Way with words?

So, I'm cleaning out my Outlook inbox clutter (yes, I have over 5000 messages still in my inbox - which doesn't account for the thousands I've deleted over the two years it's been operating) and I came across a letter I sent out to my peeps around this time last year. Thought I'd post it for your review. Sometimes I am sooooo pleased with the words I've chosen that I can't believe I wrote them.

As you read it, bear in mind that I am reading a book right now about religious tolerance and how we can all be right without everyone else being wrong. It's by this rabbi with an amazing way with words that is feeding my spirit lately. Reading my word choices here makes me feel pretty good about my spiritual health, although my religious health currently has the sniffles.

Also, know that I went to church this morning for the third time since Christmas Eve. VERY unlike me to go so long away from public worship - and to have missed Easter was a first - but I feel her loss the strongest when I am there, and of course, it hit me again this morning. Usually it's a song that I hear her singing, but this morning it was the freaking flowers. I signed up months ago to provide the flowers for Mothers' Day (or is it Mother's Day? I think it belongs to ALL mothers, so...), knowing that this year it will coincide with Momma's yahrzeit (Jewish acknowledgement of the anniversary-of-death - thanks, Bonnie!). Well, I started thinking about what kind of flowers I would want the flower ladies to do, and the waterworks turned on, sure enough. Once I allow myself to weep, it is really hard to stop! I miss miss miss my momma, but I am so glad for her that she is not suffering. I hurt for her that she can no longer hug my boy or hold my Kori's hand. I hurt for me that I can't call her or crawl in bed with her when I visit. I hurt for Daddy that he is in the hospital for the first time in his life and doesn't have her there to sit with him. I hurt. BUT, I believe she lives eternally within me, within mine, and I choose to believe that that is enough to make up for any lack of religious passion I have had lately.

Despite the hurt, or perhaps because of it, I REMEMBER. I remember my beloved Momma with this replay of an old email that honors other traditions of faith pretty well, if I may say so myself. I particularly like my strategic capitalization of Right and Good and True and Love.

God be praised!

Hey, beloved people of faith-

I hate to take you all on our
continual roller coaster of parental health and illness, but strap on your seat
belts, because here we go again.

As you know, my momma is ticking
away the days at the nursing center at Southport’s hospital. The necrosis
in her leg causes her great pain and limits her mobility significantly.
Her osteoporosis has her down to about 4’9” from her original 5’4”. Her plethora
of other medical anomalies that she’s been dealing with lo these many years –
steroid dependence, sarcoidosis, cardiac disease, small vessel disease, and so
on and on… - keep her on more meds than most of us can ever imagine needing
(that is, the few she isn’t allergic to!).

So here’s what’s up
right now: She’s been rolled down the hall to the ER with a temp of 103 (unheard
of with the quantity of cortisone in her system). She has been near
catatonia this week because of treatment for an allergic reaction to a
beta-blocker (I think) and her usual level of anxiety from the pain she
endures. She is barely responsive and is struggling. My sister
reminded me that momma has always said that she’d rather die on her birthday
than any other day so that her kids only have to be upset once a year
(whatever!) – and she’ll be 67 tomorrow. We’re all a little anxious,
because those of you who know my bullheaded momma (the apple and the tree…) know
that she does what she sets out to do.

All of that said, I
need you all to talk with your Being/Almighty/Lord/Power about this for
me. She needs comfort, healing, strength, courage. Her existence is little
more than that, but she does not seem ready to die… most of the time.
There is so little that can be done for her to improve her quality of life –
total amputation of her leg from the hip MIGHT offer her a small chance to lead
a more full life with less pain, but her surgeons agree that she is not even
remotely a candidate for general anesthesia, even on her best days. (Remember
the episode a few years ago when they couldn’t get her off the ventilator?
Seems so long ago…) So, in a sick sense, I see every trip to the ER as a
chance for her to end her fight. Pray for her heart, her soul, her mind to
be clear enough to make her choice of how to be healed.

As for me,
I’m stable. I’m not rushing there unless she calls for me. I’ve got
my closure tucked away in a little box in my heart, and I can’t function in the
world of panic every time she has a downturn. I know that as long as this
roller coaster keeps moving, I won’t fall out (thank you Sir Isaac
Newton!). When the Momma ride finally stops, I’m sure there will be
another for me to ride!

Spread the word about old Marie.
Stick her on your prayer lists, light a candle for her, do whatever you do to
invoke the Being that gives us Love to hold her close. I am not asking you
to pray for her to survive or to get well soon or for her to pull through.
Just hold her name in your heart for me and pray for what is Right and Good and
True. She will feel your Love.

And so will I.

Pokey update

Hey- FYI, Pokey had half of his kneecap removed yesterday - here's hoping this is his last surgery on that knee. He appears to be recovering well enough. If they can get his other new knee taken care of this summer, he'll be a hap hap happy chappy.

Daylight Savings Time

Every year, my daddy (Pokey) is amazed by the time change. For days, sometimes weeks, he will say, "This time yesterday..." or "This time last Thursday..." or similar. So, ever since we've been dating, Jimmy has called Pokey on the day after we spring-forward or fall-back to say (in his best impersonation of Pokey's voice), "Pokey, this time yesterday..." They joke and tease and enjoy their special bond formed through hours of fishing and hateful phone calls.

One time, not too long ago, Jimmy didn't get around to making the call. You'd have thought we had forgotten Pokey's birthday, or Christmas, or some other equally important holiday. There was much teasing and harrassing from everyone. Needless to say, we won't ever forget again!

Which brings me to my next point: I know I've pondered losing Daddy before and what that will be like. My sister, in all her martyrdom, was complaining about him this weekend (more on that later) and left a voicemail that ended with "Anyone want a father to take care of?" The obnoxious thing is that I would love to have my daddy closer and would even sell my house and buy a new one for him to move in with us, or help him find some sort of gradually-assisted living nearby, or whatever, but he'll never leave Southport now.

And one of these days, the time will change, and we'll go to call him, and he won't be able to take our call. Like Momma, he'll be conveniently unavailable. Dead, that is. On perpetual daylight savings time.

And despite whatever my sister might think, it will be a loss.

He recently had his knee replaced and can't wait to get the other one done. Well, despite some anemia and nausea, his recovery is coming along rather nicely for a 74 year old smoker who has always seemed fully a decade older than his real age. Then late last week, it started giving him exceptional grief. Millie took him to the ER yesterday, and sure enough, his kneecap is broken in half, with part of it floating north of its proper location and the other slightly south. Doc says it can only be repaired with another surgery, which will be sometime this week, I would imagine. There's this little anxious voice in my head that reminds me that he might not make it. Besides the obvious inconvenient kink his untimely death would throw in our crazy life schedule, it would also throw a wrench in the very works of my being. I'll be an orphan. Weird.

I've spent so much of my life preparing for Momma's death, that I haven't ever given the same level of thought to Pokey's. I always imagined he'd just lie down after a Nascar race on TV for a Sunday afternoon nap and not wake up. I've never thought about his funeral or what it would really be like without him. And honestly, this close to another surgery, I don't think I want to!

So, y'all pray for my Pokey. I'll be sure to let you know when he's out of surgery and back on his feet. Meanwhile, there's as much laundry to be done here as this time yesterday...

Anything will help...

Alright, let me preface this by saying that I am a big honkin' bleeding heart liberal for the most part and that I have huge soft spots for the mentally ill and the homeless and especially for those who are both, BUT...

We were on our way to Harbison (shopping HELL) on Saturday afternoon to spend money frivolously and at the end of the exit ramp, there sat a man in the standard "down on my luck" mode. He had taken a plastic "Hollywood Video Is Closing" sign, written his story on the reverse, and sat there with his beverage and backpack, hoping for help. His plea for assistance read:

"Raped by the government

Robed by the police

Wife ran off with a Negro

Lost my job to a Mexican.

Anything will help."

Surprisingly enough, I was able to surpress my urge to jump out with a Sharpie and correct "robed," possibly because he had remembered to capitalize Negro and Mexican, possibly because I was so f-ing enraged that he had the gall to sit on his sorry white butt and make such ridiculous and appalling comments while expecting a handout.

So now you're asking, "What about that makes him mentally ill?" Okay, so if the scary reasoning and audacity weren't your first clues, he really was showing some classic signs of disturbia - talking to apparently no one, jerking his head in an unusual "I hear things" kind of way, very amused with himself. That, and he STOLE a freaking sign (I guess it was somehow owed to him or maybe he was a real greenie reuse-recycle kind of guy). Not sure where he got the pen (I'd have used a bolder font, but that's just me being picky again). Not sure where he got the soda (some Lexington County Hero probably handed it to him with an "Amen, brother!"). Not sure where he was heading or if he was heading anywhere.

I think it was the "Anything will help" line that bothered me more than the pathetic racism and clever anti-government slurs. REALLY? ANYTHING will help? How about an education? How about some meds? How about you get up off that ass and walk over to the WalMart and ask them if you can maybe mop their floors third shift? Beloved husband's response was delicious: "You know that dogshit I just scooped before we left? I wonder if I had put that in a sack and handed it to him if that would help?"

Truthfully, I know why we got so worked up about it. There but by the grace of Pat and Patty goes Larry. It could have just as easily been him sitting there whining about how hard life has been for him and how he can't get a break and how much the world owes him. Although his life is much farther from the fringes than it has been in 15 years or so, he still walks a path not so far-removed from the one our exit ramp friend has trod. I find myself waffling between states of pride in his baby-step accomplishments, total fury at his stupid choices (primarily his failure to act on anything other than impulse), and even total he-ain't-my-brother-nor-my-problem apathy. This consumes a part of my energy, life, heart that I am not always excited about losing to his cause.

But, like I said, I am a softie. The man with the crappy attitude at the end of the exit ramp was somebody's child, maybe even somebody's brother or husband, surely once was somebody's friend. And Jesus told us to love him.

URG! That darn Jesus is such a show-off! Is it easy for Him to love everyone? It sure is NOT easy for a judgy girl like me. Not easy for one who has always done what she was supposed to and who still fears disappointing ANYONE. Not easy for any of us, I think. On the eve of what will SURELY bring the Democratic party to nominate either a woman or (I pray) a black man, I like to think that I am able to love everyone, but in the end, I struggle. I can't figure out how to love the guy with the sign who seems to have no one else. I can't figure out how to love Hillary. (I for SURE can't figure out how to love W.) There are people I work with daily that I have to remind myself to love. If love is all we need, then why is it sooooooo difficult to do?

So, I should go find the guy and edit his sign... It isn't that ANYTHING will help; LOVE will help. It's the knowing how to love that we need a manual for. Maybe all of us should spend less time being irritated by those in need and more time asking our Maker to teach us and help us to love.

(I really didn't know where I was going with this post, but I think I like where I got. I started just wanting to tell the shocking you-won't-believe-what-this-guy's-sign-said story and I ended up all theological. When I go to seminary one day (HA!) I'll be sure to use the line about Jesus being a show-off in an early sermon, just to see if they kick me out.)

Fever Phobia

Kori has the highest fever in her whole little life and I am anxiously awaiting a return call from the nurse to help me determine whether I should take her to the emergency weekend clinic or not. She hit 103.8 during the night (YIKES!) and a full dose of ibuprofen and an hour later, it had only dropped to 103.2. 6 hours have passed since her last dose, so it's time to take more, but I hate to wake her up. She's had a headache the whole time, and that gets me wondering if it's a symptom or side effect/chicken-or-egg kind of thing. She was pretty much pitiful all afternoon yesterday. The fever got down to 100-and-change yesterday evening, and she played with a couple of dolls in my bed, but all in all, she is not at her full Koriness.

Times like these I miss having my personal nurse (AKA Momma) to help me treat symptoms and diagnose conditions. True, there were times momma told me to go to the doctor and the doctor told me to go home, and there were times momma told me to stay home and I went to the doctor anyway, but at least I had my momma to give me some I'm-so-sorry-your-baby-is-sick sympathy. You know?

Meanwhile, Kori is stirring. I better close and tend to her. Pitiful little thing. Even if the fever goes away today, she technically can't go to school tomorrow, so I need to start making arrangements. Barring unforeseen meningitis (funny how our mommy-brains jump straight to the worst case scenario), I probably won't be back on to update, but y'all keep my baby close to your hearts. Being sick just sucks.

It's a girl!

Welcome to the family, Casey Hays! We are the proud new owners of a yellow labrador-basset hound mix, adopted at 12 weeks of age from a local no-kill shelter. Here she is being a supermodel on momma and daddy's bed. Funny thing is, our last major purchase was a new mattress just before Christmas, and thank goodness the sales guy threw in a waterproof mattress pad, as she has already tinkled on it. Fantastic.

Anyway, she is insanely mellow, adorable, and cooperative. She still has puppy breath, and loves snuggling more than anything. In fact, I'm typing on my tummy on the floor, and she walked over, climbed on my legs, propped her head on my butt, and went to sleep.

I am sooooooooooooooooooo happy to have this new little piece of entertainment and joy in our lives!

I LOVE MY JOB!

WOW! It's hard to believe that I haven't posted in almost two months - but to my credit, things have been pretty hectic. Between volunteering for freaking EVERYTHING (yeah, I'm working on that) to working two part-time jobs, plus holidays and children and all that jazz, I'm a little behind on... well, everything.

SO, I promised you tales from the literacy lab and haven't written a thing since I started that job. I tell everyone I know as loudly and enthusiastically as possible that I LOVE MY JOB! There's an annoying little spring in my step and a genuine smile on my face from the minute I get to the parking lot to the minute I leave the building because my job is that freaking awesome. First of all, although I'd rather be working at school full-time, I am so blessed to have fantastic hours. I wish I had more face-to-face time with the kids, but I love getting PAID to do tasks that I'd volunteer to do! For the most part, there is an energy in the building that feeds my little extroverted heart and soothes my stressy spirit. The camaraderie in a school beats anything the corporate world has to offer. There are some amazing teachers and staff that I have the pleasure of surrounding myself with, and I LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE the kids. Even the annoying and challenging ones. Even the punky attention-seeking ones. Especially the little Hays ones. I mean it, people. I LOVE MY JOB.

One thing that grates all over me that I might have been guilty of once upon a time is the whole countdown mentality. Example: Walking down the hall, you pass some other school employee, greet with the cordial "How are you?" and the response is "Four days!" (as in four days until Thanksgiving or whatever break is impending...) Okay, so how is that an answer to the question? And how must you feel about your job if you are so ready to be out of there that you can't just reply "fine" or something like that? ARG!

So, when I work full-time next year and return to teaching the year after that (my plan at this point), I hope that I will not fall into the trap of dreading every day. I hope that I'll continue to be the one spreading the I-Love-My-Job cooties. I pray that I will love the children so much that their parents don't trouble me. I can't wait until Monday!