When I wrote my last post, I was full of self pity. It was a rare day when everything seemed to go wrong, all of the hardships of the past few months were beginning to catch up, I felt invisible, overlooked, and I was having a really hard time dealing with the loss of my mother.
But as 2009 draws to a close, I've been thinking not about all of the tough experiences we went through in my family, but of all of the good things that have happened this year. It would appear that all the bad would easily eclipse the good, I know, and as anyone who knows me would agree. We've had more than our fair share.
And yet....I conjure up the faces of people who have touched my life this year, some of whom I've known forever, some only in the last few years, and even a couple of surprises from the past, long forgotten, who have reappeared and made a place for themselves in my life, and I can't help but smile just thinking about them.
Through all the tears and pain 2009 has brought into my world, there have been equal, if not greater amounts of laughter and smiles and joy.
So I suppose it's appropriate, with Thanksgiving coming next week, for me to say thank you to these incredible, crazy, beautiful friends who know me...and like me anyway. lol
May God bless you all, as well as your loved ones, and thank you so much for being in my life.
Ann
Friday, November 20, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Care not
I've been sitting in front of this screen for quite a while now, not knowing exactly what I wanted to say, or how I wanted to begin. So I'll wing it.
My mother died last month. I've been dealing with her death pretty well, I think, but there are times when I really miss her. I came home from work today, in an awful mood, thinking I needed to call her. But then I remembered she wasn't there. And that felt like a punch to my gut.
Today started out as a very good day for me. I turned 40 today. And I don't look at that with any kind of regret or fear, but with excitement at what's to come for me in the next pages of my life. I was in a great mood.
But as I drove home this evening, I felt....disappointed...let down...and maybe a little invisible. I thought about my father this past weekend, when my brother reminded him that my birthday was today, shrugging his shoulders and saying, "So?" That really stung. And when I tried to take his arm as we walked to a restaurant, he shook me off. That hurt.
And today, a very good friend of mine, someone I had spent time looking for just the right birthday card for a few months ago, didn't even remember mine was today. Had no idea. As childish as it may sound, I felt like...an afterthought. Because I was. And that stung too. As many of my friends and acquantances sent well wishes, which I was very touched by, I was still stung by this one person's lack of care.
I know people are busy, and their minds are occupied with other things, but I also feel that no one is too busy to make a small effort. I try to, and I often think I don't do enough. Why, then, is it so hard for others to make the same effort?
I drove home wishing I could learn how to just not care anymore, because caring often leads to disappointment. You'd think it was easy, so many people do it. But I can't imagine myself approaching any experience in life without care.
Work, friendship, experiences, sex....people have these things all the time with hardly a care.
I wonder how people go through life, with no passion or opinion one way or another on things. Indifference, in my eyes, is like a disease....something we need to recover from. People need that human touch...that kind word...that small compliment. We need them. Because we all feel.
Well, I can see that what I've written reflects exactly what's in my head at the moment - complete disorder. lol Hopefully my next entry will be written with a clear mind. :)
My mother died last month. I've been dealing with her death pretty well, I think, but there are times when I really miss her. I came home from work today, in an awful mood, thinking I needed to call her. But then I remembered she wasn't there. And that felt like a punch to my gut.
Today started out as a very good day for me. I turned 40 today. And I don't look at that with any kind of regret or fear, but with excitement at what's to come for me in the next pages of my life. I was in a great mood.
But as I drove home this evening, I felt....disappointed...let down...and maybe a little invisible. I thought about my father this past weekend, when my brother reminded him that my birthday was today, shrugging his shoulders and saying, "So?" That really stung. And when I tried to take his arm as we walked to a restaurant, he shook me off. That hurt.
And today, a very good friend of mine, someone I had spent time looking for just the right birthday card for a few months ago, didn't even remember mine was today. Had no idea. As childish as it may sound, I felt like...an afterthought. Because I was. And that stung too. As many of my friends and acquantances sent well wishes, which I was very touched by, I was still stung by this one person's lack of care.
I know people are busy, and their minds are occupied with other things, but I also feel that no one is too busy to make a small effort. I try to, and I often think I don't do enough. Why, then, is it so hard for others to make the same effort?
I drove home wishing I could learn how to just not care anymore, because caring often leads to disappointment. You'd think it was easy, so many people do it. But I can't imagine myself approaching any experience in life without care.
Work, friendship, experiences, sex....people have these things all the time with hardly a care.
We've almost obliterated all forms of politeness from our daily lives, that it seems almost NORMAL not to care. I just can't understand that.
I wonder how people go through life, with no passion or opinion one way or another on things. Indifference, in my eyes, is like a disease....something we need to recover from. People need that human touch...that kind word...that small compliment. We need them. Because we all feel.
Well, I can see that what I've written reflects exactly what's in my head at the moment - complete disorder. lol Hopefully my next entry will be written with a clear mind. :)
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Going home
Today was one of those days you know you'll always remember, not for being a joyful occasion, but because the sadness of it just pierces your heart so hard, you feel as though the pain of it will never go away.
Back in February, my mother was diagnosed with a fairly rare and incurable form of cancer called Primary Peritoneal Carcinoma, which stemmed from undetected ovarian cancer. The reason the ovarian cancer was undetected, was because my mother is the type of woman who felt that going to see a doctor was unnecessary unless you actually lost a limb and couldn't sew it back on yourself.
For the last seven months, my parents have understandably held onto the hope that chemotherapy and good medical care would eventually cure her, and refused to hear the doctors' diagnoses that she would not live past a year. Although I admired their faith that this illness would be conquered, I knew in my heart that they would be disappointed in the end.
I drove to Boston this morning, hoping that the bad feeling that had been nagging me the last few days would not be realized today...that the doctors wanting to meet with the family might just be nothing more than a means to get us all up to speed and on the same page at the same time.
And now, I find myself too emotional to write about the content of that meeting, although I was prepared a few moments ago to get it all out and down on the page, my own small bit of personal therapy, and yet I find that the words are caught in my throat. Maybe in a few days they'll loosen up.
What I will say is that after the initial shock to my parents at the doctor's words, and the expected upset at the words that nothing else could be done but to make sure she was as comfortable as possible, my mother went back to her room and turned to God.
My aunt and I sat with her, holding her hands, as the news began to sink in. And to my surprise (although I really shouldn't have been, after witnessing her religious devotion for the last four decades) she began to calm herself and really think about the next life. She said she would finally see the Blessed Mother, and maybe see her parents again, and her cousin, who died young a few years ago from leukemia.
Her fear began to turn into a sort of...I don't even know what word to use here. Not acceptance, or excitement, so much as the realization that everything she did her whole life, everything she lived for, every Mass, every prayer, every day of mental anguish and suffering, had carried her toward this final goal...of Heaven and God and peace.
I talked to my father briefly on the phone this evening, and cried with him, and listened to him grieve for what he was about to lose. Before he hung up, he asked me, "Guess what your mother said before I left the hospital this evening?
She said, "God is calling me home.'"
Back in February, my mother was diagnosed with a fairly rare and incurable form of cancer called Primary Peritoneal Carcinoma, which stemmed from undetected ovarian cancer. The reason the ovarian cancer was undetected, was because my mother is the type of woman who felt that going to see a doctor was unnecessary unless you actually lost a limb and couldn't sew it back on yourself.
For the last seven months, my parents have understandably held onto the hope that chemotherapy and good medical care would eventually cure her, and refused to hear the doctors' diagnoses that she would not live past a year. Although I admired their faith that this illness would be conquered, I knew in my heart that they would be disappointed in the end.
I drove to Boston this morning, hoping that the bad feeling that had been nagging me the last few days would not be realized today...that the doctors wanting to meet with the family might just be nothing more than a means to get us all up to speed and on the same page at the same time.
And now, I find myself too emotional to write about the content of that meeting, although I was prepared a few moments ago to get it all out and down on the page, my own small bit of personal therapy, and yet I find that the words are caught in my throat. Maybe in a few days they'll loosen up.
What I will say is that after the initial shock to my parents at the doctor's words, and the expected upset at the words that nothing else could be done but to make sure she was as comfortable as possible, my mother went back to her room and turned to God.
My aunt and I sat with her, holding her hands, as the news began to sink in. And to my surprise (although I really shouldn't have been, after witnessing her religious devotion for the last four decades) she began to calm herself and really think about the next life. She said she would finally see the Blessed Mother, and maybe see her parents again, and her cousin, who died young a few years ago from leukemia.
Her fear began to turn into a sort of...I don't even know what word to use here. Not acceptance, or excitement, so much as the realization that everything she did her whole life, everything she lived for, every Mass, every prayer, every day of mental anguish and suffering, had carried her toward this final goal...of Heaven and God and peace.
I talked to my father briefly on the phone this evening, and cried with him, and listened to him grieve for what he was about to lose. Before he hung up, he asked me, "Guess what your mother said before I left the hospital this evening?
She said, "God is calling me home.'"
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Having faith
Today was Senator Ted Kennedy's funeral. I wasn't a supporter of the senator, but I always admired his fierceness in fighting for what he believed in. Listening to his children talk about him was beyond moving, and I was surprised to feel the hot tears running down my cheeks as I listened to them speak of their memories of him.
My own mother is approaching the end of her life, and I thought it was interesting that Kennedy's funeral was held at Mission Church. My parents brought me to that particular church once, many years ago. I couldn't have been older than 9 or 10 at the time, but I remember snippets of it.
I've always admired people, of any religion, who have such unshakable faith. My parents have that unwavering faith. Yes, it sometimes bordered on the fanatical at times, in my opinion, but they always took comfort in it. God and Catholicism is the foundation of their lives. It's the epicenter of their existence, above anything else. And although I haven't adopted the same zeal in which they practice their faith, I do admire them for it.
The night they took my brothers and I to Mission Church, a famous healing priest was there. A man who had the gift to perform miracles. The church was filled almost to the rafters with believers, and those who wanted to be healed...of their physical ailments, their sins...whatever they felt it was that was causing them suffering.
We had to sit in the balcony, body to body with those around us. It was hot and stuffy, and I was on the edge of sleep at any given moment. But some things about that night and that church and the reason we were there always stayed with me.
At the front of the church, before the altar, were large columns. Hanging from those columns, from floor to massive ceiling, were crutches and canes and walking sticks. There were wheelchairs and walkers on the floor around them. I'd never seen such a thing. I asked my mother what they were for, and she told me they had belonged to people who'd been healed by this priest.
I also remember people proceeding up to the altar, and the priest touching them on the forehead and mumbling some words, although we were too far away to hear what was said. Some of them passed out right on the floor. In minutes, there were half a dozen or so church-goers lying there, out cold, and other people crying and returning to their seats. I had no idea what was happening.
What I came to understand years later was that my mother wanted to be healed. She'd been to several such events over the years at different Catholic churches. She believed in these miracles, and always had hope that God would ease her pain one day. She didn't suffer from any physical ailments, but from mental and emotional illnesses that have plagued her since she was young. She wanted to be freed from her pain. When she wasn't healed, she would become depressed.
I never understood that. She is the most faithful woman I have ever known. Why would God feel that she was not worthy of being healed?
Of course, I know we, as Catholics, believe that God has a plan for all of us, although we may have yet to know what it is. But I always felt her pain when she returned home with the same mental anguish she left with, and no ease of her burden. And it made me angry.
Now, as her days on this earth slowly close, and as sad as I am to know that she will soon be gone, I know that her burden will be finally lifted. And I can't help but feel grateful for that.
My own mother is approaching the end of her life, and I thought it was interesting that Kennedy's funeral was held at Mission Church. My parents brought me to that particular church once, many years ago. I couldn't have been older than 9 or 10 at the time, but I remember snippets of it.
I've always admired people, of any religion, who have such unshakable faith. My parents have that unwavering faith. Yes, it sometimes bordered on the fanatical at times, in my opinion, but they always took comfort in it. God and Catholicism is the foundation of their lives. It's the epicenter of their existence, above anything else. And although I haven't adopted the same zeal in which they practice their faith, I do admire them for it.
The night they took my brothers and I to Mission Church, a famous healing priest was there. A man who had the gift to perform miracles. The church was filled almost to the rafters with believers, and those who wanted to be healed...of their physical ailments, their sins...whatever they felt it was that was causing them suffering.
We had to sit in the balcony, body to body with those around us. It was hot and stuffy, and I was on the edge of sleep at any given moment. But some things about that night and that church and the reason we were there always stayed with me.
At the front of the church, before the altar, were large columns. Hanging from those columns, from floor to massive ceiling, were crutches and canes and walking sticks. There were wheelchairs and walkers on the floor around them. I'd never seen such a thing. I asked my mother what they were for, and she told me they had belonged to people who'd been healed by this priest.
I also remember people proceeding up to the altar, and the priest touching them on the forehead and mumbling some words, although we were too far away to hear what was said. Some of them passed out right on the floor. In minutes, there were half a dozen or so church-goers lying there, out cold, and other people crying and returning to their seats. I had no idea what was happening.
What I came to understand years later was that my mother wanted to be healed. She'd been to several such events over the years at different Catholic churches. She believed in these miracles, and always had hope that God would ease her pain one day. She didn't suffer from any physical ailments, but from mental and emotional illnesses that have plagued her since she was young. She wanted to be freed from her pain. When she wasn't healed, she would become depressed.
I never understood that. She is the most faithful woman I have ever known. Why would God feel that she was not worthy of being healed?
Of course, I know we, as Catholics, believe that God has a plan for all of us, although we may have yet to know what it is. But I always felt her pain when she returned home with the same mental anguish she left with, and no ease of her burden. And it made me angry.
Now, as her days on this earth slowly close, and as sad as I am to know that she will soon be gone, I know that her burden will be finally lifted. And I can't help but feel grateful for that.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Confidence...or lack thereof
I woke up today feeling fantastic. The sun was out, and it felt great on my skin. The weight is coming off steadily, and I went for a walk down on the beach, and was again amazed at the beauty of this place. I felt really good about life and myself.
Tonight, I am just the opposite. I feel insecure, and I hate that. I see beautiful, stunning women out there, and I feel fat and unattractive. I really hate that. It's very unlike me. And it bites.
Is this just a woman thing? Do we all compare ourselves to each other? I think so, to a point. But I've always been confident in myself, and not unhappy with my physical appearance. I like my good skin and my curves, and I like having a nice smile.
But tonight, I feel.....I don't even know what word to insert here, or what adjective to use. I don't like to use insecure, because I am not normally an insecure person. I like me.
I think, as women, we all have moments of weakness like this now and then, where we look at someone else and think...why can't we all look that good, or be that healthy, or have a waist that small? Imagine all the cool clothes we could fit into! lol
Ah well. We are who we are. All shapes and sizes. And no doubt, beautiful people have their own insecurities. Yeah, I'll cling to that raft for a while. lol
And now I'll stop whining. :)
Tonight, I am just the opposite. I feel insecure, and I hate that. I see beautiful, stunning women out there, and I feel fat and unattractive. I really hate that. It's very unlike me. And it bites.
Is this just a woman thing? Do we all compare ourselves to each other? I think so, to a point. But I've always been confident in myself, and not unhappy with my physical appearance. I like my good skin and my curves, and I like having a nice smile.
But tonight, I feel.....I don't even know what word to insert here, or what adjective to use. I don't like to use insecure, because I am not normally an insecure person. I like me.
I think, as women, we all have moments of weakness like this now and then, where we look at someone else and think...why can't we all look that good, or be that healthy, or have a waist that small? Imagine all the cool clothes we could fit into! lol
Ah well. We are who we are. All shapes and sizes. And no doubt, beautiful people have their own insecurities. Yeah, I'll cling to that raft for a while. lol
And now I'll stop whining. :)
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Choices and beauty
I'm going to take the next 15 minutes and do what's in my nature.
I'm not much for self-help CD's, unless they actually DO help someone, but I've been listening to one of my husband's for a while now...a little here, a little there...and to my own surprise, I have found it helpful. In fact, that first line comes from something I've been listening to.
I've been thinking a lot lately about choice. We've all heard the saying that everything happens for a reason. And I've read a train of thought that the universe unfolds exactly how it's supposed to, which would mean that all of our choices, both good and bad, selfish or righteous, result in exactly what was destined to happen in the big picture anyway. So that makes me wonder...was my mother destined to have cancer? Was it already preordained that my daughter make the choices she's making? Are my brothers' fates already written on some cosmic slab?
I don't completely understand that myself, but I have always believed that everything happens for a reason. What that reason is, is always the question. And the answer is....in this life, we will never know.
The calm, deep voice on the CD I've been listening to says that we need to stop wanting more; stop needing things we don't need; stop this drive to succeed and find peace in what we have. He says all of our desires, if they are truly destined to happen, will come to us exactly when they're supposed to. But that goes against everything we're taught from the cradle through the grave. We are taught that we MUST have the drive to succeed, to be the best, to have more, to do more and to want more.
Personally, I made a big choice a few years ago. My choice was to be a happy person. I may still need to work on it more, but I can FEEL happiness in myself, and that's something. And being happy IS a choice. You can choose to be miserable, or you can choose to rise above it.
The only constant in life is change. Life will always bring a new beginning after a painful end. Choose to embrace it, or choose to dwell in remourse. We can choose to have faith that we will get through difficult events or we can choose to believe we are destined for unhappiness. How would you rather spend your time?
As we go through this life, I believe that in embracing everything that is placed our doormat, whether it be something beautiful and unexpected, or another hard mountain that must be climbed, we can always come out better and stronger.
Sure, I know that sometimes this is easier said than done, and it is. You have to work at it. But it's so worth it. Choose happiness, choose optimism, choose to see beauty in everything. Life will be so much sweeter.
Speaking of beauty, we all see beauty in different ways. Some people see the beauty in a piece of artwork, or in a bed of flowers, or a full moon, or in another person's physical appearance. We see beauty in a lover's touch, or in a child's smile. It's different for everyone. And I think it might be a good idea to actually pay attention to what we consider beautiful. So today, I took a ride with my husband.
I saw the beauty in a horse farm not far from us. They were cutting the hay, and birds rose up from it in alarm as we passed. Horses were grazing in front of the big barn, and behind the barn was a river, as blue as sapphires. It's probably the prettiest place I know of in this town.
We passed a car on that road, with a white dog sticking its head out the window, the wind blowing his fur wildly, and a huge smile on his hairy face. I couldn't help but smile seeing his enjoyment.
In another local community, as we drove around the quiet maze of roads, we saw what looked at first like a small dog on the side of the road. It was actually a coyote pup. We slowed as we came next to it, out in broad daylight, the sun shining off its brown coat, and he just stood there, looking at us, before he scooted off into the tall grass and trees near the road.
We passed an open field filled with yellow and purple flowers, and I had the urge to stop and take off my shoes and just walk among them. Sound a little overdramatic, does it? The feeling was there. What I saw was beautiful and I wanted to be in that beauty.
We drove out near the ocean close to home, where there is a home there, overlooking the big blue, that I really love. It's smallish, compared to some of the homes there, but every time I pass it, I can't help but stare at it's wide farmer's porch, and its gray weathered shingles, and the baskets of flowers hanging all around it. It looks...perfect. Beautiful. To me. :)
I'm not much for self-help CD's, unless they actually DO help someone, but I've been listening to one of my husband's for a while now...a little here, a little there...and to my own surprise, I have found it helpful. In fact, that first line comes from something I've been listening to.
I've been thinking a lot lately about choice. We've all heard the saying that everything happens for a reason. And I've read a train of thought that the universe unfolds exactly how it's supposed to, which would mean that all of our choices, both good and bad, selfish or righteous, result in exactly what was destined to happen in the big picture anyway. So that makes me wonder...was my mother destined to have cancer? Was it already preordained that my daughter make the choices she's making? Are my brothers' fates already written on some cosmic slab?
I don't completely understand that myself, but I have always believed that everything happens for a reason. What that reason is, is always the question. And the answer is....in this life, we will never know.
The calm, deep voice on the CD I've been listening to says that we need to stop wanting more; stop needing things we don't need; stop this drive to succeed and find peace in what we have. He says all of our desires, if they are truly destined to happen, will come to us exactly when they're supposed to. But that goes against everything we're taught from the cradle through the grave. We are taught that we MUST have the drive to succeed, to be the best, to have more, to do more and to want more.
Personally, I made a big choice a few years ago. My choice was to be a happy person. I may still need to work on it more, but I can FEEL happiness in myself, and that's something. And being happy IS a choice. You can choose to be miserable, or you can choose to rise above it.
The only constant in life is change. Life will always bring a new beginning after a painful end. Choose to embrace it, or choose to dwell in remourse. We can choose to have faith that we will get through difficult events or we can choose to believe we are destined for unhappiness. How would you rather spend your time?
As we go through this life, I believe that in embracing everything that is placed our doormat, whether it be something beautiful and unexpected, or another hard mountain that must be climbed, we can always come out better and stronger.
Sure, I know that sometimes this is easier said than done, and it is. You have to work at it. But it's so worth it. Choose happiness, choose optimism, choose to see beauty in everything. Life will be so much sweeter.
Speaking of beauty, we all see beauty in different ways. Some people see the beauty in a piece of artwork, or in a bed of flowers, or a full moon, or in another person's physical appearance. We see beauty in a lover's touch, or in a child's smile. It's different for everyone. And I think it might be a good idea to actually pay attention to what we consider beautiful. So today, I took a ride with my husband.
I saw the beauty in a horse farm not far from us. They were cutting the hay, and birds rose up from it in alarm as we passed. Horses were grazing in front of the big barn, and behind the barn was a river, as blue as sapphires. It's probably the prettiest place I know of in this town.
We passed a car on that road, with a white dog sticking its head out the window, the wind blowing his fur wildly, and a huge smile on his hairy face. I couldn't help but smile seeing his enjoyment.
In another local community, as we drove around the quiet maze of roads, we saw what looked at first like a small dog on the side of the road. It was actually a coyote pup. We slowed as we came next to it, out in broad daylight, the sun shining off its brown coat, and he just stood there, looking at us, before he scooted off into the tall grass and trees near the road.
We passed an open field filled with yellow and purple flowers, and I had the urge to stop and take off my shoes and just walk among them. Sound a little overdramatic, does it? The feeling was there. What I saw was beautiful and I wanted to be in that beauty.
We drove out near the ocean close to home, where there is a home there, overlooking the big blue, that I really love. It's smallish, compared to some of the homes there, but every time I pass it, I can't help but stare at it's wide farmer's porch, and its gray weathered shingles, and the baskets of flowers hanging all around it. It looks...perfect. Beautiful. To me. :)
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Slowing the wheel
Unable to fall asleep tonight, I lay in bed just a few minutes ago thinking about my day. At first glance, it was uneventful....quiet, somewhat productive, nothing new and exciting. Like many people, especially women, I tend to look back on my day as I look at the mental list of things to do in my head....did this, check; did that, check...and so on.
But then I really slowed down the hamster wheel in my brain and thought about it. Small, yet significant details began to emerge as I started in the morning and went through my day. And it turns out, it wasn't as uneventful as I'd originally thought. Paying attention to the little things, instead of rushing through them at light speed, helped me focus on those things I'd zipped by.
This morning at work, I was opening a can of pineapple with the old can opener in the drawer, which always seems to skip a few places on the lid (and yet I continue to use it anyway). I then grabbed a spoon and began to try to pry the lid off just enough to drain the juice into the sink and allow the pineapple chunks to fall into my bowl. In my haste, and I swear I saw it happening before it actually happened, I'd sliced my hand on the razor-sharp lid. Yep. Always the klutz. lol It bled like crazy, and fortunately, no stitches were required.
Later in the morning, I'd finally (finally!) made an appointment to get another MRI on my back tomorrow. I've been having pain down my right leg for about six weeks now, ever since I seriously began a walking routine again, and I want to make sure I didn't re-injure anything that had been fixed by surgery last September. I've lost over ten pounds and a pants size, so don't even suggest to me to stop walking. lol
At another point in the morning, I selfishly opened my mouth and inserted my foot in an e-mail to a friend. I assumed, which is never a good idea. I've made a policy try not to do that in the future.
I made tentative plans to see my girlies for a movie Saturday night. Haven't had a girls night out in a long while, so that should be fun if we can get a plan in action.
I daydreamed for a while about a magazine that I want to write for (freelance of course ;)). I've been after them for years, and its looking positive. Time will tell.
I laughed a lot at work. My co-worker Chrissy always makes my laugh. We have the same bawdy sense of humor, and although we have to try to restrain it at work, sometimes the humor just slips out. She's very funny.
I bitched with my co-workers (and later, my husband) about President Obama's remarks last night about the Cambridge police. That really pissed me off. How does a president, on national television, say he doesn't know all the facts and then make a comment like that in front of the world? Unbelievable.
I missed my daughters. The house has been so quiet without them. But I'm happy they're having fun. I'll be going to see them in Texas in a few weeks. The thought of flying makes me want to hurl, of course, but as I always say, you can't see many places if you don't fly.
I tried a new wine today, a recommendation of another co-worker (thanks Dave!). It was called Barefoot, and was very inexpensive and very tasty. I love the cabernet.
I cried again tonight for my mother. At her most recent doctor's appointment this week, she was told that although the cancer has shrunk, it will never be gone. Without the chemo, it will come back without a doubt. And again, regardless that she looks so much better and as even gained some weight, he gave her a prognosis of one year. I could hear my father's voice catch in his throat when he answered the phone.
The rain is coming down hard out there now. It's pounding against the deck just outside the sliding door there. I was tempted to open the door and go outside and stand in it, just let it wash over my face and my body and soak through my clothes. It's still tempting.
Another time, perhaps.
But then I really slowed down the hamster wheel in my brain and thought about it. Small, yet significant details began to emerge as I started in the morning and went through my day. And it turns out, it wasn't as uneventful as I'd originally thought. Paying attention to the little things, instead of rushing through them at light speed, helped me focus on those things I'd zipped by.
This morning at work, I was opening a can of pineapple with the old can opener in the drawer, which always seems to skip a few places on the lid (and yet I continue to use it anyway). I then grabbed a spoon and began to try to pry the lid off just enough to drain the juice into the sink and allow the pineapple chunks to fall into my bowl. In my haste, and I swear I saw it happening before it actually happened, I'd sliced my hand on the razor-sharp lid. Yep. Always the klutz. lol It bled like crazy, and fortunately, no stitches were required.
Later in the morning, I'd finally (finally!) made an appointment to get another MRI on my back tomorrow. I've been having pain down my right leg for about six weeks now, ever since I seriously began a walking routine again, and I want to make sure I didn't re-injure anything that had been fixed by surgery last September. I've lost over ten pounds and a pants size, so don't even suggest to me to stop walking. lol
At another point in the morning, I selfishly opened my mouth and inserted my foot in an e-mail to a friend. I assumed, which is never a good idea. I've made a policy try not to do that in the future.
I made tentative plans to see my girlies for a movie Saturday night. Haven't had a girls night out in a long while, so that should be fun if we can get a plan in action.
I daydreamed for a while about a magazine that I want to write for (freelance of course ;)). I've been after them for years, and its looking positive. Time will tell.
I laughed a lot at work. My co-worker Chrissy always makes my laugh. We have the same bawdy sense of humor, and although we have to try to restrain it at work, sometimes the humor just slips out. She's very funny.
I bitched with my co-workers (and later, my husband) about President Obama's remarks last night about the Cambridge police. That really pissed me off. How does a president, on national television, say he doesn't know all the facts and then make a comment like that in front of the world? Unbelievable.
I missed my daughters. The house has been so quiet without them. But I'm happy they're having fun. I'll be going to see them in Texas in a few weeks. The thought of flying makes me want to hurl, of course, but as I always say, you can't see many places if you don't fly.
I tried a new wine today, a recommendation of another co-worker (thanks Dave!). It was called Barefoot, and was very inexpensive and very tasty. I love the cabernet.
I cried again tonight for my mother. At her most recent doctor's appointment this week, she was told that although the cancer has shrunk, it will never be gone. Without the chemo, it will come back without a doubt. And again, regardless that she looks so much better and as even gained some weight, he gave her a prognosis of one year. I could hear my father's voice catch in his throat when he answered the phone.
The rain is coming down hard out there now. It's pounding against the deck just outside the sliding door there. I was tempted to open the door and go outside and stand in it, just let it wash over my face and my body and soak through my clothes. It's still tempting.
Another time, perhaps.
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