Tag Archives: Personal Essay

Scary Experience

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On Monday of this week I had a real scare.

I had eaten lunch and gone to the gym. Then I went to a local store to buy some things I needed. After picking out a nice birthday card, I ran into a friend that I had not seen for many years.

We fell into our old friend patterns, talking, sharing, asking questions. It was wonderful to see her! It reminded me of all the talking did while we played on the same soccer teams, the visits to each other’s houses, and all the good times.

All of a sudden it felt like all the blood was flooding out of my head, pouring down my neck and out of my body. I half expected to see a pool of blood at my feet. Thankfully there wasn’t, but it didn’t alter the fact that I suddenly felt quite woozy.

Most stores do not have chairs placed about, and this was so. I knew I needed to sit. The only thing nearby was a display. As I headed toward that, my friend started calling for help.

A young man came to my assistance. He just happened to be a nursing student and he knew exactly what to do. While he was tending me, my friend called my husband and told him to get over to the store. Someone else called 911.

The store employees also came to my assistance. One got a wheelchair. A couple of others blocked me off from all the lookie-loos that were stopping by to stare.

Somewhere along the way I actually lost consciousness. It was supposedly only for a few seconds, but when I came to, the young man was cradling my head.

Meanwhile several people helped move me to a wheelchair and out of the aisle so that things were a little more private.

My friend told me that employees helped guide the paramedics to me. One stood outside in the cold, without a jacket, until they arrived. Another stood just inside the door and walked them to me. Both of these employees oversaw my care while my friend kept watch for my husband.

The decision was made to transport me to the hospital because my blood pressure was quite low. I heard the numbers, but they mean nothing to me.

In the ambulance the first thing they did was run an EKG, then my blood pressure was monitored and an IV was begun. The paramedics were awesome. The one riding with me kept me calm by explaining everything that he was doing and by asking questions to keep me focused.

By the time we reached the hospital my blood pressure had improved, but was still low. I was taken to the ER. Tests were run. The only thing they could find was that my kidney function was a bit low, a sign of dehydration. I was given fluids. Lots of fluids.

Because of fainting, the ER doctor insisted that I spend the night. It was long and boring. I was not moved to a regular room, but kept in an observation part of the ER. Of course this means all kinds of noise and disruption.

I think I got about four hours sleep, but none of it was in a block.

After running an electrocardiogram on Tuesday and finding nothing, I was released. Actually, the electrocardiogram was the most exciting part of the whole affair. It was pretty neat watching the beating of my heart, from the inside!

The bad news is that I cannot drive until I’ve been cleared by my doctor.

Tuesday afternoon my husband drove me to the store so I could get the items I had intended to buy. While there I asked to speak to a manager. I thanked her and the employees for their care and assistance.

As I was about to leave, two employees who had been there came up to me and asked how I was. This was quite touching.

Today I contacted the store’s website and explained what had happened and how much I appreciate all that the employees did to help me.

I hope this helps the employees. They deserve all kinds of recognition. I just wish I knew their names.

Expectations

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Back in March I experienced the first of the most incredible pain I’ve felt, other than when I had my knees replaced. This pain was an intense squeezing of the chest. I thought for sure that I was having a heart attack and was soon to die. But I said nothing at the time.

In fact, I experienced several of these episodes over a period of months before I finally said something to my doctor about it. She immediately thought of spasms of the esophagus, something I’d never heard of.

I researched the condition, and lo and behold, those were my symptoms!

The spasms continued, sometimes with incredible intensity, sometimes to a lesser degree, but altogether painful.

My doctor ordered a barium X-ray which showed that there was a hole in my diaphragm. My stomach had moved upward, with a good one-third sticking through the hole.

I was referred to a surgeon who is going to fix everything, but his first requirement was that I lose a substantial amount of weight before he would fix a date.

Time has passed. I have lost 32 plus pounds. My surgery will be this coming Friday, March 2.

While the months passed, I didn’t concern myself with the details. It seemed so remote that there was no purpose served in thinking about it. My main concern was losing weight.

Now that I am down to days, it has become real. Last night I found myself thinking about it instead of sleeping. I assume that this will continue all week, until Thursday night when I won’t be able to sleep at all.

It’s odd that I am concerned. I trust the doctor. While the surgery details may seem complicated, he made it sound like a piece of cake. I am confident in his ability to perform the surgery with no complications.

But that does not mean that I don’t think about it.

I’ve taken care of the details. I’ve packed my personal items, including a book, for Mike to bring me after my surgery is complete. I’ve packed my clothes that I will wear home from the hospital. I’ve purchased the liquid diet drinks that I will consume for the 8-10 days after I come home.

I will clean my bird cages before the surgery even though it’s two days early. I will change the sheets so that I come home to a clean bed. I will make sure that all laundry is done, folded and put away.

I am as prepared as I possibly can be.

Please keep me in your prayers and thoughts.

 

The Best Day

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Sometimes writing prompts speak to me, giving me ideas of what to write about, but recently I read one which really has me in a quandary.

Of all the days in my life, which one is the best?

I’ve been thinking about this for over a week and I have to admit that I am stuck.

Could it have been the day I received my acceptance letter to USC? That was an awesome day. After all, it meant that I was going to go to college and learn something that forever would change my life. The problem is that I don’t recall exactly how I felt. After all, I was only 17 at the time and so much has happened since then.

After college graduation a series of years went by in which I accomplished a lot of firsts: my first car, my first real job, my first apartment. These all moved me along the path toward independence and all of them made me smile, but were any of them the best? No.

There was the day that I met Mike at the IRS office. I was intrigued by his blue eyes, ready smile and kind demeanor, but it took quite a while for us to jell, to become a unit. The day he proposed was an awesome one. The problem is that I don’t recall the details. I do remember that he asked my dad for permission to marry me, but that’s it.

The wedding day was a spectacular one. Talk about life-changing! Wow! I went from being daughter to wife in less than an hour. And I was so scared that I almost passed out at the altar. I remember smiling through the reception and being so excited about the honeymoon that I could hardly wait for it to begin. On that day my life changed forever, so I would rank it up there among the best days of my life.

The thing is, though, that from then on I achieved so much, changed so much, and reveled in so much, that there are many defining moments in my life.

I remember when I found out I was pregnant with each of our kids. Now those were special days! Each time I glowed with happiness and pride. And when they were born, I could hardly contain myself even though I was terrified of holding such tiny, frail little beings.

Each time a child accomplished something, even something as tiny as lifting a head, I could hardly wait to show Mike. Jump forward to swimming on a team, playing soccer or baseball or softball or learning gymnastics or working with clay or learning to play an instrument and the “best” days suddenly multiply into hundreds.

There were graduations from eighth grade, high school and college. There were the births of my many grandkids, each unique in their own way.

The purchasing of homes, beginning with ours. I beamed with happiness on the day we took possession! Our house! Which became a home for our kids. And then the joy I felt when each of our kids bought their homes! Wow!

Getting my first teaching job filled me with joy. Granted it was a tiny, part time job teaching preschool at minimum wage, but I was in a classroom. My classroom. Fulfilling a dream I’d had since first grade.

When I jumped to third grade, my heart skipped a beat. This was it! My goal had been reached. But I didn’t stop there. I kept exploring and reaching and trying out new things and learning new things and going from job to job, each time looking for the place where I truly belonged and then I found it at the high school. I became a Special Education teacher working with learning disabled students. A hard job, but rewarding.

My supervisor noticed my hard work and I got promoted to the equivalent of Department Chair. Wow! Think of the jump, from part time preschool to Dept. Chair! I walked around campus with a smile on my face. I had reached my pinnacle, the highest I could possibly go, and I was proud. That was another good day.

Time passed. I aged. I got tired and all I could think about was retiring. When that time arrived four years ago, that was another personal best. I counted off the days until the one when I turned in my keys and walked away. I left knowing that I had done the best job that I could have. That at no time had I failed to fulfill my job requirements, and that, in fact, I usually exceeded them.

As a retiree I continue to have “best” days. Each day spent with my husband is a great one. Each time we go for a walk around the neighborhood, I rejoice that we are capable of doing so. That we enjoy the simple act of being together.

We have traveled quite a bit since retirement. Those are all good days as well. I especially love visiting with my grown children and my grandchildren. Each of those trips is unique and filled with joy. Each is the “best” because of the time I get to spend with family.

What it boils down to is that I cannot single out one day that stands above all others. I have been blessed with so many awesome days, so many unique experiences that I cannot definitively state that this one, this day, is the best.

Instead I revel in the fact that each morning that I open my eyes, each breath that I breathe, each step that I take, counts as my best.

 

Resolutions

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I was quite small when I first learned of the New Year’s tradition of making resolutions, or setting goals for oneself for the upcoming year. The idea intrigued me. Just think, by choosing the right goals, and sticking to them, in one year I could be a better person!

While memory fails me, most likely my early resolutions had to do with keeping my mouth shut and staying out of trouble. I was not a bad kid, but I had a tendency to speak up and defend myself when falsely accused, and in my mind, I was frequently targeted by siblings and parents for things I had not done.

Unfortunately my determination to improve was weak and so my goals seldom survived more than a few hours.

I remember one particularly rocky period in my life when I was fourteen. I shared a room with my younger sister, who was a bit of a slob. I got angry when my parents informed me that it was my responsibility to keep her side of the room clean. I spouted off and got punished. When New Year’s rolled around, I was still smoldering, so I promised myself that I would sit in my room and keep quiet.

It didn’t work because instead of calming me down, my insides churned with barely suppressed rage. I told myself, over and over, to keep my mouth shut, but the words inflamed my feelings of being unjustly singled out to the point that when next lectured, I exploded and suffered the consequences.

I tried setting other goals for myself over the years. For example, to lose weight. This was during my late teen years and I was tired of being the fattest girl on campus. I chose carefully what I ate, walked as much as possible, but stayed the same. I quickly gave up, considering myself a failure yet again.

I learned, after repeated failure, that I was incapable of sticking to a resolution and so gave up setting any goals for myself. It was a self-fulling prophecy which I allowed to dictate my life for decades.

To this day I do not choose resolutions, even though there are many that would be good for me to master. I accept the fact that I am weak-willed, so rather than dooming myself to repeated failure, I avoid the tradition altogether.

Resolutions are just not for me.

A Halloween Memory

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The only part of Halloween that I ever liked was the endless pursuit of free candy. From the time my brother and I were in middle school, we would roam miles from home knocking on doors on streets that we barely knew. It took us hours, and at times our pillow cases would become so heavy that we’d go home, empty them out, then head out again.

I hated wearing costumes. I disliked having my sight blocked by masks, I detested makeup, and despised trying to come up with something to wear that resembled a costume. My most frequent costume was that of a hobo as all I had to do was put on overalls.

When I was thirteen my middle school decided that it would celebrate Halloween and that all students were expected to dress in costume. I panicked when I heard the announcement. It was bad enough to walk about my neighborhood under cover of darkness. This would mean parading about campus under fluorescent lighting!

I worried about this for days. I was a painfully shy girl who never raised a hand to ask or answer a question in class, and now I was going to have to expose myself to potential ridicule if I chose to dress in an unpopular or outmoded outfit.

When time ran out, the only thing I could come up with was my mother’s WAC (Women’s Army Corp) uniform from World War II.

What seemed like a good idea when I got dressed in the morning, quickly became a terrifying experience once I arrived at school.

My teacher, thrilled to see the old uniform, made me stand in front of the class and share my mother’s story.

To make matters worse, much to my dismay, she sent me up and down the hall, dropping into every single classroom to share. At times I barely got out a few words as this required me to speak before students I did not know.

It was such a horrible experience that I did not go out trick-or-treating that night and for several years after.

Heritage Story

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My mom was not a great storyteller. She didn’t read books or magazines or even the daily newspaper. She did watch television news, but only those stories that weren’t about war or killing.

There was one death that intrigued her, that of Princess Diana. For some reason, the tragedy of her death touched my mom.

I think she saw in Diana heritage lost. A genetic pool which would not be carried on. And that was important to my mom.

From the time I was a little girl, my mom bragged about her Native American roots, although she did not use that term. According to my mom, almost everything she did could be attributed to her being “Indian.”

She loved bread because she was Indian. She tanned easily because she was Indian. Her hair did not turn gray and she did not wrinkle because of….

The foods she fixed were, according to her, based on her Indian roots. Her rhubarb pie was a good example, as well as her apple dumplings and fried chicken.

When pressured, she could not name the relative from whom her heritage came. She believed it was from her great-great-great grandmother on her mother’s side, but that person had no name or place of birth.

No matter the lack of concrete evidence, I believed her. I loved the idea of being part Native American, no matter how tiny that part was in reality.

When I was in fourth grade I discovered that the nonfiction part of the library held a treasure trove of information on Native American tribes from all over the country. One by one I devoured the books, looking for any similarities between my mother and a specific tribe.

When I read about the Shawnee, a tribe that lived in the same Ohio region where I did, I was elated. Here was my connection to the past. My heritage that I could pass on to my children and grandchildren.

I drew out a map of their homeland, memorized Shawnee terms, dreamt about their foods, and romanticized their lifestyle.

When looking at old black and white photos of the Shawnee people, I saw a clear resemblance in my mother’s face. Satisfied, I grew up believing that I was part Shawnee.

Well into my twenties I attended my first pow-wow, something in the keening of the songs and the pounding of the drums resonated deep within me. I felt a kinship that I had never felt before, and I really wanted to join in the dance.  Until I realized how very white I was compared to all the other dancers.

I continued to be intrigued by all things Native American. Several years ago I began collecting artifacts. None of them have any historical value, but I love the dolls, the vases, the baskets and the jewelry. I have enough stuff that it fills an entire cabinet and enough black and white prints of old photos that my walls are covered.

My daughter began researching our genealogy several years ago. As she delved into the past, she was unable to locate a single relative that appeared to be Native American. This was disappointing in so many ways!

Over a year ago she asked me to submit a DNA sample for study. Because I was still interested in finding the familial link, I did so.

A few weeks later the results came in. I have zero percent  Native American heritage! This was a disappointing discovery.

It destroyed my beliefs about who I was. It meant that all those years of reading and dreaming were wasted. It also meant that there was no truth behind my mother’s stories, which was devastating.

I hated losing that part of me because it was ingrained by sixty years of believing.

Sometimes I wish that I had not done the DNA test. If I hadn’t, I could continue to naively believe that I was Native American. However, even though I lost a huge part of what I saw as my link to distant peoples, I am glad that I did the test.

It is better to know the truth than to be spreading falsities.