Normal Is As Normal Does

As of the first of the month, the doctors have lifted most of my post-surgery restrictions. Some remain, like the no-caffeine rule (damn). Others will gradually go away in another six months or so--the pulling and pushing and weight-lifting ones. 

My body has changed. I've put on weight, an expected side effect of the drugs, temporary inactivity and of  food tasting better.  The aches and pains are the same-old, same-old. The tiredness that was so overwhelming has receded. Ah, yes, I still enjoy those naps that have become habit-forming, but I can do without them most of the time.

Many of my senses have been heightened, besides that of taste. Maybe it's the result of greater blood flow. My eyesight has improved to the point where I can once again enjoy a large-print novel. I notice the feel of things, especially smooth things, more than I did before. Strange, isn't it?

My sense of smell is far more acute. Hubby no longer smokes in the house. Where the odor of cigarette smoke has always bothered me, it has now become painful to inhale, even in tiny quantities. The smell of cleaners, paint, bleach and strong perfume, once merely an annoyance, has become a very real health issue. My throat feels irritated, even from the strong scent of flowers. It's hard to explain.

Live as normal a life as possible, says the cardiologist.

Easy for him to say. He deals with heart issues every day. He sees every spectrum of normal. I see only one. Me. And I'm not sure what normal is.

Some days I feel like my entire life has been shrunk like a car in a crusher, from big and comfortable and fast right down to a two-ton coffee table. Other days I am ready to explode with energy and joie de vivre. And I still don't know what normal is.

What I do know, however, is that the body heals from the breastbone-cracking and the ripping apart of a vital organ. The scars will eventually fade. The surgeon did his job. It will take months, even a year, for the physical healing to be complete.  I understand. That part of my recovery is doing well. I have had no pain associated with the surgery.

What takes longer is the healing of the mind. My awareness of each minute of living is acute. I waste time, and it really bothers me to do so. I want to be on the go constantly so that I think less of my own demise and more of the years that lay ahead. Or months. Or weeks.

Logically, I know that the repair job should hold up for years. But, frankly, this too-close encounter with death has scared the crap out of me and left me shaken.

I want to be an eighteen-year-old normal again instead of a sixty-two-year-old normal. I want to run and play and dance and ride a bike around the bay.  I want to go to drive-ins and ignore the film. I want to eat heavily salted French fries and high-fat ice cream and not worry about packing on pounds, or  my blood pressure soaring. I want to bend the rules of decorum until they break. I want my summer car to be a two-seater sports cars instead of an SUV. I want my bucket list to be a list of what I have checked off, instead of a list that I won't live long enough to finish. I want the man I love to see me as a fox instead of a pudgy grandma. Is this normal?

It's hard for a person to grasp what is in another's mind. Some people take one day at a time, accepting the ups and downs with calmness. Some see living as just existence. Sometimes, I do, too.

But there are days when normal for me is longing for my carefree self, the days when I felt confident and energetic and full of passion for life. I have those days still, but living seems more like a Tilt-a-Whirl sometimes than a Sunday drive. So much to do, so little time.

I think I'll go back to bed.

Fate and Free Will

I watched a movie tonight, one that Hubby came across by accident. It made me think about what we accept as fate, and what we call free will. Perhaps they are one and the same.

Is our future already decided for us? Is it pre-determined for us to be rich or poor, a doctor or politician or a garbage collector? Do we make choices to become a worker in a restaurant or an amusement park, or has some unseen higher power already decided our fate? Is there a master plan laid out for each of us? Can we change that direction by sheer force of will?

I look again at free will. We are given a menu of life choices. Our circumstances may lead us away from university to a job in a shop, or to life on a riverboat. We engage in dating many people, yet only one becomes our lifemate. Did we choose? Or was that choice decided somewhere else? And if so, where?

Do we have freedom to make different choices? Yes, we do. My question is--is the answer already in our DNA? Were our children meant to be born with the parents already selected for them? Is our greatness or bondage going to be, no matter the path we think we are freely choosing?

How do we know if the emotions we feel are meant to be real, or if a wind of change could alter them tomorrow? Were we meant to be something else, and a quirk of the universe decided differently for us?

Is fate nothing more than re-directed free will? Or is free will not free at all, but pre-determined? The questions go in circles, the answers looping about them, endlessly expressing themselves in convoluted terms and irony. 

My head is spinning. I know that I've made some wrong choices over the years, my free will operating as it knew how at the moment the choice was made. Now I am wondering--would different choices have made any difference in the long run? Or were those the choices I was fated to make all along?

So whatever we are, whoever we are with, whatever we become....did we ever have a choice?  

I'm beginning to think we didn't.

The Cemetery

I don't know how cemeteries are treated in your hometown, but I suspect that they are well-groomed, well-visited and--some of them, at least--are treated like parks.

Such are some of those around here. Walkers, bicyclists, drivers abound. Pictures are taken of the gazebo or the mausoleums. Fresh flowers and American flags are everywhere. The peace is palpable.

I first walked in a cemetery probably before I could walk on my own. My parents loved to roam the old cemeteries and burial grounds for miles around. They would note relatives and friends, of course, but mostly they would look at the old tombstones. Some were still grand, stretching ten feet tall. Some were creative, bearing images of angels or books, or, for a gambler,  a pair of dice. Some had embedded  tokens. Some were so old as to be unreadable. I remember being shown how to take paper and, pressing it against the stone, rubbing it with pencil to bring out the print.

The oldest cemetery has a great many mausoleums as well as decades-old (perhaps even centuries-old) sand-colored buildings that house the offices, crematorium and chapel. I recognize many of the names from growing up here, including street names from my neighborhood. Isn't it wonderful how the past entwines with the present?

The newer cemetery was made on land donated by a businessman whose son had been killed. Only about fifty years old, its trees are not so towering and the stones not so unique. Some bear photographs, some have angels. A tiny chapel sits in the back, made of stone and nestled among the trees. Many a time have I sat a distance away and listened to the bagpipes or a twenty-one gun salute.

I go there often to watch the wildlife and to think about my parents and other family members who have chosen this as their latest home.

I believe that cemeteries are for the living. We go there in our sadness, or sometimes to share joy, with departed loved ones. I've no objection to those who walk here, for they all act respectful of the dead, and peaceful with the living.

I remember stories of the ghosts in graveyards, the horrific zombies that roamed the grounds, the screeches in the night. How wrong those stories are!

When I choose to visit, I feel God's presence. I feel a closeness with history. I feel those I loved most reaching out to me. I have no fear.

Sitting or walking, coffee in hand, I think about those who have gone before me. What were their lives like? How long has it been since their resting places were visited out of love instead of curiosity?

I remember my Dad leaving a coin on his father's grave. As he said a brief prayer, he would add, "Here's a dime. Call me when you can."  When my own father passed away, I tucked a quarter in the columbarium. "Call me when you can", I said.

I feel lucky to be able to visit right now, for I am not yet ready to take up residence.

Old People

I have always loved to watch old peoples, especially couples. Especially now that I am one of them.

There is nothing sweeter than to see a pair that you can tell has been in love for a long time, or perhaps they only got together recently and are soulmates who at last found each other. Whatever. I love to see the way they hold hands, and the way they steal a kiss as though no one can see them.

I am reminded of some older couples at the club where we go dancing.

One of them dances nearly every dance. He and she whirl across the dance floor smiling and in perfect synch. They look as though they have been together for many a year. One can imagine them in ballroom costumes, so perfect is their movement.

One evening I bravely approached them, saying how much I loved to watch them perform, and how they must have been waltzing together for a long time. Boy, was I surprised to find out that they had known each other only a few months, that they never took a lesson, that they were friends, not mates. Wow.

Another couple strikes me. I know not how long they have been together, but I'm sure it is a very long time. She appears most often in a wheelchair, a floppy hat and a dress that strikes me as, in old-fashioned terms, "Sunday best".  He, in his farmer flannel and ill-fitting jeans is certainly nothing one would at twice. Yet several times over the course of the evening, he will take her hands in his and help her from her chair. They move slowly to the parquet, and gently sway to the soft, romantic music. He kisses her forehead, and they sit to share French fries and to rest. Tear-jerking.

I see couples like these every day, so obviously loving and caring. One of them may be wheelchair bound, or venturing into the world of senility. It doesn't stop them. The looks between them are of absolute adoration.

You can always tell when people are happy together. There is an electricity between them. They touch in the simplest of ways. It all comes naturally to them--the affection, the sweetness. You observe them, and you just know.

I know nothing about their personal lives. A little bit of beer or Jack Daniels and live music tends to bring out our more romantic sides. All I know is that whether they are at a dance, or in the park, or sitting on a bench by the water....this is love.

Celebration and Reality

An acquaintance wrote that the birth of the newest Royal wasn't important, that the news should be dedicated to our fallen soldiers, and to fires and floods and other matters of human horror.

I disagree.

A new life is a celebration, be it in your family or in the Royals. A celebration of any magnitude is what makes the horrible parts of reality bearable.

If the news speaks only of wildfires and war, where has the quality of life gone? Where is the tenderness inside? The joy of living goes far beyond the practical; we need to embrace the smallest of triumphs in order to make living worthwhile.

Pick a day, any day, perhaps in your teenage years. The morning brought a math test for which you were dubiously prepared. The afternoon brought gym class and the humiliation of being unable to keep up. Your best friend turned her back on you for some other friend. You go home mad and sad. Then that special person calls, and you talk and you smile, and suddenly the day wasn't so bad, was it? You see, it was the smallest thing that saved a crummy day.

Yes, war and famine and earthquakes are important news. They are reality of the worst kind. Some people, unfortunately, think that reality is only the bad things that happen, or perhaps only the drip-drip-drip of everyday stagnation is their reality. 

But reality is also waking to sunshine or to rain. Having an ice cream sundae instead of lunch. Watching the critters play in the park at noon when you play hooky from work. Having a pow-wow with an old friend. Finding a long-lost love letter.  A hug and a moment with someone you love.

Reality is what you accept it to be.

Once we lose our grip on the happiness we should have, we cease to live; we only exist. When we forget how to smile or laugh at insignificant humorous antics, when we forget the day we screamed in pain/pleasure at the teenage ride in the shopping cart, when we dismiss the simple touches of a loving hand as inconvenience....we stop being. 

So we can celebrate the birth of a Royal baby boy, just because it is worthy of celebration. Celebration is also reality.

Sailboating

My bucket list is growing. It is impressive in length, creativity, diversity and fantasy.  At last objective look at it, I figured I would have to live to be eighty-six and stay in good health to accomplish everything. I've added a few things since then.

I must now live to be ninety-two and stay active. Blimey, that's a long time.

I've never been on a sailboat. I know nothing about them, except to keep my head down or I'll get cold-cocked from the boom.

 I sit at  the bay and watch them floating by in great majesty. There is one that looks like a schooner, sails rippling in the breeze, gliding as if it recognizes its own beauty. I lust for a ride on that boat.

No one I know has a sailboat, or I would take a deep breath and invite myself on board. I can't very well go up to a total stranger at the marina and request an hour's trip on Lake Erie, can I? Sigh....

Nobody has a hot air balloon, either. Or a Piper Cub. Or a pontoon boat (although I've been on those and I love them!)  I need richer and more adventurous friends. I've chosen my friends because of   their goodness and because I enjoy them. I wish I had cultivated a couple who were sailors!

For now, just for today, I will be content to watch the regatta and to add a petition to my prayer for a healthy life.

Who knows? Maybe this September, I'll be sailing!

Tarnation!

Now there's a word you don't hear much anymore. For some reason, folks would rather swear than say, "what in tarnation!".

Like "by gosh!" and "golly" and "gee whiz", "tarnation" has been replaced by taking God's name in vain, or by various four-letter words. I'm admitting that one occasionally slips from me, usually "damn". I try to be careful about using God's name in vain. Staying on His good side, instead of in His wrath, matters to me.

I cringe when I hear euphemisms for people of any race, gender or nationality. I will leave if I can, suffer if I can't. I look at it this way--people are born the way they are born. If I don't like a person, it is because of what they have allowed themselves to become, not because of who they are.

Words can bolster one's ego, flatter one's being. Or, they can dash one's hopes and dreams, destroy the very essence of one's life. They can heal and soothe, or they can leave scars and humiliation.

Powerful things, our words.

Sometimes it takes no more than a "yes" or a "no" to change an attitude, or even a life. Sometimes all it takes is an honest answer (or a white lie) to create cheer. A compliment, sincerely given and graciously accepted, can help make the difference between success and self-esteem or abject failure. Gentle, considerate criticisms are a staff of life; nagging, harshness and bashing are death to a person's will.

Our vocabulary needs some revamping. "Gosh" and "gee whiz" and "tarnation" need to be a bigger part of it, as do "joy" and "faith" and "I love you".

Words hurt, and words heal

Be Silent

"Let yourself be silently drawn by the strange pull of what you really love. It will not lead you astray."~~Author unknown.

Setting your mind free, setting your heart free, isn't the easiest thing to do. We have commitments. We have responsibilities.

Then one day we come close to losing it all. We awaken as if from a deep sleep instead of from near death. The world has changed for us. We still love who we loved before; our favorite thing is still mushed-up ice cream; we still love the lake and hugs and tender words. But something has changed.

Our feelings about life have become more intense. We think reckless thoughts. We want to take chances. We want to be consumed by life instead of watching it from  a distance. We want it all......to experience everything we might have missed before without guilt, and with new passion.

I see new things on my bucket list of life unlived.  I see places I want to go, people with whom I want to spend time. I see a book I want to publish and much, much more. Excuses of time, money and commitments blur my visions.

Should I share these dreams? They have been mine alone, private thoughts that have rested in my brain and my heart, tearing at me, making me wish I could accomplish them, wondering why I have not. Sometimes I want to shout, "This is it! This is my dream!"

But then I realize how foolhardy that sounds, and I keep quiet, avoiding the mocking and criticism that may result. I plod on, silently relishing the things I love, unwilling to tell the tiny strides, waiting for the completion of the task.

Still, the love of these things pulls at me, and I am helpless. I let my mind run free,  the flight of fantasy, the hopes and dreams and daydreams coming to fruition.  Someday.

We have to be silent with our secrets, because once they are shared they are not ours any longer. 

Nightmares

I've never been prone to nightmares. Bad dreams on occasion, yes, but not full-blown and horrific nightmares. Oh, there have been a few that have set my heart pounding on awakening, and a few that left me bawling or chilled to the bone. Even if I remember them, I can usually attribute them to spicy food or a bad movie.

Until the afternoon of my birthday.

 I had spent a short time at church that morning putting out prayer shawls with some other committee members--nothing stressful about that. I did a few errands, played a few computer games--and suddenly I found myself nodding off. I laid down and was asleep before the blanket was around my shoulders.

I awoke alone in the house, cold and clammy. I was afraid to get up and afraid to stay in bed. My heart was pounding. I wanted to cry out, but I didn't. Somehow I came to my rational, awake self. Shortly thereafter, I drifted off to dreamland once more--only to be rudely awakened again--by what, I still don't know.

This time, the dream was as vivid in remembrance as it had been in my unconsciousness.

I had dreamed of my death.

I haven't been scared of dying. I came close, really close, to doing just that. I had no fear of it, only a calmness and a need to move on (with or without my caffeine jag). Death  ordinarily isn't terrifying to me, although the preamble of dying frightens me a bit. Suddenly, in my dream, I had to confront it.

I was in a casket of white marble, unable to move, conscious of all around me. There were spirits and the living. Some were laughing, some crying. I kept trying to tell them that I could hear them, but no sound left me. I could smell the yellow and red roses and the spicy carnations of every hue. I felt the gentleness of the living as they touched me and the warmth of the spirits as they tugged at me, expecting me to follow.

Abruptly the dream changed, or maybe it was a new one--I'm not really sure.  There were mirrors everywhere, and on then was written "5 more" in big red letters. I was being taken, presumably into the service, army, I think. And then it was Hubby, telling me not to worry, and then he was taken away in a different direction. There were more mirrors, each with those big red letters. I was sure they were meant for me, but I don't know why. I think one of them said "5 months", but I couldn't read the writing on the rest.

Even going to the club that night didn't erase the dream.  Even a few gins and juices didn't help. I've been trying to remember my dreams, and I've been working on deciphering them. This one is one I'd rather forget.

There are things I want from life, simple things for the most part. I want to be liked and I want to be loved. I want health and a modicum of wealth and notoriety.  I want to feel peace.  My faith lets me view death as new life everlasting, and I am prepared for it. But this dream felt, well, ominous and discomforting.

I'll continue to try to remember my dreams, to write them down, to try to understand them, but some are best left alone.

Special Occasions

I learned long ago that every day should be a special occasion.

A friend sent me a story that illustrated exactly that opinion. It reminded me, as stories often do, of what made me realize that there are few truly special occasions.

Grandma Laura, Hubby's grandmother, had lived a hard-working life. She raised her boys virtually on her own. She had a handful of sensible sayings, one of them being "we gotta make the best". But she didn't, that's the point. Oh, yes, she made do with whatever she had, but in doing so she also neglected small things that could have brought a little happiness to herself or to someone around her.

When Grandma passed away I was in my thirties, maybe thirty-two or -three. Going through her things, the sisters-in-law found some beautifully starched all-cotton sheets big enough for our queen bed. The lace on the edges was hand-tatted and elaborate. She had made (or received) them for her wedding bed.  Each of us girls got a set of those pretty but yellowed sheets.

Dutifully I took them home and washed them, cold water, gentle detergent, gentle cycle.

They fell apart where they had been folded for at least fifty years, all but some of the lace. What a waste!

I think about those sheets now and then. I think about Mom's 'good' china, and my 'good' wine glasses and a host of other things that we tend to keep for 'special' occasions.

I ask you this--what is more special than a dinner with your loved ones where you can spread the lace tablecloth and put out the fine china? What is not a good time to wear a gift of sparkling jewelry, even if it is to Walmart?  What is so special about the silky lace lingerie or the collectible knickknacks that you can't use them now, this very day? Or the bottle of champagne? Or perfume? Or the silver watch you've had in your top drawer because you might lose it? Or maybe it's a gift from someone who cared enough to give it, but you don't even look at it anymore.

Rule of thumb--if it brings a smile to your face, or a tear to your eye, it has made this day a special occasion.

When we deny ourselves the snippets of the life we claim to cherish, we lose the meaning of living. We have today. Tomorrow is uncertain.

Celebrate!

Chinny Chin Chin

It is the eve of birthday number sixty-two. Hubby, knowing how I love flashy costume jewelry, made a special trip to my favorite shop and bought me the most sparkly, gorgeous set I think I've ever seen (even if I compare it with the one he bought me when he was afraid I was going to die). I don't save the beautiful things for a special occasion.  I wear them daily, like a soap opera star, because every day is a special occasion. I can't wait to wear this one.

However.....

As he gently took my face in his hands, and as I prepared for a whopper of a long, sweet pre-birthday kiss....he began to chuckle, then snort, and finally there was a guffaw that would wake angels. Talk about a mood changer. The cause of the mirth?

A hair....a single hair on my chinny chin chin. Damn. First the gobbler neck (worthy of its own essay) and now this.

I've taken care of the mustache thing, thanks to Sue and her magic wax and to Hubby's Gillette Fusion. (Thanks for the inheritance, Grandma D.)  But this...this horrid thing is new.

I've finally finished reading all the material that came with my various medications. Side effects include weight gain (check), sleepiness and/or insomnia (check), dry mouth (check), darkening of the eyes, enzyme changes (check and check) and a host of other complications. Not once is stray facial hair mentioned--not once!

So now what? Am I going to grow a goatee? Will I have to wear even bigger earrings (any bigger, says my friend and confidant, and  I will need a hoist to put them on) or shorter skirts (not at my age!) or lower cut blouses to enhance my already mildly flamboyant femininity? 

Hubby says I'm over-reacting. It was, after all, only one hair that he yanked from my face. But I remember Mom...that little hair would pop out not just overnight, but in seconds. She hated that hair in the days when her mind was working. Later, when she no longer cared about anything, I would see that hair grow, and tell her I wanted to tweeze it, and she'd get mad.  I'd give up, and there that hair would stay.

So.... I've justified that I need more pretty necklaces (no such thing as too many!)  that do multi-duty--hide the still-visible scar, hide the wrinkle (And how do you hide yours? Yes, you have one, too) and draw attention away from the whiskers. Geez.

Compliment my eyes, admire my jewelry (you can add to my collection, if you'd like), keep your opinion  to yourself on my too-young wardrobe or my chubby curves.

And please feel free to ignore the hair on my chinny chin chin.

Mortality

Most nights I wish Hubby was at my side instead of at work.

Sometimes I am grateful he is not. He wouldn't like to see the tears that fall, tears I can't stop, tears that are not a lack of faith but of the realization of mortality.

There are some nights since April 11 that I lay awake, tracing my fingers along the seventeen centimeter scar on my chest, or the ones on my leg or feeling the bruise from yet another blood test. Just when I think all is well, it isn't.

Another birthday is creeping up on me--a big one, a landmark one. This year I am focused not on the numbers, but on the fact that I am around to celebrate it at all.  

I touch the scar again. It is fading some, but I can still feel it. When I do, I remember the symptoms I didn't recognize (or chose not to); the pain of that day, the days when I was asked how I was feeling and I chose to answer, "Fine", (rather than go into an explanation of the utter frustration and weakness) haunt my memory..

There are days when I just can't cope with the reality that this repaired heart might last fifteen years, or two. The diabetes could take my life. The meds I take are playing havoc with my enzymes. I try to explain that it is not my faith that suffers. When you lecture me about that, it doesn't help.

I am human. Sometimes it is the mortal side of me in charge.

There is so much living to be done. This birthday should be nothing more than a number--but it is not. It is a day worthy of celebration.

Most days I think I might still have many years ahead. When I choose a necklace that will hide the scar or find myself wearing stockings on a ninety degree day to minimize the ones on my legs (or wearing jeans), that's when I am forced to acknowledge the limited future I see. Most days  I see unlimited sunshine. Most days.

Every single day (make that every hour) has become precious. I will spend my time living and doing exactly what I want to do. I will save the tears for when I am alone, let it all out, and put on the brighter face in the morning.

I know that I am not alone. Even you, whether you have faith or do not believe in anything at all, have these moments. I have a scar as a memento. Maybe you do, too, or you have the pharmaceutical cornucopia on your dressing table or whatever it is that reminds you of that one moment you would never choose to remember.

I wasn't at all certain that this was worth sharing....then I remembered the promise I made when I decided to write my blog. Touch one life, one time. Let someone else know that they are not alone, be it in joy or frustration. The way we feel about something or someone or about ourselves is reality.

Mortality is reality, too.