- Years ago we were eating dinner and I glanced at my 10-year-old daughter’s plate. “Eat your vegetables, Michele,” I said, and she replied “Corn is a grain, Mom.” When we have children we get to be humbled and corrected by pint-sized authorities.
- We get to have primitive hand-drawn artwork to affix to our refrigerators with magnets.
- We acquire a collection of crude, primary-color ceramics to hold our keys and loose change.
- We support the magnet industry. (see #2 above)
- We learn what Hell is like, in time to change our ways so we don’t have to experience eternity at Chuck E. Cheese.
- We get to experience premature graying and recurring nightmares teaching a 16-year-old to drive.
- We learn humility. When Michele was in high school I told her, “If you do your homework and get a good education you’ll get a great job that pays good money.” To this priceless wisdom, she replied “Oh duh, Mom.” Mothers everywhere were hearing “Oh duh, Mom.”
- We learn that we are not as smart as we think we are. That in fact we’re not smart at all. After we struggle and click everywhere for hours when our computer misbehaves, our kid comes in, turns it off, unplugs the modem for a minute, plugs it back in and it works like a charm.
- We get to go to movies we secretly long to see when we go with our children. I loved the Goonies, swear words and all. My daughter is 35, and doesn’t have kids. I wish she did, I really want to see Captain Underpants.
- We learn how to qualify for the Indy 500 when we speed like Mario Andretti, scanning 360 degrees for cops as we race to pick up our kids at the daycare before it closes. At six they start charging $10 a minute. I exaggerate but only slightly.
- Yes, I know I said 10 reasons but I had forgotten the most important one. We learn that life is not fair. You’re diligent for a long, long time and then you forget about your birth control one time. Just ONE. That’s all it takes, and your life is changed forever. And when the fruit of your lapse is born, you fall more hopelessly and completely in love than you ever dreamed it was possible, for the rest of your life, which by the way is no longer yours.
You made your family observe No Tech Day and your kids secretly checked and saw those sneaky calls and texts on your iPhone. Or they found the chocolate gelato you cleverly hid in the mixed-veggies box in the freezer. The worst part is that you will be outed in an embarrassing manner about these misdeeds when you least expect it.
It’s nothing new. In 1930 my grandmother couldn’t go to the bathroom without the world knowing all the details. Family legend has it that her son, my Uncle Orlin who was then 10 years old, answered the phone one morning when Grandma was in the bathroom. The caller asked to speak to Margaret Rice. “Mother can’t come to the phone,” Orlin said. “She’s grunting.”
About 30 years ago, my daughter Michele and I went camping with the Girl Scouts. We were all sitting around the campfire after dinner, roasting marshmallows, scaring the girls with ghost stories, and generally chatting. I told about Michele’s paternal grandmother going out on a tourist crab boat in Alaska. A large, speedy crab made a beeline for her (crabline, I guess I should say) and clamped a claw down on her glove. Fortunately the glove was way too large for her so the crab got no fingers, only the glove.
“But you should see the photo,” I said. “It looks like this huge crab has chomped down on my mother-in-law’s hand.”
“Grandma Myrl isn’t your mother-in-law, Mom,” Michele corrected matter-of-factly. “You and Dad never married.”
Time stood still. I was horrified. For all these respectable Girl Scout moms to learn about my impropriety…OMG. Then good-natured and infectious laughter broke out around the campfire from kids and Moms alike. It calmed my nerves. And then the troop leader said, “Selena’s dad and I aren’t married either.” I relaxed even more.
There will always be something for kids to out their parents on. If it hasn’t happened to you yet, get ready. It will. Maybe you’ll be caught in the act of rewinding and rewatching Harvey Keitel’s full-frontal-nudity scene in The Piano. (Don’t ask me how I thought that up.) Maybe you’ll be caught drinking a can of Red Bull right before your tennis tournament match, which is surely a moral, if not technical, violation of the club’s no-drug rule.
There will always be something for kids to out their parents on. It’s one of the things that make being a parent so interesting.
I’ve talked with girlfriends who play tennis, or used to play tennis, and they’ve had similar experiences after getting married. Who knows why things change like this? Let’s not even go there. They just do.
Frank and I met in a tennis club for singles. Frank was very chivalrous when we were dating, and that extended to tennis. He was much better than me, rated Men’s-A tournament level in our club. I was a Women’s-C. We only played together informally, with friends. Back then Frank was unconcerned about whether we won or lost. We just had fun.
Then we got married, and things changed. After we lost a match he would say things like “You need to work on your serve” or “You need to practice your volley” or “You’ve got a weak slam.” We’d go out during the week and he’d feed me volleys to return as slams, or coach me on my serve, or feed me fast and corner balls to return. We drilled and drilled. He wanted to win his doubles matches.
With the pressure on, tennis became just one more stress on top of my busy life as a working mother. Eventually I quit playing. Frank practiced some weekday evenings and played every Sunday. I alternated between hiking and going to movies on Sunday. On movie days I went to a little theatre that was next to a coffee shop, and after the movie I’d treat myself to a guilty pleasure—espresso and a luscious gelato. In solitary splendor, I enjoyed myself immensely.
Then Frank broke his metatarsal bone running down a tennis ball, when he was 65. It was quite painful and he wore a big knee-high boot for two months and did physical therapy for a long time after that. He never went back to tennis. He felt the foot was a weak link and susceptible to re-injury at his age. He gave his huge bag of beat-up practice balls to a friend who has a lovable Yorkshire terrier named Maggie.
Now Frank and I go to the movies nearly every Sunday. We both enjoy them. No one competes, no one loses, no one screws up. We laugh and we cry. We have animated, enjoyable discussions of the film afterwards over a nice dinner. We both win. So far the score is Love-Love. Actually, Love-Love-Love. Maggie adores her tennis balls.
I love my husband but I need to get away from him now and then. I do short getaways, like staying in Monterey with a friend or two for a couple days of eating, shopping, and walking on the beach, followed by more eating and shopping. Or I’ll go overnight with friends to experience the fog and the culture in San Francisco. There’s a wealth of things to do close to our home in Silicon Valley.
I’m always the one who has to run away from home. Frank is exceptionally stable. He worked for the city for 30 years, and bought the house we live in nearly 40 years ago, 20 years before we even met. His 1970 Camaro is older than his house. And he’s a diehard homebody. He never travels except when we go together. He’s stable to a fault.
Once in a while I muse about what it would be like if Frank took a trip and I stayed home. Home alone! Wow, what would it feel like? The whole house would be my oyster. The first thing that comes to mind is the excitement of having control of the remote. That’s been a lifelong—or marriage-long—dream of mine. I could change channels, turn the volume up or down, turn the TV off and back on at will. I’d be drunk with the feeling of power it would give me.
I could have my girlfriends over for wine and Chinese takeout. And more wine. We’d laugh loudly and watch chick flicks and tell off-color jokes. Maybe even get really wild and watch Forty Shades of Grey. Or is it Fifty? I haven’t seen it. And ice cream for dessert, Ben & Jerry’s Half Baked. Yum, gooey cookie dough chunks. I’d get a lot so when the girls leave I can finish whatever’s left. Ice cream is a no-no when Frank’s home. He’s a healthy eater and watches my weight for me.
I could indulge openly in my secret addiction and buy a bunch of lottery scratch cards. Then I’d scratch them off right out in the open, at the kitchen table. I can’t do that either when Frank’s home. He disapproves of gambling almost more than ice cream.
I have a long list of more home-alone pleasures. My at-home getaway sounds great, but I don’t think it’s going to happen. Frank’s not showing any signs of restlessness or wanderlust. He’s happy just driving to a movie or to senior drop-in doubles at the city tennis courts. So I’ll just keep my sense of adventure and my suitcase at the ready. It’s for a good cause.
A massive prehistoric beast lives with us. It rumbles threateningly when it’s awakened, it shakes the earth when it moves, it gobbles up space, it’s always hungry. It’s my archrival.
The beast is my husband’s beloved muscle car, his 1970 Chevrolet Camaro. It’s a polluter, with no catalytic converter, and a gas guzzler. It gets a mere 15 miles to the gallon. Maybe 10. Yet the old space hog gets to occupy the garage while my sensitive compact lives outside in the driveway because there’s not enough room for it. On cold winter mornings I bundle up and go outside and, teeth chattering, scrape ice off the windows of my two-year-old Corolla. I run the defogger to clear the windows before I can get on the road. All the while Frank’s beast snuggles comfy-cozy in the garage.
When we married I moved into Frank’s house and from the beginning the Camaro was like a roommate. A roommate I’m jealous of. It gets so much attention. Even though it’s an environmental nightmare Frank loves it. It’s the closest thing to a child he’s ever had. He’s the original owner and lived with it for more 20 years before he met me. He’s always working on it. Changing the oil, or tuning it up, or fixing a leak of some sort, or adjusting something or other.
It was never like that when we were dating. I came first. I wasn’t crazy about the car because it didn’t have air conditioning or a CD player, or anything modern. But I wasn’t jealous of it. We would just use my little Sentra with its air conditioning, electric windows, CD player, etc.
I was almost rid of the Camaro once. Frank called one morning from the side of the freeway where the Camaro had broken down. He thought the block was cracked. I don’t know much about cars but I was pretty sure a cracked block is fatal.
I told him I was sorry, trying to hide the insincerity in my voice. I drove over to him, singing along to John Denver’s Rocky Mountain High. I actually felt high. I was making plans for life after death of the Camaro. Frank would take my Sentra and I would buy the new Toyota I’d been wanting. Sweet. Lots of head room. Five-speed automatic shift, sunroof, 10-disk CD player. My fantasy ended when I saw Frank and his damaged chariot. I pulled over, turned off John Denver and tried to look sad.
The Camaro wasn’t drivable so we called a tow truck. It came and loaded up the car and drove away. On our way home Frank said glumly he didn’t think they made new engines for his model anymore.
“I’m so sorry,” I lied. When we got home I started dinner and Frank called his car guy. They talked a long time. After Frank hung up he was beaming.
“They do make new engines for my model,” he enthused. “And it won’t cost nearly as much as I thought.”
Then and there, I decided to take my stand. I took a deep breath.
“If you’re going to keep that old dinosaur, I want a divorce,” I said. “I’ve had it. It’s me or that car.”
KIDDING. I didn’t really say that. I thought it, but what I said was, “Gee, that’s great honey. I’m happy for you.” The truth is I was afraid to find out which of us he would choose.
Frank and I and the Camaro are still together. I still park in the driveway. Frank’s Camaro still hulks in the garage, like always except now it’s got a brand new engine. It’s good for another 50 years. It will outlast me. It’s not fair. When I break down, I won’t get a new engine. The most I’ll get is a new knee or a new hip or two in the coming years, maybe a pacemaker. Minor parts. But on the bright side, the Camaro’s longevity reminds me of my own mortality. It helps me to savor every moment that I have now.
My struggle with the Camaro has taught me that I can only change myself. I can’t make the Camaro go away. I can’t make Frank less attached to it. With acceptance comes peace. It’s good for me, after all, to get outside on those freezing winter mornings and scrape ice off windshields. It’s invigorating, and I can practice gratitude, being thankful I’m not back East shoveling snow. I see the positive side. I’ve stopped calling the car my husband loves a gas-guzzling, space-hogging, polluting, noisy, prehistoric old heap. Now I see an iconic American classic, majestic symbol of a bygone golden age of Detroit and American car makers. I’ve learned nonresistance. That wretched old road hog—oops, I mean that national treasure—is my teacher.
Something comes over perfectly nice men when they’re in a car driven by a woman. Almost every man who’s been in my car when I’m driving has been annoying, and then some. Bob, my former significant other, was the worst of them. His name is not really Bob. I changed it for this blog post so I won’t be sued.
A typical example of driving with Bob was my 40th birthday. I was bummed out about hitting 40, but looking forward to dinner at the nice restaurant Bob was taking me to. Bob drove to the restaurant, and we had a great dinner and a lot of fun. I drove home because I don’t drink and Bob had had a couple of beers. He wisely never drove if he had more than one drink.
Picture it. (I borrow that phrase from Sophia in Golden Girls.) It’s a dark night. We walk to the car, I get settled in the driver’s seat, and turn on the ignition. Bob is normally an amiable, easy-going man except when I’m driving. I glance over at him and he’s in his usual male-passenger position: staring straight ahead, his jaw set grimly, his feet wide apart and firmly planted on the floor. There’s not one relaxed bone in his body. Not one relaxed muscle. Even his ears are stiff. His nose is tense. His nostrils are flared. It’s not a good sign. I’m not even out of the parking lot yet and he’s loaded for bear.
Dr. Jekyll has become Mr. Hyde.
I drive to the end of the parking lot exit. A car is coming on my left. It’s quite a distance away, yet I stop. I always drove super cautiously with Bob in the car, to keep him from getting agitated.
After the car has gone by, I check again. Out of the corner of my eye I see Bob’s head turning left and right repeatedly. He is checking for cars, as vigilant as an airliner copilot. Traffic is very light and there’s only one more car coming, quite a distance away and traveling slowly. With plenty of time on my side, I turn right onto the road.
“Wow!” Bob says tensely. “That car almost hit you. You shouldn’t have pulled out. Reckless.”
“It wasn’t even close to the driveway, Bob,” I say calmly. “It still isn’t. It was a mile away, what are you talking about?”
“He wasn’t far away,” Bob insists. “He was almost on top of you!” I say nothing. I glance over at him and see that both hands are now gripping the seat on either side of his knees, his knuckles white, his jaw still set grimly, his feet still planted wide apart.
“He was not close,” I insist. “Not even,” I add, imitating Lisa Kudrow, who always said that phrase with the accent on even. Lisa Kudrow annoyed him no end, which of course is why I did it.
“Watch it! Watch it!” Bob yells all of a sudden. I’m once again reminded of how he always yells “watch it!” twice. It’s very annoying! It’s very annoying!
“Watch it! Watch it!” he yells again. I don’t know what he’s yelling about.
“Watch what, Bob?” I ask, exasperated.
I glance over. Bob’s right hand is now fiercely gripping the arm rest, with his left pressed tightly against the glove compartment. He’s clenching and unclenching his jaw. “That car’s going to sideswipe you! Watch it!” I can’t see what he’s talking about, and then a car passes by me gently and safely in the lane on my right. Bob was watching it. Bob was always afraid cars were going to go over their lines. He had no trust in the Universe.
“Everything’s fine,” I say. “He’s just going past me, he’s well within his lane.”
“He was going over his line,” Bob says. “Way over. You have to watch people!”
“Well, what can I do Bob? I’m stuck in my lane, I can’t get out. We’ll have a head-on if I go over to the left. And I can’t go to the right because the car’s there. Anyway, that guy wasn’t getting close. I saw him in my side mirror. He was fine.”
There’s a red light coming up. I stop in plenty of time, with one car ahead of me. “You’re too close!” Bob yells. “You have to be able to see the tires of the car in front of you. Completely!”
“I can see the damn tires,” I shout, starting to lose my cool. I glance over again. His lips are moving. He appears to be praying. He’s changed position and is now gripping the door handle with both hands, like he might jump out. A part of me, I’m ashamed to say, wishes he would.
When the light turns green I cross the intersection, after I look both ways like I always do. I’m old and wise enough to know you can’t just shoot out like a bat out of hell because your light turns green. Someone could be running the cross light. I shot out without looking once when I was in my twenties and got T-boned. I foolishly told Bob about it and traumatized him, even though it was about 40 years ago and I haven’t had an accident since. Goodie-two-shoes Bob never had an accident, not even a little fender bender. His worse traffic offense was a fix-it ticket for brake lights.
Down the road a car approaches on the cross street to my right, slowly, braking to stop safely at the intersection. “Watch it! Watch it!” Bob yells. “Watch it! Watch it! That car’s not stopping!”
“He is too! He is too!” I yell back, my voice growing strident. “He’s stopping in plenty of time. He’s a cautious old frug.” I manage not to say “like you.” I don’t want things to deteriorate into name calling. I proceed, glancing over at Bob whose feet are now raised up and braced against the glove compartment. His jaw is grimly reset.
“You’re a reckless driver,” he says. “You’re dangerous, wild.”
“I’m a perfectly good driver,” I tell him. “I’ve been driving us around for 10 years and I’ve never had an accident. I’ve never even had a ticket,” I lie. I did get a few for speeding and one unsafe lane change, during my years with Bob. But never when he was with me.
He doesn’t hear me. “You don’t look,” he says. “You’re distracted, spacy. You’re a menace to society.”
“Not even,” I say. “I’m very alert. It’s a wonder I can focus with you in the car. You badger and badger, you’re like an annoying cockatoo. You have a voice like a jack hammer.” I glance over at him again. He’s now in the fetal position. And there we were, reduced to name-calling. The conversation deteriorated from there. The relationship deteriorated soon after. It was our final car fight. Before long, we split up.
A few years later I met Frank. We’re celebrating our 19th wedding anniversary this year, and 223 years of being together. I’m sorry, 23 years. Freudian slip. We’re going to Monterey today. I’m driving because Frank likes to look around when we’re going somewhere scenic. We get in the car, I start ‘er up, and look over at Frank. As usual when I drive, he’s looking straight ahead, his jaw set grimly, his feet wide apart, firmly planted on the floor. There’s not one relaxed bone in his body. Not one relaxed muscle. Even his ears are stiff…. It’s déjà vu time.
Oh well, nothing’s perfect. Frank and I have disagreements in the car but things are much better than they were with Bob. For instance Frank yells “watch it!” but not twice in a row like Bob used to. And I don’t do my Lisa Kudrow impersonation anymore. I’ve grown. Plus there’s no point to it since it doesn’t bother Frank. Most important, I realize now that nothing is perfect, including driving with your spouse. Including marriage, period. Marriage is good, but it’s definitely not perfect. Not even.
Oakville Kid: Yo i heard you were kickin it old school with corbin’s mom last night brooo!!!
Oakville Kid 2: Yo NOT EVEN
Several months ago doctors discovered a potentially cancerous cyst on my husband’s pancreas. They saw it on a CT scan, taken to investigate a possible infection before performing a rather simple hernia operation. The cyst was a surprise to everyone. Frank promptly had his hernia repaired and shortly after that had a major operation to remove the cyst.
The whole experience was very challenging for both of us, as you can imagine. But through our struggles, we grew. In fact, the difficulties that arose made me realize I’m much more than I ever thought I was. Abilities and strengths had been hiding inside me, undiscovered until Frank’s operation. Here are some examples.
PATIENT ADVOCATE: I’m usually rather timid, but as Frank’s advocate I was take-charge and creative. I wandered around the hospital and stole magazines from waiting room areas when Frank was out of reading material. When the doctors switched his diet to solid from liquid, I went out to wonderful little restaurants around the hospital and smuggled in sushi and sashimi and tempura and other favorite delicacies. When he became alert enough to want to watch television, I figured out how to operate the TV in his room because the nurse didn’t have time. This is the accomplishment I am most proud of. There wasn’t even a manual, and to say that I am electronically challenged is a real understatement. But I did it. I stretched my boundaries. Maybe I’ll even do some troubleshooting to solve some problems with my PC. On second thought, never mind. That’s why God made Geek Squad.
I was at the hospital early in the morning every day for the week and a half he was there. I nagged him to make sure he breathed every half hour into his spirometer, a device to help prevent pneumonia. Nagging isn’t pleasant but somebody had to do it and I rose to the occasion. It’s a lot more pleasant than pneumonia. I took him for at least two daily walks around the corridors, so he wouldn’t get pneumonia just lying, inactive, in bed, and after I got home in the evening I always called and made sure a nurse or assistant walked him before bed. I made sure he ate, instead of sitting and looking at food that was often left in front of him too far away to reach, in containers he couldn’t open in his weakened condition. I think without someone in the room to help him with his food he would have starved. When I left I made sure he was warm and positioned comfortably and his nurse call button was in reach. I made sure he drank lots of fluids. I emptied his plastic urine container.
WOUND NURSE: I am alarmed at the sight of blood. That’s another understatement. There’s a great line in a Woody Allen movie (I can’t remember which movie). It goes “Blood. That’s supposed to be on the inside!” I couldn’t agree more. That’s why I can’t quite believe I did what I describe below.
Our wonderful home health nurse, Mandy, came three times a week to change Frank’s wound dressing. As queasy as I am, I forced myself to watch her every time because of the possibility, though unlikely, that someday there would be too much drainage to wait for Mandy’s next visit. Sure enough, the someday came. I checked his bandage one evening and saw a lot of pus and blood. I took a few deep breaths and splashed my face with cold water, to keep from shaking. I knew I had to do the deed.
As queasy as I was, I managed to calmly remove the old bandages. Mandy kept her supplies in our house, and I cleaned the wound out by putting saline-soaked gauze pads into the sizeable incision on his abdomen, pushing them down gently with long Q-tip type things, and used them to lift out the gauze pads along with the pus and blood that clung to them. I did that several times until the soaked gauze came up clean, then wiped his abdomen around the hole, tamped fresh saline-soaked gauze down into it, and sealed it up with tape and several gauze pads.
Okay, I confess. I had help. Panicked, I called the home health service and told the night nurse on duty what was going on. I couldn’t have done it without her, or without my speaker phone. Her calm, professional voice broadcasting from my landline led me through the whole process step by step. Still, I can’t believe I mucked around like that in a hole in my husband’s stomach. The next time Mandy came I told her about it, and Frank actually said it was “heroic.” I treasure his remark. I think he has a new respect for me. It’s the highest compliment I’ve ever gotten from him. The only one, actually. He’s a man of few words.
CHARGE NURSE: When Frank came home from the hospital I set up a detailed medical schedule, giving him all his antibiotics and pain and other medications on time using a timer I bought just for that purpose. I kept a killer written schedule and recorded time and amount of every single medication dose I gave him. You’d have thought I went to nursing school. I made sure he walked with his walker at least twice a day and breathed into his spirometer frequently. Every day I made three balanced, nutritious meals, sufficiently bland for his tender, surgically assaulted digestive organs. I gave him a daily sponge bath. I stayed with him day and night leaving the house only for groceries and prescriptions and the occasional furtive stop at Starbucks, for several weeks until he was able to do more things independently and was steady on his feet. If I had to leave I made sure the phone and the emergency inhaler for his COPD were within reach.
And, like any good nurse, I didn’t put up with any shit. It was for his own good. I watched him like a hawk. No way could he get out of breathing exercises or walking or eating his veggies or taking his multivitamin, which he thinks is for sissies. He didn’t want to take the probiotics I gave him to prevent diarrhea either. He’s suspicious about anything that’s new and unfamiliar to him. He argued and gave me a big hard time about it, but I brought him in line by dropping subtle hints about putting him in a skilled nursing facility. I was up to cleaning out his wound and changing the bandage, but I wouldn’t have been able to deal with diarrhea. A baby’s diarrhea is one thing. I’ve done that. But an adult male? Forget it.
One day I heard him mutter something under his breath about Nurse Ratched but I just let it go. I don’t think I was that bad. And I was tough on him because I love him.
BAD ASS BIG-CITY DRIVER: I’ve been a timid country girl all 70 years of my life, hiding out in the suburbs of Silicon Valley. I was born here when it was still sleepy Santa Clara Valley. I’m a bit reclusive and I have a big phobia about driving in big cities, like San Francisco, which to me is huge and frightening. It’s way bigger than Fremont, the boring little bedroom community where Frank and I live.
Hiding behind my phobia, I had managed not to drive to San Francisco for decades. But SOMEBODY had to drive Frank to his biopsy since he would be anesthetized and could not drive himself home. And the biopsy was in San Francisco. A cab or Uber simply wouldn’t do.
The demon was at my door. It was staring me in the face. The SOMEONE who had to drive him was ME.
I went to war against my phobia. I pored over printouts of Google Maps. I memorized all the streets and printed directions for the drive not only to the hospital but the drive back home as well. A friend showed me the basics of my iPhone GPS, which I had never used, and I drove around with it on all the time until the biopsy date, getting used to it. To top it off, Frank and I made a couple of dry runs before the appointment. We parked in each nearby parking garage so I could get familiar with the drill. They don’t have parking garages in Fremont.
I even prayed.
On the big day my knuckles were white on the steering wheel but I made it to the parking garage for Kaiser San Francisco. The biopsy was positive, which meant another epic drive in a few weeks, this time to the surgery center in Oakland. Again we did a couple of test drives. Eventually I got to be an old hand driving around Oakland streets because Frank was in the hospital for 11 days and I made the round-trip drive every day by myself.
Today I no longer shrink from city driving. I can outmaneuver the best of them. I can change lanes on a dime and cut people off and beat people to parking spaces like I’ve been doing it all my life. I can be as verbally abusive as any Type A driver. I’ve used words I never even knew I knew. Frank no longer likes to drive with me. He says I’m rude and reckless, and that I could move to New York City and make a good living as a cab driver. And he says if I do, he will stay here.
Those are the highlights of challenges I rose to meet. I look back at when we first found out about Frank’s cyst, and remember how daunting it was to contemplate being his sole care giver. But I did it. I did it all, from changing his bandage and being an all-around nurse to taking care of the house and the housework and the yard and the cats and taking out the garbage and paying the bills and chauffeuring and cooking and grocery shopping and all the rest of it. I continued doing it all for months after his surgery while he slowly recovered.
All the things I was afraid of actually expanded my horizons. Things that I was certain would be too much for me to do turned out okay. I learned first-hand that I am up to more challenges than I ever thought possible. I’m going to say it, just this once: I was awesome.
Everything worked out including the outcome of Frank’s surgery. The cyst was completely removed, and turned out to contain an extremely low-grade cancer, and nothing had spread beyond its borders.
It doesn’t get any better than that.
Scripture: “But Jesus looked at them and said, “With man this is impossible, but with God, and Google Maps, and nurses on speaker phones, and a mocha latte now and then, all things are possible.” ~ Matthew 19:26
The Power of Chocolate: “I’ve been through some tough times, with no one to talk to, to share with, to count on. Thank God I had chocolate.”