KEEP UP THE GOOD WORKS

I’ve been engrossed in knitting toys to be handed out to children that might need them. Even though some of them that are supposed to look like bears come out looking like mice, it’s okay because they’re really cute. For the older kids (the ones that know better than to ingest their playthings) I’ve made clothes to go along with the toys: sweaters with boats embroidered on them, dresses embellished with beads and ribbons. But suddenly I’m having trouble. It isn’t lack of supplies; I have tons of yarn – yarn in every color imaginable (thanks to my sisters and friends). It isn’t lack of ideas or patterns. I have plenty of both. The problem is a big arm!
My arm was a little swollen so the therapist decided to wrap it and my fingers – cotton wadding, foam rubber pads and six Ace-type bandages. It’s now the size of a tree trunk. On the way down the hall and out of the building, I was afraid to move it for fear I’d send hospital personnel sprawling and patients in wheel chairs flying into walls. All my life I’ve had very little upper body strength. I now have an arm that’s a lethal weapon, one swipe could send even a Sumo wrestler to the emergency room – I can’t bear to think what could happen if any of the elderly got in the way.
I’m supposed to use my arm and not treat it as if I’m wearing a cast. The movement is supposed to make it more flexible. If by moving it she meant bending it, the only way that’s going to happen is if I were to miraculously turn into Superman! I feel like I have a wooden arm! Made from one block of wood and without any hinges! Get food to my mouth with that hand? Out of the question! Pick up a glass of water? Impossible – my hand is even fatter than my arm, except for the very tips of my fingers. Typing? Barely and only if it’s very slooooow.
I’m afraid knitting is out until this latest fiasco in over (which I assume it will be one day). In the meantime I’m hoping to figure out how to knit with my toes – until somebody finds something wrong with them!
FACT OR FIB ? – you be the judge.

PEACE AND QUIET

Hoping for a refreshing respite from the daily grind, the love of my life and I got some coffee (decaf for me), along with two buttermilk donuts and headed for the park. We pulled into a spot shaded by pine trees where a slight breeze rattled aspen leaves before floating through the open car windows. The fog having lifted, it was a beautiful day, so clear that ships passing through the breakwater were clearly visible. And below us the town was spread out in quiet surrender.
Rather than sit on a bench, we stayed in the car where the view was better (and we didn’t have to worry about those pesky rattlesnakes that we were being warned of on big metal signs placed every ten feet).
The coffee was hot, the donuts were sweet and we were enjoying the peaceful environment when out of the blue an elderly man and a tall skinny youth appeared carrying a large, hard plastic pad thing. The man attached the pad to a tree in front of us (even though there were plenty of trees elsewhere to choose from) and the kid began to throw punches at an imaginary opponent. Although visually distracting at least they were quiet…until the “fighter” began to punch and kick the plastic pad which gave off a loud thumping noise.
As my sweetie and I stared at each other with an “Oh boy!” kind of look, a small black car pulled up. Ignoring the thirteen empty spaces beyond us, the guy pulled in right beside us and the next thing we knew the music (and I use the term loosely) from his car radio drowned out the commotion being made by the up and coming kick boxer.
“He won’t stay long,” the man of my dreams shouted over the music. “People who can’t stand silence can’t sit still for very long.” But before the man’s adrenaline got him moving a group of about seven or eight mothers with toddlers in strollers headed toward us from down the parking lot.
Now we get as big a kick from children as we do from animals so the little bit of childish chatter, heard above the car radio and the “fighter,” was pleasant. But then one of the mothers stated yelling about something. She got several children crying which in turn drowned out the “music” and the thump, thump, thumping of the “boxer’s” blows.
I believe the rattlesnake signs can now safely be removed. I’m sure the vibrations from the three “nature lovers” has sent the snakes slithering clear into the next state – I know the racket sent us on our way.
FACT OR FIB? – you be the judge.

CANTANKEROUS

Cantankerous (a great word) = bad-tempered; quarrelsome; perverse.
Yes, that pretty much sums up a friend of mine.
BAD-TEMPERED = - not always. In fact much of the time she has a great sense of humor and keeps me in stitches. Like the time we vacationed together. We were staying in a grand old hotel that looked like something straight out of the movies: louvered doors, great ceiling fans that ran day and night, rattan furniture, and silence (even though the place was full of guests). And every morning my friend would sneak out of her room, gather up all the trays of dishes left out from the previous night for room service pick-up, and pile them up in front of my door. That was her good tempered side.
The other side runs toward the paranoid. Hearing of the slightest injustice she’ll immediately glom (I like that word, too) onto it as if she were the next victim, the next to be maligned, or somehow mistreated. “They’d better not try to do that to me!” she’ll rant, working herself into a red faced lather.
“I don’t think you need to worry about it,” I remind her. “You don’t live in the Brazilian jungle and that type of behavior is not common in our culture, anyway.” But once started, she isn’t easily contained.
QUARRELSOME = There are some days she just seems to need to pick a fight with somebody. “I’m on your side!” you may remind her. “Why are you arguing with me?”
“I’m not arguing,” she’ll argue.
One day during a phone conversation on a subject we both agreed on, she began to add a negative to every comment I made. Finally growing out of sorts I confronted her.
“Why do you always have to have the last word?” I asked.
“I don’t!” she replied and quickly slammed down the phone.
PERVERSE = Obviously, her perverse side comes into play when she catches people off guard with her bad-tempered, quarrelsome side.
FACT OR FIB? – you be the judge.

MISGUIDED SENTIMENTS

Even though the sentiment is well intentioned there are some things that are better left unsaid…or at least said differently when speaking to a cancer patient.
As I did my part of staying positive and maintaining my focus on health I was constantly amazed at some of the comments from personal friends as well as healthcare professionals – one of which was a nurse.
I had been admitted to the hospital because of an infection. And as was my determined intention I was staying upbeat (which included being appreciative of my life, as well as the staff looking out for me). I was getting along very well with one nurse in particular (laughing and joking around) when out of the nurse’s mouth came, “I guess it’s true, the good do die first.” Hey now! That’s not how the saying goes! And who the heck said I was dying?! Certainly not me – and to prove my point, the convoluted compliment occurred eight months ago and I’m still here.
In closing it’s my opinion that comments like: “Is it fatal?” or, “I hope when they do the surgery they get it all!” are really very inappropriate. It’s best to remember that just because a thought pops into your head, doesn’t mean you have to say it out loud.
And one last thing. Don’t send a cancer patient quotations made by someone upon learning that they have terminal cancer! Jeeze!
FACT OR FIB? – you be the judge (you gotta know this one is FACT).

Sept. 7, 2009

I had no life. And then I was diagnosed with cancer.
At the time I was in a frustrating job (which I worked at from home), my car had so completely broken down it was beyond repair (which made me prisoner of a house so small it was referred to as “the crawl space”) and without any chance of a diversion from “chores” (feeding animals, washing pet bowls, letting animals in and animals out…and animals in and animals out, and in and out, and inandout and inandout) there seemed never enough time for doing the things that brought me pleasure. Then suddenly, against my will, I was consumed by doctor appointments and procedures; it wasn’t glamorous, it wasn’t even high drama. It just was.
Cancer and the resulting activities weren’t anything I would have chosen for myself (although personally, I believe I did for some good reason – which I may never understand while on this plane of existence). But at least the experience has been “do-able”. And sometimes interesting. And at times humbling. And even humorous.
One day as I sat knitting in a waiting room, a man was wheeled in by a caregiver and accompanied by his wife. Even though the patient could only say, “Dabba do,” his wife seemed to understand him perfectly. He’d say, “Dabba do,” she’d say, “You want the door closed?” He’d say, “Dabbadodabbado,” and she’d get up and close the door. He’d tell her “Dabba do,” and she’d pull out a bottle of water from her purse and hand it to him – to which he’d tell her “Dabbadodabbado.”
Numerous hospital personnel passing by stopped to greet him (“You look so good!” they’d say – “Dabbadodabbado,” he’d say – “Such improvement!” they’d exclaim – “Dabbadodabbado,” he’d tell them. “You’re talking so well!” – “Dabbadodabbado” It was obvious he was well liked as he was showered with warm greetings and hugs of affection, all of which was answered with a, “Dabbadodabbado.”
After a period of time things quieted down and I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, that he was watching me knit. I looked up and he said, to me “Dabba do.” Before returning to my knitting, I said, “Fine, thank you.”
As we waited our turns to see the healthcare professional that was going to help us regain our lives (and hence our sanity) the man continued to stare at me as I worked. When my name was finally called, I glanced up and he said, “Dabba do.”
“The sleeve to a sweater,” I replied as I packed up my knitting bag.
FACT OR FIB? – you be the judge.

SCREAM ONCE FOR HELP

Excerpt:
For the next five hours Hank divided his time in the emergency room, between manic pacing and practicing art.
When Betty finally came out of the examining rooms, Hank looked at the stick figures he'd been drawing in the margins of a discarded newspaper and began to see Tony's point. Although he could draw a straight line, as long as it was really short, all of the lines went at odd angles.

FIONA FLOWER-FAERIE (Enviro-mental)

Ani-mentals & Enviro-mentals aid the planet by their good attitudes.

Although she lived in a hot house on a grand estate, Fiona was very unhappy. She never felt well and when the hot house became steamy she became congested and her nose became stuffy. Her friends were full of helpful suggestions: “Fiona, rub one of your leaves against Rosemary she’s medicinal, maybe she’ll clear up your sinuses,” or “Try a petal of Mandarin orange’s blossoms, according to him he’s loaded with vitamin C, that should get rid of those aggravating symptoms.” And Fiona, being exceedingly polite, did try every idea that came her way, even though she had little hope that any of them would work. But neither she nor her friends could come up with any steps to take when the gardener (a big burly man) passed through spraying everything in sight with a very bad smelling mist. The only thing any of the plants could do was hold their breaths and hope that by the time they had to breathe again some of the fumes would have floated out the door. Silently, Fiona vowed that one day she’d figure out a way to put an end to the use of insecticides and other chemicals - which she did, but that’s another story.
Fiona had once heard the owner of the estate tell the gardener of the estate that Fiona was the youngest of a society of rare blossoms (Fiona decided that perhaps that was why she felt so out of place). So it was a huge surprise when the big, burly gardener came tromping through the greenhouse (with a stranger – a thin woman with gray hair) and roughly grabbed Fiona, pot and all.
“Don’t need to worry about this one, Rianna, she’s a gonner,” the gardener said to the woman.
“Maybe she just needs water or more light,” Rianna, suggested helpfully.
“Nah,” the gardener stated as he started toward the door with Fiona and her pot dangling helplessly, “spent too much time on her already.”
The air had a very cool nip to it, a chill that Fiona wasn’t used to and so she began to shiver.
“Sorry, darlin’,” the gardener said to her as he flung her onto the compost heap.
In a state of shock Fiona landed with a thump, but when she felt the heat generating from the pile she snuggled down into it, breathed deeply of the fresh air, and spent the rest of the day watching the clouds float past.
By late afternoon she was feeling much better. Better than she could remember, actually. But it was nothing compared to the way she felt as a fast moving shower washed her leaves clean.
From her position Fiona could see the door of the greenhouse where Rianna was staring at the compost pile as she waited for the shower to pass. And once it did, Rianna, dressed in rubber boots and other rain gear, hurried to Fiona. Gently lifting Fiona up, Rianna stuck Fiona, pot and all, under her rain coat as she whispered, “I’m taking you home with me!”
It was Fiona’s first ride in an automobile and her first visit to a cottage, a cottage bursting with potted plants. Some were in bloom; some were resting while they stored up energy. Some Fiona recognized, but most were foreign and Fiona was certain they had come from foreign places.
And to her great surprised and pleasure, when Rianna carried her across the room and set her down on a cloth covered shelf, Fiona recognized that the leaves of the plant she was next to were exactly like her own.
By the time the sun arose the next morning Fiona had learned from her new neighbor that they were of the same species of plant: a beautiful flowering plant that had originated in Tibet and whose life giving seeds had been hand carried to the new country by a very kind monk.
And to this day Fiona’s offspring grow and flourish for the benefit of all.