Category: #Confessions

Posted in #Confessions, Aging

On Becoming Seventy or How I Thought I Would Be Grown-up By Now

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

            I cried the year I turned twenty-nine.  I boohooed and made such a big deal out of the last year of my twenties.  “I’ll have to be grown up now and learn about mortgages.  I’ll have to stop wearing short shorts and start acting more mature.  Should I cut my hair?”  These are the thoughts that swam through my mind as a young mother of two and looking back now, I wonder why I wasted the last year of my twenties on such foolishness.  Turning thirty did not end my short shorts days.

Daughter Lee in middle, little Amy K. daughter of a sweet friend, and me in short shorts…Rockport, Texas

            Ten years later, remembering my silly response, I stated that thirty-nine would definitely, absolutely be the year I became a real adult. I had one year to prepare myself for the forties, which everyone knows is the hallmark of maturity, the pinnacle of wisdom and sophistication.  My forties were filled with my children growing up, me finishing graduate school, and having a mortgage.  I felt mature beyond my years, but my shorts were getting a little longer, and I started buying readers at Walgreens.

            Thankfully, there was no angst the year I turned forty-nine: only a peaceful resignation that time marches on if you’re lucky.  Silently I marched into my fiftieth birthday with wonder and awe, and in true Boo fashion, my husband surprised me with a special gift. 

We celebrated quietly at home with a home-cooked meal and a delicious strawberry cake made lovingly by Boo. We were sitting at the table having just finished cake when a phone started to ring.  It wasn’t my landline phone, the ring was coming from one of my yet-to-be-opened birthday gifts. 
“Where is that coming from?  Why is my gift ringing?” I questioned.  “Boo!  What did you do?”

            And with that, I ripped the paper off of my gift, which was a beautiful UT Texas orange, flip phone.  My first, very own cell phone. “Hello?”  I said.

            “Surprise!” my daughter yelled. “You got a cell phone!  Happy Fiftieth!”

            Not only did turning fifty bring me a cell phone and other wonderful gifts, but it also brought me a huge red zit on the side of my cheek.  The location made it unable for me to disguise, plus it hurt like heck.

Welcome to your fifties, it said!  You thought you were over teenage acne, but alas, you’re not grown up yet!

Not long after my birthday zit, I had to have a hysterectomy and began hormone replacement therapy.  What is happening?  I’m not old enough to be over zits but too old to have children.  Fifty-one brought me a nice reprieve.

            Turning fifty-five or The Double Nickel, as Boo calls it, was like getting a bonus.  At fifty-five you are considered a Senior, at least AARP says you are.  IHOP, Chili’s, and McDonald’s want to give you freebies or discounted menus and even car rentals want to give you 10% off.  There’s quite a list of establishments that want to help you save money.  So, I ended my fifties on a high note by retiring and starting what some might refer to as living my best life. (in capris, not short shorts)

            When I heard that sixty was the new forty, I held onto that as I slid perilously into the big six zero.  But sixty-five brought with it all kinds of stuff that was hard to ignore.  For one thing, those dang Medicare phone calls started, and the commercials.  “Call this number NOW!”  All of a sudden my mailbox was flooded with advertisements for walk-in bathtubs, electric stair chairs, and even more discounts for seniors.  Was I now a true senior?  A senior-senior?  As the fliers for Medical Alert Systems and adult diapers kept flooding in, I realized that I’d made it.  I was NOW a mature adult.  Grown-up to the max.  The day I signed up for Medicare I felt as if I were in a barrel about to go over Niagara Falls.  No turning back.

                        And so it is as I approach my seventieth year of life.

            My mother was only thirty-three when she died.  I am immensely aware of my good fortune and blessings to have lived such a life as I have.  Her early death is not lost on me as I reflect on all she missed and the fact that she did not have the opportunity to grow old. It is a privilege denied to many.

            I know the true meaning of when you’ve got your health, you’ve got everything.  I used to lament about my hands, saying, “I’ve got my grandma’s hands!  Arthritic, wrinkled, and veiny.”  But, these hands have held my children and grandchildren and they’ve reached for Boo to steady me in life.  They’ve made meals, graded papers, planted flowers, and held the hands of loved ones who have passed from this earth.  I’m proud of them and all the ways they’ve shown up for me.  My hands tell the story of a life well lived.

My grandma was crowned Valentine Queen of her nursing home. (1980’s)

            So, on May 1, 2023, I will quietly arrive at my seventieth year of life, Lord willing and the creek don’t rise.   Gladly, I have not squandered this year worrying or plotting.  I’m neither afraid nor embarrassed. I am simply humbled and very grateful. 

And as for the short shorts, well I had a good run.  It doesn’t seem to matter so much anymore, and if seventy doesn’t say “mature” I don’t know what will because eighty is the new sixty and twice as fun as forty.

Posted in #Confessions, writing

Author’s Stepping Stone by Ginger Keller Gannaway

Posted on by gingerkellergannaway

Nancy and I are gathering and polishing our favorite posts for a publishable book of essays. Research tells us we need to create an author’s platform before we reach out to literary agents. Most editors advise boosting our social media presence. Some say using WordPress sites (like sittinuglysistahs.com) are worthless unless you have at least 20,000 followers. Our blog has 269 subscribers, and it takes longer for me to “publish” an essay than it takes me to write and revise it. 

On comic Hasan Minhaj’s The King’s Jester special, he asked an audience member, “What are the most likes you ever got on a photo?” When the guy hesitantly answered, “86,” Minhaj exclaimed, “If I only got 86 likes on a photo, I’d kill myself!”
 
Should I start stockpiling sleeping pills because I’ve never had more than 32 likes on a photo?

Yosemite’s Half Dome in January (by Gary McClain Gannaway)

For Nancy and me, building a decent author’s platform is as scary as scaling Yosemite’s Half Dome at midnight in winter without a harness, safety cables, or climbing rope. I have no interest in Pinterest; I’ve never been on Instagram on purpose; I don’t know how to get on TikTok, and I joined Twitter ten years ago because a tweet was limited to 140 characters and I could read actual quotes from my idols Barbra Streisand and Bette Midler. Also, I didn’t join Facebook until all the cool kids got off of it.

Create a platform?! I’ll never create more than an author’s stepping stone in a Texas creek during the August drought with nothing but snakes and grackles as my audience. Or considering my Cajun side, I’ll try balancing on a cypress stump in Bayou Fou-Fou where mosquitos attack so fast I can only remain on that wooden platform for three minutes before I’m weak from blood loss.

I yearn to, like Walt Whitman,’“sound my barbaric yawp over the rooftops of the world,” yet I cannot get used to not being heard. Our Sittin’ Ugly Sistahs  posts may get twelve likes and seven comments on our blog. Facebook may get over fifty likes and twenty comments. I treasure our regular readers, and I keep on writing because I love to write. However, we lack the skill to boost our numbers.

Last week Nancy and I got advice from a social media expert – someone under thirty-five who knows his way around technology. We weren’t sure what plug-ins were and didn’t know how to delete info. on our blog that was just taking up space. For a large cup of coffee, our guru convinced us to expand our outreach with Twitter, Instagram, and Pinterest. When I suggested trying TikTok, both he and Nancy gave me “you got to be kidding” stares. 

Therefore, I’ll balance on my stepping stone in the rushing, murky waters of social media and post more content, and I’ll hope for new followers and settle for not embarrassing myself worse than the time I asked my high school students to explain hash tags. “But why smash all the words together? What do hashtags accomplish and why include a list of them?” The freshmen had tried giving me examples, modeling how to create them, and even retaught me how to use them on a blog post. In a teacher-becomes-the student moment, I blinked at their excellent teaching methods but lied when I said, “Thanks. Now I understand.”

Today I will boldly step onto my next social media stepping stone. I may not ever get across the bayou because I’ll likely splash into the murky water; however, I will not drown. I’ll float on my back and let the Instagram pictures and YouTube videos carry me to new places. Maybe I’ll pick up friends and followers along the way. And against all odds, Nancy and I may write something that gets a three digit number of likes! #ItsWorthAShot #WeBelieveInMiracles 

Posted in #Confessions, #Teaching

Rock Paper Scissors

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

          “Repite, por favor.”

            “Senorita?”

            “Senorita?”

            I heard my professor tap into the headset asking me to repeat the phrase that was just spoken on the tape we were listening to.

            “Senorita, verme despues de clase.”

            See me after class.

            For some unknown reason, I advanced placed out of two Spanish classes from high school and landed in a second year Novella class in which I did not belong. Because I had sailed through high school with little studying, I was ill-prepared to keep up with this high-level Spanish class at Baylor University.

            I slithered into the Professor’s office after class, and he wasted no time:

            “Senorita?  I will let you withdraw passing if you will just get out of my class.  You simply cannot continue.”

            His chair-side manner would never win a compassion award.  He offered no remediation or helpful guidance, as I was evidently slowing him down.

            “But my major. What about my major?  I wanted to be a Spanish interpreter and travel the world.”

            “Oh, Dios mio!  No Miss.  You must not continue.”

            “Ok.”  I said, “But, what do I need to do now?”

            “Just go.  I’ll take care of the withdrawal.”

And so, I went back to my dorm room to pour over the curriculum courses trying to find a new major.  Becoming a Spanish interpreter and traveling the world was no longer an option.  How do you say, ‘end of the line,’ in Spanish?

            Because I had learned to sew with my grandma growing up, I thought I could be a fashion designer, which sounded as exotic as a Spanish interpreter.  I did love fashion and as far as I knew I would not have to take any foreign language, so it seemed the perfect fit.  I called my daddy that next weekend to tell him my news and shockingly it did not go the way I predicted.  I explained the Spanish class situation and that I withdrew with a passing and not a failure.  Then I told him my grand plan to become a fashion designer and see the world.

            “No, you will absolutely not become a fashion designer,”  he said.

            “But Daddy…” I interrupted.

            “No buts.  The only acceptable majors are teaching, or nursing.  That way, if your husband dies later in life, you will have a career to fall back on.”

            “But, Daddy, a fashion designer is a career.”

“Nancy Lynn, you need to become a teacher or a nurse, marry a nice, educated man when you graduate, be a stay-at-home mom and live happily ever after.  That’s what you need to do unless you want to start paying your own tuition and then you can waste your own money on fashion designing.  Comprende’?”

            “Yes, Daddy.”

            “O.K. honey, get this taken care of as soon as possible.  Love you.”

            “Love you, too, Daddy.”

            My exciting idea about fashion designing morphed into a Bachelor of Science degree in Home Economics.  My certificate would allow me to teach grades 8-12 Home Economics and Science: and also, Kindergarten.  And although I had never ever, even once thought about being a teacher, it seemed that was my best option. 

            In my junior year at Baylor I met and fell in love with a law school student who was also a widower, ten years my senior and had a six-year-old daughter. We fell for each other in lightning speed and got married six months after our first date. “We got married in a fever, hotter than a pepper sprout!” as Johnny Cash would have said.

            His mother had been a teacher, so he was as happy about my teaching certificate as Daddy was.  We got married before my senior year, and Daddy even agreed to finish paying my tuition as long as I graduated at the end of the year, and that is exactly what I did.

             After my graduation, my ‘then’ husband still had two more semesters of law school, so we decided that our daughter, Lee, and I would move back to his hometown of Killeen, Texas and I would apply for teaching jobs.  My interview with the Killeen Independent School District happened to be the same day we drove from Waco pulling a U-Haul trailer.  Sixty-one miles of pulling a trailer and entertaining a six-year-old left me a little less than fresh as I pulled up to the Human Resources building,(trailer and all) and after a short introduction, I was told to head straight over to the junior high school.

            “Go on over to the junior high and I’ll call the Principal to expect you.  This could be your lucky day,” the Human Resource Director said.

            When we arrived at the junior high, Lee and I went into the front office, and I introduced myself to the secretary.

            “Mr. Lawson is expecting you.  Your daughter can wait out here with me if you like,” she said.

            The school was old and definitely across the railroad tracks.  I just didn’t know if it was on the right or wrong side of those tracks.  And since Killeen, Texas was near Fort Hood army base, I knew there would be a large population of military children attending the school.

            Before I knew it, Mr. Lawson came out and introduced himself to me and Lee. 

            “Be good, sweetie, and I will be back soon,” I said to Lee and sat her in a chair by the counter in the front office.

            Mr. Lawson and I had polite chit chat and he asked questions about my teaching philosophy.  I had no philosophy about teaching or anything else, really.  I was barely twenty-two years old and well, quite frankly, I thought this teaching gig would be a breeze.

Five minutes into our interview we heard ‘click click, likity tickity, click, click.’  We continued talking but when the clicking sound kept on he said, “Maybe we better check on your little one.”  Opening his office door we saw Lee, singing softly to herself and tap dancing on the freshly waxed office floor.  The secretary clapped and cheered, “Bravo!” and Mr. Lawson turned to me saying, “Well, I have to offer you the job now after a performance like that!  School starts in two weeks, what do you say?”

            “Yes,” I said hugging Lee.  And just like that I moved to a new city, with a new family and a new career.

            I became a teacher, something I never aspired to be or dreamed of being.  It was by default from a Spanish Professor who wanted me out of his class as much as I wanted to be out.  It was a life decision I fell into by sheer chance and because my daddy had a vision of what a woman should and should not do. Was it luck?  Would you call it fate?  Both sound too romantic for what it really was, happenstance.

            I became a teacher, averaging way more than the “forty hours a week and summers off,” that a few foolish people believe is true.  My heart was captivated by the sometimes hopeful, sometimes hopeless faces I would meet each year.   Come August, I planned to do better than the year before and create an atmosphere of learning and respect, and each May I looked forward to time away from the constant responsibility and work, which is teaching.  It was a rhythm I would repeat for thirty-six years.

            In 1990-91 I taught Kindergarten at Clear Creek Elementary School on Fort Hood army base in Killeen, Texas.  The Gulf War had just started when we began school that year and what I remember most are the children and mothers crying each morning as they separated for the day.  In my classroom, our main windows faced the highway, and right next to the highway were the railroad tracks.  The trains ran all day and all-night loading and unloading equipment, tanks, and personnel and often my twenty-five little charges would be gathered three deep looking out the window hoping to see their mothers or daddies.

            “Come away from the window now,” I would say.  “Let’s read a book.”

            “But I think I see my daddy,” one child would say, and the rest would press close, hoping for a glimpse.

            Our school was on high alert and the MP’s (Military Police) were positioned by the doors while nearly every day a young mother would come to check out her children in hopes of moving back home where they could be near family.  It was a chaotic year, yet one I felt most honored to be a part of.  I felt my calling to not only teach these children but also to love and nurture them, providing a safe, calm oasis during their otherwise stressful days.

            As time went on, I became the kind of teacher I could be proud of.  I became a teacher with a heart.  A heart for students from all walks of life, backgrounds, and nationalities.  A heart for loving the hard to love and a heart to bring discipline to a troubled spirit.  I enjoyed each grade level, each school, and each role I played from Kindergarten teacher to Assistant Principal of a large high school.  The job requirements might change but the essence of a teacher stays the same.  Connection.

This connection changed my life in a million different ways, all better than I could have ever imagined.  My heart learned when to be tough and when to be tender.  My patience grew by leaps and bounds as eventually, I became exactly what I was always meant to be.

 A teacher.

Posted in #Confessions, Aging

Smooth Sailing

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

Recently, because I’m of a certain age, it was time for that dreaded medical test, the colonoscopy.  Everyone fifty and older has a reaction when the word is even spoken, and everyone has their own story surrounding the event and process.  It’s a rite of passage.

“It’s the prep that’s the worst part!”

“Hope you have smooth sailing and that everything comes out ok!”

Oh, the jokes can go on and on and while potty humor does help during this most humbling time, we all know the importance of making sure we are up to date on our tests.  We know it is necessary.

Importance notwithstanding, it is one of the most dreaded, talked about, and joked about medical procedures we older folks have.

Ten years ago, I had the joy of prepping for an upcoming colonoscopy.  I had Boo arrange to get off work so he could take me and bring me home.  I drank all the liquid concoctions, took the pills, and showed up at 7:30 a.m. clean as a whistle, and ready to go. (pardon my pun)

“Good morning!” the cheery desk clerk sang.

“Nancy Malcolm.  I’m here for my colonoscopy.”

“Hi, Ms. Malcolm.  Let me get you checked in.”

Pages began to shuffle and ruffle.  She glanced back up at me, “Did you say, Malcolm?”

“Yes,”  M  A  L  C  O  L  M

The calendar came out.  More shuffling of papers.

Then she grabbed the calendar and said, “I’ll be right back.”  And she was.

“Uh, Ms. Malcolm?  Your appointment is tomorrow.  We have you down tomorrow, the 7th with a 6:30 a.m. check-in.”

I’m pretty sure my heart stopped as I asked, “Are you certain? Oh, my goodness, are you sure?  I had it down for the 6th at 7:30 a.m.”

“No, I’m sure. See?”  And she turned the calendar to show me. “You’re the doctor’s first patient tomorrow.  The 7th with a 6:30 a.m. check-in.”

I felt a flip and gurgle in my stomach, and I thought I would either pass out or take off running to the bathroom, instead, tears welled up and my face got hot.  My lip began to quiver and as it did, a salty tear ran down from the corner of my eye.

“I don’t think I can do this again or go without eating for another day.”  I turned to look at Boo who was all comfy in his chair with a fresh coffee and reading the news on his phone.

“Why don’t you take a seat, and I’ll talk with the nurse.”

“Ok,” I slobbered and dejectedly turned toward the row of chairs near Boo.

I sat down and before he even glanced up from his news, he said, “Ready for action?”

“It’s tomorrow,”  I whispered through my tears.  “I’m on the wrong day.”

His face didn’t move, but his eyes peered up at me in shock, “Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m sure!!” I said a little too loud and as I looked around, I saw people staring at me sideways with pity and horror.  My saga had played out as their worst nightmare, and they were checking their own paperwork and sighing with relief. 

Silently, I sat while Boo debated on whether to question me further or just sit quietly in solidarity.  He patted my knee.

“I’m waiting for the nurse to tell me what to do,” I offered, and he patted me again.

“I’m so hungry,” I said to no one in particular.  “And water.  I need a drink of water.”

I went to the restroom.  Walked around the waiting room.  Tried to read the news over Boo’s shoulder and then just sat and stared into space. Finally, I walked up to the window again.

“Did you find the nurse?” I asked the desk clerk.

“Yes, she’s in the OR.  She’ll come out when she can. We have to wait.”

“Ok,”  I whispered.

 Twenty minutes later, a nurse came out and called me over to the side of the room. As I walked over to the door where she stood, I felt all eyes on me.  The collective waiting room leaned one ear toward us, trying to be nonchalant.

“Ms. Malcolm?”

“Yes.”

“The doctor said he will fit you in this morning, but you’ll have to wait an hour and a half.”

“Yes, yes, Ok.  Thank you.  Thank you.  Thank you.” I said.

She wasn’t smiling, although I wanted to hug her anyway.  “Don’t go anywhere,” she said. “And don’t eat or drink anything.  Not even water.”

“Of course.  I won’t.”  And she turned to leave.

Sure enough, an hour later, she came back to get me.  Most of the gawkers from the waiting room had already been called to their appointments, so I kissed Boo’s cheek and said, “See you soon.” 

“Good luck, Babe,” he said, and I began my walk of shame to the room where I put on my gown and waited for my IV.

“Did they tell you what happened?” I asked the nurse as she finished sticking me with the needle.

“I heard,” she said.  “You got lucky this time.”

“I know,” I said, and they wheeled me off to the OR.

“When do I get the happy juice?” I kept asking, and finally, the doctor said, “We might be able to find you a little bit, even though you’re here on the wrong day,” and then he laughed.  That’s all I remember till later that day.

I was still groggy on the drive home, but that evening as I was more awake, I went to the pantry for a snack.

“Cheetos!  Boo!  How did these Cheetos get here?”

He came into the kitchen and just stared at me.  “Are you serious right now?”

“You know I can’t control myself with Cheetos and now I’m going to have to eat some.  But I’m throwing them out after that.  You shouldn’t tempt me.  You know I forbid Cheetos in the house,”  I said.

“Boo,” he said.  “You threw a fit driving home after your procedure and made me stop at 7-11 for a big bag of Cheetos.  I tried to suggest something else, but you said you deserved them after all you’ve been through today.  You insisted.”

“Really?”

“Super really.”

“Sorry, babe,” I said as I crammed a handful of Cheetos into my mouth.

That was definitely one colonoscopy for the books.  So, this past week when I was scheduled again, ten years later, for my colonoscopy, I had already checked and rechecked my dates and times.

When I met with the doctor three weeks ago, he said, “If all goes well, and you do the prep perfectly so that I get a clear picture, and everything looks good, this could be your last colonoscopy.  You’re almost seventy, so in ten years you’d be eighty.  If this doesn’t kill you it will most likely be something else.  Consider it a perk of getting older.”

And then he went on; “Make sure you follow the prep instructions perfectly.  This morning I had to tell a lady she has to come back next week.  I saw corn.”

“Corn?”

“Corn.  She said she didn’t eat anything and followed the instructions, but I didn’t get a clear look.  I know corn when I see it.  No food and no corn.”

“No corn,”  I promised.  “You can count on me.”

Friends, getting older is not for the faint-hearted.  Literally.  I followed the prep instructions, starved myself for two days, and showed up on the right day at the right time and sure enough, everything went according to plan.  There was absolutely no way I was going to have to come back next week.  No corn for me.   It was all smooth sailing.

Posted in #Confessions

I’m Not Afraid To Be A Scaredy Cat

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

            Recently I called my brother to ask, “Did we go trick-or-treating when we were little?”

            “Surely we did.  Didn’t we?”

            “The only thing I remember is one time Daddy drove us to the ‘rich’ neighborhood so we could get good candy.”

            “Oh yeah, but our paper sacks were a dead giveaway that we weren’t from their hood.”

            I’ve never been one for spooky stories or movies.  I don’t like spiders, ghosts, or demons.  I don’t listen to scary sounds or scary music, and I like the lights on.  No pitch black for me. 

I’m not afraid to be a scaredy cat.

            Right before the sixth grade, we moved across town, in Amarillo, to a newer neighborhood and a new school.  That year I was eleven years old, and sixth grade was a conundrum of emotions and hormones.  I was already 5’6” and filling out, shall we say, so there was no hiding the fact that I was the ‘new girl.’  I was the tallest kid in my class and had just gotten braces on my teeth.

            In spite of my newness, I was invited to a Halloween party at Tim Parker’s house, one of the cutest boys in 6th grade.  I may not have known everyone invited, but I knew they were the IN crowd and that I should be happy I was included.  The invitation was a little loose on details:  Meet at Tim’s house at 7:00 p.m. to play games and go Trick or Treating!   Conveniently, Tim Parker lived right down the street, so I planned to walk over at 7:00 p.m. and join the fun.  There was just one catch.  I knew my daddy, J.C. Claughton, Jr., would not let me go to a boy/girl party IF he knew about it.  So, I told him I was going trick or treating with my best friend and her brothers.  He would never understand that this party was a matter of life and death as far as my popularity was concerned. 

            For some unknown reason, my daddy didn’t check out my story, and at 7:00 p.m. that Halloween night, I walked over to Tim’s house ready to bob for apples, eat candy and laugh with my new friends.  I pushed down the guilt over not telling the truth and promised myself that next time I would do better. 

            I rang the doorbell and could already hear laughter coming from inside Tim Parker’s house, then everything got quiet.  The front door opened slowly but no one was there, and after waiting a couple of minutes, I took two steps inside calling, “Hello?  Hello?  Tim?”

            “BOO!” screamed voices from inside, and I jumped three feet off the floor.

            Everyone was laughing and after I gathered myself, I pretended to laugh, too.

            “Come on, we’re all in the basement,” Tim said.

            In Amarillo, as other West Texas towns, a lot of homes have basements in case of tornadoes or excessive hail.  Most basements are finished out with carpet, ping pong tables, and other activities for the kids, as well as blankets, flashlights, and safety equipment.  As I followed the others back down the stairs to the basement, I was already starting to feel that I might have made a poor decision.  The room was dark, except for a candle lit in the middle of a circle of kids, and the stereo was playing House of the Rising Sun, by the Animals.

            Two couples were slow dancing in the corner and everyone else was sitting in a circle with a candle and an empty bottle of Coke.

            I walked over to the circle and Lisa Claythorn patted the floor, “Sit by me,” she said, and just as I did, the music switched to The Beatles, She Loves You. Yeah, Yeah, Yeah!

            “Let’s start the game,” I heard one boy say.  “Spin it!”

            As unworldly and immature as I was, I still knew what Spin the Bottle meant.  A bottle is placed on the floor in the center of the circle.  A player spins the bottle and must kiss the person to whom the bottle points when it stops spinning. The problem was I had never kissed anyone before.

            A girl with long, red hair took the bottle and twirled it so hard, the bottle literally slid across the floor.  It landed pointing at a boy named Steve, who was in my class.  They both laughed and the circle of kids howled.  “Oooooo! Kiss!  Kiss!  Kiss!”  This red-headed girl, whose name I did not know, shook her head, flicking her red, glistening hair away from her face, and rose up on her knees.  She leaned forward and as she did, Steve leaned in for the kiss.  Oh, my goodness, how I wished I was dressed in a silly costume yelling “trick or treat!”

After the first spin, I was relieved yet nervous that I might be next.  I started to sweat and tried to calculate the odds of not having to spin versus who I would have to kiss. 

            “If you don’t kiss, you have to go through the spider webs in the closet and stick your hand in a bowl full of brains,” Tim said.

            As I sat calm on the outside, heart pounding on the inside, I thought about the whole kissing thing.  Lick my lips or stay dry?  Did the red-headed girl lick her lips?  Mouth open or closed?  Quick or slow?  Eyes closed or open?  What about my braces?

            “Where’s the restroom?”  I whispered to Lisa.

            “Upstairs,” she said, and I jumped up saying, “I’ll be right back.”

            I lingered as long as I could without seeming strange and made my way back to the circle.  In a haze of slow motion and fearful dread, I sat down in the first empty place.  Pat Fite, the absolutely cutest boy in the world, spun the bottle looking right at me.  As soon as my eyes locked with his, I diverted my gaze to the bottle which was beginning to slow down. What am I going to do if it lands on me?  Why did I even come here?  My throat is dry and probably my lips.  What if the bottle doesn’t land on me?

            My mind was racing, my heart was pounding, and my stomach felt as if it was ready to regurgitate everything I had ever eaten. The bottle was creeping to a standstill. I could see it pointing directly at the girl next to me, yet it continued to move in half-inch increments. It stopped right in front of me and when it did, the lights started to flicker, and we heard loud steps bounding down the stairway.

Tim’s big brother and two of his friends landed in the basement yelling, “Come on you guys!  It’s time to do some tricks!”  Everyone jumped up and our kiss was quickly forgotten.

            “Let’s go, come on!”  Tim’s brother said.  “Everyone has to steal a pumpkin and smash it!”

            Still sweating, but trying to play it cool, I said I had to be home by 8:15, and started moving toward the door.  Pat Fite touched my hand and said, “Maybe next time,” and the turntable played Don’t Let The Sun Catch You Crying by Gerry and The Pacemakers.

Once outside, the group went one way, and I went the other. Pat Fite called, “See you in Homeroom!” And I waved goodbye.  Waiting until the group was at the corner,  I ran the rest of the way home and as I breathlessly closed the front door, I heard Daddy call, “Did you get any good candy?”

Posted in #Confessions, Fears and Worries

Vulnerable

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

           

Story and Photography by Nancy Malcolm

Walking to the car, I was afraid I would not make it safely locked inside before the tears came.  The car was stifling, and as the engine came alive, I sat with my face in my hands crying big, hot tears of shame, and then something else. 

            I had just come from one of my last sessions of physical therapy.  Last November I had my first total knee replacement and this July I had the second knee done.  It has been an arduous year of pain, healing, and regaining strength and balance.  And after all of that, here I am reduced to tears in the parking lot of my physical therapist, right next to a Bed Bath and Beyond and a Party Pig. 

            If I am to tell the truth, which, by the way is a very vulnerable place to be, this is my first bout of tears since I started this transformational journey.  I have not cried since I made my resolve to complete the surgeries.  I could not waiver,  I had to stay the course and commit to the nineteen-month-long process.  There would be no turning back.

            In my mid-thirties I began to feel pain in my knees that was unexplained.  I was told to do strengthening exercises, and possibly have arthroscopic knee surgery to remove cartilage fragments.  But, as my thirties gave way to my fifties and sixties the x-rays showed osteoarthritis in the kneecap.  One doctor said, “You have the knees of a thirty-year-old and the kneecaps of an eighty-year-old.  Someday you’ll have to get your knees totally replaced.”  I have taken Rooster Comb (Hyaluronic acid) shots in my knees, cortisone shots, Celebrex and Aleve in large doses, and I’ve rubbed on every kind of ointment, even purchasing ‘Blue Emu’ cream, heralded as a miracle cure by my little Auntie Sue. 

            But, finally what made me ready for surgery was the excruciating pain and the even more excruciating embarrassment of not being able to walk down a flight of stairs, or go on hikes, or play on the floor with my grandkids. I felt like an imposter as I waited in line for the elevator with those who obviously needed it more than me.  I was ashamed of my disability.

            I want to be able to climb the bleachers of my grandson’s ballgames and dance with Boo at our 50th wedding anniversary.  I want to play chase with my grandkids and ride bikes until our heart’s content.  I want to enjoy what’s left of my time here on earth and if possible, if I am granted the blessings I may not deserve,  to do all of that without pain.  So, when my orthopedic doctor said, “I think you’re ready.”  I mentally prepared myself for the road ahead.

            Arthritis is a cruel disease that affects your joints causing inflammation or degeneration of your joints, creating great pain.  Sometimes, Osteoarthritis of the fingers, knees, or hips follows an injury.  I badly injured my knee while in college, by falling down a flight of stairs, but who can know for sure if that was the beginning culprit, only that it happened. 

            All of these things were not in my thoughts as I sat in my car after physical therapy.  Only minutes before I had been standing on a 3-inch-high wooden block, shaking like a leaf.  It had been two and a half months since my surgery, but it was time to tackle the stairs.  “I’m scared to bend my knee, I’m afraid it won’t hold me,”  I said.

            The fresh-faced, twenty-something-year-old physical therapist stood in front of me saying, “I’m right here, I won’t let you fall.”  And as silly as this might sound to you, I knew I had a choice.  I could try and keep trying or I could cower away in fear and settle for less. After all, I am a grown woman and if I say I’m not ready, I’m not ready.  If I don’t want to put myself through the pain and soreness, I don’t have to.

            My choice, though, was not to waste my pain.  I’d come this far and the thing I wanted most was right in front of me.  But, I was afraid, and I was ashamed that this young girl was having to help me when I should have been able to do it myself. I felt like a whiney baby, a scaredy-cat afraid of a 3-inch step when there are so many people who would be happy to be in my place.  My journey of pain and rehabilitation was finally coming towards a pivotal point, and I knew I had to find a way to push through.

            Sitting in my car, I was feeling months of hard work, pain, and the shame I have carried for a long time.  The shame surrounding what I should be able to do, shame at something that was not even my fault.  I am not a crier by nature, but I am tenderhearted, and sometimes that can serve me well. At that exact moment, I needed a little compassion.  I wanted to say, “It’s ok to be afraid, you can do it.  Give yourself some time.”  But all I heard in my head was negative. “You’ll never be able to do this.  Just give up.”

            The walk to the car was like a walk of shame until I sat down, and the tears fell. My tears cleansed a part of my heart that had been overgrown with fear and anxiety.  My tears were a release of the gratitude I feel towards my God and my surgeon, my family, and my friends.  My heart overflows with thankfulness that I am healing well, getting stronger, and relearning to climb stairs.  I am grateful to have less pain.  I am grateful for insurance and Medicare.  I am grateful for all of the kind, compassionate people who have been put in my path during this medical odyssey.

            It is not easy to let yourself be vulnerable.  You must first accept your truth, without judgment, and without comparing yourself to how you think others would behave.  Brene’ Brown, a famous professor, lecturer, and author actually wrote a book about vulnerability, Daring Greatly.  In that book, she says that “Vulnerability sounds like truth but feels like courage.”  And that is exactly how I felt.

            After the tears slowed, I drove home debating whether to tell Boo about my ‘meltdown.’  I was already trying to make light of my feelings by using that derogatory term.  But, right before bed, I told him everything and to my surprise, I cried all over again.  He listened, almost like he has never done before, and held me tight like a little child.  It seems Brene’ Brown was absolutely right.  My vulnerability to share my truth felt so courageous and Boo could feel the truth and openness as it went from my heart to his.  My willingness to be open transformed everything. The gratitude I feel for health and healing allows me to be afraid and do it anyway. The willingness to be vulnerable gave way to gratitude and that has made all of the difference.

“What makes you vulnerable makes you beautiful.”  Brene’ Brown

Posted in #Confessions, Contemplations, Family

Talking to Myself by Ginger Keller Gannaway

Posted on by gingerkellergannaway

When I walk at daybreak along empty streets, I feel comfortable while I nod greetings to yard dogs and window cats. One golden retriever rests behind a low fence and blinks his eyes at me without barking. My mind jumps around as I take in my surroundings and forget my worries.

I see a huge Siamese huddling beside a porch and say “Look at that gordito.” I notice the lime-green Hyundai that perfectly matches the paint on its house and say, “Cool coordination.” Other times I shake my head and voice concern about one of my grown children: “Should have planned better.” Or I admit a personal failure: “Sticking my nose in the beehive.” I believe that thoughts gain power when I vocalize them. A statement like “I am a writer” could become reality.

So I talk to myself as I take heel/toe steps on cracked sidewalks and look up to locate a lone sparrow chirping in a skeletal tree or sideways to spot dogs yapping behind wooden fence slats. I review a recent argument with Gary and mutter, “Why can’t you notice…?” Or I say, “Hey, You” when the opossum cat sees me as she heads to her gutter hideout. I may get profound when I consider an unusual cloud: “Looks like hope… or loneliness…or a penis.” Then a serious jogger to my right passes and I wonder if he heard me. Does he think I’m a drunk or an escapee from the retirement home? I can’t believe I’ve turned into someone talking out loud to herself!

I think back to Daddy walking down Second Street to his office two blocks from Grandma’s house. As I rocked on the front porch, I watched him talking to the air. He nodded  and moved his right hand in short slicing motions to stress his main points. Maybe he was rehearsing something he’d say to a client or reminding himself to fix an unreliable toilet at home. Could he have been rehashing a conversation he’d like to rewind and redo? He often wore a grey or brown suit, but sometimes on a week-end he’d have on tennis shorts, a white undershirt, dark socks, and slide slippers. In either outfit I thought he looked ridiculous. Why did he need to say things out loud? He reminded me of Crazy Marie, an old woman who walked the downtown streets in her Sunday clothes and talked to herself. Marie walked fast and had a purse hanging from her wrist. She bobbed her head as she talked, sometimes making her wig crooked beneath her church hat.

I’ve told my three sons that “embarrassing your kids” is a parent’s duty, and I’ve done my best to carry out that parental obligation, learned from my mom and dad pros. Dad’s conversations with himself were one source of embarrassment. He didn’t care what passers-by thought when his one way conversations kept him engrossed in his own world. He had a lot on his mind, and walking and talking seem to go together like sighing and smiling. 

I remember hearing Evan chatting away in his room when he was three, and I wondered who he was talking to. I peeked and saw he was alone and playing with his Beanie Babies. So it’s natural for kids to talk to toys and imaginary friends. Later they learn to converse mostly with other living beings. When is it acceptable to utter our thoughts to ourselves? Do we give our thoughts get stronger when said out loud? Are consultations with ourselves common enough for people to ignore? 

Is becoming like my father – someone who often frustrated and embarrassed me- the natural order of things? I suppose I better have that discussion tomorrow morning around 7:27 with someone I know very well. 

Posted in #Confessions, Aging

The Bee’s Knees: Continued

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

The first Monday meeting with Mitchell, my young, handsome physical therapist, started off with a bang.  “Have you been to the restroom yet?  You know, pooped?”  he asked.

“Not yet,” I said quietly.

“It’s really important, so let’s keep taking what you’re taking and drink lots of water.  The more you walk the better it will be.” 

Ya’ll, I have a friend who swears her mother used to ask her, “Have you do-do’d today?” Every time she feigned she was too sick to go to school, her mother would point her finger right at her face and ask the dreaded question, “When is the last time you do-do’d?”

Mitchell and I walked a loop through my house, with me on my walker and Mitchell right behind me, holding a white, thick belt tied to my waist so he could keep me from falling.  He evaluated my uneven gait and chanted, “Heel-toe, heel-toe.”  We then went through a ‘lofty’ set of exercises, to be done three times a day.  Next, he checked my incision and reminded me, “When the pain ball runs out, probably Friday, you’ll feel a slight surge in pain levels.  Just want you to keep that in mind.”

I was starting to get really scared.  Scared about the pain ball (how much will it hurt to take it out?) and what will happen to me if I don’t, you know?  Pain and poo, two very big topics that dominated my thoughts day and night.   But, because I am a doctor on Google, I read everything I could about both topics and I must say I found out it could go either way…good or bad. Good, like an easy-peasy potty time and absolutely no pain in removing the wire inside my leg.  Or bad, like missing the toilet and landing on my butt and twisting my new knee, causing me to have corrective surgery.

Friday morning Mitchell arrived with a smile. “Let’s check your pain ball.”

“No need,” I said.  “It’s empty.”

“Ok then.  Let’s take it out.”

“Should I take a shot of whiskey? Or bite a bullet?” I joked.

He laughed and said, “I know, right?”

I laid on the edge of my bed, closed my eyes, and he peeled the surgical tape off my thigh to reveal the wire, which had been threaded down the front nerve of my leg.  I was trying to mentally prepare for the pain, when he said, “It’s over.”  And just like that I was freed from the pain ball and looking forward to a new surge of discomfort.

“Remember,” Mitchell said, “Stay ahead of the pain and go to the restroom.  See you Monday.”

After Mitchell left, I drank one more glass of Metamucil on top of all the other laxatives, just for good measure.  Sadly, I realized too late, that it had not been necessary.  At five o’clock, my stomach started to rumble, tumble, roll, and grumble.  For some reason, I felt the need to tell Boo, “Something’s happening.”

“Let the games begin!!” he laughed.

Five o’clock also marked the onset of the dreaded ‘surge of pain.’  I will spare you the gory details, but when I felt I’d better head toward the restroom, I immediately knew my speed on the walker, was not as it should be.  Never in my life could I have planned that the pain and the poo would happen on the same day and same time and stay all weekend long.  Boo, hollered from the den, “Do you need some help?”

Banging my walker into the door frame, I screamed back, “Leave Me Alone!”

Truthfully, I have only screamed once during this whole ordeal, and this was it. 

“No problem,” he answered.

The infamous ‘surge in pain’ was like my knee was waking up a week later from the surgery.  Shooting pain, dull aching pain, and stabbing pain settled in on my incision and the very back behind my knee.  I took every pain pill allowed me and still prayed to fall asleep.  The pain came in waves, like a rolling storm off the coast, battering and ramming my body until I thought I would break.  The only rest from the pain was from the sudden urge to run to the restroom because I needed a level head to maneuver my way through the bathroom door with the awkward walker.  I was a very hot mess!

 Things could only get better after this extremely low point because, after all, this was just the first week of my recovery.

Monday morning, Mitchell said I looked a little pale, but applauded my efforts and we set up a new pain med plan.

“Let’s get rid of the walker and go to a cane,” he said.

“How about tomorrow?  I need a few more hours,” I said.

“Deal.”

That night I went to my closet and found the cane my grandpa actually carved for himself.  It was the same cane my grandma used as well, and now I was the proud recipient. Who would have guessed it?  The cane was a perfect simple shape and sanded smooth as silk.  Grandpa had painted it a dark brown and shellacked it to a beautiful sheen.  The grip was worn in places and as I stood to try it out, tears rolled down my face, imagining my grandparents’ touching this very same cane.  I felt their spirit with me. This cane fit me just right and I felt safe and secure knowing my grandparents had in some way, been sent to take care of me.

I practiced that night and the next day it was trial by fire as I learned to walk with the cane.  Does anyone remember Festus from Gunsmoke? 

At the end of week two, I saw the physician’s assistant and she took off my bandage.  I was predicting a Frankenstein scar, but it wasn’t quite that bad.  Turns out my surgeon was a brilliant seamstress.  One surprising thing about my knee now is that it feels hot at times from the swelling and has a slight pinkish color.  They promised it will go away.  But, part of my knee is numb, and that will not go away.  As I was leaving, the P. A. said I could begin practicing driving.  It was music to my ears, and I felt the breeze of freedom floating in my near future. Although it was another two weeks away, I had hope that I could recover and finally go somewhere by myself.  No offense, Boo.

Soon Mitchell and I began to go for walks outside.  On my 2nd walk, we ran straight into my neighborhood friend, which you may remember as my Walker Stalker.  John wanted to know what had happened to me, where had I been, and “Who’s this?”

“This is Mitchell,” I said. “My physical therapist.”

 But John never really registered what I said, until finally, he asked, “Now, who is this? Is this your grandson?” 

We just smiled and said, “Well, I’ve gotta keep walking, John.  See you soon.”

As time went on, I begged Boo to ride with me a half-mile down the road to our community mailboxes.  “I don’t need to practice anymore,” I said, as I slightly hobbled to the car.  But once to the car, I had to pick up my leg to actually get in.  Bending my knee was torturous, in the beginning.  I really didn’t realize how strenuous getting in and out of a car and driving one mile could be.

“I don’t think you’re quite ready,”  Boo said as I came to a stop.

I knew he was right, but I also knew I was very close to my independence.  “I’m on my way back, baby!  Just wait and see!”

I finally graduated from Mitchell to outpatient physical therapy.  My weeks of exercising, icing, resting, and walking have now turned into two months.  My out-patient physical therapist is a seemingly sweet-looking, young woman named, Thea.   Don’t let her smiling, girl-next-door exterior fool you, she’s no-nonsense and hell-on-wheels.  But, thanks to her and Mitchell, I’m making great progress.  At my 8-week check-up, my doctor was very pleased.  “You’re one-third of the way healed.  Keep up the good work.”  He also told me it will take one full year to feel normal and strong, and I’m starting to believe him.

Everyday, there is a little less pain and stiffness, and everyday there is hope for better sleep. I’m walking, driving, sitting, standing.  I’m off my addiction to Cheetos.  I’ve gone on a trip, grocery shopped, and been to Costco twice.  I’m still telling Boo, I may not be able to cook for another month or so, but he’s fine with that because it means fewer vegetables.

I’m grateful to have insurance and Medicare.  I’m grateful to all my friends who loaned me the walker, icing machines, and tall potty chair.  The friends who brought me food and visited when I was still in my wrinkled pajama pants and greasy hair, and I’m grateful to Boo who never left my side, even when he wanted to!  Who has put up with my groaning and moaning and talking about myself until we are both sick of it. 

Sometimes Boo is a saint.

Originally, I planned to have my other knee done in March, but as time goes on, I think it best to wait until July. We have a trip planned for the end of March and one in June. Feeling stronger and having a little fun will put me in the right frame of mind to do this all again. (I hope).  And Boo will have a chance to rest up before his next nursing duty.

People continue to ask me, “Aren’t you so glad you had the surgery?” 

“Not yet,” I answer, “But, I know I will be.”  And that really is the truth.  I know I will be, especially after the next surgery.  As my grandma used to say, “If the good Lord’s willing and the creek don’t rise.”  I will be so, so glad I’ve had the opportunity to get my new pair of knees!”

My girls, my grandma, and my cane.
Ready for an outing with Grandma and her walker!

Posted in #Confessions, Aging

The Bees Knees

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

The Bees Knees: Part I

I come from sturdy stock. I’ve survived a lot from my childhood and growing up years.  My threshold for pain is high, like natural childbirth high, but the last thirty-eight days have brought me to my knees.

Grandma

My arthritic knees, a gift from my grandma, have been a source of pain and embarrassment since my thirties.  I have repeatedly rubbed Aspercream, Voltaren cream, and Icy Hot on these bony knees  I’ve had cortisone shots, rooster cone shots, and rotated ice with heat.  I would slowly rise from chairs and avoid all stairs in favor of an elevator.  Worrying about my knees has consumed a lot of my life for thirty-plus years.

On a vacation to Washington D.C. a few years ago, I clung to Boo’s arm as we made our way up the eighty-seven steps from the Reflection Pool to the Lincoln Memorial.  Rubbing my knees and reverently limping around while snapping photos, I told Boo, “There’s got to be an elevator somewhere.  I don’t think I can make it back down.” 

I looked all around and found a small sign that said Elevator.  It was in the back, back corner of the monument.  One lone person in a wheelchair was parked right in front of the elevator doors. “I’ve been waiting for the elevator to come back up for quite a while,” she said.

            “I’m going to get my husband and grandson; will you hold the door?”  I asked.  And she gave me the thumbs up.

            Rushing to find Boo and Sam, I called, “Come on guys, I located the elevator!”

            Turning the corner, I saw the back of the lady in the wheelchair rolling into the elevator.  With her was an assortment of people on crutches, walkers, and canes.  I grabbed Boo and my grandson Sam, urging them to get in.  All of a sudden Boo says, “Uhh, we’ll meet you at the bottom,” and they walked away. “Chicken!!!”  I called after them.

 I squeezed myself into the tiny steel trap, making the other riders move closer together.  It took a good 5 minutes for the trembling, creaky doors to finally close and I pushed the dirty-looking number ‘one’ on the wall of the elevator.  Casually, I glanced to see if there was a number to call if we were to get stuck, but it was too faded to read.

  Another long minute later, the elevator jolted and then shuddered as it began to move.   S l o w l y, the airless box moved downward, while the wafting July body heat and odor settled heavy on my skin. The smell of old, tarnished metal and flattened carpet that may never have been vacuumed, made me feel claustrophobic.  My fellow riders exuded smells from Bengay cream, onions from lunch, and cigarette smoke.  I felt a little throw-up in my mouth but managed to hold my breath for the remainder of the ride.

 It felt like an eternity as we bumped and gyrated to a stop, waiting another eternity for the doors to open.  Luckily I was the first one-off, cursing under my breath at Boo for leaving me and my knees for causing me this stress.

“What took you so long, Nannie?” my grandson asked when I jumped out.

“I’ll tell you later,” I said and took a gasp of fresh air.

            So, when my doctor told me this October, “You can take shots and rub creams until you are one hundred years old, but nothing will ever heal your knees.  You need knee replacement surgery if you want your life back.” 

I cheerfully said, “Let’s do it!”  I felt certain this would be my answer as I halfway listened to his explanation about the surgery.  I must have blocked out the warnings about throbbing discomfort afterward and tortuous rehab exercises.  I zeroed in on the statements, “You’ll be so glad you had the surgery.  You’ll be better than brand new.”

On November 8th I arrived at the hospital at 4:45 a.m. and went directly into Pre-Op, where things started to move way too fast. When the anesthesiologist came in to do a nerve block, I started asking, “When do I get the happy juice?”  

Wire threaded down the front of my leg.

The nerve block is started at thigh level and a wire is threaded down a major nerve on the front of the leg. Then pain medicine is released through a ball of meds that completely blocks pain in the leg for one week. The nurses and doctors were so kind and thorough and when they told me to sit up in the operating room to get my spinal block, I remember asking, “I hope my doctor had a good breakfast.”  That was the last I remember.

Two- and one-half hours later, I was in the recovery room asking when I could eat. I felt drowsy but happy. I told my surgeon, “This was a breeze. Thank you. I’m going to be your best patient ever! You’ll see.”

He smiled and patted my foot, “Keep the good attitude!  You’ll need it.”

When I got to my room, I noticed something was attached to me.  “What’s this?”  I asked the nurse.

‘It’s your nerve block pain medicine.  It’s stopping all of the pain right now.  You’ll have it for one week and then it comes out.  You’ll be so glad you have it.  By the way, you have to take a stool softener and a laxative starting today.  Pain medicine stops you up.”  Still on my ‘happy juice’ high, I didn’t really soak in the reality of what she had just said.

Approximately ninety minutes later, the physical therapist came in and suggested we go for a walk.  “Sure,”  I said.

As I sat up the nurse helped me with my IV and the nerve block pain ball that I had to wear around my neck because it was attached to my leg. The pain ball was in its own little black bag, like a purse.  I tried to move myself to the edge of the bed and discovered I had to use my hands to lift up my own leg to place it in position.  The therapist put that stylish white cotton belt around my waist so I wouldn’t fall, and off we went down the hall for a 10-foot walk.

The whole twenty-four hours I spent in the hospital was full of walks and threats.  “Be sure to drink your Miralax and take your stool softener.”  “If you don’t pee, you’ll get a catheter.”  “You have to eat.”  There were pages of information given to me and more “Be sure to..” reminders and then poof, I was discharged and going home.  Still a little loopy from pain medicine, I asked Boo, “Please stop and buy a bag of Cheetos.  I need them.”

Boo gave me a sideways glance, knowing I forbid Cheetos in the house due to my addiction to those orange, crunchy sticks of deliciousness. 

“Right now?” he asked.

“YES.”

The next day, the at-home physical therapist came by to begin my three times a week sessions.  I wanted to make a good impression, but sadly my greasy hair, old sweatshirt, and baggy pajama bottoms were all I could muster.  Oh, and did I say I was wearing a thigh-high pair of white compression hose?  When I answered the door using the walker a friend had loaned me, I saw a handsome, thirty-something, young man with a beautiful smile. 

“ Hi, I’m your physical therapist, Mitchell.  Ready to get started?

To be continued….

Posted in #Confessions

I’VE NEVER BEEN A GOOD SLEEPER

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm
Photo by Anete Lusina on Pexels.com

            I’ve never been a good sleeper.  As a baby I’m quite sure I awoke every few hours wanting to be walked and patted, fed and talked to.  As a toddler and up until I went to school, I would lay on my bed at naptime and draw on the wall or wipe my boogers in a design hoping no one would notice.  By the way, they did notice and soon I no longer had to lay there ‘trying’ to go to sleep.

            I’m still not a good napper.  I’ve tried, but it rarely happens for me and when it does, the neighbor’s lawn service pulls up and 3 guys with a mower, weed eater and leaf blower jump out to attack his yard and assault the air waves, leaving me resentful and just a tad grouchy.

            I can’t remember ever sleeping past 6:30 a.m., although I probably did in college. Once on daylight savings time, lightening turned off our electricity, stopping my alarm clock, and I woke up at 8:00, disoriented and late for work.

            I tell myself I’m going to sleep in, and at 5:50 a.m. my eyes pop open and I can’t wait to brew some coffee.  I think I will turn off my alarm and fall back to sleep, but I lay there thinking of all the things I could accomplish if I would just go ahead and get up. I love being up early before anyone else is awake.

            I do have guidelines for myself.  For example, if I wake up at 3:00 a.m., I make myself try to go back to sleep.  If I’m still awake at 4:00, I wait till 4:30 and then get up. 

If I wake up at 4:00 a.m., I make myself lay there until five.  5:00 a.m. is my earliest time to get out of bed, but I have started the coffee pot at 4:30, so basically my guidelines are nil and void.

            The last few years I worked, my school was on the north side of town, meaning I needed to leave my house at 6:45-7 a.m. in order to miss the morning traffic.  I was in bed by 9:00 p.m. and read until 9:30, then lights out.  I jumped out of bed at 4:30 every morning and repeated the cycle.  I have tried to blame my early rising on those last few years, but friends, I’ve been retired since 2010.  Clearly, that is not my problem.

            If we are on vacation, I can never sleep the first night in a strange hotel room. Before I get ready for bed my mind goes toward bed bugs, lumpy pillows and unclean sheets.  Neurotic sounding, isn’t it?  I check the bed, check the air conditioner, check the pillow, make sure I’m on the best side of the bed, and then I can crawl in. 

Hospitals, cars, planes, and trains?  No zzzz’s.

            Hammocks, lounge chairs by the pool, and cruise ships?  Wide awake and rubbernecking, so as not to miss anything.

            I like my own bed.  I have a mental checklist that asks, is it dark enough?  Cool enough?

Do I have something to read?  Ear plugs?  Bite guard?  My mind asks these questions and explores situations, always jabbering away when I should be snoozing.    Shhh, I tell myself, but I’m just not a good sleeper.

            No discussion about sleep would be complete without talk of the dreaded CPAP machine.  Once upon a time, Boo used a CPAP.  If you have ever been near one, you know what I’m about to say is true.  When Boo had it on properly, it was quiet, steady, and reliable.  However, some CPAPS have ‘user error’ when it slips sideways, or there is trouble putting it on in the dark.  When this happens, it is extremely loud.  Loud like a howling wind, tornado, and roaring ocean, all at once.  This occurred more than once and when it did, Boo would use a few choice words, rip it off his face and fall back into a dead sleep.  Meanwhile, I would be shockingly awakened with the roaring sound, curse words and velcro ripping apart. I would sometimes be wide awake until dawn, praying not to smother him in his blissful slumber.

            In my golden years, will I be one of the little old ladies at the home who bothers the night shift or complains that I have been waiting for the cafeteria to open since 4:00 a.m. wanting my coffee?  Maybe they won’t be able to find me a roommate who will adapt to my schedule saying, “She’s a little particular about bedtimes.”  And I surely do not want someone who likes to talk in the mornings, because that is my sittin’ ugly time, and one cannot sit ugly and talk at the same time. 

            All this talk about my future as a nursing home resident may keep me up tonight.  One thing I do know for sure is that no matter what time I go to sleep, I will always wake up between 3 and 6 a.m.  I’m a creature of habit, and I happen to love mornings. But the plain and simple truth is, I’ve never been a good sleeper.