I’ll be the first to admit at times I feel sorry for myself. The last couple decades it’s been about my hearing. Or lack of it I guess. 99% of the time it’s because I assume. Too quickly. I misjudge what’s been said. (In my defense this is usually done by someone behind my back-literally! I didn’t catch what was said to me because it’s all mumble-jumble when the person is not facing me. And I always answer wrong or say something totally inappropriate, trying to guess what was aimed for my ears-and missed rather miserably). 

I do feel sorry for myself at times. Lame I know, trying to change my ways…

When this happens, the person frequently repeats their comment. Often times quite fast. If I still don’t understand or look at them with a huge blank stare (that’s where the ‘duh’ from Duh-Neese comes in) on my face, I can see their patience has run its course. They turn away with a ‘never mind’ and I’m excluded. Whether it was important or not. At first I feel a hot flash of anger, which quickly turns into unworthiness. For this particular conversation, joke, or comment, I’m simply not worth the effort. Holy shit, you can’t believe how bad this makes me feel. Thin skinned I guess. Like I can help my deafness. Think I asked for this? Not hardly. When I start feeling negative about myself, God always comes through for me. With a gentle slap to the side of my head. A wake up call. To give my life perspective. Again. 

I’ll just call her ‘Sue’. We met 20 years ago through a mutual acquaintance. A few years older than me, she sure didn’t look or act it. Slim, blond, athletic and smart as a whip. A college graduate with a money-business-stuff-degree. We saw each other socially occasionally, but Sue lived in another city, so our friendship was sporadic, but endured. 

I began to notice a slight difference when Sue moved closer and we spent more time together. She just didn’t seem as sharp. It was harder for her to find the right word when we were conversing. Or she asked me the same question within a short time frame. She was retired but still actively played sports, held volunteer positions of importance. But something just wasn’t right. She had a couple of silly fender benders and seemed to have an awful lot of doctor appointments. 

Then we moved to Jackson 2-1/2 years ago, and I was no longer in Sue’s circle. Caught up with fixing our new little crib, plus getting my fabulous part time job, I completely dropped the ball. Saw less of Sue’s posts on Facebook and she never emailed me anymore. Or responded to me when I wished her a happy birthday. Called her a few months ago when I was in the area, but the conversation was disjointed. Wasn’t surprised to hear she’d been in another car accident, had been hurt but doing ok. She had company staying with her, so we made no plans to get together. But in the back of my mind, I knew something was very wrong. And that feeling never went away. I’ve thought of Sue a lot and made the decision to stop and see how she was doing the next time I was in town-with or without a phone call first.

And then along comes God with that gentle slap along side my head, acutely minimizing my silly disability. Stupid hearing loss. Pffft. Nothing. At all. Not a blip on the radar screen. Inconsequential. I figure it’s been about 2 years since I’ve seen Sue-face-to-face. You could have knocked me over with a feather after I rapped on her door. Stooped over, shuffling slowly towards the door, my heart just sank. Tears formed and I swallowed several times. I hope to God I recovered quickly. Can’t say for sure she knew my name, but there was a flicker of recognition on her beautiful face. “Hi Sue, I hope you remember me, it’s Denise.” “Sure. Sure I do, come in.” 

Miscellaneous small piles of “stuff” were scattered throughout her lovely home. Pictures with and without frames, recent mail just waiting to be put somewhere else. She’d had some work done on the house since I’d last been there and I complimented her great choices on the decor. Her home looked fabulous. I asked her how she was doing, and she said simply, “I don’t even know where to start. It’s such a mess. I feel like I’m in a prison.” I grasped her hand, pulled her to me and gave her a hug, which felt kind of lame. This must be hell on earth. Sue’s own hell on earth. I can’t even imagine. Holy cripes.

From our short visit, I believe Sue is on a huge precipice. She still fully realizes what’s going on with her mental and physical health and knows it’s down hill from here. Hell. She told me she has a guardian who takes care of all her finances. She no longer drives (which didn’t seem to bother her very much but really surprised me) and has several caregivers who attend to her needs and take her to her various appointments. (If I were still around I’d certainly bring her supper a couple times a week and take her for a ride). It gives me a lump every time I think of this savvy businesswoman reduced to this in the prime of her life. Hell.

I told Sue about a story I wrote, highlighting our mutual friend when I first started blogging. She asked me if I would read it to her? She no longer uses her computer. I found the post and read it to her. She nodded several times and smiled. Looked at the pictures and asked where I found them? After I was done reading, she asked if I could send her the story? I sent it to her via message. I was showing her how to find the story on her phone when I noticed she had 6,000 plus emails in her inbox. Over 6,000. Yikes. She’s never noticed. I suggested she ask one of her helpers to get rid of a few thousand of them for her. Don’t know if she’ll remember when they come back though. 

For me, our visit was gut wrenching. I wonder how Sue felt or if my visit bothered her? Sure hope not. She asked me to come back. I keep going over everything we talked about. I’m just sick about what’s happening to her. Hell. Sometimes it takes something significant in your life to serve as a wake up call. This was mine. How very fragile and fleeting good health is (along with piss-poor hearing, annoying at best). How lucky and blessed I really am. And I need to be more grateful, thankful and appreciate what God has given me. I’m gonna try to let those who choose to exclude me from a silly conversation after the fourth try sluice off me like water off a duck. Get thicker skin. Try and curb the negative feelings that accompany those minor details in my life. I have been blessed far more than I deserve. It’s been humbling but exhilarating to realize how very happy my life is. God is good. My blessings keep adding up. I’m still counting. Thanks God…

Words to hold dear…

I love rules! Doesn’t mean I’m gonna follow every one, but as a rule, I love them. Structure. Written documentation. In black & white. Waiting for my ever ready highlight marker. Helps me memorize the rules I deem important enough for instant recall. Where would we be without rules? 

These rules should be required in every little league park in the US. Just substitute your favorite professional team…

The babies. Right now we have 10 full time and 4 part time kids ranging in age from 3 months to 15 months. Don’t let that small 12 month gap fool you. It’s HUGE during the first year of a baby’s life. HUGE. The part-timers come on different days, but overlap on 2 days, giving us 13 babies for two days. Well guess what? That’s against the rules. I won’t state all the licensing code numbers every time I mention a rule because I don’t have them memorized. Yet. When our baby numbers exceed the rules, someone’s gotta go to the next room (ages range from about 1-1/2 to 2-1/2) for the day. It’s usually the oldest child we have who’ll be moving there anyway. They might fuss and sputter a bit initially. Different caregivers, different toddler faces, but it’s not long and soon they don’t want to come back to our room and we’re forgotten. 

Neat little rule that strangely applies to me…

We have an odd age assortment right now, because there’s almost no in-between babies (only one). They’re either 5 months or younger, or 10 months and older. Doesn’t sound like much difference, but you can’t actually have the little ones with the bigger ones yet. One age group is too helpless, the other too curious (about the too helpless ones).

Rules I try to follow for writing…

Another one of the state’s too-numerous-to-count-rules strongly suggests fresh air for all children in daycare. Pretty much any day there’s not a downpour, blizzard, above 90 or a windchill below 20 above. Right. Trying to time this in between bottles, solid foods, diapers, and naps requires a degree in PHD-dom. Invariably, one or 2 children can’t go outdoors for some reason, antibiotics or allergies. At any given time during the day, one or 2 will be sleeping or need to be fed, which usually means about 8 at a time go outdoors leaving me with 4 in our room. 

Another set I’m working on…

One beautiful afternoon recently (a 13 count day, so one of ours was visiting the one year old classroom for the day) Michelle and Marty lugged in 2 dainty strollers. I swear one of our strollers is the size of a railroad car. Bright red and white with shoulder harnesses and hold 6 kids! The other one is just a 2-banger. As soon as the door opens and the babies spot the strollers, all the one year olds walk, crawl, amble, lumber or scoot as fast as their chubby legs will carry them, squealing with delight. (Most everyone wants to go bye-bye. Even on bad weather days when walking our hallways is the only option, the kids are excited. Heck, everyone who encounters a red and white striped stroller loaded with adorable little people goes ga-ga over our babies). My stay-in crew of 4 consisted of 2 four month olds and 2 one year olds. 

One tiny tot was sleeping, one needed to be fed and the 2 big kids were making the rounds, destroying the room (it’s ok really, it’s their job). The amount of time spent outside depends, on average about 20 minutes to a half hour. Not including, slathering them all with Sunscreen, making sure all diapers are changed, finding hats, pacifiers, jackets, shoes, plus getting them all harnessed in and out of the strollers. A time consuming challenge. Before and especially after. 

A good set to reflect on occasionally…

So I was at the halfway mark of going solo. The sleeping baby woke and was sitting near me, watching the one year olds cruising from one shelf to the next, freeing every toy from it. They’re actually experts in this department. The fourth baby was ready for her bottle when a dad of one of our babies walked in. I said hi, he’s outside right now. Wasn’t why he was here, just bringing his son some extra food. He left and a couple minutes later the recess crowd started coming back in. And they were not full of unbridled joy. Weirdest thing. Happy as a pig in mud one minute and deflated, defeated, hot, cranky, hungry, and angry the next. I didn’t realize how closely the babies keep track of our big board. Big board has everyone’s individual name, next diaper change and most importantly, next bottle or food time written on it. Glancing at it, then at the clock they start by screwing up their little faces, going into a scowl that’s almost cute. For about 2 seconds. “Hey there slacker worker, I’m now 20 minutes late for my snack/bottle/diaper. What gives? Don’t think you can just rock your way out of this one. I. Am. Ticked. Tired. Hungry. And you’re gonna hear about it.” 

I. Love. This. One. It’s so me…

I can only remember one other time during my 2-1/2 years in the infant room that rivaled the next 20 minutes. Chaos ensued. (Think: the riots of the late ‘60’s). It started as a lulling crescendo into a category 5 hurricane in less than 2 minutes. I was in the baby section with 4 little ones, feeding one of them. The other 3 were complaining. But holy man, in the play area of the big section of our room was a virtual unison chorus of 8 unhappy voices demanding their needs be met. Me first. Food, diapers, naps all needed immediately. Can’t remember that many of our babies crying at the same time. Suddenly the adjoining door opens and I think, thank you God, someone’s coming into help for 15 minutes. Au contraire. Instead a voice politely asks, “can you take back Owen?” (Are you kidding me?) “No, we still have 12.” “But we just saw one of your dads park his truck.” (You watch the parking lot? Really?) “He was just bringing in some bottles,” I said as pleasantly as I could muster. Click went the door to their room. Over the roar I glanced at Marty and Michelle with a ‘can you believe what just happened?’ I totally thought they were gonna take one or 2 of our kids for a few minutes, not ask us to take another one in this chaotic environment. Oh well. 

Wasn’t but 15 minutes later when soggy diapers had been changed, a couple of tiny ones were sound asleep in their cribs, 3 bigger kids were in high chairs, happily and hungrily munching on their snacks, drinking greedily from their sippy cups. Ah, peace was restored. (Peace might be a slight stretch, but there are times when our room is pretty quiet. And yes, those 23 second increments, once or twice a week are always well documented and looked back with much fondness-when time allows). For the most part though, there is a quite a price to pay when we take the babies out for recess. All for those pesky rules I love so much…

Our clean dish drying mat. Comes out of the dryer with 40 Velcro bibs attached. Often the way I feel when I’m done working for the day…

My spring objective was to visit Iowa during May. Before Iowa’s insufferable heat and humidity arrived for a couple months. Before I started canning anything. Best laid plans. Nuts. Just couldn’t follow through. I blame Hubs. It’s the easy way out. His fault. It’s not like a brand new health issue hit him. He’s been hurting pretty bad for a couple years. So much he actually saw an orthopedic specialist 6 months ago. To John’s surprise (and mine) his x-rays showed nice cartilage around his hip.

Bridge overlooking Davenport and the ball diamond i used to frequent with Mary Ellen…

Huh? Then what’s causing all his pain? We now believe it started decades ago, about a year after we moved to North Muskegon. Joshua was finishing his freshman year of college, Adam was a sophomore in high school. First time living on a lake. Ah, the good life. Oh, please. John immediately bought a decent sized fishing boat, quickly followed by a bigger boat (few feet longer, so more area to cover when throwing our money away), plus a little fishing boat for the boys to use as long as they didn’t take it out on Lake Michigan, which was a couple miles away via boat. In case our new dock didn’t have enough shit now attached to both sides, Hubs bought 2 used Sea Do’s. (Just kill me now I thought as I watched them from the safety of my deck). The boys did some crazy stunts with those Sea Do’s. Trying to see how high they could make it ‘jump’ in the air when they hit a wave. Which John just had to try. Hubs, in his mid-40’s was pretty good at keeping up with the boys. But as he descended from his heaven bound water leap, he landed very wrong and his right hip has periodically given him pain ever since.

Not crowded yet, but the dock was soon packed with boy toys, ugh…

That was probably 1995. Doc thinks it’s arthritis and said if it got any worse, John could try a cortisone injection which should relieve much of the pain for months. And the pain has gotten steadily worse. Kitchen chairs, the car, bleachers bother him a lot, so he ends up standing much of the time. The more Iowa plans we (I) made, the louder the complaints. With about 10 days before we were scheduled to leave, I’d had about enough. He was not looking forward to sitting in the car for the better part of 2 days and it showed. “You know it’s not too late to postpone our trip,” I suggested. “Why not call the doctor and make an appointment to get the cortisone shot. See if that helps?” He agreed. So I let the relatives know and he cancelled our hotels, (not an easy task these days. I don’t remember them giving you such a hard time to cancel a reservation, but yikes they got kind of nasty about it) and made an appointment at the hospital to get the injection.

Hubs in the boat, brother Les doling out advice, 1996…

But I had already made plans to spend a couple days in Davenport. So while Hubs was resting his recently injected hip at home, I zipped across Michigan, a tiny bit of Indiana, all of Illinois to The mighty Mississippi for the weekend. In search of my favorite card game with some of my best friends.

Initially, I taught the group how to play well over 30 years ago. These gals have now made it their life mission that I not forget how to play double deck Euchre. There were 4 of us who were ADDICTED to that game for years. Two of us still play. My bestie, Mary Ellen passed away 5 years ago. I still get a lump when I think of her, we had such a great friendship. Our other constant card player has some serious health issues and hasn’t played for the last 2 or 3 years. That gives me a lump too. Mary Ellen’s cousin Betty was always one of our first phone calls when someone was gonna miss one of our marathon card parties, so she’s now slid into a starting position. Plus a new recruit/rookie (one of Betty’s Bridge playing friends, Connie has answered the call as our 4th since Pat can no longer play).

Our playing nights of 7 pm to 2 or 3 am have long passed us by. Now we start after lunch, play for awhile, stop and eat, play some more, graze again. We talk more, have more potty breaks, and constantly forget who’s turn it is to deal. And for the last couple years we’ve had a running argument. Betty doesn’t remember a couple of rules we instituted from the very beginning. But Jeanne and I both remember.

Double Deck Euchre

1. It’s always been a quarter a game, dime a bump, another dime if the loser is still in the hole when the game is over. 
2. If you go set on a hand, the team that set you gets credit for the tricks they pulled to set you. Example: I bid 6 Diamonds, but only take 5 tricks. My opposition gets credit for 3 tricks, plus I go down 6 points. 
3. If you’re ballsy enough to bid a 7-14 or 8-16 and make the bid, you’re  both paid a quarter on the spot by the other team. 

We’ve used these rules since 1985. I don’t care what Hoyle, the Internet or Wikipedia says, this is the way we’ve always played. Deal with it. Just deal-period, it’s your turn. I think. We always have a great time catching up with each other’s lives. Every time I hug them goodbye, I wonder if this will be the last time we’ll get together. You just never know what will happen in another year’s time. None of us is getting any younger, and I’ve always been the baby of the group. When Hubs is along, we stay in a hotel, ride past familiar landmarks, eat at our favorite spots if they still exist. Not the case since I’m alone, Jeanne invited me to stay with her. She had a bouquet of one of my favorite flowers, Lily’s of the Valley in my room when I arrived. They smelled so good. She’s a very thoughtful hostess.

Lily’s of the Valley to greet me in the guest room at Jeanne’s….

She hauled my sorry butt all over the Quad Cities, weaving our way back and forth across several bridges between Iowa and Illinois. Northpark Mall, a sports/fitness store called Athletic Endeavor because I was shopping for a new pair of Keens. And I could not be in the Quad Cities without a stop at Isabel Bloom. I spotted a new angel I really, really wanted, but could not fathom where she could call home in my house. There’s just not a spot for her. Most of my Isabel’s are larger statues and our house is no longer large. So I held onto my seldom used common sense for 5 minutes and bought a small butterfly. That was all.

New Isabel Bloom Butterfly…

Time spent went lickety-split, soon it was Sunday morning and I was ready to head back to Michigan. After I got home I thought of something Jeanne and I had talked about. How good a cup of tea tastes in the afternoon when it’s cold. I haven’t used a tea pot for years though. After my friend Rosemary passed away, she left me, I guess you would call it a hot water pot. An electric kettle. I had never heard of such a thing, yet I’ve used it constantly since I got it. It has a small coil in the bottom which heats up water fast and hot. During the winter when I get home from work John has already started the kettle for a cup of tea or my weird blend of Cinnamon-hot-chocolate-with-a-dash-of-instant-coffee.

My new Keens…

But that kettle gets used more often while I’m canning. It’s like having an extra burner on the stove. A constant source of boiling water to help keep my jars piping hot. Maybe Jeanne would like an electric kettle. A small way to thank her for the hospitality and driving me around for my mini-shopping spree. My goal was Bed, Bath & Beyond, but I only made it to Meijer, which had 4 different models to choose from. (Here I thought I knew every single product and where they’re located in that store, yet had never spotted electric kettles. Well color me embarrassed). I picked one, brought it home to wrap and take back to Meijer to mail. (I literally don’t know where the post office is in Jackson. And I hope I never have to learn. I buy stamps and mail all packages at the Meijer courtesy counter. Until a couple of days ago with the electric kettle under my arm).

The water kettle, coffee mug (which I just broke) and sugar bowl from Rosemary…

“Anything liquid, hazardous, glass, delicate,” he queried? “Nope, it’s just a kettle,” I said as he hauled it to the scale for weight and measurements. “Well, it’s just a tad too big for general delivery, so it has to go priority,” he continued, “that will be $10.18.” Using my awful hearing loss like a badge of honor now I said, “What? Are you freaking kidding me? That’s about half of what I paid for the thing. It weighs nothing. I need another price option.” “Sorry ma’am.” “Well, I’m not paying over ten dollars to mail this. I’ve changed my mind. This box has books, so I want it to go media mail.” “Umm, ma’am I can’t do that, you already said it was a kettle.” “Ok, fine,” I said as I grabbed the box and stomped out of my favorite store. Livid.

Set the box back in my Jeep and drove home. Plotting my next move. Next day I had to pick up Peyton at school on the other side of Jackson. After work I dinked around town for an hour, then headed to the other Meijer store closer to Peyton’s school. Walked up to the courtesy counter, kettle box under my arm. Plopped it on the counter, cautiously checking my surroundings like nervous Nelly. (I had thoughts of the courtesy counter dude from east side Meijer calling west side Meijer yesterday with my description. “Be on the lookout for an old lady trying to disguise a box with a water kettle as media mail. Call the FBI, CIA or the postal police immediately. She’s the very reason we lost 3 billion last quarter. Got to set an example, here and now. Get a warrant for her arrest.” “It’s books,” I fudged with a shaky voice. “My friend and I exchange paperbacks,“ I stammered. (Geez, that was lame. Forgot the cardinal rule when lying. KISS, which stands for Keep It Simple Stupid). “That will be $3.68,” she said with a smile. Handed her a 5 spot. Gulp. Done…