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Move Over (#896)

How many people does a school bus hold?

I’m not sure, but there were more passengers in this one than is legal in most states, I knew that much. The air in the closed up bus smelled fetid, and the windows—which several strong people had attempted to wedge open—wouldn’t budge.

Still, it wasn’t too impossible to imagine a tropical breeze if I closed my eyes and let the speed with which we sailed along the highway deceive me. I did just that for a few precious minutes, but when I came to my senses the awful truth hit me with a fresh wave of claustrophobia.

The bus driver was my mom.

I ran from the middle of the bus to the front and faced my mother. She didn’t turn to look at me, but kept the pedal to the metal.

“Mom! What are you doing? You haven’t driven a car for four years, and if I remember right, you weren’t too good at it even then…”

I shot a glance out the front window. We were in the passing lane on the freeway, and Mom wasn’t dawdling, either. She was pushing 75, I’d say, but the needle on the speedometer was spinning in a frantic circle, first clockwise and then counter, like a life out of both time and control.

No one else seemed alarmed. There were no screams from the frightened bus riders, no reason to think they’d figured out that Mom didn’t exactly have a license to drive this thing.

“Mom, you’ve got to let me drive. It’s our only hope.”

It was then I realized an even more sobering truth. Her body was stiff, her hands gripped the steering wheel with a catatonic ferocity, and her legs extended straight out in front of her, jerking from pedal to pedal with abandon.

“No,” she said. “I’m driving this thing my way.”

She couldn’t move herself from the seat and wouldn’t, anyway. All I could do was try to gain control of the pedals, if only for long enough to steer the bus onto the left shoulder.

I dropped to my knees and then all fours, inching forward until my entire body was wedged in the small space around her legs. Somehow I removed her feet from the pedals and my right hand took over. Then, with a strength I did not know I could summon, I reached up and grabbed the wheel.

Without seeing anything at all but the floor of the bus, I pulled the wheel gently to the left, all the while slowing the bus with my other hand until it finally came to a complete stop.

“Hey, what’s going on?” someone yelled from the back. “We were making good time. What’s the hold up?”

I stood to my feet, shaking uncontrollably. “My mother is not a bus driver. And she’s not well. Can anyone here drive this thing?”

Silence, and then another cranky passenger. “What’s wrong with you? Why don’t you drive the bus? You seem pretty good at it to me.”

I jolted awake at that, shaking uncontrollably. All the way to the hospital to be with my mother, I cried out to God.

“I can’t drive this bus! Please don’t make me drive this bus!”

Until finally, I heard an answer. “I never asked you to drive it, did I? Only to pull it off the road and park it there. And believe me, you couldn’t have done even that without help.”

“But, God, all these people. And my mother…I’ve got to get her where she’s going…”

He didn’t say anything else, but somehow in the middle of my cries, He let me know the truth.

God is driving this bus.

Posted by Katy on 02/27/06
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Most Meetable Or Not, We’ve Got To Stop Meeting Like This! (#895)

I have to admit that when I was getting ready to head to the ER this morning, I started shaking and sweating pretty violently. And kind of bawling, well…hysterically.

It’s not that I’m not used to the routine by now. Mom falls on average every three to four weeks, with varying degrees of injury. In between falls, there are doctor visits, medicine adjustments, diagnoses of cataracts and diabetic retinopathy, blood work and chest x-rays to check for congestive heart failure, numerous episodes of dangerously low blood sugar, etc.

And that’s just in the last three weeks.

I’m used to it, but I’m exhausted. And sick myself. And have been on and off umpteen antibiotics for my ear, had a horrible sinus migraine lasting ten days, made seven visits to doctors including an ENT, an opthalmologist for my swollen optic nerves, and a brain surgeon, endured a bizarre episode of antibiotic-induced diarrhea that very nearly was the (rear) end of me, etc.

And that’s just in the last three weeks.

I’ve got a big break coming until Thursday, when I do the tunnels. Yeeeck. CT of sinus and MRI of everything else in my head (optic nerves and acoustic nerves, specifically). At least I thought I’d have a break, but it turns out Tunnel Day will actually BE the break.

And that’s not easy to say when you’re claustrophobic.

My mom? She’s been admitted. No broken bones, which is a miracle. When I heard she “couldn’t stand” after the paramedics got her off the floor, I figured she’d broken a hip. Turns out her blood pressure was something like 83/54. She still says she didn’t fall, but that she called for help and the pill-passer came into her apartment.

“But, Mom, why did you call for help?”

“Because I couldn’t get up, silly.”

She had gotten up from bed with a sudden assurance that she was about to have diarrhea (like daughter, like mother), trailed the nasty stuff across the carpet (with every step, making a stronger case for the wearing of underwear—don’t ask), and that’s where they found her, somewhere just short of the bathroom. She’d evidently passed out, or had a small seizure, but she has no memory of the event.

I sure hope this hospital stay results in some answers. She needs her medications adjusted as an inpatient, where she can be closely monitored and supervised. It’s possible that recent adjustments downward in her insulin dosage and one of her seizure meds resulted in her two blood pressure meds becoming more efficient, effectively causing her blood pressure to plummet.

The admitting doc came in to see her this evening, and said they’ll be checking for a heart arrhythmia, which he suspects, and that she shouldn’t imagine going home any time soon. They put a bedside commode one step from her bed, and she can’t even go there without a nurse attending her. The upright position is one in which her blood pressure is currently in dive mode.

I’m concerned that I’m becoming less of a viable candidate in the Share the Love Blog Awards for that most coveted title of “Most Meetable In Real Life.” Surely you people have more fun things to do than hang around with a chick as desperate for a day’s entertainment as I seem to be!

It’s your call. But if you think I’m most meetable, I’m afraid we’ll have to meet in the hospital cafeteria!

Posted by Katy on 02/25/06
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It’s Not Rocket Surgery. It’s Saturday. (#894)

I knew that since it’s Saturday, it’s risky to get in the shower. I’ll only attempt it if Doug’s available to answer the phone call when it comes.

So I stepped into and then out of the shower, and Doug was standing in front of me by the time I’d grabbed a towel.

He didn’t say anything for ten full seconds, and neither did I. He knew that I knew. Who needs words?

“Your mom fell,” he said. “She’s in an ambulance on her way to the hospital.”

I didn’t say anything, so he continued.

“She says she’s not in pain, but she can’t stand.”

Um. Yeah. It’s Saturday once again.

Posted by Katy on 02/25/06
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Most Treatable In Real Life? (#893)

First the good news, and then the so-far-so-good news.

The good news is that in spite of my pervasive proclivity for posting in a very nearly posthumous condition about antibiotic-induced diarrhea and unresolved bodily bacteria, my readers have decided to make me a finalist in two categories in the Share the Love blog contest!

(Wow! Really long sentence, huh? Apparently the diarrhea has spread to my fingertips.)

To the left, you’ll see two icons. One is to vote for fallible in the “Best Design” category, which means a lot to me, because my designer is my hubby and tech guy, Doug. We worked on the design together, and the basic elements were my ideas, but I am worthless without his amazing talent. If you’d like to see another example of his design work, a beautiful blog which is still almost virgin as far as actual posts go, take a gander at Doug’s site. Inspiring, huh?

If you click on the other icon to the left, you can vote for me in what is likely the Best Ever category in blog contests: The Most Meetable In Real Life!

I may not be the best writer, the one with the most valued opinions, or the funniest. But you know what? I couldn’t be happier than to be thought of as Most Meetable. I’ve met quite a few of you, in fact—Lisa in Topeka, Bethany in Nebraska, Lisa Samson when she lived in Baltimore, Robin Lee Hatcher and Jeanne D. and Michael Number Four at a writers conference in Nashville, Deb Raney in Kansas, and the list goes on.

I’ve had the singular experience of standing in a long line in a public restroom (does that surprise anyone considering my recent subject matter?), having someone overhear me say my name, and then hearing her shout, “Hey! You’re Fallible!”

How many people can say THAT?

So if you believe that I’m Most Meetable In Real Life, please cast your vote for me. (All votes must be in by Monday, I think.) And then, just to test your theory, we’ll hook up at Starbucks!

Now for the so-far-so-good news. It’s possible that I’m not only meetable, but treatable. At least, the medical establishment hasn’t given up on me yet.

Saw the ear-nose-throat doc yesterday and I loved her. She knows my otoneurologist and my opthalmologist personally, and holds both of them in high regard, as I do. She wants to coordinate a plan of action with the other docs, after I see my otoneur tomorrow. CT scan of sinuses and MRI of head to try to figure out what’s going on with my body from the neck up. She said no more antibiotics until further notice, and no more Augmentin ever.

I had ischemic colitis in 2002 (a stroke of your colon. Actually, my colon, so not to worry!) and I believe I came within one run to the toitie of antibiotic-induced colitis this time around. Or maybe I’ve had it and have just managed to avoid hospitalization by the grace of God. Whew!

I’m resting today. I have to psyche myself up for “the tunnels.” I’m feeling more confident now, though, that everything will, um, come out OK. Thanks so much for your prayers!

And many thanks also for your votes. I love you people!

Posted by Katy on 02/23/06
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Sheesh. (#892)

When you key in a few words to do a simple google search to try to figure out what the heck is wrong with your ears, sinuses, optic nerves, and possibly brain, and the first gazillion results are all PDF docs, that’s not usually a good sign. Just so you know.

Furthermore, when almost all the results identify themselves as “scholarly,” and are fine-print academic papers involving the case studies of two groups of people—those who are extremely dead and those who are only mostly dead—well, that’s not typically great news, either.

Yeah. That’s right. Cipro doesn’t kill it. Amoxocillin can’t touch it. And 4000 mg. per day of Augmentin landed me in bed for a week, sicker than ever. “In bed,” by the way, is a relative term, meaning my relatives are in bed WAY more than I am. I am actually wearing a thin spot in the carpet between the bed and the bathroom.

I’m too weak to run when I have the runs (more than thirty times in a four hour period last night), but don’t cry for me, Pale Beige Carpet. I promise that you are not in mortal danger as long as Depends stays in business.

Anyway, the Augmentin got discontinued by the doc this morning when he looked into my dumb (and deaf) ear and pronounced me as infected as always, maybe more. Only now, he’s just a tad worried that I could be having a little bout of Asperigillus, which is a fungal infection that can result from repeated rounds of antibiotics that don’t accomplish the purpose for which they’ve been sent forth into the world.

So tomorrow I’m seeing an ear, nose, and throat doc, and on Friday I’m seeing my good old otoneurologist (ear-brain doc), who performed my brain surgery in 1999. Between the two of them, google, and God, I sure hope a diagnosis and effective treatment can be had.

If I’d ever taken piano lessons, I probably would have mentioned it during the course of being fallible, so you know I don’t have a musical bone in my body. You deserve better than this constant “organ recital,” and I’d like to give it to you, believe me.

But right now, I got nuthin.’ Well, except for…um, you’ll have to excuse me. I gotta make another run.

Posted by Katy on 02/21/06
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The Daring Wordsmith (#891)

Astute fallible reader and commenter Kathryn (aka Daring Young Mom) commented on my previous post that she loves the term “Momeopathic” and that she intends to use it, as well.

Of course, I sincerely hoped I’d coined the term, but no. A quick Google search reveals an astonishing 58 occurrences of the word in the known universe, and while that’s not very many, it certainly dashes my coining hopes.

On the other hand, I found it bizarrely entertaining that the word’s meaning (while still vague in my antibiotic-induced fog) apparently has to do with my life in a much more pertinent manner than how I’d meant it, which was that my mom has all the answers.

Here’s a book about raising cattle that sheds (ha-ha) a little light on the use of the word:

“THE TREATMENT OF CATTLE. George Macleod. (1981) 1981 rep. Pub: CW Daniel, UK, imported to NZ by Weleda.

Many farmers are concerned about the side-effects and build up of resistant strains of bacteria due to the continued use of antiboitics. The aim of the momeopathic approach is to build up the health of the herd and increase the resistance of its members to disease. Homeopathic remedies are all derived from natural sources.”

Kathryn, between you and me, girl, I think we’re safe to keep using this little gem however we see fit!

Posted by Katy on 02/18/06
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Momeopathic Remedies (#890)

Today is the first time I’ve seen my mom since Sunday. I’ve just been too sick to get there, but I don’t think I’m contagious, so I finally decided to haul my sorry behind over to pay a visit.

Mom couldn’t believe that the massive doses of Augmentin don’t seem to be working their magic, and she was as sympathetic as she’s been any time in recent memory. So much so, in fact, that she went into full Protective Mama Bear mode, put on her Doctor Mom hat, and came up with three very extremely ingenious cures.

“You need to laugh more,” she offered. (This coming from a lady who hasn’t let out a good one since 1999.)

“I do?” I asked. “I think I laugh a lot.”

“Oh, you laugh,” she said, “but it’s not the right kind of laughter.”

“It’s not?”

“Is it coming from your heart?”

“Sometimes…” Now I was starting to doubt myself. Here I’d always thought I was a person of excellent cheer, one who believes in the Scriptural principle that laughter is good medicine.

“It won’t cure your ear infection unless it comes from your heart.”

She had me there. We went on to talk about lots of different subjects (my niece’s husband who’s in the hospital, my daughter’s job opportunity with health-impaired kids in our local school district, and the crazy ways parents relate to their teenagers these days).

I told Mom about a lady I used to know who talked about her son as if she was a law enforcement officer. “She was one step away from appearing on Cops,” I said. “Instead of saying she had a fight or an argument or a disagreement with her kid, she said they’d had an altercation.”

Mom chuckled. “She obviously didn’t know how to use that word correctly, did she?” Then she reflected for a moment before continuing. “I think if you were to have an altercation, your ear would be cured.”

I decided to keep the conversation moving forward, at least I hoped that’s the direction it was moving. We ended up talking about my brother John, and how Mom adores him and thinks he’s the most handsome man in the world.

“He came in here last week in his all black suit, black socks, black shoes, and black wool overcoat. I told him he looked fantastic.”

“He’s a good looking guy, all right,” I said.

“And he wears those wrist cuffs,” she added.

“Cuff links?”

“Yes, cuff links. You know what you need? Ear cuffs.”

“Ear cuffs? For my infection?” I thought maybe she was thinking of those earring hoops that fit snugly around your lobe. “How would those help?”

“They’d fill up your ears so there isn’t room for anything else.”

Sometimes, Mom fills my soul till there isn’t room for anything else. And makes me laugh from somewhere deep in my heart.

Posted by Katy on 02/17/06
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Hang A Chad, Baby! (#889)

If you like what you read here, and the love we share, please feel free to click on the heart to your left and cast a vote for fallible.

I’ve been nominated in several categories (what I want to know is: why not “Learn Something New Every Day” or “Most Thought Provoking”?), including “Humor” and my favorite, which is something like “Girl You’d Most Like To Meet In Real Life.”

What? This isn’t real enough?

The polls close on Monday. Vote early and vote often! OK, just vote early. I’d hate to see your valuable votes become permanently disenfranchised.

Thank you for your support!

Posted by Katy on 02/17/06
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Antibiotics Backwards R Me (#888)

I mean, really. How many antibiotics should one girl take?

It all started in September—although I must say I’ve found the word “all” to be increasingly problematic, as it seems to have become more relative as time goes on. It used to be when I said “all,” I could count on myself to mean just that. But now?

I don’t know any more. Surely, it didn’t really “all” start in September, did it? All of it? Everything that has started, ever? That hardly seems possible, even to me.

OK. So this part of it started September 18, the day I flew home from the American Chrisian Fiction Writers Conference in Nashville. That was the day my weird finger problem (which turned out to be a ganglion cyst, for which I had a tiny operation on January 9) became disgustingly infectious.

Thus began this present darkness, which consists of round upon round of largely ineffective antibiotics, and the dragged-out, exhausted, and generally pathetic malaise that accompanies the imbibing thereof.

Before this part of it started in September, I’d been on way too many courses of meds already, for the pesky recurring ear infections that have become my lot these past couple of years. So, see? There really IS a before before it all started.

The meds cleared up my finger in September, and then I needed them again in October for my ears. (I am deaf in one ear, and will do anything to attempt to preclude hearing loss in the other ear…) By December, my finger was re-infected , and surgery was scheduled for the very minute the next round of antibiotics even halfway resolved the bacterial condition.

After the January 9 surgery, I enjoyed several days without antibiotics before my ear became infected AGAIN. Since then, I’ve completed one round of meds with no positive results whatsoever, and beaucoup pain to boot, and now am on yet another antibiotic for the same blooming infection.

This time—and all you mothers of young children will appreciate this—Augmentin. Yikes!! The doc has me on mega-doses and the…um…gastrointestinal side effects are, well, disturbing.

So, yeah, I’m still sick. The last time I had rip-roaring fun was with Dave Barry, and if you remember right, that was in the midst of a bodacious migraine. I take my fun where I can get it, folks, and so should you!

Life is too short not to enjoy it, don’t you think? Sheesh. I’m looking forward to another good day any time now—the sooner, the better.

Posted by Katy on 02/16/06
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A No-Carb Hunger Strike? Anything But That! (#887)

If you’ve been following the news about Saddam Hussein’s trial, you know that as the weeks have passed, he’s become increasingly belligerent in the courtroom.

He’s taken to throwing tantrums in front of the judge, demanding that the proceedings go his way or the highway, and generally showing himself to be a dictator behaving badly.

Is Saddam a Shiite? I should know that, but I can never remember. Well, if he is, folks, the Shiite is about to hit the fan.

Because as of today, he’s going on a hunger strike. That would be easy enough for anyone to accomplish if he’d been on a crummy, unsatisfying and uninteresting low-fat diet. If he’d been existing on rations of lettuce and carrots and bean sprouts, I’d say he could pull out his one last weapon of hunger striking and have everyone over a barrel.

But here’s the deal: the guy’s addicted to carbs. Evidently, his diet consists largely of rice, potato, fruit, muffins, and those three favorites of carb lovers the world over: Cheetos, Dorritos, and Raisin Bran Crunch.

I’ll bet he’s never put himself on a low-carb diet before, and I can tell you from very extremely personal experience, those first few weeks aren’t pretty. The addiction to sugar is like no other force known to man or womankind, and if the courtroom thinks they’ve seen crazed antics thus far, I feel it’s only fair to warn them: You Ain’t Seen Nothing Yet.

My prediction: Saddam won’t fast a week.

Posted by Katy on 02/14/06
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Freaky Friday (#886)

Every time someone leaves a comment on fallible, I get an email to let me know. The past couple of days, 99% of my comments (and therefore, emails) have been because of the tremendous spam attack that’s taking place on my post called, “I Am NOT Making This Up!”

I gotta tell you, folks, it’s getting pretty demoralizing. I hear that “You’ve got mail!” ding, click over, and once again, I’m disappointed that instead of it being one of you whom I’ve come to cherish, it’s another salesman for Ambien or whatever. The Tamiflu spam actually got my attention, but I happen to know there’s not REALLY any Tamiflu available without a prescription (and maybe not even WITH a prescription), so why bother?

Anyway, if you’d like to do an old chick’s heart good, leave me a real comment. Anything you’re in the mood to say would be just fine. It doesn’t have to relate to one of my posts, either. We’ll call this “Open Comments Friday.” Not that any day is Closed Comments Day, but you get my drift.

Hey, if it’s good enough for the spammers, it’s good enough for me! With a little luck, you can out-comment the spammers!

Please, don’t be shy. Unless, of course, you’re selling drugs.

Posted by Katy on 02/10/06
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That Depends On What The Definition Of “It” Is (#885)

“Do you like it?”

I’ve never seen this particular check-out clerk at Walmart, and it’s not like we’ve already engaged in some small talk involving the chilly weather or her birthday or the guy she dumped last Friday, to warm us up for a deeper relationship.

All I’ve done is put innocuous grocery items such as milk, eggs, and yogurt on the counter and swiped my debit card. And now this.

“I’m sorry. I can’t hear very well…” I say.

“Do you like it?” She evidently doesn’t know that the definition of insanity is to repeat the same thing over and over and expect a different result. But I digress.

I must have heard her right the first time. But to figure out what “it” is without coming right out and asking might be as challenging as Bill Clinton defining what “is” is without coming right out and telling.

I scan my body and purse for obvious clues. I am wearing no ipod, so that can’t be “it.” I carry no cell phone in my hot little fist, so that’s not “it,” either. My purse bears no designer label and contains no PDA, my jewelry is nondiscript, and my jeans are no-name.

What the heck is it?

Then it occurs to me that she’s just scanned and thrown away the little empty bottle of low-carb smoothie that I drank while shopping. That must be it!

“It’s delicious,” I say. “You should try it.”

“Not it!” she says. “It!”

“Oh, it…” I say.

“What do you do with it?” she asks.

“Lots of things,” I say, becoming hyper-aware of my purchases, thinking maybe somebody slipped something kinky into my cart when I wasn’t looking.

“The only thing I don’t do with mine,” she offers, “is cinnamon sticks.”

Now I’m starting to panic. My hands are dripping sweat and the numbness that started in my fingers is spreading upward to my elbows.

“Really?” I say. “Yours must be very…versatile.”

“It’s just like yours,” she says, “but I’m guessing it’s an older model.”

This is so confusing. She doesn’t look a day over thirty.

“Look,” I say, “I have no idea what subject we’re on. Can you help me out here?”

She sighs the sigh of a woman who experiences a great many unfulfilling interactions. Then, with a huff, she pulls an item out of a blue plastic bag and holds it up for my perusal. It’s a box of bags for the Food Saver sealing thingie I’ve ordered online but which hasn’t yet arrived.

“It! It!” she says. “All I’m asking is, do you LIKE it?”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” I put my card back in my purse and pull my keys out of my pocket. “I’ll have to get back to you. I’ll bet it’s waiting for me on the front porch right now.”

When I leave, she looks more mystified than I’d felt, which gratifies me in a way I’m not completely proud of.

Still, I drive home thinking that opaque conversations notwithstanding, it’s all good, no matter what “it” turns out to be.

Posted by Katy on 02/10/06
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The Purpose Driven Funeral? (#884)

Let me go on record: I’m all about the purpose-driven life. And The Purpose Driven Life, for that matter. What irks me is the purpose-driven funeral.

Yesterday’s funeral for the stateswoman Coretta Scott King is a case-in-point. I cannot for the life of me imagine a less appropriate venue for partisan infighting than at the memorial services for one of our country’s most beloved figures—unless, I suppose, Mrs. King or her children specifically requested (unlikely, in my opinion) that the various speakers (including former President Jimmy Carter) diss the current President of the United States, who attended to pay his respects.

I miss the good, old days. When I was a kid growing up among Irish and Scottish immigrants, you could go to a wake or a funeral and expect certain elements to be present and accounted for: tears, laughter, the meloncholy singing of Gaelic tunes, mediocre food, and abundant booze.

There was a palpable comfort in knowing that you wouldn’t be assaulted with someone else’s superimposed talking points, that even if a few things took you by surprise, the occasion would still be centered around your loved one’s memory.

There were no attempts on the part of the bereaved to sanctify their dead beyond the point at which they’d been revered in life, either. In fact, all bets were off once the body had cooled enough to not fight back.

In those days, those left behind often got down and dirty, talking about the dearly departed right to his (dead) face, making no bones about his many pecularities, faults, and sins—and occasionally, if rarely, even his strong points.

At my father’s funeral 22 years ago, one of his best buddies came up to me to offer his condolences. My father, born in Scotland, and Mr. Bell, born in Ireland, had met in the 1940s, fresh off the boat. Mr. Bell knew my dad better than most, I guess.

“I’ve never met a man who had better luck gambling,” he said.

“Yes,” I agreed, though his comment startled me since it had been my belief that Dad stopped gambling when I was eight, after a particularly nasty run-in with some Italian businessmen. “He really was something, huh?” I hoped Mr. Bell would offer a bit more information, and I wasn’t disappointed.

“That time he pocketed a quick ten grand was fabulous, lass, wasn’t it?”

“Unbelievable!” I said.

After swallowing that little morsel my father had somehow managed to hide from his family, I greeted an unfamiliar woman with genuine feelings of loss glistening in her moist eyes.

“How did you know my father?” I asked.

“He was my boss at the bank,” she said.

“It was so nice of you to come…” I said.

“He was a son of a b—-h to work for,” she finished.

“Yes. Well…thank you.”

You can’t buy that kind of honesty anymore, people. These days, you go to a funeral and all of a sudden you’re slapped in the face with an agenda suspect enough to make you take another look at the program to make sure you’re at the right church.

You find out within minutes of entering the house of prayer that the deceased had ambitions, accomplishments, and principles you’d never imagined. Not only that, but you learn which charitable organization—the more controversial the better—he donated his fortune, time, and talent to, and you’re encouraged to follow his noble example.

If he had extreme political leanings in either direction, you’ll hear about it now, and if he didn’t, someone will make sure you believe he did. What’s worse, you can leave a funeral completely confused about the person you thought you knew, because his name hardly came up in the service at all.

Here’s what I think: No one’s story should be made better or worse in the moments after death than he would have told it himself in life.

And no one’s funeral should be occasion for anyone’s else’s pet peeves, political persuasions, picketing, or profiteering. If it can’t be about the memory of the one who’s died—whether those memories are good, bad, or indifferent—then skip the whole thing.

When I die, please, just keep it real.

Posted by Katy on 02/08/06
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Don’t Try This In Missouri, Or Kansas, Or…Um…Anywhere! (#883)

I’m sorry, but with all the news out there about bird-to-human transmission of the dreaded Avian flu, is THIS the way you’d choose to brush up on your CPR skills?

Posted by Katy on 02/08/06
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This Is Dedicated To The One I Love (#882)

I know Valentine’s Day isn’t for another week yet, but today I just can’t help myself.

Thirty years ago, I stopped asking random loser guys to Be My Valentine. It was the smartest decision I’ve ever made.

Instead of wasting my life, I focused my romantic intentions on one superbly amazing man—the most truly spiritual man I’d ever met, the kindest, gentlest, most generous man in the world.

They say that choosing the path less travelled makes all the difference, and I’m sure there’s truth in that. Especially when on that path is a man unlike any other you’ve ever known, unlike the common men who can be had for a meaningless gift or a careless flirtation.

When I met Doug, he’d already set himself on a singular path, a path not often chosen by the young and strong. He’d already decided to seek God’s direction, walk in His grace, and share His sacrificial love.

It still thoroughly astonishes me that God allows me to be the daily, lifelong recipient of the heartfelt gifts of such a gracious man.

Doug and I don’t always do a big Valentine’s thing, I have to admit. In fact, we rarely do. In a way, when you have what we have, it would be a bit redundant.

You see, every day is Valentine’s Day with the man I love.

Happy Every Day, Darling. Thank you, once again, for Being Mine.

Posted by Katy on 02/07/06
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Personal blog of christian writer & fallible mom Katy McKenna Raymond in Kansas City, Missouri Katy is represented by Greg Johnson at WordServe Literary Read more Katy at LateBoomer.net Follow Katy on Twitter Follow Katy on Facebook 123 Recent Posts Try Becoming Brenda Starr Off Beat Scattered That’s It So I’ve Finally Signed With An Agent. Now What? The Spoon Sciatica Sweetheart A Woman’s Train of Thought Has No Caboose However much we own, we are all still living on borrowed time After all, when restaurants shrink portions, they don’t shrink prices. As with everything in life, balance is key. Slow down, you move too fast… Yeah, I know. I have issues. Search Advanced Search Syndicate Login E me at katy @ ngenius.com	Move Over (#896) How many people does a school bus hold? I’m not sure, but there were more passengers in this one than is legal in most states, I knew that much. The air in the closed up bus smelled fetid, and the windows—which several strong people had attempted to wedge open—wouldn’t budge. Still, it wasn’t too impossible to imagine a tropical breeze if I closed my eyes and let the speed with which we sailed along the highway deceive me. I did just that for a few precious minutes, but when I came to my senses the awful truth hit me with a fresh wave of claustrophobia. The bus driver was my mom. I ran from the middle of the bus to the front and faced my mother. She didn’t turn to look at me, but kept the pedal to the metal. “Mom! What are you doing? You haven’t driven a car for four years, and if I remember right, you weren’t too good at it even then…” I shot a glance out the front window. We were in the passing lane on the freeway, and Mom wasn’t dawdling, either. She was pushing 75, I’d say, but the needle on the speedometer was spinning in a frantic circle, first clockwise and then counter, like a life out of both time and control. No one else seemed alarmed. There were no screams from the frightened bus riders, no reason to think they’d figured out that Mom didn’t exactly have a license to drive this thing. “Mom, you’ve got to let me drive. It’s our only hope.” It was then I realized an even more sobering truth. Her body was stiff, her hands gripped the steering wheel with a catatonic ferocity, and her legs extended straight out in front of her, jerking from pedal to pedal with abandon. “No,” she said. “I’m driving this thing my way.” She couldn’t move herself from the seat and wouldn’t, anyway. All I could do was try to gain control of the pedals, if only for long enough to steer the bus onto the left shoulder. I dropped to my knees and then all fours, inching forward until my entire body was wedged in the small space around her legs. Somehow I removed her feet from the pedals and my right hand took over. Then, with a strength I did not know I could summon, I reached up and grabbed the wheel. Without seeing anything at all but the floor of the bus, I pulled the wheel gently to the left, all the while slowing the bus with my other hand until it finally came to a complete stop. “Hey, what’s going on?” someone yelled from the back. “We were making good time. What’s the hold up?” I stood to my feet, shaking uncontrollably. “My mother is not a bus driver. And she’s not well. Can anyone here drive this thing?” Silence, and then another cranky passenger. “What’s wrong with you? Why don’t you drive the bus? You seem pretty good at it to me.” I jolted awake at that, shaking uncontrollably. All the way to the hospital to be with my mother, I cried out to God. “I can’t drive this bus! Please don’t make me drive this bus!” Until finally, I heard an answer. “I never asked you to drive it, did I? Only to pull it off the road and park it there. And believe me, you couldn’t have done even that without help.” “But, God, all these people. And my mother…I’ve got to get her where she’s going…” He didn’t say anything else, but somehow in the middle of my cries, He let me know the truth. God is driving this bus. Posted by Katy on 02/27/06 Permalink Most Meetable Or Not, We’ve Got To Stop Meeting Like This! (#895) I have to admit that when I was getting ready to head to the ER this morning, I started shaking and sweating pretty violently. And kind of bawling, well…hysterically. It’s not that I’m not used to the routine by now. Mom falls on average every three to four weeks, with varying degrees of injury. In between falls, there are doctor visits, medicine adjustments, diagnoses of cataracts and diabetic retinopathy, blood work and chest x-rays to check for congestive heart failure, numerous episodes of dangerously low blood sugar, etc. And that’s just in the last three weeks. I’m used to it, but I’m exhausted. And sick myself. And have been on and off umpteen antibiotics for my ear, had a horrible sinus migraine lasting ten days, made seven visits to doctors including an ENT, an opthalmologist for my swollen optic nerves, and a brain surgeon, endured a bizarre episode of antibiotic-induced diarrhea that very nearly was the (rear) end of me, etc. And that’s just in the last three weeks. I’ve got a big break coming until Thursday, when I do the tunnels. Yeeeck. CT of sinus and MRI of everything else in my head (optic nerves and acoustic nerves, specifically). At least I thought I’d have a break, but it turns out Tunnel Day will actually BE the break. And that’s not easy to say when you’re claustrophobic. My mom? She’s been admitted. No broken bones, which is a miracle. When I heard she “couldn’t stand” after the paramedics got her off the floor, I figured she’d broken a hip. Turns out her blood pressure was something like 83/54. She still says she didn’t fall, but that she called for help and the pill-passer came into her apartment. “But, Mom, why did you call for help?” “Because I couldn’t get up, silly.” She had gotten up from bed with a sudden assurance that she was about to have diarrhea (like daughter, like mother), trailed the nasty stuff across the carpet (with every step, making a stronger case for the wearing of underwear—don’t ask), and that’s where they found her, somewhere just short of the bathroom. She’d evidently passed out, or had a small seizure, but she has no memory of the event. I sure hope this hospital stay results in some answers. She needs her medications adjusted as an inpatient, where she can be closely monitored and supervised. It’s possible that recent adjustments downward in her insulin dosage and one of her seizure meds resulted in her two blood pressure meds becoming more efficient, effectively causing her blood pressure to plummet. The admitting doc came in to see her this evening, and said they’ll be checking for a heart arrhythmia, which he suspects, and that she shouldn’t imagine going home any time soon. They put a bedside commode one step from her bed, and she can’t even go there without a nurse attending her. The upright position is one in which her blood pressure is currently in dive mode. I’m concerned that I’m becoming less of a viable candidate in the Share the Love Blog Awards for that most coveted title of “Most Meetable In Real Life.” Surely you people have more fun things to do than hang around with a chick as desperate for a day’s entertainment as I seem to be! It’s your call. But if you think I’m most meetable, I’m afraid we’ll have to meet in the hospital cafeteria! Posted by Katy on 02/25/06 Permalink It’s Not Rocket Surgery. It’s Saturday. (#894) I knew that since it’s Saturday, it’s risky to get in the shower. I’ll only attempt it if Doug’s available to answer the phone call when it comes. So I stepped into and then out of the shower, and Doug was standing in front of me by the time I’d grabbed a towel. He didn’t say anything for ten full seconds, and neither did I. He knew that I knew. Who needs words? “Your mom fell,” he said. “She’s in an ambulance on her way to the hospital.” I didn’t say anything, so he continued. “She says she’s not in pain, but she can’t stand.” Um. Yeah. It’s Saturday once again. Posted by Katy on 02/25/06 Permalink Most Treatable In Real Life? (#893) First the good news, and then the so-far-so-good news. The good news is that in spite of my pervasive proclivity for posting in a very nearly posthumous condition about antibiotic-induced diarrhea and unresolved bodily bacteria, my readers have decided to make me a finalist in two categories in the Share the Love blog contest! (Wow! Really long sentence, huh? Apparently the diarrhea has spread to my fingertips.) To the left, you’ll see two icons. One is to vote for fallible in the “Best Design” category, which means a lot to me, because my designer is my hubby and tech guy, Doug. We worked on the design together, and the basic elements were my ideas, but I am worthless without his amazing talent. If you’d like to see another example of his design work, a beautiful blog which is still almost virgin as far as actual posts go, take a gander at Doug’s site. Inspiring, huh? If you click on the other icon to the left, you can vote for me in what is likely the Best Ever category in blog contests: The Most Meetable In Real Life! I may not be the best writer, the one with the most valued opinions, or the funniest. But you know what? I couldn’t be happier than to be thought of as Most Meetable. I’ve met quite a few of you, in fact—Lisa in Topeka, Bethany in Nebraska, Lisa Samson when she lived in Baltimore, Robin Lee Hatcher and Jeanne D. and Michael Number Four at a writers conference in Nashville, Deb Raney in Kansas, and the list goes on. I’ve had the singular experience of standing in a long line in a public restroom (does that surprise anyone considering my recent subject matter?), having someone overhear me say my name, and then hearing her shout, “Hey! You’re Fallible!” How many people can say THAT? So if you believe that I’m Most Meetable In Real Life, please cast your vote for me. (All votes must be in by Monday, I think.) And then, just to test your theory, we’ll hook up at Starbucks! Now for the so-far-so-good news. It’s possible that I’m not only meetable, but treatable. At least, the medical establishment hasn’t given up on me yet. Saw the ear-nose-throat doc yesterday and I loved her. She knows my otoneurologist and my opthalmologist personally, and holds both of them in high regard, as I do. She wants to coordinate a plan of action with the other docs, after I see my otoneur tomorrow. CT scan of sinuses and MRI of head to try to figure out what’s going on with my body from the neck up. She said no more antibiotics until further notice, and no more Augmentin ever. I had ischemic colitis in 2002 (a stroke of your colon. Actually, my colon, so not to worry!) and I believe I came within one run to the toitie of antibiotic-induced colitis this time around. Or maybe I’ve had it and have just managed to avoid hospitalization by the grace of God. Whew! I’m resting today. I have to psyche myself up for “the tunnels.” I’m feeling more confident now, though, that everything will, um, come out OK. Thanks so much for your prayers! And many thanks also for your votes. I love you people! Posted by Katy on 02/23/06 Permalink Sheesh. (#892) When you key in a few words to do a simple google search to try to figure out what the heck is wrong with your ears, sinuses, optic nerves, and possibly brain, and the first gazillion results are all PDF docs, that’s not usually a good sign. Just so you know. Furthermore, when almost all the results identify themselves as “scholarly,” and are fine-print academic papers involving the case studies of two groups of people—those who are extremely dead and those who are only mostly dead—well, that’s not typically great news, either. Yeah. That’s right. Cipro doesn’t kill it. Amoxocillin can’t touch it. And 4000 mg. per day of Augmentin landed me in bed for a week, sicker than ever. “In bed,” by the way, is a relative term, meaning my relatives are in bed WAY more than I am. I am actually wearing a thin spot in the carpet between the bed and the bathroom. I’m too weak to run when I have the runs (more than thirty times in a four hour period last night), but don’t cry for me, Pale Beige Carpet. I promise that you are not in mortal danger as long as Depends stays in business. Anyway, the Augmentin got discontinued by the doc this morning when he looked into my dumb (and deaf) ear and pronounced me as infected as always, maybe more. Only now, he’s just a tad worried that I could be having a little bout of Asperigillus, which is a fungal infection that can result from repeated rounds of antibiotics that don’t accomplish the purpose for which they’ve been sent forth into the world. So tomorrow I’m seeing an ear, nose, and throat doc, and on Friday I’m seeing my good old otoneurologist (ear-brain doc), who performed my brain surgery in 1999. Between the two of them, google, and God, I sure hope a diagnosis and effective treatment can be had. If I’d ever taken piano lessons, I probably would have mentioned it during the course of being fallible, so you know I don’t have a musical bone in my body. You deserve better than this constant “organ recital,” and I’d like to give it to you, believe me. But right now, I got nuthin.’ Well, except for…um, you’ll have to excuse me. I gotta make another run. Posted by Katy on 02/21/06 Permalink The Daring Wordsmith (#891) Astute fallible reader and commenter Kathryn (aka Daring Young Mom) commented on my previous post that she loves the term “Momeopathic” and that she intends to use it, as well. Of course, I sincerely hoped I’d coined the term, but no. A quick Google search reveals an astonishing 58 occurrences of the word in the known universe, and while that’s not very many, it certainly dashes my coining hopes. On the other hand, I found it bizarrely entertaining that the word’s meaning (while still vague in my antibiotic-induced fog) apparently has to do with my life in a much more pertinent manner than how I’d meant it, which was that my mom has all the answers. Here’s a book about raising cattle that sheds (ha-ha) a little light on the use of the word: “THE TREATMENT OF CATTLE. George Macleod. (1981) 1981 rep. Pub: CW Daniel, UK, imported to NZ by Weleda. Many farmers are concerned about the side-effects and build up of resistant strains of bacteria due to the continued use of antiboitics. The aim of the momeopathic approach is to build up the health of the herd and increase the resistance of its members to disease. Homeopathic remedies are all derived from natural sources.” Kathryn, between you and me, girl, I think we’re safe to keep using this little gem however we see fit! Posted by Katy on 02/18/06 Permalink Momeopathic Remedies (#890) Today is the first time I’ve seen my mom since Sunday. I’ve just been too sick to get there, but I don’t think I’m contagious, so I finally decided to haul my sorry behind over to pay a visit. Mom couldn’t believe that the massive doses of Augmentin don’t seem to be working their magic, and she was as sympathetic as she’s been any time in recent memory. So much so, in fact, that she went into full Protective Mama Bear mode, put on her Doctor Mom hat, and came up with three very extremely ingenious cures. “You need to laugh more,” she offered. (This coming from a lady who hasn’t let out a good one since 1999.) “I do?” I asked. “I think I laugh a lot.” “Oh, you laugh,” she said, “but it’s not the right kind of laughter.” “It’s not?” “Is it coming from your heart?” “Sometimes…” Now I was starting to doubt myself. Here I’d always thought I was a person of excellent cheer, one who believes in the Scriptural principle that laughter is good medicine. “It won’t cure your ear infection unless it comes from your heart.” She had me there. We went on to talk about lots of different subjects (my niece’s husband who’s in the hospital, my daughter’s job opportunity with health-impaired kids in our local school district, and the crazy ways parents relate to their teenagers these days). I told Mom about a lady I used to know who talked about her son as if she was a law enforcement officer. “She was one step away from appearing on Cops,” I said. “Instead of saying she had a fight or an argument or a disagreement with her kid, she said they’d had an altercation.” Mom chuckled. “She obviously didn’t know how to use that word correctly, did she?” Then she reflected for a moment before continuing. “I think if you were to have an altercation, your ear would be cured.” I decided to keep the conversation moving forward, at least I hoped that’s the direction it was moving. We ended up talking about my brother John, and how Mom adores him and thinks he’s the most handsome man in the world. “He came in here last week in his all black suit, black socks, black shoes, and black wool overcoat. I told him he looked fantastic.” “He’s a good looking guy, all right,” I said. “And he wears those wrist cuffs,” she added. “Cuff links?” “Yes, cuff links. You know what you need? Ear cuffs.” “Ear cuffs? For my infection?” I thought maybe she was thinking of those earring hoops that fit snugly around your lobe. “How would those help?” “They’d fill up your ears so there isn’t room for anything else.” Sometimes, Mom fills my soul till there isn’t room for anything else. And makes me laugh from somewhere deep in my heart. Posted by Katy on 02/17/06 Permalink Hang A Chad, Baby! (#889) If you like what you read here, and the love we share, please feel free to click on the heart to your left and cast a vote for fallible. I’ve been nominated in several categories (what I want to know is: why not “Learn Something New Every Day” or “Most Thought Provoking”?), including “Humor” and my favorite, which is something like “Girl You’d Most Like To Meet In Real Life.” What? This isn’t real enough? The polls close on Monday. Vote early and vote often! OK, just vote early. I’d hate to see your valuable votes become permanently disenfranchised. Thank you for your support! Posted by Katy on 02/17/06 Permalink Antibiotics Backwards R Me (#888) I mean, really. How many antibiotics should one girl take? It all started in September—although I must say I’ve found the word “all” to be increasingly problematic, as it seems to have become more relative as time goes on. It used to be when I said “all,” I could count on myself to mean just that. But now? I don’t know any more. Surely, it didn’t really “all” start in September, did it? All of it? Everything that has started, ever? That hardly seems possible, even to me. OK. So this part of it started September 18, the day I flew home from the American Chrisian Fiction Writers Conference in Nashville. That was the day my weird finger problem (which turned out to be a ganglion cyst, for which I had a tiny operation on January 9) became disgustingly infectious. Thus began this present darkness, which consists of round upon round of largely ineffective antibiotics, and the dragged-out, exhausted, and generally pathetic malaise that accompanies the imbibing thereof. Before this part of it started in September, I’d been on way too many courses of meds already, for the pesky recurring ear infections that have become my lot these past couple of years. So, see? There really IS a before before it all started. The meds cleared up my finger in September, and then I needed them again in October for my ears. (I am deaf in one ear, and will do anything to attempt to preclude hearing loss in the other ear…) By December, my finger was re-infected , and surgery was scheduled for the very minute the next round of antibiotics even halfway resolved the bacterial condition. After the January 9 surgery, I enjoyed several days without antibiotics before my ear became infected AGAIN. Since then, I’ve completed one round of meds with no positive results whatsoever, and beaucoup pain to boot, and now am on yet another antibiotic for the same blooming infection. This time—and all you mothers of young children will appreciate this—Augmentin. Yikes!! The doc has me on mega-doses and the…um…gastrointestinal side effects are, well, disturbing. So, yeah, I’m still sick. The last time I had rip-roaring fun was with Dave Barry, and if you remember right, that was in the midst of a bodacious migraine. I take my fun where I can get it, folks, and so should you! Life is too short not to enjoy it, don’t you think? Sheesh. I’m looking forward to another good day any time now—the sooner, the better. Posted by Katy on 02/16/06 Permalink A No-Carb Hunger Strike? Anything But That! (#887) If you’ve been following the news about Saddam Hussein’s trial, you know that as the weeks have passed, he’s become increasingly belligerent in the courtroom. He’s taken to throwing tantrums in front of the judge, demanding that the proceedings go his way or the highway, and generally showing himself to be a dictator behaving badly. Is Saddam a Shiite? I should know that, but I can never remember. Well, if he is, folks, the Shiite is about to hit the fan. Because as of today, he’s going on a hunger strike. That would be easy enough for anyone to accomplish if he’d been on a crummy, unsatisfying and uninteresting low-fat diet. If he’d been existing on rations of lettuce and carrots and bean sprouts, I’d say he could pull out his one last weapon of hunger striking and have everyone over a barrel. But here’s the deal: the guy’s addicted to carbs. Evidently, his diet consists largely of rice, potato, fruit, muffins, and those three favorites of carb lovers the world over: Cheetos, Dorritos, and Raisin Bran Crunch. I’ll bet he’s never put himself on a low-carb diet before, and I can tell you from very extremely personal experience, those first few weeks aren’t pretty. The addiction to sugar is like no other force known to man or womankind, and if the courtroom thinks they’ve seen crazed antics thus far, I feel it’s only fair to warn them: You Ain’t Seen Nothing Yet. My prediction: Saddam won’t fast a week. Posted by Katy on 02/14/06 Permalink Freaky Friday (#886) Every time someone leaves a comment on fallible, I get an email to let me know. The past couple of days, 99% of my comments (and therefore, emails) have been because of the tremendous spam attack that’s taking place on my post called, “I Am NOT Making This Up!” I gotta tell you, folks, it’s getting pretty demoralizing. I hear that “You’ve got mail!” ding, click over, and once again, I’m disappointed that instead of it being one of you whom I’ve come to cherish, it’s another salesman for Ambien or whatever. The Tamiflu spam actually got my attention, but I happen to know there’s not REALLY any Tamiflu available without a prescription (and maybe not even WITH a prescription), so why bother? Anyway, if you’d like to do an old chick’s heart good, leave me a real comment. Anything you’re in the mood to say would be just fine. It doesn’t have to relate to one of my posts, either. We’ll call this “Open Comments Friday.” Not that any day is Closed Comments Day, but you get my drift. Hey, if it’s good enough for the spammers, it’s good enough for me! With a little luck, you can out-comment the spammers! Please, don’t be shy. Unless, of course, you’re selling drugs. Posted by Katy on 02/10/06 Permalink That Depends On What The Definition Of “It” Is (#885) “Do you like it?” I’ve never seen this particular check-out clerk at Walmart, and it’s not like we’ve already engaged in some small talk involving the chilly weather or her birthday or the guy she dumped last Friday, to warm us up for a deeper relationship. All I’ve done is put innocuous grocery items such as milk, eggs, and yogurt on the counter and swiped my debit card. And now this. “I’m sorry. I can’t hear very well…” I say. “Do you like it?” She evidently doesn’t know that the definition of insanity is to repeat the same thing over and over and expect a different result. But I digress. I must have heard her right the first time. But to figure out what “it” is without coming right out and asking might be as challenging as Bill Clinton defining what “is” is without coming right out and telling. I scan my body and purse for obvious clues. I am wearing no ipod, so that can’t be “it.” I carry no cell phone in my hot little fist, so that’s not “it,” either. My purse bears no designer label and contains no PDA, my jewelry is nondiscript, and my jeans are no-name. What the heck is it? Then it occurs to me that she’s just scanned and thrown away the little empty bottle of low-carb smoothie that I drank while shopping. That must be it! “It’s delicious,” I say. “You should try it.” “Not it!” she says. “It!” “Oh, it…” I say. “What do you do with it?” she asks. “Lots of things,” I say, becoming hyper-aware of my purchases, thinking maybe somebody slipped something kinky into my cart when I wasn’t looking. “The only thing I don’t do with mine,” she offers, “is cinnamon sticks.” Now I’m starting to panic. My hands are dripping sweat and the numbness that started in my fingers is spreading upward to my elbows. “Really?” I say. “Yours must be very…versatile.” “It’s just like yours,” she says, “but I’m guessing it’s an older model.” This is so confusing. She doesn’t look a day over thirty. “Look,” I say, “I have no idea what subject we’re on. Can you help me out here?” She sighs the sigh of a woman who experiences a great many unfulfilling interactions. Then, with a huff, she pulls an item out of a blue plastic bag and holds it up for my perusal. It’s a box of bags for the Food Saver sealing thingie I’ve ordered online but which hasn’t yet arrived. “It! It!” she says. “All I’m asking is, do you LIKE it?” “Well, why didn’t you say so?” I put my card back in my purse and pull my keys out of my pocket. “I’ll have to get back to you. I’ll bet it’s waiting for me on the front porch right now.” When I leave, she looks more mystified than I’d felt, which gratifies me in a way I’m not completely proud of. Still, I drive home thinking that opaque conversations notwithstanding, it’s all good, no matter what “it” turns out to be. Posted by Katy on 02/10/06 Permalink The Purpose Driven Funeral? (#884) Let me go on record: I’m all about the purpose-driven life. And The Purpose Driven Life, for that matter. What irks me is the purpose-driven funeral. Yesterday’s funeral for the stateswoman Coretta Scott King is a case-in-point. I cannot for the life of me imagine a less appropriate venue for partisan infighting than at the memorial services for one of our country’s most beloved figures—unless, I suppose, Mrs. King or her children specifically requested (unlikely, in my opinion) that the various speakers (including former President Jimmy Carter) diss the current President of the United States, who attended to pay his respects. I miss the good, old days. When I was a kid growing up among Irish and Scottish immigrants, you could go to a wake or a funeral and expect certain elements to be present and accounted for: tears, laughter, the meloncholy singing of Gaelic tunes, mediocre food, and abundant booze. There was a palpable comfort in knowing that you wouldn’t be assaulted with someone else’s superimposed talking points, that even if a few things took you by surprise, the occasion would still be centered around your loved one’s memory. There were no attempts on the part of the bereaved to sanctify their dead beyond the point at which they’d been revered in life, either. In fact, all bets were off once the body had cooled enough to not fight back. In those days, those left behind often got down and dirty, talking about the dearly departed right to his (dead) face, making no bones about his many pecularities, faults, and sins—and occasionally, if rarely, even his strong points. At my father’s funeral 22 years ago, one of his best buddies came up to me to offer his condolences. My father, born in Scotland, and Mr. Bell, born in Ireland, had met in the 1940s, fresh off the boat. Mr. Bell knew my dad better than most, I guess. “I’ve never met a man who had better luck gambling,” he said. “Yes,” I agreed, though his comment startled me since it had been my belief that Dad stopped gambling when I was eight, after a particularly nasty run-in with some Italian businessmen. “He really was something, huh?” I hoped Mr. Bell would offer a bit more information, and I wasn’t disappointed. “That time he pocketed a quick ten grand was fabulous, lass, wasn’t it?” “Unbelievable!” I said. After swallowing that little morsel my father had somehow managed to hide from his family, I greeted an unfamiliar woman with genuine feelings of loss glistening in her moist eyes. “How did you know my father?” I asked. “He was my boss at the bank,” she said. “It was so nice of you to come…” I said. “He was a son of a b—-h to work for,” she finished. “Yes. Well…thank you.” You can’t buy that kind of honesty anymore, people. These days, you go to a funeral and all of a sudden you’re slapped in the face with an agenda suspect enough to make you take another look at the program to make sure you’re at the right church. You find out within minutes of entering the house of prayer that the deceased had ambitions, accomplishments, and principles you’d never imagined. Not only that, but you learn which charitable organization—the more controversial the better—he donated his fortune, time, and talent to, and you’re encouraged to follow his noble example. If he had extreme political leanings in either direction, you’ll hear about it now, and if he didn’t, someone will make sure you believe he did. What’s worse, you can leave a funeral completely confused about the person you thought you knew, because his name hardly came up in the service at all. Here’s what I think: No one’s story should be made better or worse in the moments after death than he would have told it himself in life. And no one’s funeral should be occasion for anyone’s else’s pet peeves, political persuasions, picketing, or profiteering. If it can’t be about the memory of the one who’s died—whether those memories are good, bad, or indifferent—then skip the whole thing. When I die, please, just keep it real. Posted by Katy on 02/08/06 Permalink Don’t Try This In Missouri, Or Kansas, Or…Um…Anywhere! (#883) I’m sorry, but with all the news out there about bird-to-human transmission of the dreaded Avian flu, is THIS the way you’d choose to brush up on your CPR skills? Posted by Katy on 02/08/06 Permalink This Is Dedicated To The One I Love (#882) I know Valentine’s Day isn’t for another week yet, but today I just can’t help myself. Thirty years ago, I stopped asking random loser guys to Be My Valentine. It was the smartest decision I’ve ever made. Instead of wasting my life, I focused my romantic intentions on one superbly amazing man—the most truly spiritual man I’d ever met, the kindest, gentlest, most generous man in the world. They say that choosing the path less travelled makes all the difference, and I’m sure there’s truth in that. Especially when on that path is a man unlike any other you’ve ever known, unlike the common men who can be had for a meaningless gift or a careless flirtation. When I met Doug, he’d already set himself on a singular path, a path not often chosen by the young and strong. He’d already decided to seek God’s direction, walk in His grace, and share His sacrificial love. It still thoroughly astonishes me that God allows me to be the daily, lifelong recipient of the heartfelt gifts of such a gracious man. Doug and I don’t always do a big Valentine’s thing, I have to admit. In fact, we rarely do. In a way, when you have what we have, it would be a bit redundant. You see, every day is Valentine’s Day with the man I love. Happy Every Day, Darling. Thank you, once again, for Being Mine. Posted by Katy on 02/07/06 Permalink Page 32 of 84 pages « First < 30 31 32 33 34 > Last »


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Personal blog of christianwriter & fallible momKaty McKenna Raymondin Kansas City, Missouri

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