Why I Took my Daughter to Dairy Queen

(Photos are from last weekend, and are unrelated to this post except in spirit).

On Friday, on V's way home from school, I started telling her the story of how her father and I got married. She's heard parts of this before, but not details, like how Uncle Steve was home from Texas, and Auntie Beth was home from Colorado, and they both did readings for us. And how Auntie Jess brought her guitar and sang "You Are My Sunshine" as my parents walked/wheeled me down the driveway (she liked that part a lot).
Then she asked "Where was I?"

"Uh, well, you weren't born yet." That was easy enough. But she wasn't letting me off the hook yet.

"Oh. So you left me at home." She said this like of course, this is what you do all the time, you lousy parents.
"What? No, we didn't leave you at home! We didn't even know if we were going to have babies yet when we got married. It was almost seven years ago, and you're only three." Logic seemed the only way out of this conversation.

"Well where was I then?" Math had failed me once again. The fact that she would've been negative 3 1/2 didn't seem to phase her. I decided to go all philosphical on her.

"You didn't exist yet. You hadn't been made. There was no such person on earth named V Elizabeth yet." (you reincarnationalists can be quiet out there)

Her tiny brow furrowed. "So I was still in your tummy?" I've never liked it when women call their uterus their tummy, but it is much easier to explain, anatomically. And finally, I saw a chance for resolution.

"Yes. Yes. You were still in my tummy, and in Daddy's body, and we hadn't made you yet." I had to give him partial credit, I figured. I hadn't planned on covering the birds and the bees just yet, but if she was gonna keep asking, I was gonna keep answering.

"Okay," she said, looking out the window. "I wish I had some ice cream."

Mercy. You're not the only one, child.

And it was delicious.

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree...

I'm impressed at how well these two are listening really closely to Shaun.... ...and then to Grandma Mary....

...and then back to Shaun again.

Nothing quite like supper together at Grandma and Grandpa's to capture the attention of wee ones and retirees alike.

Moonlight

Saturday night was cold and clear, and the moon was a lovely silver sliver. Since I've been having some luck with photos recently, I thought I'd try to get a picture. I took about 15 shots, and this is the best one.How sad is that? I just can't hold still enough to make it not blurry. So I embraced the blurry.I moved the camera on purpose. Slowly, quickly, all over. Standing in the dark in -19 degrees, I played with moonlight. Swoop. Swish.

Then I thought hm, I wonder if I could make something recognizable with this moonlight blur?
Well, look at that.
And again.

I'm trying to explain to V that most mothers do not write their child's name in moonlight, that she's so lucky. I assume she'll appreciate me eventually.

V and I played with the saturation and color settings on the computer, and came up with these. She thought that was pretty cool.

I'm so glad we didn't name her Elizabeth.

Girl in a cute dress

Remember the end of this post? Way down at the bottom? I finally got a photo of our thrift store treasure on our wee human treasure. Here she is, all dressed up to go out for breakfast with Grandma Myra.

V really liked the fluttery sleeves.

And later in the day, after the dress had come untied, and it was time to wear Mama's shoes instead of her own.

We are behind in our recycling, so it's spilled out into the kitchen proper. Please disregard. Focus on the cute parts. That's how I try to live my life.

Jeez, where've ya been?

I've been on Facebook. I realize I'm about 4 years behind the curve, and really, I find the blog a more satisfying communication form. But...well, it's likely most of you already understand the lure of Facebook, so I won't go into it. I'm not proud of myself. It's just how it is.

If you were hoping for a blog post with substance or positivity, you should go here instead.

In related news, this is one of my new favorite blogs. Be careful, though: I often find myself laughing out loud. Normally this is fine, but when I'm at work and Sara (who shares a cubicle wall with me) has a student in her office and I suddenly guffaw, um, it's awkward. I can't help it if I think a blog about cakes gone wrong is a fabulous idea. Really. Plus, it makes me hungry for buttercream frosting.

I have about 6 posts floating around in my brain. I just need to find the time/energy/right mix of liquor to get them out. Until then, don't despair, Languishers. I'm here. I'm cold and ornery and I hate February, but I'm still here.

February planting time

When I taught in Crookston, every Friday was Plant Sale Friday, and for $1 or $2, you could buy a variety of funny little plants. Most of the plants in our picture window are from there, even though it's been four years since I got to go to Plant Sale Friday. I don't know that this proves I have a green thumb so much as shows the hardiness of Crookston's plants.

February is so bleak, I can barely stand it. So this weekend V and I got inspired to try something different. I bought two bags of soil, pulled two overgrown pots of some type of aloe-vera (I think) from our picture windowsill, and we went to work.V put marbles in the bottom of our thrift-store pots, to help with drainage, and then scooped dirt from one container to another. We got good and dirty. Since it was a long process, we had to snack, too, so you'll note the nearby animal crackers.It was really fun to do this with V. She gets excited about getting dirty inside, and likes pouring and scooping stuff. I tried to play teacher and talk to her about roots and sunlight and water and the nutrition plants get from soil, but she mostly wanted to play. I can think of nothing better to chase away the midwinter blues than playing in dirt, can you?

So two overgrown pots became seven reasonable ones. The one on the far right got taken to school today (V loves the mason jar, because she can see the dirt), and the middle orange one went to Grandma Myra's, but the rest are available for adoption. Who wants a nice new plant?

Regular price, four bucks, four bucks.

Twice a year, one of our area thrift stores has an enormous bag sale, where all clothes, shoes, purses, and belts are $4 for a paper grocery sack full. And everytime it comes around, I think, ah, I think I'll skip it this year. We don't need anything, and we have too much crap already...and then somehow I end up there at 9am, waiting in line for the doors to open with the families of immigrants and the people who have cars packed so full of stuff that they can't see out their windows. When V was an infant, I used a baby carrier, tied her to my body, and took her along for the ride. The last few years, I've left her at home with her Daddy or coerced Grandma to come play, because this sale is not for the faint of heart. This year, though, Grandma was spoken for, and it was Daddy's turn to sleep in. So I braved this crazy place with a three year old, giving her strict instructions to stay by me, and if she couldn't see me, she was to call out "Lumpy?" and I'd answer "Bubbles!" until we found each other. We had to do that twice, but there were no tears, we were in and out in an hour and twenty minutes, and scored two bags worth of clothes for us, Grandma Myra, Auntie Jess, and cousins Will and Emmy.

These are the store tags, all removed. V and I added them up, and you wanna guess the regular thrift store prices for all our items? $87. Eighty seven THRIFT STORE dollars. You can imagine our excitement at paying less than 10% of that. (see kids? Math can be fun). The bright orange ones are actually new products Target donates when they can't sell something. I love it when that happens.

Cooler still is this price tag, on a pair of pants I bought that will probably be too big for my sister. You can't tell in the photo, but they are a lovely black cord with a pattern, and apparently the pattern is made of pure gold, because the store tag reads $98. That can't be right, can it? No one on this planet pays $98 for a pair of pants. Do they? At any rate, if they ARE too big, let me know if you want them. I'll sell them for $47. Otherwise, I'm cutting it these up to put in a quilt. A magic quilt made of gold.

Here's the main pile. Across the top and middle there, you'll see sweet plaid pants, some jeans, four sweaters, a turtleneck, and a green corduroy Land's End jumper, all for V to wear within the next year. Across the bottom, a blouse for Jess, a fleece pullover for Will, and the cutest purple flowered corduroy jacket I've ever seen for Emmy. Also, that blue cardigan in the middle has a faux-fur collar. Also for Emmy, I'm pretty sure my sister wouldn't buy her such a garment, but I'm excited to see her in it. Every baby needs some faux fur.

I asked Shaun to take a picture of just the denim skirt, but he refused. So here we are. I like this picture, because it reminds me of a freakshow photo where a regular sized person stands next to a giant for scale. See, here I'm the giant. The apparently unflattering sweater was already mine, but I didn't have a good long denim skirt. Not pictured for me (because the photos came out worse than that one, above) are a short corduroy skirt in burgundy and rose pink slacks for work. I wouldn't normally chose rose pink slacks, and they look a little like scrubs, but they will be a nice change this spring from my black trouser uniform.

But the best part? You knew I'd save the best part for last, didn't you? The best part has to be these two dresses, the first two things I found as we swarmed the store with the rest of the crowd. Both vintage, both just right for V to wear in the next year (though this first one may be a little big). I could not be more excited! First, a cotton number with corduroy trim:
And this? This may be the most glorious dress I could ever have imagined. Except it's polyester. But the skirt? That's embroidery, people. Nobody embroiders on kids clothes anymore. You think you're gonna find something this pretty at Old Navy? Nuh-uh. Old Navy sells thong underwear for five year olds. This dress is the antidote to thong underwear. After she wears it a few times, I may just have to frame it, I like it so much.May all your future polyester dresses be this fancy. May your bags be full of bargains. And may all your underwear offer full, comfortable coverage.

Teetering on the edge

Forget waterboarding. Real torture is watching your child be sick. And I'm just talking bad cold/ear infection sick here, realizing that many parents suffer through so much worse. But seriously, V woke up crying "It hurts, Mama! It hurts!" then coughed until she threw up. Twice. There is just nothing good about starting a day that way. Add in sleep deprivation and grading, and you've got one distressed Mama.

But I'm not going to dwell. Because if I dwell, I'm gonna lose my shit and start screaming my bloody head off, and then nobody wins.

Here's something I've been trying to think of how to share with y'all for awhile. It's my version of collage, or ATC, or some such thing. It started with this photo album, bought at a thrift store. It's so pretty, and was in such good shape. But nobody prints 2 1/2 x 3" photos anymore...so I decided to make little collages for each photo slot. I did this in fits and spurts, often while watching evening TV with Shauners after V had gone to bed. Using this method took me about four years to complete all the collages, so I'm not necessarily recommending it. But it was very satisfying: each is supposed to stand alone as a tiny artwork, but also as part of the page layouts. I've tried to find pleasing arrangements.

Sometimes they reflect what was going on in our lives at the time (like the V one with white roses, a few months after she was born, or the one on the bottom right, above, which has a butterfly and the words "Thinking of better jobs" made when I was six months pregnant and unemployed, having just interviewed for my current position), but often they just came together from the materials I had in front of me. The elements come from old calendars, National Geographics, rubber stamps, a prayer tract (I don't know where I got that...), some cool stickers I'd been hoarding, leftover copies of the program from our wedding reception, old Bingo cards... I used a glue stick, primarily, as adhesive, and the backgrounds are generally white or cream cardstock with oil pastels, acrylics, watercolors, or, on two occassions, oil paints. Almost every card has a word or phrase, or sometimes two.

Now that it's done, I'm not quite sure what to do with it. It's difficult to photograph as a whole, obviously, though this image led to this necklace, which was cool.

Beyond that, though, I mean, I make anyone who comes over look at it (those poor Jehovah's Witnesses are still praying for me...) and tell me what they think. And V thinks it's fascinating. I assume when I'm a famous artist this will be a primary exhibit...but until then, you'll have to come visit and see it in person. Trust me, it's totally worth it.

Ear Infection #4

Seriously, this whole pre-school germ acclimation thing is ridiculous. V's been sick 85 % of the last six months! What kind of life is this?

She woke up every hour after bedtime last night until 3 am. We thought maybe she was excited for some reason, or had some bad peanut butter (sorry. bad joke). But she seemed physically fine, just unable to sleep more than an hour. At 3, she started crying and holding her ear. Oh, right. Maybe you can't sleep because you're in terrible pain. Sorry your mom isn't quicker on the uptake, V-ness.

One dose of ibuprofen later, and she slept for five hours. When we saw the doctor a few hours later, Dr. Card actually winced at what I can only imagine is a horribly mangled ear canal. We go in for a recheck on Monday, and hope it's viral and resolves itself. Or the eardrum could burst, apparently, which sounded terrible, but the doctor said it would likely feel better afterwards. For now, the ibuprofen is keeping the pain at bay pretty well.

The best part of today? When we were called up from the waiting room, the nurse said, "V?" and V said, "Um, my name is Wednesday."

"Wednesday?" the nurse said with amusement, raising an eyebrow in my direction. I nodded and shrugged.

"Yes," V said. Then she gestured toward me, walking a few steps behind. "And this is my mother, Morticia."

Seriously, people. I can't make this stuff up.

New semester

These students humble me every day. In nearly every class, I do a diagnostic writing. I’m just trying to see where they are and where they might get to under my stead. I gave them an hour. Many students still wrote for only ten minutes or so, many did just one paragraph. But even in those, they reveal themselves with such unguarded honesty it makes me ache. The beginning of the semester is valuable, before life gets in the way and messes everything up for all of us. Everything is shiny and full of new possibilities and resolutions and commitments and so much hope. I really need to remember this feeling around midterm, when I have 200 papers to grade and no place to hide. I have to remember how they looked that week, before all the shine fell away.

Weekend Love

Often, our weekends are either hectic or boring: we go somewhere for the weekend, which means packing and organizing and driving and then laundry when we get home, or V and I stay home while Shaun works, with no car, in -20 weather. This past weekend was to be the latter, with Shaun working three full shifts in three days. Instead, dear friends came in from out of town, and V and I partied like it was 1999 (when V would’ve been negative 6. You know what I mean). We visited and played and swam and talked and hung out and ate local favorite restaurant food. Anyway, you know how when you have a really great weekend that you feel all refreshed and ready to face the week? This time, I feel more sad that the weekend is over. Our out of town friends live four + hours away, and we don't see our in-town friends nearly enough (though we're working on that...). At any rate, let's have a summary of the excitement that was some of this past weekend, through photos. Tenessa, the love of my life. I realize the sun is shining directly on her chest here: this was not my intention to capture, though I think it's kind of funny.
Shaun and Uncle Danny, the other love of my life and the spouse of the love of my life. Aren't they both dreamy?
Friday! He's a 50 year old roofer in an 18 month old body.

Cute shoes.

V and Linus, age 3 and 4.

The best and creepiest waterslide I have ever seen.

That really sums up our Friday and Saturday. Well, that, and some pizza, and some Thai food. And some coca-cola. Yum.

Mama, will you play castle with me?

V asks several times a day if I'll play castle with her. She got this great Melissa & Doug castle (see my Amazon sponsored ad at left. Please don't judge me) for Christmas from Grandma Myra, and it's quickly become an obsession. When Mama gets involved, though, terrible things sometimes happen. Here, a happy Jester meets a scorpion. And you really want to stay away from the Angry Frog. He's already eaten the king, even as Spider Man looks on, curious but unable (or unwilling?) to intervene.

After rescuing the jester, V promptly fed the princess to Angry Frog (as Calm Cow looks on). Oh, the humanity.

Local Headlines

Girl on Sick Leave Becomes Obsessed with Addams Family Reruns: Family forced to do constant Lurch impersonations.
Seriously. When I got Season One of the Addam's Family for Christmas this year, I imagined I would mostly watch them on those rare occassions when I was home alone, crocheting something, and there was little else I wanted to watch on TV. Instead, V suddenly got interested, and for the last three days it's almost the only thing we've watched. I'm working on an insightful post on the sociological commentary offered by the program, as you might expect. In the meantime, I'm forced to play "The Addams Family meets the Princesses" and so on.

V's got pneumonia. It started with a bad cold on Friday, but by Sunday I could hear her wheezing from across the room. We've been to the ER twice in the last three days, and have a home nebulizer now, with treatments every four hours while she's awake. She's stayed her usual perky self all through this, which is kinda weird: even while the doctors were seriously considering admitting her, she was playing and laughing and singing, though she could barely take a breath. One mean person at the ER (visiting someone in the space next to V) said outloud "Sounds like SOMEONE doesn't need to be here..." I almost punched her in the face. Because, you know, we're just here because we were bored at home, and not because I was afraid MY CHILD WOULD TURN BLUE. Jerk lady.

V's getting better, though. I'm not sure when she'll go back to school, but it seems like tomorrow or the next day are likely candidates. Yesterday was my first day of the new semester, so I've been a little stressed out. Hopefully this means the rest of the semester will be breezy, comparably. Right? Right? Just agree with me.

It's time to get to "The Addams' Throw an Ice Cream Social." Lurch is having chocolate; I think Pugsley wants praline pecan. How about you?

The post where I do some philosophizing of sorts

We had a lock down drill at school yesterday, as part of our pre-semester workshop day. Until I started teaching at this community college, I'd never even heard of a lock down drill, but it seems most places are doing them now, or thinking about doing them. The drill involves procedures to be followed in case of a violent person or persons inside the college, or in case of imminent danger outside the college, like an ammonia leak or some such thing. Mostly, we focus on the idea of a person with a weapon. Lock down drills are like tornado drills: you hope it never ever needs to happen, but if it does, you wanna know what to do.

The first time we did this, about 2 years ago, I had nightmares for two weeks. This safe place, this building with wide, sprawling hallways where I love coming to work, looked very different in light of a lockdown. I was really frightened by the whole process. It contributed to last spring's stressful month for me, certainly. What would have been a significant annoyance in the past was, last year, petrifying for me.

As part of yesterday's training, we watched some surveillance video from the Columbine shooting. It included audio from at least one (maybe 2 or 3?) of the 911 calls. The police officers told us it was hard to watch, and said we were welcome to leave if we didn't want to see it, but like so many of us, I know the story of Columbine. I had not seen the footage, but I knew what happened there, and I didn't expect to be that surprised.


I was wrong. The screams of the students, the coldness of the shooters, and the vulnerability of it all combined to make my skin hurt with grief. I cried through the whole video. I cried for the victims, and for the survivors (who must have the most profound wounds from this), and for the two boys who made all those bombs and carried all those guns into the school. In photographs, their faces are as open, young, and hopeful as my own students.


I look in the faces of my students every day. I see who they are, and I am not afraid. But if one of them crumbles, somehow, and wants to hurt me or someone else (anyone else?), they will likely be able to do that. Hopefully my colleagues and I know enough now to help minimize damage. Hopefully.


Chaos abides. We each find our own ways to keep it at bay. But to despair in the chaos, to be paralyzed by it, is no life at all.

Hooked on phonics worked for V

A little winter reading:

V likes Eliot, but really, her heart is with the Beats.
Okay, so she doesn't really know how to read yet, but she's learning her letters and their sounds and it's lots of fun to see her little mind come to understand all that stuff. And I can hardly wait to discuss The Wasteland and On the Road with her. And by "discuss" I mean "tell her what they mean."

Because seriously, that's my job.

Happy New Year, folks. May all your reading this year be compelling.

Crafty holidays

(thanks for your sweet comments on the last post, and to those who didn't comment but who e-mailed or called. Seriously, thank you).

Now, back to our regularly scheduled programming.

When I wasn't eating or taking pictures of snow at the in-laws, I was watching V dance and crocheting. I've been making dishcloths, and getting a bit tired of squares, so I decided to make a hat. Every so often I held it up to V's giant head...and here it is, modeled by an uncharacteristically camera avoident girl:

It's a bit beret-y on top, which wasn't really what I was going for, but if she ever wants to tuck all her hair up under her hat, this will hold it. Of course, this is more of a summer hat, and by summer her head will probably be bigger. But for now, I'm proud of myself.

Before the end of the semester, I had about half a day between grading marathons and I let myself craft. That's when I made the slankets, remember? Well in looking online for slankets, I found a pattern for a scoodie, a scarf-hood combo that I found irresistable. I must warn you: below is the dorkiest picture of anyone ever taken.

(I told you it was dorky) My scoodie has cuddle-soft lining and quilting fabric on the outside. If I make one again, I would do three things: make the hood smaller (it's folded up here, otherwise it hangs over my eyes), line it (so it would be super warm, instead of just pretty warm), and make the scarf longer. It barely goes around my thick neck twice. I've also seen these with mittens at the end of the scarf, but I think a scoodietten is a little too much multi-tasking for me. Shaun thought it was fine until he realized I intended to wear it in public. Which I do. With pride. Looking just as dorky as I can.

I almost bought the pattern for this, but I'm really really cheap, so I didn't. But you could get me that as I present, if you wanted to.

In other news, my aunt Shirley wants me to audition for this show. I'm kinda chicken-livered, though...what if I had to go? What if they made me hike around the fjords? I'm in no shape for that. I need a scoodie-sewing reality show to try out for.

Hope those of you in the midwest are staying warm. I'm wearing my scoodie and my slanket at the same time, and though it feels wrong, I'm pretty sure it's right.

Nearly twenty-three years ago, now

January 9th, 1986 was a Thursday. I know this because Thursday was bingo night, and as my mom left to go play, she said “Keep an eye on your dad. He’s not been feeling well lately.” What? I was twelve, in that blissful age before puberty, when I still secretly played with Barbie dolls but acted too grown up for them to everyone else. We’d just gone back to school after Christmas break, and seventh grade was finally starting to feel less scary and more manageable. That Thursday night was the first time I’d thought of my dad as vulnerable. And I did keep an eye on him. I watched him pace, because he was worried. I watched him fold his hands on the dining room table, then move his left hand away, leaving his right hand, unmoved, where he’d left it.


The next morning, Mom woke us up at 6:30, which was unheard of. We always got to sleep until 7. We came downstairs to find both our parents, clearly concerned. Dad was going to Moorhead to see the doctor. They’d talked to him on the phone, and he’d said, “Oh, Dewey, I’m sure it’s a pinched nerve. But maybe you better let me check it out.” Uncle Harry would drive (because my dad didn’t like my mom to drive while he was in the car, because he was sexist that way) and they were leaving right away. Could we get ourselves to school? Of course. I was twelve, Jess was eleven. “Don’t worry,” Mom said. “We’ll call when we find out anything.” Dad was quiet, though. And when he got up to put his coffee cup in the sink, his right arm brushed the jar of jam on the table, and he didn’t even feel it.


We didn’t hear anything until after lunch. I figured this was good news: if it was a big deal, we would’ve heard by now. Instead, during lap 3 of gym class, the high school secretary called for me from the gym door. “Your dad’s in intensive care,” she said, gently. “They’re taking good care of him.” I didn’t know much about hospitals, but I knew nobody went to the ICU for a pinched nerve. I cried a little bit, then, in the gym, but swallowed hard and went back to running laps. “They’re taking good care of him” I said over and over in my head. In the end, my Aunt Beverly had decided to not tell us it was a stroke. She didn’t want to scare us, and didn’t want us to hear it from school personnel.


At the end of the school day, we went to Aunt Bev’s house. Our mom wasn’t home yet, and Dad wouldn’t be coming home for a while. We didn’t know then that it would be 5 months before he could come back to live at home. We didn’t know a lot of things.


My mom came home around 8pm. She brought with her a slim photocopied book called “So you or someone you love has had a Cardiocascular Accident (CVA)?” I read that thing cover to cover that night, and though I learned he had nine of the ten warning signs of a stroke, I still had no idea what had happened to my father. I knew by then, though, that he’d had a major stroke on the doctor’s examining table. If he’d had it at home, 30 minutes from the hospital, he likely would’ve died.


On January 10, 1986, my childhood ended abruptly. Our family’s protector, breadwinner, and comic relief was in a hospital room, and he would never be the same. None of us would ever be the same.


Every stroke is different. They can be caused by blood clots or hemorrhages, and depending on where they occur, they can cause damage to various parts of the brain. In my dad’s case, he had a large blood clot on the left side of his brain. This left his right side totally paralyzed, and his speech was very affected: he now had an inability to speak coherently.


Doctors assured us that we were lucky. He’d been in the hospital when it occurred, and had gotten treatment right away. He was quite young for a stroke victim (55) and was very very strong. I remember one dark-haired doctor assuring me that though my father may never regain the use of his right arm, he would surely walk again, and probably talk, too. But after a week in the hospital, doctors were concerned. Dewey wouldn’t wake up. He didn’t eat or drink any fluids for a day and a half. It turns out that because he was young, his brain had not shrunken as much as older patients, and when it swelled in response to the injury, it put him in a coma. For four days.


Our pastor drew us to prayer. One especially hard day, just after Dad had moved home, Pastor met with Jess and I and encouraged us to believe in miracles. Pray hard enough, be pure enough of heart, and your father will get better. Perhaps this is my flawed memory, but that was the distinct impression I got.


I prayed everyday for a year. I prayed with my whole heart, begging God to heal my dad, to let him walk again, to let him tell me he loved me in clear English. I realize that praying for strength, or patience, or calm might have been better prayers, but I didn’t want those things. I wanted my father back.


He was still my father, of course. In his wheel chair, with a thick plastic brace for his right arm, he spoke to us enthusiastically of things he wanted checked. Did we turn off the basement lights? Did mom’s bike need new tires? Could we get him more coffee? He communicated all these things, and so many more, with only nonsense syllables and the occasionally confused “yes” and “no.” We played a lot of twenty questions, and we all got frustrated often. But we did it.


We cared for him at home for six years. He could feed himself, but my mom dressed, bathed, and toileted him. She became both parent and caregiver, and Jess and I were assistant caregivers. We went to Courage Center a few times, and it was helpful. We all grieved for what we’d lost, and felt guilty because he was still with us, after all. I was a horrible teenager in many ways, and looking back it’s clear that I should’ve had counseling. Instead I got really angry for a few years.


My first year in college, Dad started getting sicker. We found out later that he had near toxic levels of his anti-seizure meds (4% of stroke survivors go on to become epileptic as a result). Because of this, and because I was three hours away in Morris, and because we didn’t want to lose two parents to this stroke, we decided to find him a room in the nursing home six miles away. At first he resisted, but one morning in September, when Mom and Jess were both at school and I hadn’t gone back to college yet, I woke to him yelling. Running downstairs, I found him lying on the kitchen floor, surrounded by hot coffee: he had fallen out of his chair while getting himself a fresh cup. I lay down beside him, and started crying, and said “Daddy, we can’t keep doing this. Okay?” And he agreed, and we lay on the floor and cried together awhile. And then we cleaned up the coffee and called our neighbor to help me pick him up. Within a week, he had his own room at the Lutheran Memorial Home.


Once we straightened out his medications, he did really well at the home. The nurses adored him, and vice versa. My mom spent every day after school with him: as a nurse aide, I knew this was unusual, and I told her one day, “Mom, you don’t have to be with him every single day, you know.” She looked surprised. “But I love him. He’s who I want to be with.”


Eventually, he lost both his legs above the knee from complications of diabetes. Other than that, though, his health was largely stable. He would wheel himself (in the electric wheelchair he got as a result of the amputations) out to our car with us after we visited, and check to see that our tires were properly inflated. He held our hands, laughed at our jokes, and tried to tell us the nursing home gossip. It wasn't a bad life, really.

On June 26, 2002, he and my mom walked me up my driveway to the backyard, where Shaun and I got married. It was a wonderful day, and Dad tooled around town in his chair, and we took lots of pictures, and then went out for dinner.

Less than a month later, on July 25th, he died in a small town hospital after a major heart attack. We were all three with him, and Jess and I stayed up all night, telling him everything we could think of: what we hoped to name our children, if we had any, and how we would tell them all about him. We promised to take care of Mom and of each other. But that’s a story for another post.

This is why strokes are so close to my heart. Thanks for reading all this way. I still miss him. If you didn't know him, it's too bad, because you probably would've liked him.

Healthy Holidays

We had a lovely Christmas with both sides of our families. There were many gifts, and so much laughter, and food, and game playing. But after both celebrations, things fell apart. We left my mom’s Christmas Day around 8pm, and the stomach flu struck her by 8:30. Emmy, the almost 6 month old, started it, the little germ-carrying bundle of cute. Anyway, at least Myra held off on the barfing until we were out of town. And she’s better now: it’s about a 12 hour thing, as far as we can tell. It seems to have been similar to V's stomach flu earlier this month.

Shaun’s side of the family took things even further. The day after our big holiday brouhaha, Shaun’s mom pulled me aside and mentioned that David (Shaun’s dad) had been feeling heavy on his right side. She mentioned the words “numb,” “swollen feeling,” and “do you think he should go in?” Um, yes. Right now. For those of you who are unaware, strokes are near and dear to Languishing’s heart, and I was more than a little stunned by the fact that he had felt that way most of the day before, but figured he’d feel better after he slept. Please, dear readers, if you or someone you know is feeling numbness or tingling on one side of the body (either side), even if there are no other symptoms, GO TO THE DOCTOR. Do not wait until tomorrow, or until your company leaves, or Tuesday because you were going to town then anyway. Please. Worst case scenario? You slept funny and need to stretch more, and the doctor sends you home with a pat on your head. Best case scenario? They catch a stroke before it scrambles your brain. (I guess best/ worst case scenario is sort of hard to apply here…but I think you’re following me).
Anyway, the doctors do think that David suffered a small stroke on Sunday, though he’s no longer numb and seems to have no lasting effects that they can see. I mean, aside from relentless teasing from his sons. He was also diagnosed with Type II diabetes, which is one of the top ten warning signals of a stroke, so this will cause some major changes in his (and Mary’s) life.

What’s the moral of this story? I don’t know. I guess that our parents are so thoughtful in their respective illnesses that they tried not to let them interrupt the holiday, or maybe it’s that we make people sick in a variety of ways. And certainly we are deeply thankful for David's ongoing health. I do hope, though, that you’ll heed my advice and go to the doctor at the first signs of numbness/ tingling/ heaviness on one side of the body. Please. And have a piece of divinity in my father-in-law’s honor, won’t you? Because he would if he could.