Yes, we all have a particular something, be it an ailment or imperfection, that we carry with us throughout our day-to-day lives. It could be asthma, color blindness, flat feet, eczema, poor vision, or a mental disorder (not talking about me). Well, you get the picture. Or, maybe you are perfect in every way in which case that would serve as your cross to bear: superior perfection. Hey, I didn’t want to leave anyone out of that “We all” statement I typed at the beginning. I have a few crosses. I’ll pause for just a moment while you compose yourself. That was quite a bombshell of truth I dropped on you. 

Right there at the top of my list of crosses to bear is — hearing impairment. Frankly, hearing impairment seriously SUCKS!! I mean, it sucks through a tiny, tiny straw — which means it sucks extra, EXTRA extraordinarily super hard! 

Speech contains a lot of high-frequency sounds and, lucky me, that’s precisely the portion of the auditory system that I don’t possess at all. If you look at my hearing test graph, the section for those high pitches is blank. No hearing ability found there. What did you say? I can’t hear you! And, while I do have hearing aids, they do not, let me repeat that — DO NOT — bring your hearing to the “normal” range or enable one to hear as if they had no impairment.

Yes, hearing aids do make speech louder and much easier to understand. Along with speech, however, they increase the volume of the wind, birds, humming fluorescent lights, the rustling of chip bags, tapping of pens, the squeaky wheels of stretchers moving down the hall, and the like. Those sounds, along with my favorite, the popping of gum, can be at such levels of audible annoyance, I want to take the aids out of my ears and stomp them into a pulp! What was I saying? Oh! If one more person asks me after I didn’t hear what they just said to me, “Do you have your hearing aids in?” Aargh!! They are not a cure for hearing impairment, they’re only a tool to help us cope as best we can, and some days I don’t cope very well.

If someone is speaking to me, they must be facing me so I can watch their mouth move during our conversation. I can’t communicate by reading lips alone, mind you, but seeing a mouth move during speech does help me to understand better. If you were to be talking to me, then turn around and walk away while you continue speaking, don’t expect me to hear what you say. It’s not happening. I envy people with normal hearing, primarily how they can be engaged in one conversation and hear something in another discussion and respond to it. I literally can only hear one speaker at a time. 

It takes an incredible amount of mental energy to focus on hearing people speak to me or around me. It’s exhausting. I used to fake it, years ago, and nod my head and hope it was appropriate to the conversation. Then, I graduated to telling them, “I don’t have good hearing, so you’ll need to face me and speak up if you want me to hear your words.” Nowadays, I may do a little of both, or I may employ my third tactic — not listening. Honestly, I very likely miss out on 40-50% of what’s being said to me or around me. And, whispers, I can’t make out a single word of that noise. I tell people all the time, “Go ahead and whisper about me; I can’t hear it anyway.” 

This cross has been with me, well, probably my entire life. Like, I’ve always had a hard time understanding song lyrics. While I know all the words to several songs, most often, I only know the chorus parts. Since the invention of the internet and YouTube videos “with lyrics,” I’ve been able to sing along to a lot more songs. So, that’s nice.

It’s not all horrible — not being able to hear like a person with good, healthy hearing. Sometimes, it’s a blessing. It’s like on the Netflix series Grace and Frankie, one of my favorite shows, when the hearing-impaired Frankie tells Grace, “I’m never getting a hearing device. I think I’m better off missing most of what you say.” That, and as you can probably imagine, the things that I hear incorrectly are plentiful, daily, and at times, quite entertaining. Once, while watching TV with my husband, he quoted a commercial by saying, “Another day, another scratch.” I responded, “Something’s digging in the trash?” This man truly deserves a medal, a statue, or a holiday named after him. Most likely, all three! He deals with this cross of mine every stinkin’ day of his life. Bless his heart.

Sometime last year, our granddaughter, Emily, asked me, “Do you remember the [blah blah blah — words that I don’t understand] Internet channel?” Okay, I thought, I’ve got this one.  I questioned her with, “Daisy — does the Internet?” Surely she wasn’t seriously talking about internet porn!  Emily, being very used to Gammaw’s mishearing her, said with a smile, “The Daily Dose of Internet channel.” Shwoo…thank goodness it wasn’t porn.

But, my favorite episode of “I can’t hear you” would have to be a conversation I had with one of our grandson’s while we were swimming. I knew Conner’s birthday was coming up, so I asked him, “What kind of birthday [party] do you want?” He said something that I couldn’t hear (shocking), and I said, “What?” He repeated his answer, which I still didn’t fully understand, but I asked him, “Five — friends?” He again tells me his full, entire answer (he was so patient), and I still didn’t catch it. He repeated his answer, but just a little bit louder for his hearing-impaired grandmother. Not believing what I’d heard and being semi-reluctant to inquire further, I asked him, “Did you — just say — ‘Five nice ass friends?'” Visibly tickled, and through his giggles, he answered me, with extra enunciation and volume, “Five. Nights. At. Freddy’s!” In my defense, all that could’ve been avoided if grandma could wear her hearing aids while swimming!

Yeah, hearing impairment SUCKS. It sucks through a teeny, tiny, minuscule straw!!

Wow! It feels incredible to have met this challenge! In reaching my goal, I have also proven to myself that I can write every day. So, I may as well keep going, right?

Today was a gorgeous day in the bluegrass state. It was sunny and in the mid 80’s until this afternoon. Hubby and I managed to get our garden planted less than 10 minutes before a heavy rain shower unleashed its ginormous droplets. It was perfect timing and will surely jumpstart those seedlings.

Early this evening, a thunderstorm tried to visit us, but couldn’t quite make it to downpour status before it traveled away from us and the sunshine reappeared. However, it did leave us with a lovely double rainbow which I snapped a photograph of just as a hummingbird flew into the frame.

We had a lovely Saturday. I hope yours was, too.

Parkinson’s disease isn’t fatal. It’s the “complications” that kill you.

If you Google Parkinson’s disease, you will likely learn that the disease itself is not considered terminal, and/or that Parkinson’s patients die because of its “complications.” In my thinking, that’s like claiming that the bullet didn’t kill the murder victim, it was merely complications stemming from the bullet piercing through the victim’s body that killed them.

My mother had Parkinson’s, and she died with it, but I want to say “from it.” It took six years from her first symptom to her final breath. I remember walking with her through the Atlanta airport and noticing she was shuffling her feet a bit. I asked, “Mom, why are you walking funny?” She said, “I don’t know.” Coincidentally, I learned about Parkinson’s in nursing school just a few weeks before this trip to Florida for my uncle’s funeral, and sadly, I knew exactly what I was witnessing.

Then came the tremors in her hands. Dad purchased weighted silverware for her to use, which significantly reduced the shaking of her hands during her meals. However, she complained that they were “too heavy” and refused to use them most of the time.

Her face adopted the classic mask-like appearance, her cheeks drooped, and her mouth turned downward. It resembled the face of a sad clown. Mother had always had a lovely smile. My father often said, “She was easily the prettiest woman” at the college where they’d met.

Slowly, one-by-one, she stopped doing her favorite things. It’s been several years, and I no longer remember the order in which she gave up her routine activities and hobbies. My mother had always been a classy lady; she wore pretty shoes and clothes with a precise amount of jewelry accessorizing everything. Whether she wore a formal dress or a leisure suit, her hair was styled, and her makeup was beautifully done. Mom’s classy appearance faded. She turned into a frumpy-looking woman with baggy clothes, often mismatched, shoes with no socks, hair barely combed, no makeup, and no accessorizing jewelry. One day, out of the blue, she decided to do her eyebrows and walked into the kitchen sporting eyebrows that looked like she’d drawn them on with a melted black crayon. I was stunned but didn’t say a word. She tried.

Mom loved playing her 1920’s Euphona upright piano. Parkinson’s caused her to quit that activity that gave her so much joy. She also loved her African Grey parrot named Kokie Poo. Mom worked around Kokie’s cage every day, sweeping and laying down fresh newspaper underneath. Then, one day, she just stopped doing all that. Time went on, and eventually, Mom didn’t interact with Kokie at all.

As Mom’s swallowing ability was dwindling, she constantly drooled and kept a washcloth in her hand. Her medicines had to be crushed and given to her in spoonsful of pudding. Once it was evident that Mom was no longer able to nourish herself with food, a feeding tube was placed in her stomach. Before the procedure, I asked my mother, “Are you doing this for you or for us?” She pointed to herself, and I told her that it was good. I didn’t want her to undergo any type of invasive procedure just for us.

Mom spent the last year of her life getting her liquid meals and medications through that tube directly linked to her stomach. She was admitted to hospice and was cared for in her home. Her hospital bed was in the living room, my father sat right beside her in a recliner, holding her hand. I spent most of my time on the loveseat directly across from them. Even though I’d been a nurse for several years, I had never witnessed Cheyne-Stokes breathing, until I saw my mother doing it. We’d stopped her tube feedings. She was receiving sublingual liquid morphine to keep her comfortable. My mother’s doctor cited “pneumonia” as her cause of death, but she didn’t struggle to breathe. There was no cough. She merely fell asleep, and several days later, her spirit took flight.

I’ll never forget the day Mom died. It was in early October 2013. As I was standing outside my parents’ house watching the hearse carry her worn-out little body away, a strong gust of wind swept through, and I could feel her presence. My mother was free.

The day before the funeral, I wrote this poem to be read graveside:

Goodbye for now, Mom

We watched your body slowly rob you

Of doing the things you enjoy

It was hard to witness this sweet life

That Parkinson’s did destroy

Day after day we felt helpless

As we saw you fading away

Our hearts so tightly held you

But in this world, you could not stay

And now you are at peace, Mom

In a place where you can run

You can sing and play the piano

And dance around in the sun

Mother, I will deeply miss you

For into Heaven you’ve been cast

You were there for my first breath

And I was there for your last

There’s nothing you can’t do now

Your spirit is truly free

And I know deep in my heart

You will always be with me

Until we meet on the other side…

I love you, Mom

What are the 10 most valuable lessons you’ve learned in life?

Not everyone is going to like you. Be okay with that. Like yourself first, and be happy being you. Others may take you, or they may leave you, but you will still be you.

Be true to who you are. Don’t try to fit into someone else’s mold or idea of how you should be. There is a reason and/or purpose for your life on this earth, and it’s not to be someone else’s puppet.

If you don’t take a chance, you won’t have one. Put another way, if you don’t ask for what you want in life, the answer will always be “No.” Fear equals death to your dreams. Just go for it!

Worry gets you nowhere and will only devour your precious time. That’s time wasted. It’s time that you can’t ever get back. Oh, and what a hard habit worrying is to break. But, it can be done, or at least minimized.

The old saying, “It’s in the valleys we grow,” is 100% true! Our greatest lessons and growth come from the most significant challenges in life. The valleys are what mold us into who we’re going to be. Without them, we would stagnate.

We all have scars. Some things happen in life that will have a lasting emotional or physical impact on you. You can spend the rest of your life being angry, hating, blaming, and forever remaining a victim, or you can say, “Okay, this happened to me. It was a bad experience. It left this damage. Now, what am I going to do to help myself heal? How can I release the anger and hatred and live my life to the fullest?” If you stay in victim mode, you are allowing someone to continue to hurt you. Stop it! They’ve basically left you with a burden while they’re off living their happy, care-free lives, never giving you a single millisecond of thought. Yes, it’s horribly unfair because they did this…and they should be made to pay for their mistake! Karma needs to show up at their house and unleash its wrath, and it would be oh so very satisfying to see them get what they so richly deserve. But, the fact remains — you are left with the mess. You can wallow in it, or you can seek help for your own healing. It’s entirely up to YOU. Stop giving your past the power to keep hurting you! You need to take care of you.

We’ve all heard the saying, “The older you get, the faster time goes.” It really does seem to fly by faster and faster the older I get, but I don’t think that time is literally moving faster. Sixty seconds is still only sixty seconds, after all. The clock ticks at the same speed it has up until now. My theory is that while our minds are continually playing life’s memories like a non-stop film reel, it distracts us from what’s currently happening. As little kids, we didn’t have that many memories, so we were much more engaged in each and every minute we spent playing. Remember how long summers seemed to last when we were in grade school? It’s because we were paying attention to what we were currently doing. Adults can relearn how to do that. It’s called being in the present, in the now. When you do that, time really does seem to slow down, almost standing still at times, while you savor each moment in life. It’s wonderful. I think that also explains why our long-term memories are often much more vivid than our short-term memories. Did we pay closer attention way back when?

There are controlling people in the world, and some of them may enter your life. They can be family, romantic interests, or micro-managing co-workers. In my experience, I’ve found that many of these types of people, let’s call them “control freaks,” are functioning out of their own fear, their fear of having no control. They were once or are currently being controlled and/or manipulated. Or, perhaps, they endured a traumatic experience against their will. Now, they feel they have to control everything to make up for that lack of control. You need to realize that this is the control freak’s issue, try to have compassion, and work toward a relationship of mutual respect (this can be genuinely challenging). In general, humans will only tolerate control freaks for a time — until they’ve reached their limit. Then they’re flat-out done, out the door, gone. If you can identify with being a control freak, please seek help. Controlling every aspect of your life and/or others’ lives will not fix the hurt and fear you hide inside.

That it is okay to remove toxic people from your life. Those people who live in the vortex of their sob stories and will jump at every opportunity to regale a new listener with every last daunting detail of their “poor me” perpetual victimhood. Over and over and over. I…simply…cannot — plop. They’re often referred to as energy vampires. Though you may feel deep compassion for their suffering and have a sincere desire to help, these people’s interactions can leave you mentally and emotionally drained. It’s heartbreaking to see another suffer. However, you cannot fix them. It is up to them to do that. There is a hole in their spirit, soul, and heart that you cannot repair for them. Regardless of how much effort you put into helping them, only they can fill that emptiness. Sure, you can listen to their drama and offer them all the understanding and encouragement that you can muster. You will feel that you’ve filled their cup after you’ve poured all of yours into it and that you did a good deed. It was a good deed. Inevitably, however, all the love you poured into the energy vampire’s cup will drip right back out of their spirit’s hole. They’ll come running back to you for another feeding. You are their host now, and they’ll often return before you’ve even had a chance to refill your own cup. They’ve lured you in, you are their new source of emotional nourishment, and they will drain your cup, again and again. Life experience has taught me how to quickly identify these vampires and when I meet them, I think, “Oooh…you’re one of those. So here’s another at-arm’s-length kind of friend/acquaintance.” Not going there. No, but thank you. It’s okay and necessary to protect yourself.

Always listen to your gut, that intuitive feeling or internal nudge. Call it what you want — your guardian angel, the spirit of a dearly departed loved one, or the Almighty. These intuitive feelings are real, and they serve as guidance and protection throughout our lives. In the past, I’m sure you’ve said, “I wish I’d followed my gut on that one,” or “I’m so glad I followed my gut this time.” When you don’t follow your intuition, it’ll undoubtedly teach you a lesson. It won’t necessarily be a dramatic lesson, though there will be some of those, and you will learn to trust that nudge in the future.

The soul would have no rainbow if the eye had no tears.

~~Native American Proverb (Unknown Tribe Origin)

You know how they say that bad news or hardships come in sets of three? Well, we had that covered through Mother’s Day weekend, that’s for certain.

Monday morning update: Thankfully, Happy did not lose any of her toe beans! I took her to the vet, not our regular one, but one in a neighboring county who was able to see her today. She had some exposed bone, so the kind animal doctor sedated her, cleaned up the wound, and gave her a few stitches. The initial bandage needs to stay in place for 24 hours, so Happy will likely come home on Wednesday. That is a relief. Poor lil toe beans.

Now, one of our elder cats is missing. Is this a bonus bad news, or are we looking at the business end of a 6-pack here? I’m typing this blog in stages throughout the day, you know during, for lack of a better description, my anticipatory anxiety — or is it PTSD from all the weekend chaos and wondering what’s going to happen next? I always tell people to not ask that question. My fight or flight mechanism seems to be on high alert. My puzzles remain safe, in their boxes. I’m not even attempting to fix those edge pieces again. I think that one is defective! I may or may not have given it the finger a bit ago.

Afternoon update: My turkey sandwich was delicious! Yeah, I seem to really like those for lunch. Also, I found the elder cat! She was just relaxing in the seat of hubby’s John Deere zero-turn mower like she’d been there all day. The fact is, she probably was and I simply didn’t see her. There’s some good news! I checked on the secluded hen, too, praying that she was still alive as I walked to the coop. She is doing great! Also good news. Breathe.

Evening update: It’s 7: 25 p.m. So far, so good. Elder cat still lounging. Secluded hen still doing well. Jerk rooster is still cock-a-doodling (totally off-key, by the way) and still strutting around. Hubby has full belly and is relaxing in his recliner. Myself, well I’m guardedly optimistic and darn near peaceful.

Later evening update: 9:40 p.m. and all is well. Good night, all. Have a restful night and a wonderful Tuesday.

A Mother’s Day weekend…like no other

Friday was as per usual until that evening when my husband informed me that our rooster may be dead, or actively dying. Evidently, the jerk rooster decided he was big and bad enough to charge after my husband and get away with it. He very quickly and abruptly found out that that was not the case. I couldn’t go look, I didn’t want to see it. It was up to hubby to deal with that one. Maybe an hour later, my husband went outside to choose a burial plot for the rooster whose demise we completely expected. I could feel it in my bones — that dumbass jerk rooster is dead. Minutes later, hubby came back into the house with his head held low and I just knew what he was going to say. I took a deep breath. He paused, then spoke these words, “Well…unfortunately, he’s made a full recovery.”

Saturday was pretty productive. I did some cleaning and organizing in our utility room and garage and got rid of a lot of crap. That felt really good. Then, late in the afternoon, it was time to tend to the chickens. I collected the eggs and was filling the feeder when I heard the loudest ruckus coming from under the coop. I ran around to see what the problem was to find a defenseless hen being pecked by several of the other hens. What the…?! I rushed into the run and rescued her, then held her close while I ran to share the news with hubby. Maybe we’re going to need that burial plot after all. We put the injured hen in seclusion so we could keep an eye on her in hopes that she would heal and be reunited with her coopmates.

And, now…Mother’s Day Sunday. Another standard Sunday here. Coffee in the morning, lunch around noon, very relaxing. I worked on a puzzle for a little while, but it wasn’t going very well. I couldn’t fit all the edge pieces together and was beginning to feel frustrated when my hubby came in the house and said, “You need to go check on Happy.” Unbeknownst to hubby, Happy was up under his Jeep when he started it up to go get gas for the mower. He heard a thump, the cat went running, and he didn’t know where she was, but said he saw her limping as she ran. Now, Happy has no meower. It’s broken. The only sound she can produce is a tiny squeak that is so soft, I can only hear it if I’m very close to her. So, now we have an injured cat, to what degree we had no idea, that we couldn’t find and I certainly couldn’t hear her cries should she be crying. We both searched everywhere we could think of and could not find Happy. A couple hours later, still not having found Happy, it was time to go see hubby’s mother and give her a lovely flowering tree. Our search for Happy would have to resume later. We had a lovely visit with the best mother-in-law a girl could hope for and enjoyed some bird watching from her large kitchen window. We saw woodpeckers, blue jays, cardinals, hummingbirds, gold finches, and rose-breasted grosbeaks. It was really cool and reminded me of birdwatching with my mother out her kitchen window.

Upon returning home, we resumed our search for Happy. In no time, hubby yelled, “She’s up there in the loft.” I rushed down there and climbed up the ladder to assess our poor injured kitty. I sat on the bench and pet her on the head, she purred. She tried to stand, but wouldn’t put weight on her right front leg, so I picked her up. I didn’t know what I would see as I turned her towards me. She held her leg out straight as if she were showing me her booboos. There, hanging by a thread, were two or three severed toe beans, but there was no bleeding. Happy continued to purr as I pet her and told her we’d take care of booboos.

Three days of pet catastrophes and I was frazzled. After supper, I went back to my puzzle for a little while to relax and unwind. Nope, still couldn’t get the edge pieces figured out.

So, to sum up my Mother’s Day weekend:

The dumbass jerk rooster lived.

The bullied hen is doing well.

Happy will be getting some plastic surgery on her foot at the vet’s tomorrow.

And, I threw that frustrating puzzle back in the box and put it away. It’s like the turkey sandwich all over again!

Tomorrow is Mother’s Day. It’s also the seventh Mother’s Day since my mother died.

When I was a small child and could fit in her chair with her, I would crawl up and wiggle my butt between my mother’s butt and the arm rest, then I’d lay my head on her lap. Mom would always start stroking my hair, so gently. I can still feel her warm hand softly moving my hair from my cheek and placing it behind my ear — over and over, as we all, as a family watched television. She would stroke my hair as long as I sat there with her. Mom, I wish you could do that today, one more time.

I remember the day when my mother got her very own piano. She was thrilled! Dad had one end of a heavy rope tied around the upright 1920’s piano and the other end tied to the bumper of his VW beetle which he ever so slowly and inch by inch, eased backward as the piano was lowered into our basement. I can still hear Mom playing Nola, as she’d played countless times during my childhood. Mom, I wish I could hear you play your piano today, one more time.

My mother loved to laugh. Many times, she’d get to laughing so hard there would be no sound coming from her. We’d all say, “There she goes!” which only served to make her laugh that much harder until the tears started to flow. Mom, I wish I could see you laughing hysterically today, one more time.

But, there won’t be one more time, not today. That’s simply the facts of life. I will miss my mother always. Until we meet again, the memories of you will keep me company. Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I love you.

Puzzles

During this COVID lockdown, shutdown, quarantine, or whatever you want to call it, I have discovered that I thoroughly enjoy putting jigsaw puzzles together. Up until about a month ago, I hadn’t done a puzzle since I was a kid (when I thought they were boring). These days, however, working a puzzle is very relaxing to me, I get lost in them and lose track of time. It’s like a mini vacation. From myself. Sometimes that’s necessary. I mean, have you read about my onion bludgeoning?

My most recent mini vacation lasted from about 7:00 to 10:00 p.m. this evening when I suddenly realized I hadn’t posted my blog for the day. Oh, crap! What am I going to write about? I’ve done so well with my self-imposed 30-day challenge. I can’t stop now! I sat in the living room contemplating what I could possibly write about as my anxiety revved up. Hmm. I was blog-blocked. I had nothing. Think think think!

I watched a few minutes of television, hoping something would inspire me to write. Then, my thoughts drifted back to puzzles and it hit me. I work puzzles the same way I write my blogs. When I do a puzzle, of course, I look for the edge pieces first. You’ve got to have your frame, for goodness sake. Then, I go about sorting the pieces into sections of looks like it goes here. Next step is putting it all together so it completes the picture.

When I write a blog post, the edge pieces are my main idea or story. Then, I’ll have a sentence or an sub-idea and jot it down/type it, to be expanded upon or moved to its most appropriate place later. Next step is putting it all together so it reads easily, makes sense and is hopefully entertaining.

Anyway, I thought that was pretty cool and wanted to share it with you all. Eight more days until Day #30!! What will my edge pieces be for tomorrow’s blog? I have no idea. Yet.

Today’s post is short and sweet.

A while back, I had a dream that I was washing dishes at a public sink. There were many towns people lined up waiting for their turn. Then, I heard a little poot sound and turned around to investigate. There she was, a small and blushing woman standing right behind me. She looked at me with apologetic eyes that were quickly filling with tears and said, “Never trust a chicken fart.” Now, that makes me wonder if chickens can fart.