Dear So and So...

Dear Mr. Nurse in the surgical recovery area--What in my groggy demeanor gave you the impression I would be entertained by your nickname for the hospital's habit of scheduling most gynecology surgeries for the same day each week? "Bloody Crotch Day" you called it? Really? And here I thought it must be Give A Jerk A Job Day. Normally I would have seen a certain morbid logic in your humor that I might have found worth a chuckle. But timing is everything, sir, and a couple of hours after surgery isn't the time. I hope you get a chronic prostate infection, an impatient doctor with large fingers and a Groundhog Day like repetition of the same exam again and again.--Affectionately, Recovering Hysterectomy Patient

Dear Mrs. Nurse--Dr. Who said to do What to Whom? Not to me, he didn't. How do I know? Because my doctor is a she, not a he, because my doctor is a gynecologist, not a urologist, and because I am not the owner of the penis you were supposed to be threading a catheter into so that poor man could go home.--Sincerely, Now WIDE AWAKE AND ALERT Patient

Dear Hospital--Two words. Staff training. You need some serious help in a few areas. You are a lawsuit waiting to happen.--Non-litigious But Genuinely Concerned Patient/Consumer

Dear Husband--Happy Birthday. Next year. No recovering from anything for either of us on your birthday. Deal? I owe you a good dinner and more.--Love, Your Sleepy Slightly Drugged Up Wife

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Three Month News

Kevin's 3 month checkup day again. Oncologist thought things looked good, sounded like they should, felt like they ought to feel.

So now we wait for Kev's blood work to come back and hope those numbers don't show anything that would cause a call back to the clinic. The neuropathy in his hands and feet continues, always there, worse on some days, unpredictable as to what might trigger it. It's pretty clear by now that this will be a permanent side effect of the chemotherapy treatments, not a passing thing. One of those realities they definitely soft sell pre-treatment. Everything else looked/sounded/felt ok to the medical assistant, nurse practitioner, doctor, 4 year resident and lab tech who each got a turn at him. He also got a seasonal flu shot and scheduled a pneumonia shot for next week.

Under the heading of avoiding invasions of his personal space--always a good thing from Kev's view--he got a couple of bits of good news today. First, I talked with his surgeon's office in Indiana and Dr. Francis says if he's not having any additional/new symptoms of constriction in the bowel surgical area, he can push the next colonoscopy off until April. One year from the last one. Second, his oncologist says he doesn't have to have another PET/CT scan until the end of the year/beginning of next year. Kevin hates the PET/CT possibly more than the colonoscopy since it adds additional radiation exposure to his already over-exposed body so this was exceptionally good news.

Three more months ticked off the Cancer Come Back Meter. This is good news.

Have a Plan, Version .09 (aka Make a List)

Today is Clean the House Day. Why? Because it's on the list I made. The To Do Before Surgery List.

My essential rule. Have a Plan. Having a list is almost as good as having a plan.

I'm not sure why cleaning the house made the list. Probably because it was suggested on one of the several forums I visited while seeking information. For The Plan.

FYI, I've categorized the forums from Essential Information to Good to Know to HYSTERical Women Having Hysterectomies. I didn't last long at that one. And they haven't emailed me a reminder to drop back in.

Anyway, somewhere along the line, there was a suggestion of having things done pre-surgery so you won't have to worry about doing them later. What I realized today was that it's not likely I'm going to worry now or later about the house being clean. Or super clean anyway. Scratch that one from The List.

See? I'm already ahead of the game.

I did clean the bathroom--the bathtub being my comfort zone when I feel rotten and I want a really clean comfort zone in the coming days--and I made a mental list of things I will never purchase again. Bathroom things. Things Kevin delicately refers to as "girl stuff." No more.

With all the $$ I'm going to save on that "girl stuff" I can do some serious shopping. My doctor said it was important to walk after surgery. She probably meant at the outlet mall. Recouperative Shopping. Who could possibly argue with that plan?

Dear So and So---

Dear Grocery Patron--I am as uncomfortable with debit cards as you. But, for gosh sakes, if you're going to write a check in the grocery store line, you could fill out the store name and date sometime in those interminable hours minutes of waiting in the line. Something sooner than two minutes after your order has been scanned, price checked and bagged. Maybe master multi-tasking and learn to write and visit with the cashier at the same time. At least have located your checkbook and pen somewhere in your cavernous Vera Bradley tote. Aren't those things known for their incredible organizational pockets anyway? Use them.
And don't get me started on your sport of coupon diving in the depths of aforementioned Vera Bradley. I leave you with one word. Organize. ---Patiently Waiting Organized Person Behind You in Line

Dear Body--Yes, I know you are 50 now. But you seem to be forgetting who owns who. I am in charge and I would very much like you to remember it. Just give me a little break here and tow the line. I'm not kidding.---Thinking of Turning You in Under the Cash for Clunkers Program

Dear Grandson--While it is all about the fun and the learning and the teamwork and sportsmanship blah, blah, blah I expect you to kick some soccer butt this weekend at your tourney. Really. Granny is not sitting outside on a cold rainy day at 7:30 in the morning to see niceness. I want to see some serious soccer.---Love, Soccer G-Ma

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A Woman in Her Fifties

Science be damned.

I've never understood the female practice of tottering around on sky high heels with pointy pinched toes. Or the lies we tell about how darn comfortable it is to walk around with your heel perched 4 inches above the ground while your 4 inch span of toes is compressed to 2 inches.

I spent 25 years working from my home. Working at home gives one a lot of dress code options. The freedom, for instance, to wear comfortable footwear. Since I hadn't gotten a job in the 18 months or so since moving here and the Drive-Thru Feed Barn doesn't have a dress code, my feet have lived in a seasonal rotation of croc sandals, sneakers and an occasional suede boot. No heels, nothing confining.

However, a princess does what she has to do when representing the royal throne in the public working world. Which means when a job possibility loomed, I dug out my funeral-holiday party-wedding heels from the depths of the closet.

They weren't too bad during the interview. I overlooked the fact that I probaly hadn't walked more than 50 yards and congratulated my feet on their adaptability.

Work Day One brought the realization that production layouts have to be logged out on a computer located in a far corner on the production floor then hand delivered to a desk at the opposite end of the building from my desk. Several times a day.

By Day Four the bulging blisters on the back of my foot had broken leaving a little more room for the growing callouses on my toes.

On Day Six I realized if there was a fire in the building I would probably fry as I scrounged under my deak to locate the shoes I had pried off swollen feet while working at my computer.

Somewhere between the oozing blisters and the burning sensation running up the back of my calves, I had an ephipany; a moment of clarity in the making since I was 12 years old and nagged my mother into buying my first pair of heels.

A woman in her fifties doesn't wince when she steps out of the car and into the work day. She doesn't hope the sheer agony of standing for 20 minutes while the boss tells a funny story in the hall isn't showing in her face. She doesn't sit in her favorite chair until she's within seconds of peeing her pants because it hurts too much to walk 20 feet to the bathroom.

A woman in her fifties wears comfortable shoes.

Dear So and So...

Dear Bird Singing Outside my Window at 5:30 AM last Saturday--I get it. You're hungry. And I've been out of feed for two days. I know I've made the commitment to keep those feeders full and I'll go to the Drive Thru Feed Store today. But listen to me, you perky crimson moron, it was five-freakin'-thirty. On a Saturday. It was still dark outside, for gosh sakes! Darkness on a Saturday morning means it's officially still night and I am officially still sleeping. Keep it up and I'll take away the black oil sunflower seed you love and fill those feeders with nothing but cracked corn. Sincerely--Mrs. Audobon

***

Dear Tiny Town--If you're going to close the two main roads in town, one leading through town to the east, the other leading out of town to the west--at least post an alternative route. Don't assume that everyone in town knows to go up two blocks, turn at Esther Mae's house, go three blocks to where the old cemetary was and turn left to get back on the highway.
And why are there so many one way streets in a town this size? Everyone in the county could drop in at the same time and there wouldn't be enough people to cause a congestion.
That said, sometimes you are terribly quaint and old-timey. Loved the tractor parade to kick off the Corn Festival. It was worth being trapped in town for an hour.
---A New(ish) Neighbor
***
Dear Person Who Drives 30 MPH for 17 miles each day at 4:30 in the afternoon. On the two lane state highway with a speed limit of 55---I know there are some tight curves on this road. And a few hills and very little shoulder. But, really, 30 MPH? The entire way? In dry weather on sunny days? I know the hulking power under the hood of the Kia may be intimidating but could you at least pull over every now and then to clear up the snaking line of traffic behind you?
Impatiently--The Leader of the Parade of Drivers in Your Rearview Mirror.
***
Dear Commuter Karma---What is it with you that has me stuck behind Super-Cautious-Driver for 17 miles and the only times oncoming traffic allows for passing SCD we are traveling in those tight curve no passing or blind hill zones? Why don't you give me a break and go kick around the civil engineer who planned that road?
--Commuter In Search of the Tao of Driving
***
Dear Civil Engineer--Listen, I keep looking at the rocks, trees, flowers, fences--anything--in the vicinity of those tight back to back curves along my commuter route and I don't see a single thing that indicates they couldn't have been plowed under in favor of a straight roadway. Nada. No burrowing owls, no rare field mice, not a single swamp rose or rare prairie grass. This isn't scenic, you goofball, it's annoyingly slow in good weather and outright dangerous in bad. And I figure all those twists and turns increase my commute distance by a good 8 miles. I've put in an appeal to Commuter Karma to have you punished. Expect to spend your eternity riding in a silver blue Kia at 30 MPH with two old ladies on a road that stretches forever into the horizon.
Helpfully---Driver Who Aims for the Straight Road

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She's Turning 50...

...it's getting closer. My quest to somehow mark these final days of my forties continues. Well, not so much that I care about marking my forties; more about the fact that I'll be fifty. Soon.

It's been a few days since you've had the benefit of my forty-nine, pushing fifty, year old wisdom. Tonight, I bring you this little nugget:

Sometimes the most charitable thing you can say is "No."

That's a big revelation from the woman who's spent close to 50 years trying to please as many of the people as much of the time as she possibly could. And increasingly resenting the hell out of it.
Father Dan presented the idea one day at Mass. Since I rarely agree with anything Father Dan has to say, the idea stuck with me so I could pick it apart later and prove him wrong and I spent some serious time thinking about it.

Father George clinched the deal a few weeks later with this treasure. "Make your 'yes' mean 'yes' and your 'no' mean 'no.' Then shut up and eat your soup." And there I was with two indicators that it might be ok to say "no" sometimes. More than ok. It might be the more right, the more honest thing to do.

This was a concept I could really get behind.

I'll admit I was an extreme yesser. No connection was far enough flung for me to be able to say "I just can't get that done..." I mean, I always knew I could get it done, I didn't want to get it done. But I could. So therefore, I should. Right?

No. There. I just said it. Say it with me. "No."

Don't want to handsew tiny glass beads on the neighbor's cousin's ex-husband's sister's daughter's prom dress? You can say "no." In fact, it's probably better to say "no" than to mutter under your breath that drawing attention to that butt with thousands of glittering beads is a fashion faux paus.

Don't want to bake 20 dozen cookies for the club bake sale? You can say "no" knowing that your 'no' is much more charitable than your freudian slip of adding salt in place of half the sugar in those freakin' cookies you didn't want to bake in the first place resentful 'yes.'

In honor of my recently found no-ability and my upcoming birthday, I've ordered this shirt for myself. Since I'm still not too confident with my "NOs" I'm thinking of buying the shirts by the case and just handing them in appropriate moments.

"I need you to volunteer to design a 20 x 40 print to illustrate my new business concept and I don't really have any idea what it should be but I like the color red and I need it by tonight....ok, then I can give you until tomorrow morning...and I'll need a logo and some business cards while you're at it..."

"Here's your shirt....."