Oh No!

Oh No! Oh NO! That's him! That's definitely Mikey's voice; what am I gonna do? What am I gonna DO?!

"Ok. Ok. What hospital did you say? St. Francis? Ok. Ok. I'll get there. Tell him I'll get there." I hang up.

"MIKEY'S BEEN SHOT!!"

So, that's how my girls learn about their brother. In a nice, calm, rational manner. The house phone rings. My recent graduate answers it. You guessed it - the dryer is on the way.

"Get dressed; April, you have to stay for the dryer. Tabby can stay here, too. I'm going to St. Francis, where Mikey is."

(Both girls together) "NO! I'm coming!"

Of course they're coming. What was I thinking? I have no idea what to think. I'm still stuck on, "Your son's been shot several times. You should come." "What??!??!"

"Ok, both of you get dressed. You're coming with me. I'll call grandma and grandpa to wait for the dryer. Hurry!"

Yep, my parents are still in town because of April's graduation 2 days before. This is good. I dial their cell phone number. My dad answers. Can you say, "instant replay"?

Me: "Dad. You and mom have to come now. The dryer is on the way and Mikey's been shot. We have to go to the hospital right now. Please can you just get here in 5 minutes??"

Dad: "What?"

He thinks he's put the phone to his bad ear. He puts mom on the phone. I repeat myself. Mom says, "What?" It's like PeeWee's Playhouse. "The word of the day is 'what'. Whenever you hear anyone say 'what', scream real loud!" And I want to. But I can't. I explain that they need to please come. Please. Now. I have to get to Mikey. Please. That is all I can say to them. After an eternally long 5 minutes, they understand and will be at my house within 10 minutes. Good. Because I still need to get dressed. Instead of doing that, however, I call my good friend, Charity.

"Hello?"

"Charity, this is Melissa. Mikey's been shot and he's at St. Francis hospital. WHERE IN THE HELL IS ST. FRANCIS HOSPITAL???"

That's right. I have forgotten the location of the hospital. I need someone with a calm voice to tell me how to get to the hospital. Now, I know very well where that hospital is. Everyone in Tulsa knows where the pink hospital on the hill is. I could have driven there practically with my eyes closed any other day of the week. Not today. She understands at once. (She does NOT say "what". I do not have to "scream real loud".) She tells me how to get there, and then asks me if Mike is still in town. Mike? Mike? Oh, Mike! My ex-husband. Mikey's dad.

"MIKE! He's still here! I have to call him!"

Can someone be rationally hysterical? I think maybe I was. I knew what I had to do. I'd logically thought out everything. I needed everyone to get dressed. I needed to inform everyone about where I was going, figure out how to get there and explain why things were urgent. I even needed to get someone here for the dryer delivery. Why think about the dryer? Because I had to. The phone call for the delivery had come in as my mind was in the process of shifting into "emergency" mode. It had become part of my emergency. What if my parents had not been available? I honestly don't know what I would have done. Everything was of equal importance in my mind at that time. Everything was an emergency. That sounds strange, but there were no number one priorities. Everything was equally important. I'm just glad my parents were around to help me solve the delivery problem. It would have taken me longer to get to the hospital because I would have had to take the time to sort out priorities; I was not in any condition to do that - obviously.

I hang up from Charity and call Mike. He says, "What?! Wait a minute. He was WHAT?" The word of the day.

I finally make him understand that he does NOT have time to take a shower (I had woken him up), that he needs to get to St. Francis hospital. Yes, he remembered St Francis hospital. No, he didn't need directions; he still knew where it was. He would go there right away. He would probably be there before I got there because he wouldn't have to wait for someone to show up to accept delivery of a dryer. Ok. Good. I go to the bedroom to get dressed.

The delivery van and my parents show up at the same moment about 5 minutes after my conversation with Mike. The van blocks me in - naturally. The desperation and panic must have immediately shown on my face. Mom says, "Take the car. Just go." The girls and I jump into my parents car. It's been 15 minutes.

More of the same...sort of.

It's been two years since I last posted. Maybe it's because the last two years have been a near repeat of the first several posts on this blog. It's like my life has been just like that movie "Groundhog Day".

Well...almost.

Involves the same kid, of course. Involves a life-threatening event, too - again, of course. However, the circumstances are definitely different. The repercussions have lasted until this day, and will continue to echo through our lives, well...for the rest of our lives.

How about if I just explain it to you?

Again, this involved household appliances. Whereas in 2009 it was plumbing and air conditionining that were troubling me and needing attention, in May of 2010 it was my dryer that had gone out. My parents had come to Tulsa to watch my middle child graduate from high school (a whole 'nuther story), and decided to buy me a dryer. I did not ask them to; I had been washing clothes and hanging them outside to dry. My daughters' complaints of "hard towels to dry off with" probably pushed their sympathy buttons and they decided to buy the dryer so that their precious little grandbabies (ages 13 and 18) would not have to scrape their skin off with the rock-hard towels I was forcing them to use. Yeah, that sounds about right. Oh, and my ex was in town, too, for the same reason. (To watch his daughter graduate, not to buy me a dryer.)

The graduation happened on the 20th of May. It was nice, there were plenty of pictures taken, and a good time was had by all. Two days later, I was waiting for my dryer to be delivered, when my cell phone rang. My cell phone? I could have sworn I'd given them my home phone. I didn't recognize the number, either. What time is it? 8am. Huh. Well, I must've given them my cell number because I was told it would be delivered between 8am and noon, and they would call before they delivered it. Here it is 8am. How pleasant! For once, I am the first one on the delivery list. Yay! So, I guess I should answer my cell. Still, it's strange that I gave them my cell number. I never give out my cell number for stuff like -"Hello?"
"Hello. Is this Mike's mom?" Not at all what I expected to hear from the delivery guys.
"What? Who is this?"
"This is Mike's roommate's mom. Mike's here in the hospital, he's been shot several times, you should get here as soon as you can."
"What?!"
"It happened at about 5 this morning. You should come to the hospital."
"What?! Who is this!!"
"He's at Saint Francis hospital, he asked me to call you. I don't know why nobody's called you. You should come right now."
"Wait a minute....what?!"

Don't be frustrated with me. I thought it was the dryer people calling me. It's ridiculous. My son can't be shot. This woman has the wrong "Mike's mom". Mike is a pretty common name, after all. How did she get my number? This does not make any sense whatsoever. I thought it was the dryer people calling me. What is this woman talking about?? And not shot once, or just "shot", but "shot several times." No, my son would not be shot any times. There is definitely some sort of mistake. I need to find out who this lady is trying to call.

(Background) "Mom...I've been shot ... I'm gonna die."

Oh my God, that's my son's voice! This is real. I am the right "Mike's mom". Oh, no!

GOTCHA!!

I know why you have those dreams.

You know the ones I am talking about. The ones where you are running as fast and as hard as you can and then look behind you - and the bad guy is almost on top of you! He is leering at you, his mouth is open, and he is walking - yes WALKING - and is gaining on you! OH NO! What are you going to do? You pant and run faster and faster. You zig zag! You run in one direction and then double-back to throw him off! ACK! He is STILL directly behind you! NNNOOO!!! And then you wake up just as the bad guy grabs you and you know you are just about to die. Those are the dreams that I know about. I know why you have those dreams. Wanna know why?

Ok. I'll tell you. But first, let me tell you about a game I used to play with my kids.

I have three children. They are all five years apart. So, my first child was 5 when his little sister was born, and his little sister became a big sister when she was 5 and her big brother was 10. So, each of the older ones got to play this game with their younger sibling. My youngest has never played this game, as far as I know.

Here is the game:

"Hey! Guess what? I'm.....gonna get ya!!! You'd better run! I'm coming!"

And my kids would get up, laugh, squeal and run down the hallway. They would look back, squeal again and kinda jump because I was right behind them. They would laugh and laugh and run and run until finally they would either run out of hallway, or fall down. Then, I would be right on them and say, "GOTCHA! Now, I'm gonna tickle you!!"

It was a fun game. So fun, as a matter of fact, that they would run as soon as I let them go, and we would play all over again. Usually, I would run out of steam, first. Then, Mikey would play with April, and later on, they both would play this game with Tabitha. It was a fun game.

Ok. Back to why you have that dream.

Wait a minute. I think you know where I am going with this, don't you?

'Nuff said.

Why I Am Proud Of My Daughter

My daughter, Tabitha, makes me proud to be her mother every day. First of all, she usually maintains a cheerful disposition. If she is out of sorts, she might snap at her sister - or even at me - but she is quick to apologize. I suppose being proud that my daughter has a naturally pleasing personality or disposition seems unfair – after all, she really was born that way. To that, I would reply that we are all born with certain dispositions. Whether we make ourselves better or worse depends on our conscious effort every day. Everyone can get lazy; Tabitha has not. Remember, I said that when she is out of sorts, she apologizes. She could give in to her temper or bad feelings, but usually she doesn’t.

I am also proud of her because she cares about her schoolwork, and has a plan for her future. She currently wants to become a conservationist like her idol, the late Steve Irwin, was. Before this, she wanted to become a veterinarian. The common theme in her life seems to be love of animals, and creatures that are less fortunate than she is. She is only 13; she could possibly change her mind a hundred times before she graduates. The common thread is that she values higher education, and wants to excel in all that she does. I am proud that she cares.

When I think about Tabitha, I think about a smile on her face, and a laugh in her voice. I think about times when strangers have stopped me in a restaurant or in other public places and have marveled at her prodigious vocabulary and adult enunciation. I think about how eager she is to fill her mind with good things and learning. I remember that she almost did not survive being born, but now is quite the little athlete. She possesses a certain joyfulness that can be infectious at times.

I am proud of my daughter for trying to find the good in every situation – even those she finds difficult, or even hopeless. I have a feeling that whoever and whatever she decides she is going to be when she grows up, I will always be proud of Tabitha.

Pencils Rule!

Pencils rule. I hate writing with pens. Pens are too slippery. Mistakes made with a pen are permanent. My thoughts flow too quickly for a pen to capture accurately.

Pens make me write too fast. My penmanship is already terrible. Trying to put my jumbled thoughts on paper with a pen is a frustrating demonstration of the word, "fruitless". Thoughts begin all neatly in a row, but then - the changes come. They always come. They come mid-sentence! The ideas are always better when they come mid-sentence.

The problem is that new thoughts mid-sentence change the meaning of what has been written beforehand.

Example: Last night, I began a writing exercise about a guy who was sitting at a diner with this girl who was more than a friend, but not someone he would introduce to his mother. I got four sentences written and suddenly, this girl became his wife and I was writing from her point of view! And it was a better idea -- of course.

But, ink is permanent. There is no eraser for a pen. At least, there is no good eraser - only ones that will put holes in your paper. Had I been writing with a pencil, I could have erased the four sentences - or maybe just erased a few key words instead - and begun again. But no...I scratched out a couple words, wrote over some pronouns, and finally, just scribbled and crossed out the whole thing - and I began again.

If I had been using a pencil in the first place, the friction of the lead moving across the paper might have even slowed down my writing process enough as to have given me the time to have the new idea before all four sentences had been written.

Oh, and another thing. Regular No. 2 pencils trump mechanical pencils every time.

But that's a whole 'nuther argument.... :)

Lesson 1 from Miss Callard

Miss Callard was my first grade teacher in Warren, Ohio. She was young, tall, and fun. She taught 30 kids at a time, and I don't remember her ever raising her voice. She never had to. She was fair, but expected the best work from her students.

I was a very shy first grader. I sat in my assigned seat and turned in my very best work at all times. I must have been pretty sharp because Miss Callard would allow me to help others with their work after mine was turned in. I guess I could be labeled, "Teacher's Pet". (Note: Teacher's Pets are born that way. They are to be differentiated from "Brown-nosers" who deliberately act a certain way to gain favor. Teacher's Pets are usually shy and very helpful to their fellow-students. Just FYI from one who knows.)

I remember one day when we were handed another mimeographed coloring page. "Color the squares brown" "Color the circles yellow" "Color the trees green" etc. We used big, fat crayons back then, and I was tired of coloring these boring work sheets. My brown crayon was broken, so I just placed it on its side and colored from one square down to the next square. There were four squares to color and I colored them all in two downward swipes. I just wanted to get this busywork done and get to some really fun stuff - like reading or something.

The next day, Miss Callard handed out all the stuff we had turned in the day before. Paper after paper came back to me with "-1 good!" "-0 Great!" "-2 Good Job!" I looked at them each and waited eagerly for the next one. Yes, even back then, I was goal-oriented. I liked the stickers, too! It was then that Miss Callard walked up to my desk and bent down really low to look me in the eye.

"Melissa! I can't believe you did this! We do not color from one square down to the next without lifting the crayon! I expect better from you!"

My favorite teacher was chastizing me for my laziness.

There you have it. A very important lesson imparted to me in first grade. It is as clear today as it was waaaaay back then. Never do less than your best.

Thanks, Miss Callard.

Morning Surprise

Imagine being in a deep sleep. Imagine that you have not had this restful a sleep in at least a month, if not longer. Now, imagine a newly 13 year old girl plopping herself right next to your blissfully sleeping self ... yeah, that was me, this morning.

Her symptoms were strange (what, you thought she was coming in at 5:31am just to cuddle?). She hurt; right in the center of her chest. She didn't have to throw up. Maybe she did have to. It hurt like a knife. No, like someone tearing her apart. No, like a knife. It wasn't her chest, it was her stomach - but not really. She didn't know where she was hurting - she just wanted it to stop!

I had never seen her like this before. All the times that she had been sick before, she had been calm, feverish, quiet. This morning, she was screaming, cool to the touch, and thrashing. One time, she sat straight up and pulled her arms back, elbows almost meeting behind her.

"If I stay like this, it doesn't hurt - I need someone or something to keep me like this."

But then, she would release her arms to the front, and throw herself down on the bed, writhing in pain. Are you seeing visions of "The Exorcist"? I was! Unlike the movie, she was coherent, her coloring was good, there was no projectile vomiting, no cursing, and her head did not spin around. Still, as I watched her throw herself all over my bed, I could suddenly understand why people in the middle ages might think someone in such pain was demon-possessed.

"Mom! I feel like I'm dying!"

Ok. That was serious. She was begging me for medicine - but what kind? What was wrong? How was I supposed to medicate these baffling symptoms?

All that was bad enough. On top of the goings on in my bedroom, my cat, Kiki, suddenly gets thirsty. I mean, really thirsty. Thirsty to the point of yowling at me and running to the sink. Well, too bad. Tabby is more important right now. Kiki jumps off the sink and runs to my bed. She jumps up and climbs on Tabby. She looks in my face and yowls again.

This is different.

Kiki is my anti-social cat. She is quiet, and hates to be near people more than she has to. She is not mean, but she is older, and doesn't like to be disturbed. For her to jump on top of a writhing child and look at me and yowl is totally out of character. She is making it impossible to ignore her.

She jumps down and runs to the bathroom again. She jumps up on the sink and yowls. When I ignore her, she repeats the whole business.

Maybe I was wrong about the demon possession. Both Tabby and Kiki are acting crazily. What is going on?

"Mom. My chest. It feels like someone is sitting on it...it hurts to take a breath!"

A heart attack??!! At her age?!?!

I don't know at all what is going on with her. She suddenly jumps up and goes into the bathroom. She gets the cup, fills it with water and drinks. Her breathing slows down. She gets another cup and takes another drink. I can see her relaxing.

"That seems to have worked, mom."

She crawls in bed, lies down, and falls into an exhausted sleep. Wait a minute! Where is Kiki? Oh. She is back on the bed. Lying down. Closing her eyes.

Do you think...? Nah...

Ya think?