This is the look I get from the ne’er-do-well when it’s time to close the blinds and she’s not quite ready to be done spying on the courtyard. I’m not dead, thank goodness… but certainly not from lack of trying on Holly’s part.
You know that sound a dog makes when it’s licking itself? That disgusting slurp that somehow makes it through your ear, down your spine, and into your stomach to make you go ewwww … but more like a full body ewwww because it’s just so damn repulsive?
Yeah. I hate that.
I’ve been thinking a lot about illnesses lately. About how some of them take your loved ones away, piece by piece, until there is nothing left of the person you once knew.
My grandmother’s mind was ravaged by Alzheimer’s. Such an insidious disease. She went from the fiercely strong woman I knew to someone who no longer even knew herself. And as some of you know, my dad is currently struggling with cancer; he’s doing everything he can to kick its ass. I’ve often wondered: is it better to lose your mind and keep your bodily health or retain your intellect yet have your body waste away? A twisted kind of lottery if you ask me, no matter which way you go. Terminal illness sucks, of that there is no doubt.
While I would drop everything to be at their beck and call, from day to day I try to keep a light heart and not dwell on the reality that is my dad’s illness … if I did, I’d go down that rabbit hole and never come back up. Instead I show my love through food and treats and stupid jokes and gossip and stupid jokes. Did I mention stupid jokes?
The tangled mess that is my mind wonders about so many things and since we’re discussing illness, naturally, I wonder about hospitals. So here is me … dealing with an ugly reality in a very not so mature way.
Why can you never find a doctor? It’s a hospital, for goodness sake. Doctors swarm around there like ants on your kitchen counter, so why is it you can never find one when you need him? Pinning a doctor down for a visit to your hospital room is like planning a visit from your cable company, only a lot less fun. “I’ll be there between 8am tomorrow morning and 11pm next Tuesday.” Are there hidden golf course in the basement of the hospital?
Why are so many surfaces white? Sure, I get the concept. White equals cleanliness and sterility. But what’s the point when the janitors are playing “Guess That Body Fluid” every time they make rounds? Do you think janitors and housekeeping play fun games behind closed doors? “I’ll see that pee puddle and raise you a vomit pile.” “BINGO!”
Why do they wake you up to give you a sleeping pill? Look, Mr. Baker is finally asleep. Let’s run the floor polisher, set off all the alarms, and wake him for a sleeping pill.
Where do they hire the cooks? Is there a testing process the cooks have to go through to be hired? “Yes, Mrs. Smith, I see you worked in the High School cafeteria. Serving cardboard pizza and soy hotdogs is great experience for this job. However, I’m afraid you failed the test when you made the chicken taste like meat.”
How do they change the hallways to ensure you get lost every time you leave the floor? This is some kind of engineering feat to rival anything NASA accomplishes. From the moment you step out into the hallway, the room changes sides and moves to the opposite wing of the hospital. The hallways reconfigure themselves, and the elevators disappear completely. I swear, it’s like Hogwarts on steroids (if you don’t get that reference, go read the Harry Potter series … it’ll be good for you). The cafeteria moves multiple times to ensure no one will ever be able to find it, or its tasteless chicken. I tried to leave a trail of breadcrumbs, but they disappeared when the janitor swept them up, excitedly marking his Bingo card. Apparently, breadcrumbs are double or nothing.
Why have a call button at all? Admit it, we all do this. You hit the call button and immediately go out to find a nurse. This is similar to the person hitting the up button on the elevator when it’s already been pushed. Of course, once the call button is pushed, all nurses and technicians play hide and seek. Well, all except for that poor nurse who’s always standing at the medication cart, paper cup in one hand, looking like a deer in the headlights.
Can we try happy words instead of procedure names? “It’s bubbly yum yum time” sounds so much better than “It’s time for your chemo treatment.”
In all seriousness, I hate disease, and the way it robs us of all we hold dear. The treatments sometimes seem worse than the illness they are treating, and it is hard to stay strong when you are watching someone begin to lose parts of themselves. Some stories have good endings – thankfully, my Dad appears to be veering off into this direction – some, unfortunately, don’t. The best you can do is reassure your loved ones that you have your seat belt on, and you’re coming along for the ride.
In the meantime, it doesn’t hurt to try to find some small doses of humor along the way.
Oh, and I’ll bring the snacks.
Before I get into the heart of today’s rant, I’d like to share a video with you. Most of you have probably seen this, but it’s still funny every time. Warning, there is some language in this video.
This brings me around to my thoughts for the day. Why do some parents feel it is hip to name their children bizarre names? Never mind that the kids themselves won’t know how to spell them and their teachers can’t pronounce them, the worst part is that they will never find a Coke can with their chosen names on it.
My friend worked as a Paramedic for many years. She told me the story of a mom who had called 911 for her son, who had a minor cold. My friend was filling out the paperwork, and asked the child’s name. When the mother told her the name, she hesitated and asked, very politely, “I’m sorry, could you spell that for me?” The mother got very flustered and said, “I don’t know how to spell it. It just sounded good.” My friend took her best stab at spelling the complicated name, and life went on. I couldn’t help but wonder what the child’s name was on his birth certificate, and why the mother would choose a name that she didn’t even know how to spell herself.
Celebrities try to outdo themselves with bizarre names for their children every day. Directions, vehicle models, street names, trees, and celestial bodies are frequently used sources for the monikers they eventually bestow upon their offspring. At what point does being hip and unique come full circle to the point where it is considered hip and unique to name your child “Mark” or “Sally” again? Will celebrities run out of hip name sources and start using medications, like “Tylenol” or “Motrin” as baby names? “And now, hitting the stage, it’s Nyquil and the Insomniacs!”
Names roll in and out of fashion like ever-changing tides. Some names are forever linked with decades, like “Brittany” or “Madison,” while other stand the test of time, like “David” and “Matthew.” Other names should just be avoided out of common decency, like the New Jersey parents who named their child Adolf Hitler.
What I find even funnier is the put-upon parent who names their child an old-fashioned name or something that isn’t on the most popular list but still isn’t all that crazy … yet they think they’re being unique. Which isn’t a bad thing, except the “I’m-way-hipper-than-you” parent complains to everyone who will listen how difficult their lives are because no-one pronounces Blaise correctly and little Augustine’s teacher has no idea how to spell his name.
Parents are free to do whatever they want, but if you choose a strange name for your child, you shouldn’t be angry when it is mispronounced or misspelled. You knew there were risks when you named your child something like “Shabquellitaze” or “Nbtyxkz.” Whether you were being cute or think you’re being edgy, you have doomed your child to life as a set of initials in class – and as that poor kid who constantly repeats and then spells their name a gazillion times a day. More important, you’ve kept them from the joy of finding their name on a novelty souvenir plastic license plate.
Don’t let this face fool you.
This cat is an asshole. She derives some sort of feline pleasure from occasionally tormenting our dog Petra … she will threaten her by not allowing her to pass by or walk through a door or she will latch on to the back of Petra’s neck or nip her ears. It’s not something I condone or allow, but I don’t always catch it before it happens. When it does happen … everyone, but everyone, knows. Because Petra screams at the top of her little Chihuahua lungs just as if someone were trying to murder her. Now you might say, of course she does! I would too! But the thing is, Shaylee doesn’t always actually make contact, and when she does, it’s not as horrific as it sounds. Shaylee’s intent is not to hurt so much as to amuse herself. Remember, I did say she was an asshole.
The key thing here to remember is, Shaylee doesn’t always make contact. Sometimes she just gives Petra the ol’ cat stink-eye. However, if she’s stalking Petra and Petra knows it, Petra will scream … figuring the best offense is a good defense, I guess. Scare ‘em off with crazy.
This sibling intimidation hasn’t happened in a while and I can only assume that rather than the fulfillment of my hope for a peaceful, harmonious familial unit, it was instead simply because Shaylee was a little rattled after the move to the condo we now call home. (I will digress here a moment just to mention that unlike the noise dampening construction you might expect in privately owned condos, ours is more like your standard apartment building … we’re all well aware of what everyone else is doing at any point in time.)
At any rate, round about midnight last night, I’m pretty sure the neighbors think I killed my dog.
Welcome to the neighborhood.
Not overly impressed with the “big move,” Rufus’ opinion on our new place is simple: “If Mom’s here, I’m good.”
To my Dad.
Thank you for always having my back.
Thank you for always making sure I have gas and bridge money.
Thank you for not selling me to the circus.