Welcome to another installment of “Blond Moments with Debbie”
When the care label on a garment says “wash with like colors” and the garment is pretty much equally black and white, what are you supposed to do?
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Monday, September 7, 2009
Sign of the Times
Out of love and respect for Ed Burger, a giant of a man in many ways, the people of Gethsemane Lutheran dedicate this refurbished sign in his memory, welcoming the community to join us in the sometimes ambiguous journey of faith. Our thanks go out to Jeff Luther, a man who lives the gospel, without whose invaluable physical contributions this project would not have been possible.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Father’s Day 2009
Twenty years ago, I divorced my former husband, the father of YD and OD. In hindsight, I know that we should never have been married in the first place. He was my polar opposite. I was naïve, with a need to fix broken things, and I married an alcoholic. After twelve years, two kids, several breakups and beatups, I finally got wise. It was an epiphany. One day I was holding my newborn YD in my arms, and looking at my drunk husband who had passed out in his underwear on the floor in front of the TV. He had just told me what a fat, useless piece of crap I was for the hundredth (or thousandth) time. In that instant, a switch went off and I went from loving and wanting to “save” him, to hating the air that he breathed. Someone with a darker heart would have murdered him where he layed. Instead, I packed our belongings and took my babies to my mother’s house, where we lived for 18 months until I could afford my own apartment. We tried to reconcile once, just as my babies and I were moving into our apartment, but the only thing that kept us together for another two years was the fact that he was in the U.S. Navy and was gone for 18 of those 24 months. When he finally came back for good, I knew that it was better to be alone than to be married to someone who made me feel so bad about myself. So I set about creating a life for my daughters and me, and it’s always been just the three of us. Their father moved away immediately after the divorce.
I wish I could tell you stories about what a great mom I was, but the truth is that motherhood was a mantle I wore reluctantly. I love my daughters, with the fierce and protective love of a mama bear. So I made a conscious decision to raise my daughters alone rather than bring a series of “father candidates” into their lives. But sometimes I wondered what it would be like to just walk away from my responsibilities, leave my kids with someone and be “free.” Then one of them would do something silly or funny or girly, and life would go on – seemingly slow motion – but looking back I realize that time was moving way too fast for me to cherish every moment.
Fast forward twenty plus years. Their father lives in Illinois with his wife and “new” daughter who is 18 years old. She’s the apple of her father’s eye. The wife, who is from the Philippines where they met when he was still in the military, is a loyal and loving wife. He’s been sober for ten years. And he doesn’t understand why our daughters have no respect or love for him.
I know he believes that I’ve had a hand in alienating him from his older daughters, but I’ve never spoken badly about him to the girls. I’ve always felt that they’d make up their own minds about him, and even told him that once. I had called him to beg for money because he hadn’t sent child support in several years and we literally had no food. His response was that I should find someone new who could help support the girls – or I should send them to live with him. He finally agreed to send a couple hundred dollars a month, which is all he said he could afford. After all, he had bought a new home and had a new family to support, so I shouldn’t expect any more. My girls were nine and eleven at the time, and he faithfully sent that $200 a month until YD turned 18. Then it shut off like a faucet and he considered his responsibilities fulfilled.
OD put herself through college with scholarships and loans, and the little bit that I could help her with. Her father was busy remodeling his home and couldn’t afford to help. Then a week before her college graduation, he informed her that he was attending her graduation. He hadn’t been invited, but as her “father” it was his “right” to be there. He stayed a week with us, sleeping on an air mattress in the living room. I was very welcoming and played the role of a good hostess for the sake of my children. They hadn’t seen their father in over 15 years, and for what it was worth, I was going to give them this time with dad. They went to the zoo and an amusement park and to dinner. Then he got on the plane and went back to his “family.”
In the four years since then, his relationship with our daughters has consisted of occasional phone calls from them requesting money. He always makes a big deal about the fact that they never call him except when they need money. He will frequently ask to speak with me, and I listen patiently while he goes through the litany of his latest illnesses and woes. There is no anger or hatred in my heart for him anymore. Only a kind of amused acceptance and awe at what a blind fool I was to have thought this man was the center of my world.
This week, knowing that neither of my girls had given a thought to Father’s Day, I sent him a card and signed their names. He called to acknowledge it and tell me that he knew the card was really from me. He resents their lack of gratitude and respect. I never confront him with the truth – it’s a lesson he’ll need to learn on his own – if he ever does. He made himself believe that someday they’d want to know their father and there would be some kind of happy, made-for-TV reunion.
The truth is, he burned that bridge years ago with the choices he made. In their minds, he left them behind like an old pair of shoes. To rebuild the bridge would require him to have a contrite heart, to acknowledge his mistakes and ask for forgiveness. He was never the kind of man who apologized, but I'm praying on this Father's Day that the past 20 years has given him the experience and maturity to understand that "owning" your mistakes is the first step to forgiveness.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Fountain of Love
Wednesday night at choir rehearsal, as we practiced “There Is A Redeemer” one last time before Sunday, I finally lost my composure on one particular verse. I’ve been hanging on for a few weeks now, focused as I was on learning the alto line. But now I know the notes, and I could no longer escape the power of the words. “When I stand in Glory, I shall see His face, and there I’ll serve my king for ever in that holy place. Thank you, oh my Father for giving us your Son…”
About three months after my mom died, my sister found a grief website that offered a free subscription to a year of devotionals, designed to counsel the reader through the first year of grief. So I signed up. Every day that email would show up, and I’d either read it right away or move it to a separate folder. Some were okay, a few were helpful, some seemed silly and trite. The cynic in me thought they were mostly interested in peddling their books. I fell behind in reading them; at one point I had two months of these emails sitting unread in their folder. (You know, life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.) I have only just finished them in the last few weeks. Those final devotionals dealt a lot with heaven, and our conception of it. I guess I haven’t spent much time as an adult contemplating the reality of heaven. Intentionally thinking about this has been disturbing, from both directions. It’s really hard thinking about my mom being in a state where she doesn’t think about me. But she’s in God’s arms, so she has no more cares or worries, and I definitely qualify as a care or a worry. By the same token, at this point in my life, I can’t imagine ever not worrying about my daughter. If heaven means I’m not thinking/loving/caring about her, maybe I don’t want to go.
Just when I think life may have evened out to its new normal without my mom, in comes another kick in the gut. Sometimes it’s music that delivers it. I held my composure Sunday morning; I feel an obligation to my fellow choir members and the assembly to maintain my part. But I’m really glad there’s a box of tissues in the choir room. Sometimes the fountain of love flows from our hearts through our eyes.
We presented a more “classical” rendition of “There Is A Redeemer.” Here is a YouTube link to an awesome dance troupe’s interpretation, with a kinda techno feel. There are some loud credits at the beginning of the video, but trust me, stick with it. You will be richly rewarded by this kick in the gut.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o5lhdXeZqtk
About three months after my mom died, my sister found a grief website that offered a free subscription to a year of devotionals, designed to counsel the reader through the first year of grief. So I signed up. Every day that email would show up, and I’d either read it right away or move it to a separate folder. Some were okay, a few were helpful, some seemed silly and trite. The cynic in me thought they were mostly interested in peddling their books. I fell behind in reading them; at one point I had two months of these emails sitting unread in their folder. (You know, life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.) I have only just finished them in the last few weeks. Those final devotionals dealt a lot with heaven, and our conception of it. I guess I haven’t spent much time as an adult contemplating the reality of heaven. Intentionally thinking about this has been disturbing, from both directions. It’s really hard thinking about my mom being in a state where she doesn’t think about me. But she’s in God’s arms, so she has no more cares or worries, and I definitely qualify as a care or a worry. By the same token, at this point in my life, I can’t imagine ever not worrying about my daughter. If heaven means I’m not thinking/loving/caring about her, maybe I don’t want to go.
Just when I think life may have evened out to its new normal without my mom, in comes another kick in the gut. Sometimes it’s music that delivers it. I held my composure Sunday morning; I feel an obligation to my fellow choir members and the assembly to maintain my part. But I’m really glad there’s a box of tissues in the choir room. Sometimes the fountain of love flows from our hearts through our eyes.
We presented a more “classical” rendition of “There Is A Redeemer.” Here is a YouTube link to an awesome dance troupe’s interpretation, with a kinda techno feel. There are some loud credits at the beginning of the video, but trust me, stick with it. You will be richly rewarded by this kick in the gut.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o5lhdXeZqtk
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Remembering Her
From the Jerusalem Bible, Mark 14:3-9…
Jesus was at Bethany in the house of Simon the leper; he was at dinner when a woman came in with an alabaster jar of very costly ointment, pure nard. She broke the jar and poured the ointment on his head. Some who were there said to one another indignantly, “Why this waste of ointment? Ointment like this could have been sold for over three hundred denarii and the money given to the poor”; and they were angry with her. But Jesus said, “Leave her alone. Why are you upsetting her? What she has done for me is one of the good works. You have the poor with you always, and you can be kind to them whenever you wish, but you will not always have me. She has done what was in her power to do; she has anointed my body beforehand for its burial. I tell you solemnly, wherever throughout all the world the Good News is proclaimed, what she has done will be told also, in remembrance of her.”
Some years ago, at the Tuesday night liturgy of Holy Week, our pastor invited us to enter this story and take on one of the characters, to experience it from the inside out. What follows is what flowed from my imagination later that evening…
Sometimes…I…just want…to…shout! But, honestly, I’m not sure what I would shout. I have never in my life met any one person who stirs up such myriad emotions in me, some of which I haven’t experienced since I was a child.
We were eating, and occasionally someone would enter the room, bringing a tray of food, or a jug of water. But at one point a woman came in, and she startled me. I hadn’t seen her before, either when we arrived at Simon’s home or serving the meal. The first thing I thought of was that she was an agent of the chief priests, sent to trap us somehow. They didn’t need much provocation to arrest Jesus, or us for that matter. I was suddenly scared that this was it. I wanted to shout a warning that we should get out and away from her!
Then she did the most astonishing thing. I saw clearly the jar she was carrying. I had thought it was a water jug, but I now saw it was made of alabaster, truly a lovely thing to behold, and it was sealed, the way nard is stored, to preserve its fragrance. She broke the jar! Without any hesitation, just cracked it right open. What could she be thinking! What was she doing! She poured the nard over Rabbi’s head. I’m not sure which surprised me more, that she seemed to know exactly what she was doing, or that he seemed to know exactly what she was doing. I watched in horror, thinking she must have been sent by the priests, she was obviously trying to incite him into behaviors we’d always heard the Romans engaged in, at their pagan festivals. I wanted to shout at her to leave him alone, didn’t she know her place! But as I watched, I realized she was attending to him as I’d seen my mother and the other village women tend the body of a recently deceased neighbor. She was preparing him for burial. I wanted to shout at her to stop, couldn’t she see he was alive, and didn’t need her ministrations. He’s not dead! Yet! My soul shriveled at the word that shouted back at me in my head. Rabbi had talked before about his death. His sacrifice. I never understood. Perhaps I never tried to understand. I didn’t want to know about that. There was too much joy in listening to him discuss the scriptures, too much beauty in the healing he performed. It can’t come to an end, it just can’t.
I was drawn back to the present by the voices raised around the room. I couldn’t make out all the strands of discussion, but it was clear most everyone viewed that use of the nard to be a waste! “Valuable asset” and “sold for a goodly sum” and “benefit the poor” were recurring expressions of the discontent in the room. Some began berating the woman. She was clutching the broken pieces of the jar and there was a streak of blood on her hand where a shard had scraped her skin. I could see tears welling up in her eyes, though from the words or the wound I did not know, when Rabbi’s voice cut the air and silenced everyone. “Leave her alone,” he said, so very calmly. I felt my insides go cold, not for the first time at one of Rabbi’s quiet rebukes. Instantly I was a child again, having just done something to bring disappointment to my father’s heart. I will never forget the weight of that burden. So many times I react to something, and Rabbi is disappointed in me, and I want to shout at him, teach me, Master, command me to understand! “You will always have poor among you. You can care for them any time. You will not always have me.” There he goes again, talking about his death. “She has done what was in her power to do. She has prepared my body for its burial.” I couldn’t see any good in this woman’s actions. I’d agreed with the voices I’d heard condemning her. And here was Rabbi, disappointed in us again, showing us something that should have been obvious, I guess. How could she have known? Why did she understand, when all of us still struggled?
I looked around the room for the woman, as Rabbi told us she would be remembered for her ministrations, but she was gone. One of Simon’s servants must have urged her out as the arguing started. I was sorry she hadn’t heard all of Rabbi’s kind words for her.
I wished I’d asked her her name…
Jesus was at Bethany in the house of Simon the leper; he was at dinner when a woman came in with an alabaster jar of very costly ointment, pure nard. She broke the jar and poured the ointment on his head. Some who were there said to one another indignantly, “Why this waste of ointment? Ointment like this could have been sold for over three hundred denarii and the money given to the poor”; and they were angry with her. But Jesus said, “Leave her alone. Why are you upsetting her? What she has done for me is one of the good works. You have the poor with you always, and you can be kind to them whenever you wish, but you will not always have me. She has done what was in her power to do; she has anointed my body beforehand for its burial. I tell you solemnly, wherever throughout all the world the Good News is proclaimed, what she has done will be told also, in remembrance of her.”
Some years ago, at the Tuesday night liturgy of Holy Week, our pastor invited us to enter this story and take on one of the characters, to experience it from the inside out. What follows is what flowed from my imagination later that evening…
Sometimes…I…just want…to…shout! But, honestly, I’m not sure what I would shout. I have never in my life met any one person who stirs up such myriad emotions in me, some of which I haven’t experienced since I was a child.
We were eating, and occasionally someone would enter the room, bringing a tray of food, or a jug of water. But at one point a woman came in, and she startled me. I hadn’t seen her before, either when we arrived at Simon’s home or serving the meal. The first thing I thought of was that she was an agent of the chief priests, sent to trap us somehow. They didn’t need much provocation to arrest Jesus, or us for that matter. I was suddenly scared that this was it. I wanted to shout a warning that we should get out and away from her!
Then she did the most astonishing thing. I saw clearly the jar she was carrying. I had thought it was a water jug, but I now saw it was made of alabaster, truly a lovely thing to behold, and it was sealed, the way nard is stored, to preserve its fragrance. She broke the jar! Without any hesitation, just cracked it right open. What could she be thinking! What was she doing! She poured the nard over Rabbi’s head. I’m not sure which surprised me more, that she seemed to know exactly what she was doing, or that he seemed to know exactly what she was doing. I watched in horror, thinking she must have been sent by the priests, she was obviously trying to incite him into behaviors we’d always heard the Romans engaged in, at their pagan festivals. I wanted to shout at her to leave him alone, didn’t she know her place! But as I watched, I realized she was attending to him as I’d seen my mother and the other village women tend the body of a recently deceased neighbor. She was preparing him for burial. I wanted to shout at her to stop, couldn’t she see he was alive, and didn’t need her ministrations. He’s not dead! Yet! My soul shriveled at the word that shouted back at me in my head. Rabbi had talked before about his death. His sacrifice. I never understood. Perhaps I never tried to understand. I didn’t want to know about that. There was too much joy in listening to him discuss the scriptures, too much beauty in the healing he performed. It can’t come to an end, it just can’t.
I was drawn back to the present by the voices raised around the room. I couldn’t make out all the strands of discussion, but it was clear most everyone viewed that use of the nard to be a waste! “Valuable asset” and “sold for a goodly sum” and “benefit the poor” were recurring expressions of the discontent in the room. Some began berating the woman. She was clutching the broken pieces of the jar and there was a streak of blood on her hand where a shard had scraped her skin. I could see tears welling up in her eyes, though from the words or the wound I did not know, when Rabbi’s voice cut the air and silenced everyone. “Leave her alone,” he said, so very calmly. I felt my insides go cold, not for the first time at one of Rabbi’s quiet rebukes. Instantly I was a child again, having just done something to bring disappointment to my father’s heart. I will never forget the weight of that burden. So many times I react to something, and Rabbi is disappointed in me, and I want to shout at him, teach me, Master, command me to understand! “You will always have poor among you. You can care for them any time. You will not always have me.” There he goes again, talking about his death. “She has done what was in her power to do. She has prepared my body for its burial.” I couldn’t see any good in this woman’s actions. I’d agreed with the voices I’d heard condemning her. And here was Rabbi, disappointed in us again, showing us something that should have been obvious, I guess. How could she have known? Why did she understand, when all of us still struggled?
I looked around the room for the woman, as Rabbi told us she would be remembered for her ministrations, but she was gone. One of Simon’s servants must have urged her out as the arguing started. I was sorry she hadn’t heard all of Rabbi’s kind words for her.
I wished I’d asked her her name…
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust
Ash Wednesday is such an emotional experience for me. I don’t remember attending this gateway to Lent back when I was a kid. Finding my way back to church as an adult, after being away for almost twenty years, I attended a UCC church, and I don’t remember this service there either. Perhaps it has to do with the incredibly intense emotional environment I was in the first time I experienced the imposition of ashes.
When I first joined Gethsemane, my daughter was eleven years old. I’ve mentioned in previous postings how challenging she was to raise. Her difficulties have always seemed to be on an escalating trajectory, with very few plateaus. You can use your imagination for the pre-puberty years. My mother’s heart was so battered already, I doubted my endurance for the coming teen saga. Although I had remarried, there were parent duties I just didn’t ask my husband to do. So I was her only transportation to and from school, for any activities or play dates, and frequently for visits with her father or grandmother. Consequently, I didn’t do much on my own, and definitely no evening activities. Ash Wednesday was out of the question.
By the time our daughter was knocking on door number thirteen, her dad and I had worked out a different custody plan where she would live with his mother. This new plan spelled out visitation for me on Wednesday afternoons after school, and weekends.
On Ash Wednesday this particular year, I had planned on attending service for the first time. I was supposed to have our daughter back to her grandmother’s after dinner, but I figured I’d still have time to make service. I waited for her outside the school gate, and the minute she saw me, she launched into a tantrum, yelling and screaming, crying, almost spitting she was so mad. We got in the car and she showed no sign of letting up. I called her dad and informed him I was bringing her immediately to his mother’s, because I was not going to spend my afternoon in this fashion. His mom was out, so he told me to wait for him at her apartment. I told him to hurry.
When we met up with him, I kissed her good-bye. She was still yelling. I had kept my composure the whole time, but it broke as soon as I hit the freeway to go home. Church and this service of mortality was my refuge from the storm.
I cried through all the hymns. I was so weary, so tired of feeling inadequate, so far away from joy for so very long. Somehow I was reluctant to receive the imposition of ashes. This declaration of vulnerability was intimidating, but I went forward and knelt. After smudging my forehead, “remember you are dust and to dust you shall return,” Pastor laid her hand on my head for a moment and I wept. The pain was all still there, but somehow I felt safe here, safe enough to admit being broken. This was a time to be still and just know the reality.
Eventually, I would come to grips with the fact that this pain wasn’t my whole story. There was more to life, to me, and I could find it and live with all of it, including the pain.
Ash Wednesday/Lent is like a pause, a time for intentional quiet, to focus within, but also to consider a broader perspective of our human condition. Like the image of the mythic phoenix dissolving into ashes before glorious rebirth, my emotional response to Ash Wednesday is like a cleansing, preparing me for the glory of the resurrection, once more.
When I first joined Gethsemane, my daughter was eleven years old. I’ve mentioned in previous postings how challenging she was to raise. Her difficulties have always seemed to be on an escalating trajectory, with very few plateaus. You can use your imagination for the pre-puberty years. My mother’s heart was so battered already, I doubted my endurance for the coming teen saga. Although I had remarried, there were parent duties I just didn’t ask my husband to do. So I was her only transportation to and from school, for any activities or play dates, and frequently for visits with her father or grandmother. Consequently, I didn’t do much on my own, and definitely no evening activities. Ash Wednesday was out of the question.
By the time our daughter was knocking on door number thirteen, her dad and I had worked out a different custody plan where she would live with his mother. This new plan spelled out visitation for me on Wednesday afternoons after school, and weekends.
On Ash Wednesday this particular year, I had planned on attending service for the first time. I was supposed to have our daughter back to her grandmother’s after dinner, but I figured I’d still have time to make service. I waited for her outside the school gate, and the minute she saw me, she launched into a tantrum, yelling and screaming, crying, almost spitting she was so mad. We got in the car and she showed no sign of letting up. I called her dad and informed him I was bringing her immediately to his mother’s, because I was not going to spend my afternoon in this fashion. His mom was out, so he told me to wait for him at her apartment. I told him to hurry.
When we met up with him, I kissed her good-bye. She was still yelling. I had kept my composure the whole time, but it broke as soon as I hit the freeway to go home. Church and this service of mortality was my refuge from the storm.
I cried through all the hymns. I was so weary, so tired of feeling inadequate, so far away from joy for so very long. Somehow I was reluctant to receive the imposition of ashes. This declaration of vulnerability was intimidating, but I went forward and knelt. After smudging my forehead, “remember you are dust and to dust you shall return,” Pastor laid her hand on my head for a moment and I wept. The pain was all still there, but somehow I felt safe here, safe enough to admit being broken. This was a time to be still and just know the reality.
Eventually, I would come to grips with the fact that this pain wasn’t my whole story. There was more to life, to me, and I could find it and live with all of it, including the pain.
Ash Wednesday/Lent is like a pause, a time for intentional quiet, to focus within, but also to consider a broader perspective of our human condition. Like the image of the mythic phoenix dissolving into ashes before glorious rebirth, my emotional response to Ash Wednesday is like a cleansing, preparing me for the glory of the resurrection, once more.
Do Dogs Go To Heaven???
Sixteen and a half years ago, OD came home from fifth grade with a serious case of anxiety. A classmate had a dog that needed a new home. They had gotten him from the pound, but her mother was frustrated because he was a chewer. She couldn’t understand why hitting him with whatever item he had chewed into shreds wasn’t stopping him from this bad habit. So they were going to take him back to the pound.
He was eight months old and would I please, please, please let her bring him home? We lived in a teeny condo and didn’t have room for a dog, let alone the time to re-train this poor puppy who was afraid of being hit whenever he saw someone with a shoe or a broom in hand. But after much begging and many promises to pick up after him, feed/water/walk/clean up after him, I finally caved. His former family brought him over and he’s been with us ever since.
He came to us with the name Ranger, which we changed immediately. He was not a ranger. He was a Benji – right from the start. I wish it had been love at first sight on my part, but he took some getting used to. There was the chewing, which we expected. We bought lots of bones and chew toys, so he never went after my shoes. But he had a fear of being locked up. On his first Saturday with us, I was vacuuming the carpets and had closed him in my bedroom to keep him out of the way. When I opened the door, he had tried to dig through the floor and then the door to get out of the room. A five-foot swath of carpet lay in shreds and the door was chewed almost completely through. I couldn’t get angry at him – he was cowering there with carpet stuck in his teeth and terror in his eyes. Instead I sat on the floor with him and picked all the pieces out of his fur and mouth. He learned then that he had nothing to fear from us. And I fell in love with his gentle and somewhat insecure soul.
I’ve been the one who took care of his financial needs – food, toys, dog treats. But he’s always been my daughters’ dog. They’ve lavished him with love and attention. They played dress-up with him, using their old toddler sized dresses and hats. He’s been their confidante when they were sad. When YD was having problems in school, she once walked off campus in the middle of the day. When the truant officer caught up with her, it was Benji that she took into the canyon with her to get away. When my girls were mad at me for any of the thousands of reasons that adolescent girls are angry with their moms, it was always Benji who heard their complaints.
He’s protected us from the mailman who had the audacity to put the mail through the slot in the door – there were many days (until we hung a box next to the door) that we came home to find the mail in shreds. There were a few times I had to pay the utility bill in person because Benji had eaten it and there was nothing left to mail in with my payment.
Benji’s never been the kind of dog that fetched or chased Frisbees. He never chased kids around the yard. He’s always been a quiet, plodding, kind of dumb dog who’s content to snuggle his head in your lap while you watch TV. We’ve never been able to train him to do tricks. He’s a listener – he just takes it all in and doesn’t have much to say. And he’s built like a beer barrel with stick thin legs. He just plods along. He used to enjoy walks, but for the last year or so arthritis and a worsening heart condition has made long walks impossible.
He’s been a good and faithful part of our family for almost 17 years, but for months his health has been steadily declining. This weekend, he started having real difficulty breathing and it’s an effort for him to make it outside. He’s not going to go quietly – he’s fighting this every step of the way, but his heart is failing and there’s not much we can do about that. This morning YD made the call and scheduled the appointment for us to take him in to be euthanized.
This service is available at our local Humane Society in a special room for families. We’ll be able to be with him right up to the end, and we'll be able to stay with him until we're ready to leave our friend behind. I know he’s just hanging on for my girls – trying to be the ever faithful friend. So it’s our turn now to be his faithful friends and the best way for us to do that is to take away the pain he’s feeling. Goodbye Benji – we love you and will hold you in our hearts forever.
**************************
Update 3/4/09
Our wonderful dog, Benji, died peacefully in his sleep last night. I'm sure he knew we were taking him in today and he didn't want to cause us any suffering. At abut 2:30 a.m., I woke up because I heard a dog bark. I got up, went pee (first things first) and went to check on Benji. He wasn't in his bed in the living room. I found him laying in the hallway between my daughters' bedrooms. He must have gotten up during the night and went to be close to his girls. He had been dead for at least an hour, so the bark I heard was him saying goodbye in my dreams.
YD had bathed him last weekend and last evening, YD and OD brushed him, trimmed his fur, and cleaned his face so he looked very handsome. We all fawned over him, giving him lots of attention and all the ham he wanted (that was his favorite treat). He was a good and faithful dog, and although we're sad now, he left us with many happy memories.
He was eight months old and would I please, please, please let her bring him home? We lived in a teeny condo and didn’t have room for a dog, let alone the time to re-train this poor puppy who was afraid of being hit whenever he saw someone with a shoe or a broom in hand. But after much begging and many promises to pick up after him, feed/water/walk/clean up after him, I finally caved. His former family brought him over and he’s been with us ever since.
He came to us with the name Ranger, which we changed immediately. He was not a ranger. He was a Benji – right from the start. I wish it had been love at first sight on my part, but he took some getting used to. There was the chewing, which we expected. We bought lots of bones and chew toys, so he never went after my shoes. But he had a fear of being locked up. On his first Saturday with us, I was vacuuming the carpets and had closed him in my bedroom to keep him out of the way. When I opened the door, he had tried to dig through the floor and then the door to get out of the room. A five-foot swath of carpet lay in shreds and the door was chewed almost completely through. I couldn’t get angry at him – he was cowering there with carpet stuck in his teeth and terror in his eyes. Instead I sat on the floor with him and picked all the pieces out of his fur and mouth. He learned then that he had nothing to fear from us. And I fell in love with his gentle and somewhat insecure soul.
I’ve been the one who took care of his financial needs – food, toys, dog treats. But he’s always been my daughters’ dog. They’ve lavished him with love and attention. They played dress-up with him, using their old toddler sized dresses and hats. He’s been their confidante when they were sad. When YD was having problems in school, she once walked off campus in the middle of the day. When the truant officer caught up with her, it was Benji that she took into the canyon with her to get away. When my girls were mad at me for any of the thousands of reasons that adolescent girls are angry with their moms, it was always Benji who heard their complaints.
He’s protected us from the mailman who had the audacity to put the mail through the slot in the door – there were many days (until we hung a box next to the door) that we came home to find the mail in shreds. There were a few times I had to pay the utility bill in person because Benji had eaten it and there was nothing left to mail in with my payment.
Benji’s never been the kind of dog that fetched or chased Frisbees. He never chased kids around the yard. He’s always been a quiet, plodding, kind of dumb dog who’s content to snuggle his head in your lap while you watch TV. We’ve never been able to train him to do tricks. He’s a listener – he just takes it all in and doesn’t have much to say. And he’s built like a beer barrel with stick thin legs. He just plods along. He used to enjoy walks, but for the last year or so arthritis and a worsening heart condition has made long walks impossible.
He’s been a good and faithful part of our family for almost 17 years, but for months his health has been steadily declining. This weekend, he started having real difficulty breathing and it’s an effort for him to make it outside. He’s not going to go quietly – he’s fighting this every step of the way, but his heart is failing and there’s not much we can do about that. This morning YD made the call and scheduled the appointment for us to take him in to be euthanized.
This service is available at our local Humane Society in a special room for families. We’ll be able to be with him right up to the end, and we'll be able to stay with him until we're ready to leave our friend behind. I know he’s just hanging on for my girls – trying to be the ever faithful friend. So it’s our turn now to be his faithful friends and the best way for us to do that is to take away the pain he’s feeling. Goodbye Benji – we love you and will hold you in our hearts forever.
**************************
Update 3/4/09
Our wonderful dog, Benji, died peacefully in his sleep last night. I'm sure he knew we were taking him in today and he didn't want to cause us any suffering. At abut 2:30 a.m., I woke up because I heard a dog bark. I got up, went pee (first things first) and went to check on Benji. He wasn't in his bed in the living room. I found him laying in the hallway between my daughters' bedrooms. He must have gotten up during the night and went to be close to his girls. He had been dead for at least an hour, so the bark I heard was him saying goodbye in my dreams.
YD had bathed him last weekend and last evening, YD and OD brushed him, trimmed his fur, and cleaned his face so he looked very handsome. We all fawned over him, giving him lots of attention and all the ham he wanted (that was his favorite treat). He was a good and faithful dog, and although we're sad now, he left us with many happy memories.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Cups and Saucers
I recently survived my annual gynecological exam. Everything’s aging okay, I guess. If I was a car, I’d be a classic, and if I was a wine, I’d be expensive. I guess I’m just a classic whiner. I’ve never really understood the logic (if there is any) of insurance companies not paying much for well-woman exams. They’d rather pay for the cancer treatments?
There’s a new torture method, I mean screening procedure that I had this year. It’s called “Halo Breast Pap” test. It bears greater resemblance to the violent video game than to any thing angelic. I’ll spare any male readers the embarrassment of a detailed description. Just think of a vacuum cleaner attached to a delicate part of your anatomy. For five minutes. And you’re holding it in place. Now I have to have a mammogram. So, guys, spare me the grief over getting a prostate exam. At least you only have one of them.
I had my first mammogram when I was about thirty-six. I was very nervous that day. My first clue that it was going to be a bad day came at check-in, when the receptionist commented on my apparent anxiety. She said, “you could be here for a really difficult procedure, at least you’re only having a mammogram.” Things went downhill from there.
I was led to a little curtained cubicle and told to strip to the waist and put on the hospital gown. Having obeyed, I heard my name called from somewhere nearby. I peeked out into the hall and saw a woman with a file folder looking at me expectantly. She turned without speaking and disappeared down the hall. I grabbed my purse and followed, clutching the gown closed. I found the woman walking into a room with a mix of comfy furniture and large machinery. She started working on the machinery. Finally she turned and looked at me standing in the doorway. She closed the door and said with all the compassion of a black widow spider, “put your purse down over there, take off the gown and step over here.” Again I obeyed. She grabbed my breast and maneuvered me into the clutches of the large machine. I felt like I had to stand on tip-toe to be where she wanted me to be. Then she engaged the compression. Good God, what man invented this and decided it was useful? Then she said, “hold your breath.” Right. I haven’t got any to hold right now, ma’am. So we did this dance a couple more times, and finally I said, “this is extremely uncomfortable.” She stopped, stepped away slightly, and I swear, she put her hands on her hips and said, “we can do this so you’re comfortable or we can do this to get a good exam. Which do you want?” I was stunned. First, this was the most words she had strung together during my time with her. But mostly, I couldn’t believe her attitude. If I hadn’t been so nervous I would have wondered what burdens she was carrying that had so stripped her of empathy. But I was young and in pain, and she was being mean to me.
We finished the exam, and she told me to put the gown back on and have a seat while the radiologist had a look at the films. Make sure we didn’t need to redo any. Oh, yeah, please make sure we don’t have to redo any. I sat there, again clutching the gown closed, with my purse on my lap, and I started to cry. I swallowed my tears quickly, though, because I didn’t want HER to see them. She came back in and said everything was fine, I could get dressed. I sniffled. She said, “you have a cold or something?” I said, “yeah, something,” and fled out the door, desperately trying to remember the route back to my cubicle. Once dressed and outside, I started crying in earnest. But I was embarrassed, thinking back to the receptionist’s words. It was only a mammogram, for heaven’s sake.
A few days later I called the facility and asked for the name of the director. Then I wrote a letter. Now, I don’t like to complain in writing unless I can offer a solution. So I wrote a script as part of my letter, demonstrating an “ideal” encounter with a mammogram technician: starting with a cheery greeting, “good morning, Mrs. Smith, your first mammogram? Let me show you the machine,” making sure the patient wasn’t wearing any deodorant or powder, explaining the procedure, apologizing for cold hands, and preparing the patient for the brief moments of compression discomfort.
The director called me. Thanked me for my letter, and apologized for the bad time I’d had. She said she had spoken to the technician, and she didn’t remember me. (I guess when you’re looking at breasts all day, faces become incidental.) The director went on to say she appreciated the scenario I’d written into my letter. Would it be alright if they used it for training purposes.
I dodged the next mammogram for several years. Nevertheless, when I did go, to a different facility, I got misty-eyed undressing. It continued to be an embarrassment. I wanted to behave like a grown-up, but here I was crying over the technician from hell. Again. The technicians I’ve encountered since then have all been very kind, and the last few years I’ve managed to keep my composure. After all, it’s only a mammogram.
Patsy Clairmont once wrote, “mammogram: you know, that’s where the technician thinks she’s a magician, and tries to turn a cup into a saucer.” Hmm. I wonder if Patsy’s had a “Halo” exam yet…
There’s a new torture method, I mean screening procedure that I had this year. It’s called “Halo Breast Pap” test. It bears greater resemblance to the violent video game than to any thing angelic. I’ll spare any male readers the embarrassment of a detailed description. Just think of a vacuum cleaner attached to a delicate part of your anatomy. For five minutes. And you’re holding it in place. Now I have to have a mammogram. So, guys, spare me the grief over getting a prostate exam. At least you only have one of them.
I had my first mammogram when I was about thirty-six. I was very nervous that day. My first clue that it was going to be a bad day came at check-in, when the receptionist commented on my apparent anxiety. She said, “you could be here for a really difficult procedure, at least you’re only having a mammogram.” Things went downhill from there.
I was led to a little curtained cubicle and told to strip to the waist and put on the hospital gown. Having obeyed, I heard my name called from somewhere nearby. I peeked out into the hall and saw a woman with a file folder looking at me expectantly. She turned without speaking and disappeared down the hall. I grabbed my purse and followed, clutching the gown closed. I found the woman walking into a room with a mix of comfy furniture and large machinery. She started working on the machinery. Finally she turned and looked at me standing in the doorway. She closed the door and said with all the compassion of a black widow spider, “put your purse down over there, take off the gown and step over here.” Again I obeyed. She grabbed my breast and maneuvered me into the clutches of the large machine. I felt like I had to stand on tip-toe to be where she wanted me to be. Then she engaged the compression. Good God, what man invented this and decided it was useful? Then she said, “hold your breath.” Right. I haven’t got any to hold right now, ma’am. So we did this dance a couple more times, and finally I said, “this is extremely uncomfortable.” She stopped, stepped away slightly, and I swear, she put her hands on her hips and said, “we can do this so you’re comfortable or we can do this to get a good exam. Which do you want?” I was stunned. First, this was the most words she had strung together during my time with her. But mostly, I couldn’t believe her attitude. If I hadn’t been so nervous I would have wondered what burdens she was carrying that had so stripped her of empathy. But I was young and in pain, and she was being mean to me.
We finished the exam, and she told me to put the gown back on and have a seat while the radiologist had a look at the films. Make sure we didn’t need to redo any. Oh, yeah, please make sure we don’t have to redo any. I sat there, again clutching the gown closed, with my purse on my lap, and I started to cry. I swallowed my tears quickly, though, because I didn’t want HER to see them. She came back in and said everything was fine, I could get dressed. I sniffled. She said, “you have a cold or something?” I said, “yeah, something,” and fled out the door, desperately trying to remember the route back to my cubicle. Once dressed and outside, I started crying in earnest. But I was embarrassed, thinking back to the receptionist’s words. It was only a mammogram, for heaven’s sake.
A few days later I called the facility and asked for the name of the director. Then I wrote a letter. Now, I don’t like to complain in writing unless I can offer a solution. So I wrote a script as part of my letter, demonstrating an “ideal” encounter with a mammogram technician: starting with a cheery greeting, “good morning, Mrs. Smith, your first mammogram? Let me show you the machine,” making sure the patient wasn’t wearing any deodorant or powder, explaining the procedure, apologizing for cold hands, and preparing the patient for the brief moments of compression discomfort.
The director called me. Thanked me for my letter, and apologized for the bad time I’d had. She said she had spoken to the technician, and she didn’t remember me. (I guess when you’re looking at breasts all day, faces become incidental.) The director went on to say she appreciated the scenario I’d written into my letter. Would it be alright if they used it for training purposes.
I dodged the next mammogram for several years. Nevertheless, when I did go, to a different facility, I got misty-eyed undressing. It continued to be an embarrassment. I wanted to behave like a grown-up, but here I was crying over the technician from hell. Again. The technicians I’ve encountered since then have all been very kind, and the last few years I’ve managed to keep my composure. After all, it’s only a mammogram.
Patsy Clairmont once wrote, “mammogram: you know, that’s where the technician thinks she’s a magician, and tries to turn a cup into a saucer.” Hmm. I wonder if Patsy’s had a “Halo” exam yet…
Turning 60
Well it's official. I have now reached the big 60!!! It's hard to believe that I have reached this landmark. Mentally, I would say I was much younger. Physically is another story. Actually, I feel pretty good. Last year I joined Weight Watchers the Saturday before my Mom died and have lost 35 pounds so far. This is my second year of getting back into bowling which has shown me that I still can be the athlete (to some degree) that I used to be growing up.
It's been difficult since my Mom died, but I feel a peace knowing that she is not suffering anymore and is with all her relatives that have gone before her. My Dad is doing well and getting by with his routine of Church, bowling and meeting with friends at Judy's for breakfast everyday! We still go to visit him every other week-end and he enjoys the company and love that we have to offer him.
I went by the Church the other day to get Helen's address so I could surprise her with some meatloaf from Iowa Farms and realized how much I had missed not being there for a couple weeks. Just walking up to the office, I felt like this is my true home in San Diego!
I'm running out of things to say, so I will see you all in Church on Sunday! GO CHARGERS!!!
It's been difficult since my Mom died, but I feel a peace knowing that she is not suffering anymore and is with all her relatives that have gone before her. My Dad is doing well and getting by with his routine of Church, bowling and meeting with friends at Judy's for breakfast everyday! We still go to visit him every other week-end and he enjoys the company and love that we have to offer him.
I went by the Church the other day to get Helen's address so I could surprise her with some meatloaf from Iowa Farms and realized how much I had missed not being there for a couple weeks. Just walking up to the office, I felt like this is my true home in San Diego!
I'm running out of things to say, so I will see you all in Church on Sunday! GO CHARGERS!!!
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