies. Secretly I always wanted to be a "bad girl". My badness was only revealed to my closest friends.

Once my three girl friends and I planned a weekend joyride during hush-hush sessions. Our boy friends would be camping that weekend. We talked and decided it would be great fun to surprise them at their campsite.

My best friend planned to stay the night. We decided we would hook up with our other friends and in the middle of the night we would go see the boys. It all sounded simple enough. However, the campsite was not within walking distance and not one of us had a car or a license to drive.

We schemed a plot to sneak out my sister's car, a Camaro. Brilliant!

The weekend arrived and my best friend came over. We went for a swim and discussed the exit route for our joyride. After dinner I stole a set of car keys from the bar where the extra keys were stored. We said our good nights and retreated to my room to execute the plan.

My friend and I would have made excellent burglars. We sat in my room and timed the air conditioner so we knew exactly how long it ran. (The noise from the AC would cover any noise we might make during our escape.) I informed her of the stair that squeaked if you stepped on the wrong side of it. We also decided it would be best if we crawled across the living room floor to exit out the patio door instead of the front door, which made a racket when you opened it.

Our escape went off with out a hitch. We made it out the back door and through the gate to the driveway where we found the Camaro was blocked by mom's car.

Feeling quite a bit of adrenalin we decided to take mom's car. I sneaked back into the house to retrieve the keys.

When I returned, I slipped into the driver's seat and turned the key to on. I moved the gearshift to neutral and we pushed the car out of the driveway and down the street a ways.

I looked toward the house and saw it was still quiet. I started the car and slowly drove down the street.

Once we got off my street, we turned up the radio and tuned it to our favorite station. Cruising through the city we did not see one other car. We went to pick up the other girls.

Down on Rosewood our two friends sat waiting for us on the curb. I turned off the headlights and inched the car up to them. I rolled down the window and whispered loudly, "you girls need a ride?" They laughed and jumped in the car.

I headed to Pat Booker toward FM 78. Once there we would be home free because 78 was rarely patrolled at the time. We were on our way.

I am a good driver. Technically, I've been driving since the ripe old age of 3. My dad would let me steer the car on family road trips. Also, I was preparing to get my hardship license the next year so I could drive my grand parents to doctor appointments. I had experience, but apparently not enough.

Our joyride took us down 78 to a few crossroads and eventually to FM 1103. I was not familiar with this road and followed the limits until one of my friends said, "this road is fun, go faster!" So, I did.

We cruised up and down hills. It was fun, almost like being on a roller coaster. We were laughing, singing with the radio, and talking about the guys. We were cruising about 70 mph when I hit some loose gravel.

The car fishtailed and the road turned into a sharp curve. I managed to slow it down but I couldn't get complete control of the car. The next thing I knew we were in a ditch. We were all okay.

The week before there had been a deluge of rain. The dirt banks by the ditch were mud. We assessed the situation and figured if I accelerated enough, and they pushed from behind, we could get the car out.

"STOOOPP!" The girls screamed. I stopped and got out of the car. My friends were mud from head to toe. The rear tires were dug into this mud, which was more like quicksand at this point.

My mud-soaked friends and I decided to walk back to the main road where we hoped we'd find some help. After walking about a mile we saw a truck coming. We began flailing our arms and signaling for them to stop. Of course they went on. Who picks up strangers in the middle of the night?

We kept walking. A few minutes later the truck we tried to call down returned. They saw the car and figured it was ours.

There were three good 'ol country boys in the truck. Fate would have it they had a winch on the grill. They pulled the car out.

Beaten, we headed back home. Our joyride lost it's appeal and dawn was on the horizon. Once I was back on the main road, we hit the car wash to see if the car had been damaged and to spray off my mud-soaked buddies.

The car was physically okay but caked with mud. I sprayed down my friends and we began cleaning the car. I thought we did a pretty good job.

There was a knock on my door. Sleepy eyed I opened it to find my dad glaring at me. "Do you know what happened?"

"What happened to what?" (It's always good to answer a question with a question.)

"Come with me." I turned to my friend and said I'd be back. I followed my dad downstairs and out the front door. My mom's car sat in it's spot glistening in the morning sun. I thought WOW, we really cleaned that baby up good! Then I saw a clump of grass and mud plop down on the drive way. The entire under carriage was caked with it.

Dad asked me to explain the grass and mud to him. I looked him in the eye and denied knowing anything about it. He believed me.

You see, I was daddy's little girl. I was also a good girl.