Romance Meets Reality

When a friend of mine got flowers at work, everyone, of course, admired them.

This put her in an awkward position.

It is nice to receive flowers at work when it's your birthday, anniversary, or Valentine's Day.  I have been such a recipient, and it can be fun to be all, "Yes, there is someone who cares about me enough to do this."

But, what if the flowers are an apology for bad behavior?  A make-up request after a fight?  A ploy to manipulate?  What is a girl to do?  Say, "No, it's not my birthday--my boyfriend cheated on me and thinks this will fix everything"?

I think not.

My friend and I agreed that there should be some rules established about when it's okay to send flowers to work.  Mostly, we decided, it should be when the occasion is positive, or at least neutral.

I once rejected flowers delivered to my home because they had been sent by a psycho who was trying to get me back.  He had tried to control what I wore and read.  He had tried to isolate me from my friends.  In casting aspersions upon my faultless father, he had tried to isolate me from my family. In casting aspersions upon my spiritual leader, he had tried to isolate me from my support system.  He was moving in psychologically on taking over my home and my children.

It was over, in no uncertain terms, and he had been clearly told that.  Gifts had been returned. Conversation had ended. 

I am glad that big box of flowers had not been delivered to my place of employment, because I did not feel just throwing them away would suffice, although that, in and of itself, would surely have made a scene memorable to co-workers.

No.  I called the company and asked them to pick up the flowers and notify the sender that they had been rejected.  He had started following me, and I wanted him, not just my wastebasket, to know that his advances were not at all welcome.  That I was not going to be bought. That my head was never going to turn in his direction again.

Another time, I received apology flowers from someone who had called me a bad name.  Although the roses were firm and fragrant--lovely in every way, every one of them repeated that word to me whenever I looked at them.  So, they probably did not have their intended effect.

It can be tricky, knowing when to send and when to receive.  A friend once talked me into giving a man another chance based on the expense of the two dozen long-stemmed red roses he'd sent from a high-end florist one Valentine's Day.  The second chance, it turned out, was a bad idea.

My favorite time receiving flowers was when we had just moved to a new house we could barely afford and, on top of that, I had just had a baby.  My husband brought me an armful of lovely white flowers while saying these words: "Don't worry--they were really cheap."  That sums up both halves of marriage, doesn't it? Romance meets Reality.

Spring Cleaning My Body

So, I finally, finally, finally scheduled that one doctor's visit that I was supposed to have, and didn't cancel it.  You know--that yearly checkup everyone's supposed to have.  I'd rescheduled it a few times in the winter time, because we were dealing with transportation issues that you do not want to know about.

Those issues were so bad I couldn't rely on myself to get anywhere extra, which meant anything besides work or church was probably out.  So, the doctor's visit came and went, came and went.  I called to cancel and reschedule, of course, until I was too embarrassed to reschedule.

Well, let me tell you, aging is not for the faint of heart either.  First of all, I went into that one appointment thinking I would get an A and left feeling like I had an F.  I exercise, quite a lot, and I eat pretty healthy, too, and get my sleep.  I'm counting on all of that effort to keep me healthy for decades to come.  Just look into the faces of my darling children, and you'll see one of my best reasons for this desire to live, and live well.

But, my discussion with my doctor left me cold--even though she admitted, "Your exercise is what's saving you."  She wanted me to change my healthy diet to a super healthy diet.  And she became quite grave over my family history.  Yes, my parents and two much older sisters have died, but I don't share their health issues.  Yes, there have been a few minor cases--and one major case--of cancer among my siblings. 

"It's a big family," I tried.  "When there are more people, more problems probably show up, because there are more people to get them."

"I have eleven siblings," my doctor countered, "and a huge extended family.  There's only been one case of cancer among all those people."

Well, that shut me up pretty good--thinking that in her opinion, my siblings are killing me.

So, secondly, that one appointment?  It's turned into twelve doctor appointments.  I kid you not.

Some of this, I expected.  I'm old enough to take part in the joy of some regular screenings, so that added two.  I had to come back for a blood test, so that made four.  My doctor wanted to biopsy something she saw.  And then, I got a call from the hospital letting me know I had apparently failed the mammo.

That's how I took it, anyway.  "Please call us to schedule more views."

More views?

Sounded like real estate, or a modeling position.  More views of . . .that?  Why?

 That's a fail, right?

I called right back.  "I'll come in today," I offered.

"Oh, no," they said, "We can't fit you in until. . ." and they gave me a date two weeks from then.  Two.  Whole.  Weeks.  In which to wonder why they needed more views.  Failing the mammo did not seem like it could be good.

"Well, can you tell me why?" They were vague.  Didn't shed any light on the subject at all.  This happened on a Thursday.

My husband tried to reassure me it was nothing.  "They wouldn't put you off for two weeks if it were serious," he reasoned.

"They deal with this all the time," I countered, panicking.  "They just can't care enough about one case to chase me down."

Friday, I was at home for an unrelated reason.  Even though all of us--five children and I, were near my cell phone all day, I somehow missed two calls from my doctor's office. "Please call back to discuss your blood work," the voice mail message said  Two.  Calls.  That day.  Two.  I also received a letter in the mail from the hospital, even though they'd reached me, telling me again to call and schedule "more views." 

Well, of course, I got those messages in the evening, after hours.  I started getting worried.  I've honestly been expecting three to five more decades out of this world, and I'd like to keep it that way.

So, I had the weekend to wait for any news, and it made me feel miserable.  Especially since I got another letter asking for more views the very next day.  "See? They are chasing me down--it is serious," I said.  That day found me at a funeral, and, as I listened to details about how another woman, about my age, had dwindled down to nothing in her living room, I glanced at my watch and saw it say quarter to twelve.  I thought, "I bet my doctor has Saturday hours until twelve."

The deceased's brother was detailing the deceased's life with a story representing each four-year period--and hadn't gotten very far.  I was sitting near a door.  I took a chance and made the call.  I was able to reach my doctor's nurse, and she told me about my blood work, which was all excellent, except for one vitamin deficiency.  She told me to pick up a vitamin supplement.  That, I felt I could do. Easy peasy.

I asked her about the failed mammo report, and she was able to put my fears on that point largely to rest with a couple of details that it seemed like the person on the phone could have supplied.  Or the writer of the two identical letters.  Don't they know any mystery in this kind of thing is going to scare people?

Because I lost my glasses walking between home and next door and could never find them, I added in an eye doctor appointment, and my dental cleaning came due, too.  I started feeling like all these doctors were spring cleaning my body, looking anywhere for some dust.

As one sibling had surgery to remove an organ that I'd also had screened in the past, that I ought to get that same thing checked out.  What sense would it make to check everything but that?  I looked up just exactly how far in the past, and it was 4.5 years.  I made the call to schedule yet another appointment.  "How often am I supposed to be getting this checked?" I asked, innocently.

"Every six to twelve months," the young, fresh voice on the phone said.

So, that turned into a need for another biopsy, too.

I'm mostly through this spring cleaning now, and, through all this dusting, sweeping, mopping, and flushing of the insides of my body, nothing too serious has been found, although I've still got two or three procedures coming up.

One of my biopsies was scheduled for the doctor's convenience at the fancy cancer center, which I've luckily never been to.  The receptionist asked me for a twenty-five dollar co-pay, but I told her I'd pay thirty, because I think the insurance card she was reading was old.  "Well, if not, it will go on the balance."

"There shouldn't be a balance," I said.

"For the future."

"I won't be here in the future," I said confidently.

She misunderstood.  "Oh, don't say that," she said, her voice shaking with sympathy.

"I mean I'm not planning to get cancer," I said, then realized, in a place like that, I'd probably just committed a huge faux pas.  But, what other point could there be to my submission to all this searching for dust in my insides than to not need to come back?

I had my yuckiest procedure yesterday, and I realized I don't think my parents ever went through this. They never scheduled tests just to make sure they were okay.  If they didn't have a symptom they couldn't handle at home, that was the only time they saw a doctor.  Sitting there freezing in a hospital gown with my stomach roiling, I thought maybe all of this isn't necessary.  Then I remembered, oh, yeah--my parents aren't here anymore.

On the "someday wish list" my doctor handed me, just to be thorough, are a trip to a dermatologist for a complete skin cancer scan, a consult with a podiatrist, and a possible heart scan which is supposed to tell me my risk of heart disease in the next ten years.  I can tell you that right now for free.  With my cholesterol and blood pressure at excellent levels and my heart getting as much cardio as it does, my risk for the next ten years is pretty much zero.  So, I'll be skipping that non-covered-by-insurance study.  And I had to almost laugh when my doctor suggested I pay $9000 for a genetic study to be done.  She may have that kind of extra cash, but, yeah, not I.  I'm not having any more children.

My children will have to schedule their own spring cleaning sessions when they hit a certain age.  I'll be here, so I'll remind them.

Just Keep Coming Home

Having five sons is not for the faint of heart.

I thought this as I watched my middle son haul two bags, a tent, a poncho, a sleeping bag, and probably some other equipment up the lawn to our church on his way to a week-long scout camp.  I watched him until he was completely out of sight.  Then, like mothers everywhere, I thought to myself, "That's the last time I'll see him until Saturday," and, "I hope that's not the last time I see him," and, "He'll be fine."

He is not the first son I have let go to scout camp, and he is not the last.  My smallest son ran up to me at that point and hugged me around the middle, throwing back his head in a wide smile that let me see his teeth growing in.  I sighed.

Not only will I have to cope with the feelings tugging my heartstrings today, but I will in the future for this little one, and his other brother.  And who knows how many scout camps each of them will have?  Every son has seven camps, every camp has seven. . . .

It has not escaped my notice over the years that boys disappear or are killed each summer at scout camps.

And then, the worst thought of all entered my mind as I shut the front door.  What if I ever had to send any of them--let alone more than one--to war?

So, the self-talk I will have to do all week--that I have to do over one thing or another a lot in my life--begins.  They will be fine.  I have done all I can.  They are smart kids.  Their leaders will be careful.  God will protect them.  What else can I do?  I want them to grow up, don't I?  I want them to become capable, self-confident men.

So, I went off to get dressed and begin my day.

And, I heard a voice.  The voice of my middle son, in the kitchen.

I came back out to see him.  He and my husband were busily packing him a lunch.  "That went by a lot faster than I thought it would," I joked, then washed an apple for him and reached into the cookie jar for a double-dose of his favorite cookies. "You know mothers do things like watch you until you completely disappear, don't you, son?"  I smiled at him.  "And think dramatic things.  And then, when you come back, they have to do it all over again."

He giggled at me.  As we all should.

I wrote his name on the bag, but, instead of writing that cute name I had picked out for him in large, cute letters with serifs and a smiley face all across the front, I printed it in a small and rather masculine hand on one side.  One must respect one's son's man-growth.

He left again, and I went back into my room for shoes.

I heard his voice again and came out.

"I forgot some more stuff," he said, filling a water bottle.

This going to scout camp of his hasn't been so bad, after all.  "Just keep coming home," I told him, squeezing in one more hug, "and I'll be fine."

Coming in Second to a Bunch of Fruit

To an event, I was asked to bring “fruit.”  It was stated that simply.

To me, this translated to a box of strawberries.  Or, perhaps, a bag of grapes.

To Paul, this meant we were to bring a large, elaborate platter of the biggest variety of fruit possible.

It’s as embarrassing to me to come in to a family party with an offering I consider to be over the top of what is expected as it would be to Paul to come in with a simple box of strawberries.  But there was to be no compromise.

We set out to go to the store to buy fruit. I thought we could take the much more comfortable car for this supposedly short jaunt.  Paul said no.  He always took the van shopping.  I soon found out why.

While pulling out of the driveway, I started to express my thoughts on the matter.  I in fact suggested we just get a box of strawberries.   He stated that cherries were also on sale, and suggested we “see what they have.”  In my mind, this meant we would get strawberries OR cherries, or some other alternative.  Or, I should say, I hoped.

I went on to say that “fruit” is my least favorite thing to be asked to bring, because it seems like the item most expensive to buy and hardest to prepare.  Unless, of course, you find something simple, like—a box of strawberries or a bag of cherries or grapes.  

It dawned on me as we headed down the street that Paul intended to do much more shopping on this trip than just gathering the necessary fruit offering, and I expressed that, following my run, I wasn’t really up to a big trip. Following Paul around a store while he deliberates on the fancy meals he wants to cook and checks each item for quality can be wearying.  He works hard to provide quality meals and to get the best buys, and that takes time and effort.  I appreciate this, but don’t particularly like to witness it.  I told him that I had only wanted to come along in order to have a say in the fruit choice, and to see that his choice wouldn’t be too expensive or involve too much work.

He said, “That sounds controlling.”

I apologized.  But I know him.  

I determined, for the sake of harmony and in order to not be a drag, to set aside my weariness and be a good sport.  I didn’t mention it again.

Paul speculated aloud that perhaps we could also bring some kind of cream cheese or sour cream  sauce to either dip the fruit in or spread over them.  I did not encourage increasing the project to that level of work, and, fortunately, he dropped it.

In the (first) store, Paul put four packages of blueberries into the cart, then went to sniff the cantaloupes.  He decided that they were not ripe enough and forewent them.  He loaded the cart with cherries and grapes in addition to the vegetables he was picking up for our dinners.  By the time he moved on to gather three mangoes—which he knows I don’t like, I could see that I had lost.

“I see you are going for the platter idea,” I commented.  He confirmed that, but pointed out that he had skipped the cantaloupe. A sacrifice for me, apparently. Our son, who was along for the ride, suggested a pineapple.  Paul added it.

I asked what I could do to help, and he suggested I pick out the apples for our family use.  “I want to get Fugis,” he said, “because they are sweet and on sale.”  My son and I went over to the apples and loaded a bag with enough for our family for the week.  Paul later added bags of two other kinds of apples, but I surmised correctly that these were not for the fruit platter.

Looking at the amount of work Paul was making for himself, I also correctly surmised that any time together later was going out the window.

We moved on to a second store for watermelon and strawberries.  I stayed in the car.  Paul came back with two watermelons and four boxes of strawberries.  

To be fair, he did envision some of this fruit being for family use.  When I got a look at the receipts, I left out one watermelon and three boxes of strawberries as I added up the twenty-six dollars (not including tax) this fruit platter cost us.

After dinner, he set to work on it.  I had other things to do, and was not about to help him.  It took him an hour, and he went to bed exhausted after.  But it turned out to be monumental, spectacular, impressive—exactly what he, as the best family cook ever, wanted it to be.  

I woke up in the night thinking, “I just came in second to a bunch of fruit!”

I tried not to train an eye of triumph toward Paul when we saw that several other people had also been asked to bring fruit, but, in the end, I was wrong, because it turned out that that much was needed.

Still, I hope we have not cemented for ourselves a new role as fruit bringers--not a role I want to be type-cast in.

Ravished Couch

So, it's our "trash week" this week.  That means that whatever junk we can find to put on the curb will be taken.  If not by scavengers, by the city.  It's fun!

At least, it's supposed to be.

When the time came to start, I marched right into the garage and picked up two lamps that still work but are too old that we have replaced.  I marched those lamps right out to the curb and laid them down.  (They have since found their way onto the porch because someone thinks they are worth money, but I just am done with them, you know?)

My husband and a daughter worked hard all day to add other things.  I was proud of my daughter because she pitched in and helped with the project as long as her dad did.  Which was long.  I was proud of my husband because--all by himself--he chose to donate an old couch to the pile.

This couch has been a source of disagreement between us and a blockage to purchasing a new couch for our family room.  We both agree that it would be really nice to have a couch in the family room and turn it into the main television room instead of the living room.  But whenever we see couches for sale and I start drooling over them, Paul has reminded me that we have a "perfectly good couch" standing on end in a corner of the garage.  This has stopped the shopping every time.

This perfectly good couch has stood on one end in the garage since we moved into this house, several years ago, before the current administration, to give you an idea.

Before that, it did sit in the family room in our old house.  My objection to it being set up in the new house had to do with Paul's three cats.  My version is that they seem to have had several drunken parties on it.  Paul's version is that that never happened.

Paul is right that it is a well-made sturdy couch, still in good condition (except for the aforementioned feline interference).  He was also right that it had a good, functional sleeper sofa feature.

But, think nineteen-seventies.  This is a couch that his mother used to have, way back then. (Think tan and orange plaid.)  Yeah.

We both agree that the fabric is outdated.  Paul's proposed solution is to purchase a cover for it.  I have nixed that every time because I just don't think that will deal appropriately with the feline party issue.

Can you say stalemate?

So.  When Paul said he was going to kick the couch to the curb, my heart did a little flutter for him.  I hoped he would really do it, and feel okay about it.

He really did it.

He set up the couch with all its many pillows, facing the street.  It looked as good as it possibly could. 

I later found out that he was nurturing hope that it would yet find a good home.

Of course it was always possible that someone would drive by and say, "Hey!  You don't see couches with tan and orange plaid all over them anymore--I've been looking for this couch everywhere!" and adopt it.  We waited all day for this to happen.  It didn't.

We waited the next day for it to happen.  It didn't.

I was going to bed on the second day when Paul came in to tell me some sad news. His hopes for his baby had been dashed when a slasher-type person had come by, thrown off the pillows, thrown open the sleeper part, and hacked the metal frame of the bed right out of the couch. 

I comforted Paul as best I could.

But, the next morning, when I went to the gym, I understood better.

The couch had been dragged off the curb into the street.  Pillows were scattered everywhere in disarray.  Its secret inward bed part had been dragged out, slashed up, and left exposed to anyone's view.  The couch that had served Paul's family for so many years was lying there in total disgrace: slashed, exposed, dissheveled, murdered.

It was like happening upon a crime scene.

I thought, "Who does this kind of thing?"  I know all about scavengers and have seen them prowling around city trash day piles before.  But, really?  Who would drag someone's treasured couch, all neatly left out with its best foot forward, into the street and mangle and ravish it like that, just taking the part they want and then not even folding it back up again, but leaving it there in that terrible condition?

Yes, we left it for trash, but neatly.

Yes, we were through with it, but Paul had hopes for its future.

We didn't mean for it to fall victim to someone with no manners who apparently only wanted one thing.

Gems

I love all of my children all of the time, but it is true that relationships--like the people involved in them--go through phases.

The child who was an easy baby is not necessarily going to be easier at thirteen than his brother, for instance.

One child will be an exasperating climber while another delights you.  A year later, the climber will have stopped pushing limits and the other child will be tantrummy.  If you're lucky, one child will sit contentedly in the background while another demands constant attention.  It's just the way it goes.

Life turns in cycles.  People go through phases.  Relationships cinch closer, then loosen, kind of like the ebb and flow of the sea.

One of my children has recently stepped into the role of Helper Supreme.  A week ago, she was asked to take on extra duties while her older siblings were out of town.  She managed those tasks well, making herself the family's hero of the week.  

Her stepping up must have produced a permanent change.  When the three days of need were over, she stayed a super helper, cleaning up the family room in order to have a friend over.  

Saturday, she stepped outside to help her dad clean out the garage. Despite 100-degree heat and flushed cheeks on her part, she stayed with the project, and the curb was filled with items the family has grown past. She had a lot of opportunities to bow out, but did not.  

The next morning, we found that a violent overnight wind had blown boxes--some of them filled with packing popcorn--off our careful stack and down the street.  Way.  Down the street.

My husband and I pulled on clothes and headed out to pull back the damage.  

There was this daughter, right beside us, in her tee shirt and jammy bottoms, picking up boxes and popcorn just as much as we were.  Our next door neighbor's lawn was covered with popcorn.  She helped me pick it up. When I thought we had collected all the damage, she thought she saw more boxes even farther down the street and went to investigate.  Another half block away, she did find more boxes--with our last name on them, no less, and thus saved us neighborhood embarrassment.  

The thing is, she was as grown up in this as my husband and I were.  She just stepped in and pulled equal weight with us.

It seems to me that my children are like jewels lined up on a mantel top.  As time passes by like sunlight, it shines through each of the gems in turn, showing off their brilliance and special gifts.  I appreciate all of my children all of the time, but time gives me the opportunity to view each of them and fully appreciate their colors and beauty as they shine in their own particular phase. 

Making Cake on Fast Day

I had to make a cake Sunday, on a day when I was fasting for religious reasons.  My beliefs require me to take in no food or water for a certain period of time during a fast.  Unless there is a health concern, I take this seriously and do not let anything down my gullet.

But when I make a cake, I like to, you know, have a taste.  Or two.

I kept reminding myself I couldn't.  Like, it was a sacred duty not to touch it.

It made me think of other things that I might want to do but cannot because it is not the right time.  And of how hard it can be at times to curb our impulses.  And of how we sometimes work to create something that we hope to enjoy later, but cannot enjoy at the time.

I thought about building relationships, planting gardens, sewing a dress, storing up a retirement fund, myriad things.  I thought about gardens planted for others to harvest.  Blessings stacked up in heaven while we make sacrifices on earth.

All with the do-not-touch-that's-for-later-not-now mentality.  

It seems hard at the time to put off gratification, to toil without reward.  But I knew that, after our simple dinner, after fasting all day, we would be very glad for the treat I was preparing.  Even though the time for this particular "reward" was only a few hours away, it seemed hard to "not touch" in the moment.  Yet, if I didn't create the cake then, during the hours I was fasting, I would certainly not be able to enjoy it when it was time to have it.  If I made the cake after I stopped fasting, I would have to wait more hours to have it.  

And I thought, "This cake will taste sweeter to me because I made it while fasting, and because, when I am ready to eat, it will be ready, too."

This morning when I had a hard minute at the gym, I knew in my head that I would be finished in 26 more minutes, and that I'd feel good about my workout when I got finished. . . if I finished. And not so good about it if I didn't.  It helped me persist.

 

I wonder how many things in life are like that--better at the end if you prepare for them when it hurts to, instead of waiting until it's time, or there isn't a sacrifice involved--other than that your reward is that much further delayed than it had to be. Raising children is one thing that came to mind.  Generally, you reap the rewards of what you sowed.

What current struggles are you making that you know will pay off in the end?