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The Notebook (#95)

I have a modest-sized 5x7 spiral notebook that I carry with me to my doctor's appointments.

When I was younger and not nearly as organized about medical records, I just folded up a single sheet of looseleaf paper with my questions and concerns penned on it and stuffed it in my purse. When those sheets failed to find their way to an appropriate binder after the appointment, though, I moved on to the spiral notebook method.

5x7, I think, is the perfect size to place discreetly under the paper blanket as I climb up on the edge of the exam table and try not to notice, for the umpteenth time in my gynecological life, those freakish steel stirrups.

A larger spiral notebook would totally intimidate the doc, who would wistfully imagine all the examination rooms full of notebook-free patients, most of whom would definitely be less dramatically ill than I am. And a smaller notebook--the type that fits in snugly with your pocket protector--would send an entirely different message, don't you think? Something like "I'm really not very proactive when it comes to managing my own healthcare" or perhaps "I wouldn't know an alarming symptom which should be reported to my primary doctor from a hangnail."

If I'm not careful in my choice of notebooks, the doc may lose patience with me before I get down to describing the little twinge of indigestion that keeps me awake for 2.3 minutes longer than usual after I eat even four tiny bites of cauliflower. And I know he wouldn't want to miss out on that.

It's not just the size of the notebook that matters, either. It's the size of the notes. If the good doc peeks over the edge of the page and sees that I've written whole paragraphs of minuscule print for every one of my numbered points, and left inches of space in which to carefully insert his capacious diagnoses, he's gonna freak.

When it comes down to words, fewer are better. I treat my medical notebook like the kind of bare-bones outline a speech teacher might allow. The words exist on paper only to serve as reminders to me, and as a symbol to the medical profession that I have, indeed, done my homework. I choose them so carefully that when I open my mouth to expound upon each individual concern, explanatory reams pour forth.

I've got this down to a science, folks. The doctor/patient relationship is not one I take lightly, and the methods I've devised to foster clear communication and satisfactory outcomes have served me well.

Wouldn't you'd think that after 28 years of marriage, my husband would have come to appreciate the benefits of my obviously successful techniques, to the point of adopting them himself?

Wouldn't you?

Doug just returned from his annual physical, which he regularly keeps at least once every three years. I reminded him starting a couple weeks out to start jotting down things he'd let accumulate, so that he wouldn't forget to mention them when the time came.

He walked in the door and plopped his wallet and keys down on the counter.

"How'd it go?" I asked.

"Great."

"Well, how are you?"

"Fine."

"So, what did the doctor say?"

"About what?"

"Your concerns...didn't you have a list?"

"Oh, yeah," he said. And then he pulled a sticky note no bigger than one of my arthritic knuckles out of his shirt pocket and stuck it to the counter. On it were three single words, the sum total of all the symptoms of his nearly 53 years of aging.

He grinned. "He says I'm good."

I threw my 5x7 notebook at him and he ducked too late. He's gonna need another sticky note.

Posted by Katy on 07/07/05
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Dynamic (#96)

Just when you begin to worry that your own family dynamic might not be sufficiently functional to withstand the challenges of another parent requiring huge amounts of vigilent care, you hear a story like this.

This is a true tale, my friends, told to me this afternoon by my darling daughter, whose job is to sit with hospital patients who can't be left alone. In the case of this particular patient, it's possible that she could have been left completely alone, but, alas, couldn't be left alone with her very own son.

The poor woman, around 75 years old, has had surgery to remove a ton of cancer from her abdomen. Too bad a progeny-removal wasn't performed at the same time. But I digress.

The 45-year-old son (we'll call him Earl) stared at Carrie wordlessly for quite a while. She tried to block his creepy gaze with her laptop, since he made her terribly uncomfortable. Little did she know how much her discomfort would grow when he opened his mouth.

"Correct me if i'm wrong, but do you got blue eyes?"

Carrie's eyes are changeable, sometimes blue, sometimes green, sometimes nearly grey. "I don't know. Maybe."

"Ain't genetics crazy? My daughter's got them blue eyes. But who'da thunk she'd end up with 'em? I don't got blue eyes and her mamma don't got blue eyes. But now my mamma layin' in the bed over there, she's got them blue eyes. And that's genetics."

"Um...yeah."

"And another thing. My daughter's got her some blond hair, and her mamma's sure not got blond hair. Looky here at me. I've got black hair which is only because I used to have brown hair which was goin' grey so I dyed it. Somehow though we must have got the gene for blond hair because my daughter's sure got the blond hair even though we don't got it. That's how that genetics thing works."

"I guess."

"So are you from these parts?"

"No, Kansas City."

"Kansas City, Missouri, or Kansas City, Kansas?"

"I'm from the Missouri side..."

"It's kind of confusing over there, with the Mississippi River and all."

Carrie didn't bother to clarify that the Muddy Missouri is the river in our parts, not the Mississippi.

"I was driving over to Kansas City with a buddy to pick up a dozer, and he don't know about the Mississippi River dividin' Missouri from Kansas."

"Oh?"

"But I told him, Jess, we gonna have to cross that river to get to the dozer."

"Oh."

Right about then, Earl's mother groaned a bit too much for his comfort. He turned away from Carrie to confront her.

"You'd better stop your moaning, you old b---h. When I wrecked my vehicle, you didn't hear me complaining."

"I'm sorry, Earl. I love you, son..."

"Mamma, you're a pain in my a-s. I'm about to take that there box and shove it up against your head. I would, too, if it weren't for the Boone County sheriff would haul me in for destruction of public property."

Never mind his mother. He was worried about the box.

"I'm about to head over to Kirksville. Dad's been tryin' to get the old place fixed up, but he lets people walk all over him. At the rate he's goin', it'll never get done. I'm gonna rent me a dozer and doze the house down."

"Well, that's an idea," Carrie said.

Finally, the old lady got smart and fell asleep. A welcome silence descended upon the room, but Carrie somehow knew at least one more tidbit hung in the air.

Minutes passed, and then out of no where, Earl said, "I saved all my letters from jail. I got me at least 45 from Gayle, that back-stabbing b---h. I got probly 25 from Mamma."

"That's nice..."

"I wrote to Grandma but I only heard from her about one time."

Dear God, I love my family.

Posted by Katy on 07/04/05
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Mother-In-Law Mania (#97)

Well, the nurses and docs went into overdrive to compensate for failing to accurately document my mother-in-law's spiking fevers.

When the manager of nurses said on Wednesday that she was going to call in an infectious disease doctor, she meant business. First thing Thursday morning, the tests they should have been doing Monday morning finally began.

By Thursday afternoon, we had the grim news. Adele had a very diseased gall bladder, which had filled with abscesses. The abscesses had also managed to leak into her liver. She had two options: Either undergo the old-fashioned type of gall bladder surgery and endure months of difficult recovery in the nursing home setting, or face certain death from peritonitis within days.

After thinking and praying about it, she said, "At first I thought I'd like to just close my eyes and never wake up--I could just die happy."

She's had a happy life, folks. Personally, I would have chosen Door Number One, the Die Happy Door, but she needed to make the decision.

"And then I thought, that's just STUPID! Besides, I have friends who like to see me from time to time. So I prayed, and I felt like the Lord showed me that I should try."

She survived last night's surgery--not the new-fangled kind where they make a couple little pokes and you're done, but the old nine-inch incision that cuts through all the muscles. The doctor told us he'd never seen such a horrible looking gall bladder. He said it had been diseased for many years, but that the abscesses were recent.

He couldn't believe she wasn't in incontrovertible pain, and yet she'd never complained of pain at all. She had a gall stone the size of a golf ball and many smaller stones. The gall bladder had grown so large that it had adhered to the stomach, colon, and liver.

And then there were the abscesses----YIKES!

She's in intensive care now, and as you might expect, it'll be touch and go for a while. And after that it will be, let's just say, not fun. But we'll stay the course, whatever it may bring.

Let this be a little reminder to you: THIS is what happens when you insist on adequate care. Ouch!

Posted by Katy on 07/02/05
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Rant (#98)

Some days turn out to be blog fodder, and some book fodder. Really fascinating days, I've found, are both.

Three years ago, when I got slapped into the hospital for five days with what the gastroenterologist believed was a nasty episode of ischemic colitis (essentially, a stroke of the colon), I got a heavy revvie.

In between puking and pooping blood, a great book idea came to me, the kind of idea that can only be borne of personal experience, of which I have had gobs. I won't divulge the most excellent title of my non-fiction book here, but suffice it to say it has to do with how a common citizen can go about obtaining the best medical care when they need it most.

How not to fall between the cracks in the system, how to find out what your rights are and insist upon them, how to negotiate your way through doctor's voice-mail systems from hell until you get a "live one," etc.

It's pretty much gotten to the point where if anyone I know is facing a hospitalization, a medical emergency, or a medical mystery, I'm asked to go along for the ride. Even my mother appreciates the fact that I ask loaded questions, expect precise explantations, take copious notes, and won't take "Duh" for an answer.

Now, it's my mother-in-law. The poor lady is hardly a reliable witness on her own behalf, since she suffers from dementia. She's been in the hospital since Sunday night, and so far all they've done is blood and urine tests, blood and urine tests, and then, because good things always happen in threes, more blood and urine tests.

The doc came in to see her this morning (one she'd never met before in her life), and then he called Doug's sister Lynn with the good news.

"Well, she's fine. All the cultures came back normal, no sign of any infection. We'll get the physical therapist in here and get her up walking and then--"

Oh, no you don't! There's NO WAY you're releasing her!

"But what about the fact that her fever has spiked to 103 for the past three nights in a row?"

"I didn't see it in the chart..."

"I was there last night when it happened! Toby was her nurse, and it took him 45 minutes to bring the Tylenol from the time I called him in to check her temp. Finally, a nurse who'd seen her spike the night before put ice packs under her arms to bring it down. She's been delirious every night for several hours since you admitted her..."

"Oh, well, if that's true, I guess we'd better do another round of urine and blood cultures."

Lynn called at 8 am to report this discussion. Doug hung up the phone, turned to me and said, "I'm heading to the hospital."

I grabbed my purse. "What do you bet they're going to try to send her home? Plus, we need to see that chart. They are failing to document her fever spikes, and that's her primary symptom..."

So we got there, and sure enough the therapist had just arrived to take Adele on her walk around the floor, the one they take you on right before they say, "Your insurance company won't pay for you to stay another day, so pack up your flowers, baby." It was the first time she's been out of bed since Sunday.

We met with the nursing manager, who listened to all of our concerns and said it seemed obvious to her that Adele needs to be seen by an infectious disease doctor, which the manager is now arranging. And yes, she even allowed me to raise questions about the results of my google searches, about Still's disease and heart infections and several other possibilities they apparently haven't even considered.

I would chalk it up to Adele being 83-years-old, and therefore somewhat dispensible in society's eyes, but you know what? I've seen too much. My feeling about all this is that no matter how young or old the patient is, unless the family insists upon adequate tests, careful diagnosis, and proper treatment, your loved one just might not receive it.

You know what I do? I insist. And sometimes it isn't pretty.

I have no problem with people dying when it's their time, believe me. But dying of something that could have been prevented or cured if even a couple people had been paying attention?

Not on my watch.

Posted by Katy on 06/29/05
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Another Day, Another Poem (#99)

No sooner did I hit "publish" on last night's blog entry, than the phone rang. It was the phone call I'd been anticipating, the one we watch cable comedy shows to fortify ourselves against.

So we got dressed and met the ambulance and Doug's family at the hospital, where they ended up admitting my mother-in-law for the second time in a month. She's running a fever and is dehydrated again, and her potassium is correspondingly low, so she's been too weak to get out of bed.

We left the hospital after midnight, when she was getting settled in her room. Before we took off, we all discussed the times we'd be available today, so we could stagger our visits.

I was today's first visitor, and felt kind of bad because my day was largely spent before I arrived.

"I can't believe you're here so EARLY," Adele said. She glanced up at the wall clock. "Gee, it's only 10:45 in the morning. I thought after Kevin moved out that you would sleep later."

"No," I said. "We still get up at 6:30."

"WHY?"

"Well, because we work..."

"I know Douglas works, but what do you do? I know you take care of the house, but still..."

"I write, remember, Adele? I spend time writing. I'm figuring out that if I don't write, I don't get anything written."

She shoots me a look, the kind of look that fellow frustrated writers shoot back and forth a lot.

"Oh. Yeah."

I could be wrong, but I got the feeling she might pull through just fine, and that she might even be motivated by the idea of writing another poem herself, even if she is 83-years-old.

As I leaned in to kiss her good-bye, I said, "Here's a tablet of paper and a pen. I thought you might need it."

Another poem, Adele. Or maybe even two, for old time's sake.

Posted by Katy on 06/27/05
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Piece Of Cake—Make Mine Sugar-Free (#100)

Comedy Central has a crazy show on called Blue Collar TV. Jeff Foxworthy just did a routine in which he described how wives train their husbands.

He says he didn't even know it was happening to him till one night when he'd been married about five years. He and his wife lay in bed reading and she turned to him and said, "I'm hot."

He got up out of the bed and turned on the ceiling fan, and as he was walking back to bed, he stopped in mid-step and said to himself, "Whoa...wait a minute. I'm cold!"

His wife was so thrilled with the progress she'd made in training Jeff that the next day she called her mother to brag. "Mom, it's working!" And her mother said, "Oh, honey, I am so proud of you! I'd put your father on so you could tell him yourself, except for that when I let on I was hungry, he went to town to get me something to eat..."

Doug and I are watching this in bed, laughing our heads off. I wait a few minutes before I put him to the test, but finally I can't stand it any longer. You see, I can't hear the dryer buzzing when I'm in bed, because of the deaf thing. But the beautiful thing about minor disabilities is, well, you'll see...

"Oh, shoot," I say. "I'm sure the dryer must have buzzed by now..."

Without a word, he gets out of the bed and heads to the laundry room! I start chuckling, hoping he doesn't hear me because I sure don't want to break the spell.

"Should I turn on the ceiling fan on my way out?"

"Yes, please," I say.

"Cup of coffee?"

"Oh, baby, you're so nice..."

"Snack?"

I could keep going, but I gotta go call my mom.

Posted by Katy on 06/26/05
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The Dating Game Meets Truth Or Consequences (#101)

My brother and his family are moving this weekend, and today I spent a few hours helping pack up a couple of the kids' rooms. When I finished the second room, I looked at my watch and gathered up my Starbucks.

"I'm gonna have to blow out of here," I said to my 5-year-old niece, Shaylyn. "I've gotta go home and get ready for my date."

"Your date?" Shaylyn's right eyebrow arched and she enunciated more clearly than usual, I thought.

"Yeah, we're going to a comedy show later today."

"Have you gone on dates before?"

"Well, sure, we go on dates all the time. In a few days, we're gonna see The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. Have you seen it?"

She stares me down.

"So. You're already MARRIED, and right in the MIDDLE OF IT, you're going on DATES?"

I weigh out my answer for three full seconds while her eyes blaze with indignation.

"Ummm...Yeah."

"Does your husband know?"

Can you have more fun than talking with a 5-year old? I didn't think so.

Posted by Katy on 06/25/05
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Door Keeper (#102)

The door-opening, tray-passer-outing greeter did her thing when I walked into the soup-and-salad cafeteria for lunch today. And then some.

"Just one?"

"No, I'm meeting someone." I headed for the bench since I knew I was at least 15 minutes early. I thought I'd clean out my purse or do something equally productive. But no.

"Do you see that little girl?" The 60-year old greeter, name-tagged Helene, said in a foreign accent of unclear origin.

I looked to where she pointed and nodded.

"She's lost. She's been wandering around here for 20 minutes. Her mother hasn't come up to me to ask if anyone's found her little girl, but it's not my problem."

"Oh, dear," I said. "You don't know who she's with?"

She shrugged, palms up. "Could be anyone. They're all the same. People love making babies, they love making babies, but do they want to take care of them? They do not."

"You could be right..."

"They come in here with their friends and their kids and pretty soon they forget all about their kids, and the kids wander off, and I find them poking their fingers in the black olives and sucking up the green jello through straws."

"That must be frustrating."

"It's not my problem. They lose their kids, they lose their kids. They don't worry about their kids. Why should I?"

"I see what you're saying."

She changes rants with only the slightest transition.

"If they don't lose their kids, they lose their purses."

"They do?"

"Oh, yeah. And they come crying to me, like Helene cares that they can't hold on to their purses. Anyone should be able to hold onto a purse. The only thing easier to hold onto than a kid is a purse."

"Hmmm..."

"This one lady, she says to me, Helene, you've got to help me! My purse has 28 credit cards in it!"

"Oh, dear."

"What kind of a person has 28 credit cards? Why would anyone need more than one credit card?"

I scanned the doorway and beyond, hoping against hope my friend would arrive soon. If I turned my head to the left, as I had to do to see the little lost girl, I couldn't hear Helene. And I had a feeling Helene wouldn't be happy unless she knew I was listening. The restaurant was loud, and between the ambient noise and her accent, I could barely keep up.

"What kind of person? I...I don't know." I said weakly.

"You do know! Nobody needs 28 credit cards, that's who needs 28 credit cards! I'll bet that lady didn't have $100 to her name, but she had 28 credit cards!"

"I--I don't know what to say..."

"And you know what she does with those 28 credit cards? I'll tell you what she does! She comes in here with her friends and her kids and is so busy showing her big accordian file of important credit cards to all her friends that she loses her kids."

Ummm...

"And then she comes crying to me, like it's my responsibility."

I'd finally caught on. "But it's not."

"You're right! It's not!"

Just then, Barb appeared. We hugged, and Helene handed us each a tray, which clearly fell within the realm of her assigned responsibilities, and which she did with gracious aplomb.

I plunked my keys down on my tray and Barb and I headed for the salad bar. As I reached for the fresh spinach, my good ear--along with God and everybody--heard Helene shout out.

"Oh, miss? Yeah, you! The one who left her kids at home. Did you lose something?"

She laughed and hoisted my purse above her head like a trophy, like she'd just won Gold in the Olympics.

I smiled as I retrieved my purse from her hand, but I couldn't help noticing how quickly she turned away.

And I followed her gaze, once again, to the little lost girl.

Posted by Katy on 06/24/05
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I Should Have Purchased The Extended Warranty (#103)

I've never thought of myself as a high-maintenance woman, but everything changes when you become a high-mileage woman. Once you turn fifty, as they say, it's patch, patch, patch.

Actually, they say that about forty. So I guess with me, it's patch, patch, patch, PATCH.

Yesterday, I went in to the doc for my annual naked-lady exam. I only had a few other minor issues I needed to run by him--no big deal. But I walked out with a pile of orders for outpatient tests thick enough that I almost threw my back out loading it into the car.

It seems I skipped out on the prescribed mammogram and bone density scan last summer, so my insurance company is actually sending letters to my doc, saying I'm a slacker. So what's new?

"It says here you never went in for your mammo last year," he says. "Or your bone density. You've got to do it, you know, or they come crying to me. And aren't you overdue for another colonoscopy?"

Oh, joy.

"I'm more concerned about the arthritis in my middle finger," I say. I hold it out for his perusal. "It really hurts and it's slowing me down on the computer."

"Yeah, it looks like arthritis, all right," he agrees. "But we really need to schedule you for a scan of those ovarian cysts again. Just to be on the safe side."

The safe side of what, I have no idea. I've sprouted cysts my whole life. I've had them surgically removed and they recur in spades. Cysts, schmysts, I say.

"Did I mention we found a cyst in your liver when we checked out your gall bladder?"

"Could that be causing the horrible pain in my abdomen that doubles me over so badly I can't walk?"

"No," he says. "I don't think so."

I point out a couple of patchy colored spots on my leg, since they feel oddly flaky to me.

"Ummm...I hate to say this, but those are age spots."

As much as he hated to say it, I'm thinking I hated to hear it even more.

"But now this funky bump on your arm here, I think we're going to need to biopsy that one."

Sheesh.

"So, we'll do an EKG and blood draw today, right after we do your breast exam and PAP and Suzy gives you your tetanus shot. I'll write up orders for a colonoscopy, a pelvic ultrasound, bone density scan, mammogram, oh and you know what?"

Dare I ask?

He shuffles through the top 50 pages of my extensive file. "It's been a couple years since you had an MRI of your head and saw your brain surgeon to make sure nothing's happening up there."

I can assure him, nothing is. Except for that, as soon as he mentions the letters M and R and I in the same sentence with the words "your head," I start to hyperventilate. If open MRIs did the trick for me, I'd be a happier camper in the claustrophobic department, but no...to get the pictures they need, it's closed MRI all the way, baby.

This, my friends, is why God made Xanax.

"Why don't we go ahead and get that done, too? And then come back and see me in a month. We'll go over all your test results then, and maybe schedule that biopsy. Any other concerns you're having today?"

I've been feeling mildly depressed, noticeably moreso since I arrived for my appointment, but hesitate to add any more fuel to his diagnostic fire.

"I think that's it," I say, still clutching my paper blankie for maximum coverage. "I'm good."

On the way home, I tell Doug that in addition to my previous maladies, both real and imagined, now my arm hurts really bad where they gave me the tetanus shot.

"Poor baby," he says, and he's got that look in his eye. "Whaddya say we blow this pop stand and go step on a few rusty nails?"

I laugh. Even if I have turned into a high maintenance woman, that man can still get me going.

Posted by Katy on 06/22/05
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For Your Monday Morning Entertainment (#104)

I've been trying to mix it up with the novel I've written, playing around with some some scenes in first person, present tense rather than third person, past tense. I wrote this new scene last week, which contains my main characters, but which doesn't really have a place in the story. So I thought I'd post it here, for fun.

At least, I hope it's fun. For you, that is. It's fun for me, except that my hands are sweating a bit as I prepare to actually post it. Yeah. I'm shy that way.

Here goes:

Morels For Sale.

The poster-board sign with red-markered message is attached, caddy-wampus, to a grounded wooden stake right smack dab in the middle of somewhere-in fact, at the brand-new entrance of what will soon become our area's most exlusive subdivision. For now, the entrance is just a short piece of poured pavement, a concrete promise that the mud-rutted acres of barren cornfields beyond it truly are about to morph into elegant estates-with no old-fashioned crops left anywhere in sight.

For today, a dusty black Ford pick-up has taken up temporary residence on the pavement. A real-live Marlboro Man's propped up against the side of the truck like a cut-out from a life-sized billboard. A smattering of permanent suave with a dash of debonair permeates his casual stance.

John and I drive past the roadside attraction on our way home from church, at a speed slow enough to read both the sign and the expression on Marlboro's face. I almost feel a twinge of guilt, like I've been caught red-handed drooling over the cover boy on a Louis L'Amour novel.

As if that would be the worst thing I've ever done.

I gawk open-mouthed at the fellow, having never before seen anyone hustling wares on this particular stretch of upper-crust suburban road. The young guy tips his cowboy hat my direction with a lopsided grin, as if he knows just what's coming out of my mouth next.

Not that he can hear me, or anything. Still, his shadowed eyes twinkle as he becomes just another short-term reflection in John's rear-view mirror.

"Morels For Sale?" I turn to face John as I blurt out my smart-alecky question. He's used to me by now, used to the way I can't pass up a chance to compete in a spontaneous round of linguistic gymnastics. "How can he sell it? He can't even spell it! Besides, if we could buy morals, wouldn't everyone have 'em?"

John reaches across the leather expanse to pat my knee. "Don't worry, babe. We still have to get our morals the old-fashioned way. But m-o-r-e-l-s-now, that's a different story."

"Isn't a morel a shellfish of some sort?"

As soon as I ask this ridiculous question, John gingerly removes his hand from my leg. Does he think I'm serious? Or is he paranoid enough to imagine my land-locked, mid-western cooties can be transferred to him by casual-contact knee-patting alone?

I may be contagious, but not that contagious.

"Yeah�um�a shellfish. That's right, Maggie."

He keeps his eyes on the road, but I can tell by the way both index fingers lightly tap the steering wheel that he's itching to call my bluff. Even without facing him head-on, I can see a glint in his eye that can't be blamed entirely on the afternoon angle of the low October sun.

He thinks he's got me. Just because he was lucky enough to grow up spending his dollar's lunch money on a whole freshly boiled lobster, and snarfing it down before recess ended at North Atlantic Seaboard Elementary, he imagines that I-a born and bred Great Plains girl-don't know my mushrooms from my mussels.

He's got a point, of course, even though he hasn't exactly made it yet. We're not over-exposed to an alluring variety of seafood here in Kansas City. The truth is, we've only recently learned to trust seafood at all around these parts. When I was a kid, we didn't dream of ordering crab in a restaurant. Everyone knew it wouldn't be fresh because of how many days it required to claw its way over the vast, parched plains.

I remember my father, once or twice, slowing down when he drove us past an eighteen-wheeler in a parking lot, surrounded by big signs advertising seafood for sale.

"Is that guy nuts?" Daddy would say. "Do you see any station wagons lining up to take him up on his offer? Mark my words. We buy fish off a truck, and we'll be dead of food poisoning by morning."

You can see why I learned to love Kansas City-strip steaks at a very young age.

I'm not stupid. I know a morel is a mushroom, which is by the way another glaring example of an item which should never be purchased off the back of a truck. If the average consumer can't be trusted to choose edible mushrooms from the forest floor, how would he choose any more wisely from a Dodge Ram? I say, just stick with Price Chopper or Kroger or Save-A-Lot, and save yourself a lot of heartache.

Not to mention stomachache.

But it's so much fun jerking John's food chain that I just can't help myself. Doesn't the very word morel conjure up an image of a shrimp with a social conscience?

I take a good look at Mr. John Morel Cullen behind the wheel, the man with whom I've been arguing about words and their meanings since�well, since forever, I guess. The first night we met, when my best friend Autumn Grey introduced us after church, we got into it over how to pronounce charismatic. Neither of us had a clue at that point what the term meant, so we didn't go there. But while I felt certain that one should pronounce it like "care-is-matic," John spent a full hour defending "kris-matic."

Since he played guitar at church and was really into the music of Kris Kristofferson back then, I worried that he might know something I didn't. Still, just the fact that he cared enough to argue about something of so little significance made me feel like I'd known him-really known him-my whole life.

Yep. That one petty argument pretty much sealed the deal for me.

We started dating right away, and were engaged in no time. I figured any man strong enough to quibble over Scrabble without flinching or backing down, even when I knew he made up that convoluted word he pretended to look up in the dictionary, deserved my undying devotion.

Well, not just any man. But John Cullen? Definitely.

I tap him on the shoulder and he looks me in the eye, if only for a second. I fake an expression of sudden recognition, like an errant thought just crossed my mind for the first time and convinced me of its astonishing truth.

"Wait, wait�I remember now. A morel is a close cousin of the mussel, right? I think I ordered morels with mushrooms on top at Red Lobster that time-"

He thinks I'm serious! Ah, the tables turn, and it's a whole new restaurant, baby. Maggie McMahon Cullen is at the top of her game!

"Maggie, a morel is a mushroom. To order morels with mushrooms on top would be, to say the least, redundant." He loves sounding authoritative when neither of us has anything of importance to gain or lose.

I huff. "Well, it's not redundant if I really, really like them."

I'd like to be able to tell you that this is a much different interaction than the ones John and I usually engage in on our way home from church. It would be nice, and impressive, too, if I could say that we routinely expound upon Pastor Tom's eloquent teachings or bond while recalling how the worship songs-and especially the Irish whistle playing "Be Thou My Vision"-thrill our souls.

But adding lying to the list of sins we commit upon exiting the church parking lot seems like a bad idea to me. I don't know why exactly-it just does.

Posted by Katy on 06/20/05
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HerStory (#105)

My mother's still working on her obit, and while she hasn't shared it with me in its entirety, she says it's coming along nicely.

This project all started, you'll remember, when she began comparing a decrepit, demented old lady at her Funny Farm, whom they called Little Betty, to the woman's sterling credentials as they appeared in the Kansas City Star upon her death a couple weeks ago.

Mom couldn't believe that Little Betty ("She didn't look like much to me...") could have had such an eventful, successful, ambitious, and illustrious past.

"I've added something new," Mom says. "I'd forgotten to say that I was born in Milwaukee and moved to Kansas City when I was five. What do you think?"

"Well, yeah. You've gotta mention your birthplace. Did you also mention that you were the only child of Carl and Bernice Pattengale?"

"No. I hate all three of those names: Carl, Bernice, and Pattengale. And I hate my middle name, too. None of those names will be in my obit."

"But, Mom, won't the readers wonder how you got to Kansas City without parents bringing you here? And wouldn't that make them wonder the names of your parents?"

"Nobody cares about that. I'm going to put that I flew here with angel's wings."

"Um, you know I love you, Mom. But you're no angel..."

Now, I can understand how young people can visit a nursing home and imagine that the residents there have never had a life. Young people, after all, really only have the experience of however many years they've actually lived from which to draw reliable conclusions. A 15-year-old pretty much understands something of what it is to have been every age, up to and including the age of 15.

But wouldn't you think a 75-year-old woman, who's surrounded by a retirement community of her peers, would easily understand that the deteriorating minds and bodies she's confronted with every day are real people with real histories? That each of them is more than the fragile, stooped shell he appears to be, that each one has a story that's taken a whole lifetime to tell?

It makes me question whether I might be looking at my own peers with the same lack of recognition. Do I see their weaknesses rather than their wisdom, their frailties more clearly than their faith, their blemishes but not their beauty?

"After I'm dead, you're going to put the names of Carl, Bernice, Pattengale, and Gracia in my obit, aren't you?"

"I gotta tell ya, it's gonna happen, babe."

"Katy, you make me so darned mad."

"Oh, yeah? Tell me something I don't know."

She raises her hand like she might slap me, but we both know she's playing. We laugh, and I remind myself to remember: No matter what she may look like to others, to me, and even to herself, this isn't just some old lady who never had a life.

This is the woman who had the guts to give me life, and then some.

And you know what? Whether I'm smart enough to realize it or not, she's still got it goin' on.

Posted by Katy on 06/19/05
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Godspeed (#106)

It's 1:30 on Thursday afternoon. Kevin just kissed us good-bye.

I didn't plan a speech for this moment, and I didn't make one, either. But I heard myself say this, "Kev, you'll get married one day and then you'll have your first child. You'll turn around 25 years later and the last one will be walking out the door, and it will feel so strange to you. Because you'll still remember exactly how you felt the first time you brought a new baby home from the hospital, when all of life was ahead of you. Life goes really fast, babe. Do what you're here to do..."

He nodded like he nearly understood, like he had at least a fleeting grasp of what I meant, as if he might just file my wisdom-of-the-ages away and call it to remembrance later, in some distant melancholy hour. All I know is that he held onto us for a few seconds longer than he would have otherwise.

His eyes sparkled differently than usual, too, like diamond flecks of sunshine through a steady spring rain.

Posted by Katy on 06/16/05
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My Baby’s Leaving (#107)

I haven't slept, really slept, in 26 years.

For those of you who are still looking forward to becoming parents, for those of you who might not even be 26 years old yet yourselves, this might seem impossible. But I assure you it's true.

I've heard of babies who sleep through the night. Occasionally, a fortunate couple produces one of these miracles and brags to the rest of us pathetic schmucks until they're blue in the face, or until we wish they were.

Do they really imagine that it's their own magic touch--and not some stroke of mercy inexplicably bestowed upon them by a benevolent Savior--which has resulted in a life of peace, quiet, and restful sleep?

I'm not bitter, at least not anymore. There comes a point in the downward spiral of sleep deprivation where there's no energy left for negative emotion. Emotion is sucked up by exhaustion.

So last night, the first night Kevin was back in town after his nine-day road trip to the east coast, Kevin wasn't home at all. But I kept expecting him to roll in, kept expecting to see his headlights reflected in the window across from my bed as he sped up our long and winding road.

Midnight turned to one o'clock and then two. I'd long since gotten up from the bed, because Doug and I managed to take turns tossing, keeping each other awake in the process. I sat in the recliner in Doug's office, reading a novel and praying for my son. Finally, I called him.

"When will you be home?"

"I'm dropping John off now. So another 45 minutes or so."

"Kevin, I'm done. It's been 26 years of feeding, changing, screaming, puking, crying, driving, partying, and road-tripping. And that's just what happens when I'm trying to sleep. I can't do this anymore. Please, in the name of all that's holy, move out."

"You mean tomorrow?"

"..."

"Mom...I love you."

I love him, too.

It's now almost noon, and he's just awakened. He comes in my bedroom where I sit writing.

"It's gonna take me a few more trips to get my stuff over to the apartment. So, can I spend one more night here?"

I remember back to the day when he was six and told me the wonderful plan he had for his life. "I'm going to get married, Mom. But don't worry. When I find a girl, I'll bring her home to live with you."

Can he spend one more night here? This boy, the youngest of the three best gifts God's ever given us, hears the music winding down, but somehow knows the dance isn't quite finished yet.

"One more night," I hear myself say. "But then, Kevin, I'm going to need a little sleep."

He smiles and kisses me. "Thanks, Mom."

And he really means it.

"For now," I say, "I must write..."

"Let me guess the title." His eyes twinkle like they've done every day his whole life. "My Baby's Leaving."

God, I'll miss this man.

Posted by Katy on 06/15/05
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Thanks For The Meme-Story… (#108)

When I was a kid, I never got picked for teams. I don't mean I got picked last, I mean I was invisible. I got left standing there, alone. Which was fine with me, really. Because, honestly, if I'd gotten picked, I would have disgraced not only myself but my team, and my otherwise intact popularity would have disintegrated into filmy vapors.

I did, however, become "it" in the game of tag with predictable regularity. Sigh. Just call me the It Girl, I guess.

And thus it is with memes. I move too slowly, too clumsily, too much like the metabolism-challenged middle-aged chick I am to avoid getting tagged. Amber at Muddy Art proved too agile for me, but at least I can comfort myself knowing that she pulled a fast one on Michael Main, too! (Waving to Amber and Michael!)

Like Michael, I will now be taking my permanent leave of memes, much as I was compelled to do in the '70s when Tupperware parties threatened to overtake both my checkbook and my cupboards. I couldn't say no to only certain friends back then, so I decided to do the right thing and say no to all my friends!

Instead of answering the questions the book meme poses, though (and they are good ones, all of which you can copy from Amber's site if you'd like to participate), I'm going to tell you a bit about the last novels I've read. And I can't resist the element of the meme that suggests we post pics of our bookcases.

You should know that this collection represents a thinned-out version of what we owned six months ago. We've donated at least 300 books to the library recently, which explains the inordinately tidy shelves I'm displaying here. Ha.

A Place to Belong, by Nancy Moser and Vonette Bright. This is the fourth and final book in the Sister Circle Series, written by my lovely friend Nancy and the wife of Bill Bright, founder of Campus Crusade. I met Nancy at our local writers group many years ago, before her first humor book was published. If it weren't for Nancy kicking my derrierre, I probably wouldn't be writing today. Let's just say she's got a gift for motivation! Now, several humor books and maybe a dozen novels later, I can barely keep up with the great stories she writes. A Place to Belong is no exception. Nancy has knit the lives of a score of women (and more than a few great men) into this series, which revolves around Peerbaugh Place, a boarding house started by a widow who had no choice. Evelyn Peerbaugh is bitter to think that her crummy husband died and left her so financially bereft that she's forced to take in strangers. She has little vision for her future, doesn't trust her own instincts, and has a big secret in her past that's never stopped haunting her. Little by little, though, Evelyn takes ground. She begins to grow as an individual, begins to learn how to stand up for herself. But she also starts to believe she has something to give and that the kooky assortment of ladies that share her home need what she's got. These aren't romance novels, but it's hard to wait until Book Four for Evelyn to find the man of her dreams. Yeah. I'm a real sucker for late-in-life romance, and A Place to Belong doesn't disappoint. It's a satisfying conclusion to a great series.

The Victory Club by Robin Lee Hatcher. I've read Robin's blog for quite a while now, but had never read even one of her acclaimed novels! Then she mentioned one she'd written about an Irish immigrant from County Armagh, and of course, that pushed my buttons. When I emailed her to let her know I HAD to start with In His Arms, she actually sent me an autographed copy. I thoroughly enjoyed it, which made me jump at the chance to read The Victory Club, her newest release, as soon as it came out. It's the story of four women who work at a plant together during WWII, and the club they form in order to help families affected by their loved one's service in the war. They'd paint a wife's porch, babysit, encourage in whatever way they could. But, needless to say, they had their own problems, problems they had committed to help each other through, even if they didn't feel they had the strength. My favorite character is Margo, who is transformed in the course of the story from a woman who lives (and demands others live) by the letter of the law to one who both accepts and extends grace. The historical accuracy of the story contributed a lot to my appreciation. I found myself understanding more about the North African and Italian campaigns than I'd ever known, which meant something to me personally because my dad served with the British Army in both Egypt and Sicily. If you'd like a novel which gives you a real flavor for what it was like to live during WWII, both abroad and stateside, this is the book for you.

Club Sandwich by Lisa Samson. This book hit me where I live right now. The Sandwich Generation, baby! And I'm not talking a piece of marshmallowy white bread here--that's too easy. You're not a bona fide member of the Sandwich Gen until you become the ham and cheese in the middle that doesn't just get swallowed whole, it gets chewed up first! Ivy, the caretaker, has not only one member of the Greatest Generation living in her home, but three. That's right...her mother, her father-in-law, and her own father, who's been estranged from the family since he abandoned them years ago, but who now needs Ivy's help. Of course, Ivy has to sequester her dad in the basement lest her sometimes-demented mother find out he's under the same roof! Add to the mix three needy kids, an absentee barbershop-quartet singing husband, and a couple of siblings who aren't "hospital people," and you've got yourself a real mess. And I do mean REAL. If you're a member of the Middle, or know someone who is, get this book. You will find comfort for your soul. By the way, I've met Lisa, too. Doug and I spent an evening with her and her hubby Will last summer, and she is a doll. She has encouraged me so much, both in my writing and as a friend.

What's next for Katy McKenna Raymond, Lean Mean Reading Machine?

A Nest of Sparrows by Deb Raney. I'm so excited to dig into this book. It's been nominated for several awards and has gotten excellent reviews. In fact, I just heard this morning that it's won the prestigious Holt Medallion Award. Deb and I belong to the same national writers group, American Christian Fiction Writers (Robin Lee Hatcher is also a member), so we've gotten to know each other online and at book signings. Congrats, Deb!

Posted by Katy on 06/14/05
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House Of Cards, Indeed (#109)

The story Renee told me might have curled my hair if I hadn't recently gotten a perm.

"My daughter's mother-in-law is hitting her up for money again. Can you believe it?"

"You're kidding? I thought the old chick inherited a huge wad when her mother died?"

"She did--about $300,000. Remember how she borrowed $1000 from Megan and Robby when they first got married? And how it was their wedding money, which they planned to use to remodel their bathroom?"

"Serena paid Megan and Robby back when her mom died, right?"

"Yeah, two years ago, but not before she made them feel horribly guilty every time they asked her to make at least a partial payment. So guess what? She's spent her way through 300 grand already, and is calling to borrow enough money to last her until her husband gets paid in five days..."

"Wait a minute. Isn't that why God made Pay Day Loans?"

Serena's husband makes around $80,000. They are empty-nesters, so I'm thinking 80 grand isn't too bad. What's bad is that the people they're hitting up--Renee's daughter and son-in-law--have three kids under age five, and make a combined income of less than $30,000.

"But what did she do with the money?" Curious minds and all that.

"They bought a camper trailer that they parked somewhere down in the Ozarks, but Serena doesn't like to drive down there to stay in it. They practically gutted their house to redecorate, but didn't pay off the house or even do any of the major repairs it needs. And they bought a $42,000 truck."

"Did they pay off their credit cards? Because wasn't that their biggest problem in the first place?"

"Before Serena's mother died, they had a jillion credit cards, all run up to the top. They weren't even making minimum payments. Nothing. When Serena got the loot, they caught up with all their minumum payments and stayed caught up until the money was gone. Now they have all the same credit cards, all back at the top, and they're not making any payments."

"But I still don't get it. Where did the rest of the money go? Serena is a recluse, so we know they didn't take any big trips. Heck, she won't even go to the Penney's Outlet Store. I figure there's still $150,000 unaccounted for..."

"Well, they've got all those spare bedrooms since the kids moved out, you know. Two of those rooms are filled floor to ceiling with all the stuff--still in boxes--that Serena buys on the Home Shopping Network. And the third room, that's her Avon room."

I'm picturing a desk and file cabinets and Avon brochures in little plastic bags ready to hang on her neighbors' doorknobs. Serena's never earned even a nickel, so starting a home-based venture would be huge for her.

"You mean she's started a business? She's an Avon Lady?"

"Oh, nooooo....." Renee said. "She's not selling it. She's just buying it. Megan says the room is so stuffed that Serena can barely open the door to wedge in one more lipstick."

Renee is rightfully worried that her daughter and son-in-law are going to get sucked in to perpetually bailing these people out. I'm always shocked when I hear stories like this one, which by the way is completely true except for the names. But it looks like inside of twelve months, millions of people will get the shock of a lifetime. I read this today at dollarstretcher.com and I'm just going to copy it here for simplicity's sake.

All I can say, folks, is please don't let this happen to you! If you don't have a real plan for getting out of credit card debt, now would be the time to get one. And no, I'm not selling anything! (Though I do know someone with a couple boatloads of Avon...)

A Storm Is Coming...
by Greg Moore
Credit card payment crisis looms

What would you do if your required minimum monthly payments on each of your credit cards doubled without your charging a cent more?

For example, suppose you owe $10,000 on a card and your required minimum payment is 2% of your balance or $200. What would you do if your required minimum payment ballooned to $400?

Reduce retirement savings? Increase the debt on your home? Decrease your standard of living? Panic?

Twelve months from now this will be a desperate reality for thousands of credit card holders making minimum payments. According to "Business Week," April 25 edition, a rule change by the Office of the Comptroller of the Currency first introduced in January of 2003 is now being strictly enforced, requiring credit-card companies to increase required minimum monthly payments over the next 12 months.

Today, typical required minimum monthly payments are 2% of the balance. Some credit-card companies require as little as 1% of the balance. In 12 months, typical required minimum monthly payments will double to 4% of the balance!

This rule change is an attempt to eliminate Black Holes, also called negative amortization, where payments don't cover at least the interest due. It's also an attempt to assure at least some of the principal is paid with each minimum credit card payment.

Although well intentioned, a noose is tightening...Inflation is accelerating...

"Soaring energy costs helped drive the U.S. Consumer Price Index up in March by 0.6 percent, the sharpest monthly gain since October." -- USA Today

...taking a bigger bite out of paychecks leaving little room to absorb payment increases.

Paychecks are getting smaller...

"Wages for average worker fell in 2004, after adjusting for inflation, first such drop in nearly decade." -- N.Y. Times

...so we can't count on bigger paychecks to make these payments.

If you think bankruptcy will provide some relief, think again. A new bankruptcy bill has been signed into law making it tougher for heavily indebted Americans to wipe out their obligations.

Look for a cascade of financial pain for many Americans about 12 months from now...

Credit card minimum payments increase, which leads to missed payments, creating late fees and higher interest rates, which decreases FICO score, triggering Universal Default clauses on other credit cards causing their interest rates to skyrocket, and more missed payments, and so on. And not even bankruptcy will guarantee escape.

The only guaranteed way to avoid this disaster is to start today with a systematic plan to pay off all debt, but especially your credit card debt, as fast as possible. Even paying off 1 or 2 cards will create some cushion to absorb increases 12 months from now.

The first warning shot was fired back in January 2003. You have a 12-month window of opportunity. Take it.
_____________________

Greg Moore is the Architect of the Wealth Building System, 'DebtIntoWealth -- Lessons from My Journey to Debt Freedom' providing knowledge, tools, and support to families seeking to escape conventional financial wisdom in order to save their financial lives. Visit http://www.debtintowealth.com/stretcher.html

Posted by Katy on 06/13/05
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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	The Notebook (#95) I have a modest-sized 5x7 spiral notebook that I carry with me to my doctor's appointments. When I was younger and not nearly as organized about medical records, I just folded up a single sheet of looseleaf paper with my questions and concerns penned on it and stuffed it in my purse. When those sheets failed to find their way to an appropriate binder after the appointment, though, I moved on to the spiral notebook method. 5x7, I think, is the perfect size to place discreetly under the paper blanket as I climb up on the edge of the exam table and try not to notice, for the umpteenth time in my gynecological life, those freakish steel stirrups. A larger spiral notebook would totally intimidate the doc, who would wistfully imagine all the examination rooms full of notebook-free patients, most of whom would definitely be less dramatically ill than I am. And a smaller notebook--the type that fits in snugly with your pocket protector--would send an entirely different message, don't you think? Something like "I'm really not very proactive when it comes to managing my own healthcare" or perhaps "I wouldn't know an alarming symptom which should be reported to my primary doctor from a hangnail." If I'm not careful in my choice of notebooks, the doc may lose patience with me before I get down to describing the little twinge of indigestion that keeps me awake for 2.3 minutes longer than usual after I eat even four tiny bites of cauliflower. And I know he wouldn't want to miss out on that. It's not just the size of the notebook that matters, either. It's the size of the notes. If the good doc peeks over the edge of the page and sees that I've written whole paragraphs of minuscule print for every one of my numbered points, and left inches of space in which to carefully insert his capacious diagnoses, he's gonna freak. When it comes down to words, fewer are better. I treat my medical notebook like the kind of bare-bones outline a speech teacher might allow. The words exist on paper only to serve as reminders to me, and as a symbol to the medical profession that I have, indeed, done my homework. I choose them so carefully that when I open my mouth to expound upon each individual concern, explanatory reams pour forth. I've got this down to a science, folks. The doctor/patient relationship is not one I take lightly, and the methods I've devised to foster clear communication and satisfactory outcomes have served me well. Wouldn't you'd think that after 28 years of marriage, my husband would have come to appreciate the benefits of my obviously successful techniques, to the point of adopting them himself? Wouldn't you? Doug just returned from his annual physical, which he regularly keeps at least once every three years. I reminded him starting a couple weeks out to start jotting down things he'd let accumulate, so that he wouldn't forget to mention them when the time came. He walked in the door and plopped his wallet and keys down on the counter. "How'd it go?" I asked. "Great." "Well, how are you?" "Fine." "So, what did the doctor say?" "About what?" "Your concerns...didn't you have a list?" "Oh, yeah," he said. And then he pulled a sticky note no bigger than one of my arthritic knuckles out of his shirt pocket and stuck it to the counter. On it were three single words, the sum total of all the symptoms of his nearly 53 years of aging. He grinned. "He says I'm good." I threw my 5x7 notebook at him and he ducked too late. He's gonna need another sticky note. Posted by Katy on 07/07/05 Permalink Dynamic (#96) Just when you begin to worry that your own family dynamic might not be sufficiently functional to withstand the challenges of another parent requiring huge amounts of vigilent care, you hear a story like this. This is a true tale, my friends, told to me this afternoon by my darling daughter, whose job is to sit with hospital patients who can't be left alone. In the case of this particular patient, it's possible that she could have been left completely alone, but, alas, couldn't be left alone with her very own son. The poor woman, around 75 years old, has had surgery to remove a ton of cancer from her abdomen. Too bad a progeny-removal wasn't performed at the same time. But I digress. The 45-year-old son (we'll call him Earl) stared at Carrie wordlessly for quite a while. She tried to block his creepy gaze with her laptop, since he made her terribly uncomfortable. Little did she know how much her discomfort would grow when he opened his mouth. "Correct me if i'm wrong, but do you got blue eyes?" Carrie's eyes are changeable, sometimes blue, sometimes green, sometimes nearly grey. "I don't know. Maybe." "Ain't genetics crazy? My daughter's got them blue eyes. But who'da thunk she'd end up with 'em? I don't got blue eyes and her mamma don't got blue eyes. But now my mamma layin' in the bed over there, she's got them blue eyes. And that's genetics." "Um...yeah." "And another thing. My daughter's got her some blond hair, and her mamma's sure not got blond hair. Looky here at me. I've got black hair which is only because I used to have brown hair which was goin' grey so I dyed it. Somehow though we must have got the gene for blond hair because my daughter's sure got the blond hair even though we don't got it. That's how that genetics thing works." "I guess." "So are you from these parts?" "No, Kansas City." "Kansas City, Missouri, or Kansas City, Kansas?" "I'm from the Missouri side..." "It's kind of confusing over there, with the Mississippi River and all." Carrie didn't bother to clarify that the Muddy Missouri is the river in our parts, not the Mississippi. "I was driving over to Kansas City with a buddy to pick up a dozer, and he don't know about the Mississippi River dividin' Missouri from Kansas." "Oh?" "But I told him, Jess, we gonna have to cross that river to get to the dozer." "Oh." Right about then, Earl's mother groaned a bit too much for his comfort. He turned away from Carrie to confront her. "You'd better stop your moaning, you old b---h. When I wrecked my vehicle, you didn't hear me complaining." "I'm sorry, Earl. I love you, son..." "Mamma, you're a pain in my a-s. I'm about to take that there box and shove it up against your head. I would, too, if it weren't for the Boone County sheriff would haul me in for destruction of public property." Never mind his mother. He was worried about the box. "I'm about to head over to Kirksville. Dad's been tryin' to get the old place fixed up, but he lets people walk all over him. At the rate he's goin', it'll never get done. I'm gonna rent me a dozer and doze the house down." "Well, that's an idea," Carrie said. Finally, the old lady got smart and fell asleep. A welcome silence descended upon the room, but Carrie somehow knew at least one more tidbit hung in the air. Minutes passed, and then out of no where, Earl said, "I saved all my letters from jail. I got me at least 45 from Gayle, that back-stabbing b---h. I got probly 25 from Mamma." "That's nice..." "I wrote to Grandma but I only heard from her about one time." Dear God, I love my family. Posted by Katy on 07/04/05 Permalink Mother-In-Law Mania (#97) Well, the nurses and docs went into overdrive to compensate for failing to accurately document my mother-in-law's spiking fevers. When the manager of nurses said on Wednesday that she was going to call in an infectious disease doctor, she meant business. First thing Thursday morning, the tests they should have been doing Monday morning finally began. By Thursday afternoon, we had the grim news. Adele had a very diseased gall bladder, which had filled with abscesses. The abscesses had also managed to leak into her liver. She had two options: Either undergo the old-fashioned type of gall bladder surgery and endure months of difficult recovery in the nursing home setting, or face certain death from peritonitis within days. After thinking and praying about it, she said, "At first I thought I'd like to just close my eyes and never wake up--I could just die happy." She's had a happy life, folks. Personally, I would have chosen Door Number One, the Die Happy Door, but she needed to make the decision. "And then I thought, that's just STUPID! Besides, I have friends who like to see me from time to time. So I prayed, and I felt like the Lord showed me that I should try." She survived last night's surgery--not the new-fangled kind where they make a couple little pokes and you're done, but the old nine-inch incision that cuts through all the muscles. The doctor told us he'd never seen such a horrible looking gall bladder. He said it had been diseased for many years, but that the abscesses were recent. He couldn't believe she wasn't in incontrovertible pain, and yet she'd never complained of pain at all. She had a gall stone the size of a golf ball and many smaller stones. The gall bladder had grown so large that it had adhered to the stomach, colon, and liver. And then there were the abscesses----YIKES! She's in intensive care now, and as you might expect, it'll be touch and go for a while. And after that it will be, let's just say, not fun. But we'll stay the course, whatever it may bring. Let this be a little reminder to you: THIS is what happens when you insist on adequate care. Ouch! Posted by Katy on 07/02/05 Permalink Rant (#98) Some days turn out to be blog fodder, and some book fodder. Really fascinating days, I've found, are both. Three years ago, when I got slapped into the hospital for five days with what the gastroenterologist believed was a nasty episode of ischemic colitis (essentially, a stroke of the colon), I got a heavy revvie. In between puking and pooping blood, a great book idea came to me, the kind of idea that can only be borne of personal experience, of which I have had gobs. I won't divulge the most excellent title of my non-fiction book here, but suffice it to say it has to do with how a common citizen can go about obtaining the best medical care when they need it most. How not to fall between the cracks in the system, how to find out what your rights are and insist upon them, how to negotiate your way through doctor's voice-mail systems from hell until you get a "live one," etc. It's pretty much gotten to the point where if anyone I know is facing a hospitalization, a medical emergency, or a medical mystery, I'm asked to go along for the ride. Even my mother appreciates the fact that I ask loaded questions, expect precise explantations, take copious notes, and won't take "Duh" for an answer. Now, it's my mother-in-law. The poor lady is hardly a reliable witness on her own behalf, since she suffers from dementia. She's been in the hospital since Sunday night, and so far all they've done is blood and urine tests, blood and urine tests, and then, because good things always happen in threes, more blood and urine tests. The doc came in to see her this morning (one she'd never met before in her life), and then he called Doug's sister Lynn with the good news. "Well, she's fine. All the cultures came back normal, no sign of any infection. We'll get the physical therapist in here and get her up walking and then--" Oh, no you don't! There's NO WAY you're releasing her! "But what about the fact that her fever has spiked to 103 for the past three nights in a row?" "I didn't see it in the chart..." "I was there last night when it happened! Toby was her nurse, and it took him 45 minutes to bring the Tylenol from the time I called him in to check her temp. Finally, a nurse who'd seen her spike the night before put ice packs under her arms to bring it down. She's been delirious every night for several hours since you admitted her..." "Oh, well, if that's true, I guess we'd better do another round of urine and blood cultures." Lynn called at 8 am to report this discussion. Doug hung up the phone, turned to me and said, "I'm heading to the hospital." I grabbed my purse. "What do you bet they're going to try to send her home? Plus, we need to see that chart. They are failing to document her fever spikes, and that's her primary symptom..." So we got there, and sure enough the therapist had just arrived to take Adele on her walk around the floor, the one they take you on right before they say, "Your insurance company won't pay for you to stay another day, so pack up your flowers, baby." It was the first time she's been out of bed since Sunday. We met with the nursing manager, who listened to all of our concerns and said it seemed obvious to her that Adele needs to be seen by an infectious disease doctor, which the manager is now arranging. And yes, she even allowed me to raise questions about the results of my google searches, about Still's disease and heart infections and several other possibilities they apparently haven't even considered. I would chalk it up to Adele being 83-years-old, and therefore somewhat dispensible in society's eyes, but you know what? I've seen too much. My feeling about all this is that no matter how young or old the patient is, unless the family insists upon adequate tests, careful diagnosis, and proper treatment, your loved one just might not receive it. You know what I do? I insist. And sometimes it isn't pretty. I have no problem with people dying when it's their time, believe me. But dying of something that could have been prevented or cured if even a couple people had been paying attention? Not on my watch. Posted by Katy on 06/29/05 Permalink Another Day, Another Poem (#99) No sooner did I hit "publish" on last night's blog entry, than the phone rang. It was the phone call I'd been anticipating, the one we watch cable comedy shows to fortify ourselves against. So we got dressed and met the ambulance and Doug's family at the hospital, where they ended up admitting my mother-in-law for the second time in a month. She's running a fever and is dehydrated again, and her potassium is correspondingly low, so she's been too weak to get out of bed. We left the hospital after midnight, when she was getting settled in her room. Before we took off, we all discussed the times we'd be available today, so we could stagger our visits. I was today's first visitor, and felt kind of bad because my day was largely spent before I arrived. "I can't believe you're here so EARLY," Adele said. She glanced up at the wall clock. "Gee, it's only 10:45 in the morning. I thought after Kevin moved out that you would sleep later." "No," I said. "We still get up at 6:30." "WHY?" "Well, because we work..." "I know Douglas works, but what do you do? I know you take care of the house, but still..." "I write, remember, Adele? I spend time writing. I'm figuring out that if I don't write, I don't get anything written." She shoots me a look, the kind of look that fellow frustrated writers shoot back and forth a lot. "Oh. Yeah." I could be wrong, but I got the feeling she might pull through just fine, and that she might even be motivated by the idea of writing another poem herself, even if she is 83-years-old. As I leaned in to kiss her good-bye, I said, "Here's a tablet of paper and a pen. I thought you might need it." Another poem, Adele. Or maybe even two, for old time's sake. Posted by Katy on 06/27/05 Permalink Piece Of Cake—Make Mine Sugar-Free (#100) Comedy Central has a crazy show on called Blue Collar TV. Jeff Foxworthy just did a routine in which he described how wives train their husbands. He says he didn't even know it was happening to him till one night when he'd been married about five years. He and his wife lay in bed reading and she turned to him and said, "I'm hot." He got up out of the bed and turned on the ceiling fan, and as he was walking back to bed, he stopped in mid-step and said to himself, "Whoa...wait a minute. I'm cold!" His wife was so thrilled with the progress she'd made in training Jeff that the next day she called her mother to brag. "Mom, it's working!" And her mother said, "Oh, honey, I am so proud of you! I'd put your father on so you could tell him yourself, except for that when I let on I was hungry, he went to town to get me something to eat..." Doug and I are watching this in bed, laughing our heads off. I wait a few minutes before I put him to the test, but finally I can't stand it any longer. You see, I can't hear the dryer buzzing when I'm in bed, because of the deaf thing. But the beautiful thing about minor disabilities is, well, you'll see... "Oh, shoot," I say. "I'm sure the dryer must have buzzed by now..." Without a word, he gets out of the bed and heads to the laundry room! I start chuckling, hoping he doesn't hear me because I sure don't want to break the spell. "Should I turn on the ceiling fan on my way out?" "Yes, please," I say. "Cup of coffee?" "Oh, baby, you're so nice..." "Snack?" I could keep going, but I gotta go call my mom. Posted by Katy on 06/26/05 Permalink The Dating Game Meets Truth Or Consequences (#101) My brother and his family are moving this weekend, and today I spent a few hours helping pack up a couple of the kids' rooms. When I finished the second room, I looked at my watch and gathered up my Starbucks. "I'm gonna have to blow out of here," I said to my 5-year-old niece, Shaylyn. "I've gotta go home and get ready for my date." "Your date?" Shaylyn's right eyebrow arched and she enunciated more clearly than usual, I thought. "Yeah, we're going to a comedy show later today." "Have you gone on dates before?" "Well, sure, we go on dates all the time. In a few days, we're gonna see The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. Have you seen it?" She stares me down. "So. You're already MARRIED, and right in the MIDDLE OF IT, you're going on DATES?" I weigh out my answer for three full seconds while her eyes blaze with indignation. "Ummm...Yeah." "Does your husband know?" Can you have more fun than talking with a 5-year old? I didn't think so. Posted by Katy on 06/25/05 Permalink Door Keeper (#102) The door-opening, tray-passer-outing greeter did her thing when I walked into the soup-and-salad cafeteria for lunch today. And then some. "Just one?" "No, I'm meeting someone." I headed for the bench since I knew I was at least 15 minutes early. I thought I'd clean out my purse or do something equally productive. But no. "Do you see that little girl?" The 60-year old greeter, name-tagged Helene, said in a foreign accent of unclear origin. I looked to where she pointed and nodded. "She's lost. She's been wandering around here for 20 minutes. Her mother hasn't come up to me to ask if anyone's found her little girl, but it's not my problem." "Oh, dear," I said. "You don't know who she's with?" She shrugged, palms up. "Could be anyone. They're all the same. People love making babies, they love making babies, but do they want to take care of them? They do not." "You could be right..." "They come in here with their friends and their kids and pretty soon they forget all about their kids, and the kids wander off, and I find them poking their fingers in the black olives and sucking up the green jello through straws." "That must be frustrating." "It's not my problem. They lose their kids, they lose their kids. They don't worry about their kids. Why should I?" "I see what you're saying." She changes rants with only the slightest transition. "If they don't lose their kids, they lose their purses." "They do?" "Oh, yeah. And they come crying to me, like Helene cares that they can't hold on to their purses. Anyone should be able to hold onto a purse. The only thing easier to hold onto than a kid is a purse." "Hmmm..." "This one lady, she says to me, Helene, you've got to help me! My purse has 28 credit cards in it!" "Oh, dear." "What kind of a person has 28 credit cards? Why would anyone need more than one credit card?" I scanned the doorway and beyond, hoping against hope my friend would arrive soon. If I turned my head to the left, as I had to do to see the little lost girl, I couldn't hear Helene. And I had a feeling Helene wouldn't be happy unless she knew I was listening. The restaurant was loud, and between the ambient noise and her accent, I could barely keep up. "What kind of person? I...I don't know." I said weakly. "You do know! Nobody needs 28 credit cards, that's who needs 28 credit cards! I'll bet that lady didn't have $100 to her name, but she had 28 credit cards!" "I--I don't know what to say..." "And you know what she does with those 28 credit cards? I'll tell you what she does! She comes in here with her friends and her kids and is so busy showing her big accordian file of important credit cards to all her friends that she loses her kids." Ummm... "And then she comes crying to me, like it's my responsibility." I'd finally caught on. "But it's not." "You're right! It's not!" Just then, Barb appeared. We hugged, and Helene handed us each a tray, which clearly fell within the realm of her assigned responsibilities, and which she did with gracious aplomb. I plunked my keys down on my tray and Barb and I headed for the salad bar. As I reached for the fresh spinach, my good ear--along with God and everybody--heard Helene shout out. "Oh, miss? Yeah, you! The one who left her kids at home. Did you lose something?" She laughed and hoisted my purse above her head like a trophy, like she'd just won Gold in the Olympics. I smiled as I retrieved my purse from her hand, but I couldn't help noticing how quickly she turned away. And I followed her gaze, once again, to the little lost girl. Posted by Katy on 06/24/05 Permalink I Should Have Purchased The Extended Warranty (#103) I've never thought of myself as a high-maintenance woman, but everything changes when you become a high-mileage woman. Once you turn fifty, as they say, it's patch, patch, patch. Actually, they say that about forty. So I guess with me, it's patch, patch, patch, PATCH. Yesterday, I went in to the doc for my annual naked-lady exam. I only had a few other minor issues I needed to run by him--no big deal. But I walked out with a pile of orders for outpatient tests thick enough that I almost threw my back out loading it into the car. It seems I skipped out on the prescribed mammogram and bone density scan last summer, so my insurance company is actually sending letters to my doc, saying I'm a slacker. So what's new? "It says here you never went in for your mammo last year," he says. "Or your bone density. You've got to do it, you know, or they come crying to me. And aren't you overdue for another colonoscopy?" Oh, joy. "I'm more concerned about the arthritis in my middle finger," I say. I hold it out for his perusal. "It really hurts and it's slowing me down on the computer." "Yeah, it looks like arthritis, all right," he agrees. "But we really need to schedule you for a scan of those ovarian cysts again. Just to be on the safe side." The safe side of what, I have no idea. I've sprouted cysts my whole life. I've had them surgically removed and they recur in spades. Cysts, schmysts, I say. "Did I mention we found a cyst in your liver when we checked out your gall bladder?" "Could that be causing the horrible pain in my abdomen that doubles me over so badly I can't walk?" "No," he says. "I don't think so." I point out a couple of patchy colored spots on my leg, since they feel oddly flaky to me. "Ummm...I hate to say this, but those are age spots." As much as he hated to say it, I'm thinking I hated to hear it even more. "But now this funky bump on your arm here, I think we're going to need to biopsy that one." Sheesh. "So, we'll do an EKG and blood draw today, right after we do your breast exam and PAP and Suzy gives you your tetanus shot. I'll write up orders for a colonoscopy, a pelvic ultrasound, bone density scan, mammogram, oh and you know what?" Dare I ask? He shuffles through the top 50 pages of my extensive file. "It's been a couple years since you had an MRI of your head and saw your brain surgeon to make sure nothing's happening up there." I can assure him, nothing is. Except for that, as soon as he mentions the letters M and R and I in the same sentence with the words "your head," I start to hyperventilate. If open MRIs did the trick for me, I'd be a happier camper in the claustrophobic department, but no...to get the pictures they need, it's closed MRI all the way, baby. This, my friends, is why God made Xanax. "Why don't we go ahead and get that done, too? And then come back and see me in a month. We'll go over all your test results then, and maybe schedule that biopsy. Any other concerns you're having today?" I've been feeling mildly depressed, noticeably moreso since I arrived for my appointment, but hesitate to add any more fuel to his diagnostic fire. "I think that's it," I say, still clutching my paper blankie for maximum coverage. "I'm good." On the way home, I tell Doug that in addition to my previous maladies, both real and imagined, now my arm hurts really bad where they gave me the tetanus shot. "Poor baby," he says, and he's got that look in his eye. "Whaddya say we blow this pop stand and go step on a few rusty nails?" I laugh. Even if I have turned into a high maintenance woman, that man can still get me going. Posted by Katy on 06/22/05 Permalink For Your Monday Morning Entertainment (#104) I've been trying to mix it up with the novel I've written, playing around with some some scenes in first person, present tense rather than third person, past tense. I wrote this new scene last week, which contains my main characters, but which doesn't really have a place in the story. So I thought I'd post it here, for fun. At least, I hope it's fun. For you, that is. It's fun for me, except that my hands are sweating a bit as I prepare to actually post it. Yeah. I'm shy that way. Here goes: Morels For Sale. The poster-board sign with red-markered message is attached, caddy-wampus, to a grounded wooden stake right smack dab in the middle of somewhere-in fact, at the brand-new entrance of what will soon become our area's most exlusive subdivision. For now, the entrance is just a short piece of poured pavement, a concrete promise that the mud-rutted acres of barren cornfields beyond it truly are about to morph into elegant estates-with no old-fashioned crops left anywhere in sight. For today, a dusty black Ford pick-up has taken up temporary residence on the pavement. A real-live Marlboro Man's propped up against the side of the truck like a cut-out from a life-sized billboard. A smattering of permanent suave with a dash of debonair permeates his casual stance. John and I drive past the roadside attraction on our way home from church, at a speed slow enough to read both the sign and the expression on Marlboro's face. I almost feel a twinge of guilt, like I've been caught red-handed drooling over the cover boy on a Louis L'Amour novel. As if that would be the worst thing I've ever done. I gawk open-mouthed at the fellow, having never before seen anyone hustling wares on this particular stretch of upper-crust suburban road. The young guy tips his cowboy hat my direction with a lopsided grin, as if he knows just what's coming out of my mouth next. Not that he can hear me, or anything. Still, his shadowed eyes twinkle as he becomes just another short-term reflection in John's rear-view mirror. "Morels For Sale?" I turn to face John as I blurt out my smart-alecky question. He's used to me by now, used to the way I can't pass up a chance to compete in a spontaneous round of linguistic gymnastics. "How can he sell it? He can't even spell it! Besides, if we could buy morals, wouldn't everyone have 'em?" John reaches across the leather expanse to pat my knee. "Don't worry, babe. We still have to get our morals the old-fashioned way. But m-o-r-e-l-s-now, that's a different story." "Isn't a morel a shellfish of some sort?" As soon as I ask this ridiculous question, John gingerly removes his hand from my leg. Does he think I'm serious? Or is he paranoid enough to imagine my land-locked, mid-western cooties can be transferred to him by casual-contact knee-patting alone? I may be contagious, but not that contagious. "Yeah�um�a shellfish. That's right, Maggie." He keeps his eyes on the road, but I can tell by the way both index fingers lightly tap the steering wheel that he's itching to call my bluff. Even without facing him head-on, I can see a glint in his eye that can't be blamed entirely on the afternoon angle of the low October sun. He thinks he's got me. Just because he was lucky enough to grow up spending his dollar's lunch money on a whole freshly boiled lobster, and snarfing it down before recess ended at North Atlantic Seaboard Elementary, he imagines that I-a born and bred Great Plains girl-don't know my mushrooms from my mussels. He's got a point, of course, even though he hasn't exactly made it yet. We're not over-exposed to an alluring variety of seafood here in Kansas City. The truth is, we've only recently learned to trust seafood at all around these parts. When I was a kid, we didn't dream of ordering crab in a restaurant. Everyone knew it wouldn't be fresh because of how many days it required to claw its way over the vast, parched plains. I remember my father, once or twice, slowing down when he drove us past an eighteen-wheeler in a parking lot, surrounded by big signs advertising seafood for sale. "Is that guy nuts?" Daddy would say. "Do you see any station wagons lining up to take him up on his offer? Mark my words. We buy fish off a truck, and we'll be dead of food poisoning by morning." You can see why I learned to love Kansas City-strip steaks at a very young age. I'm not stupid. I know a morel is a mushroom, which is by the way another glaring example of an item which should never be purchased off the back of a truck. If the average consumer can't be trusted to choose edible mushrooms from the forest floor, how would he choose any more wisely from a Dodge Ram? I say, just stick with Price Chopper or Kroger or Save-A-Lot, and save yourself a lot of heartache. Not to mention stomachache. But it's so much fun jerking John's food chain that I just can't help myself. Doesn't the very word morel conjure up an image of a shrimp with a social conscience? I take a good look at Mr. John Morel Cullen behind the wheel, the man with whom I've been arguing about words and their meanings since�well, since forever, I guess. The first night we met, when my best friend Autumn Grey introduced us after church, we got into it over how to pronounce charismatic. Neither of us had a clue at that point what the term meant, so we didn't go there. But while I felt certain that one should pronounce it like "care-is-matic," John spent a full hour defending "kris-matic." Since he played guitar at church and was really into the music of Kris Kristofferson back then, I worried that he might know something I didn't. Still, just the fact that he cared enough to argue about something of so little significance made me feel like I'd known him-really known him-my whole life. Yep. That one petty argument pretty much sealed the deal for me. We started dating right away, and were engaged in no time. I figured any man strong enough to quibble over Scrabble without flinching or backing down, even when I knew he made up that convoluted word he pretended to look up in the dictionary, deserved my undying devotion. Well, not just any man. But John Cullen? Definitely. I tap him on the shoulder and he looks me in the eye, if only for a second. I fake an expression of sudden recognition, like an errant thought just crossed my mind for the first time and convinced me of its astonishing truth. "Wait, wait�I remember now. A morel is a close cousin of the mussel, right? I think I ordered morels with mushrooms on top at Red Lobster that time-" He thinks I'm serious! Ah, the tables turn, and it's a whole new restaurant, baby. Maggie McMahon Cullen is at the top of her game! "Maggie, a morel is a mushroom. To order morels with mushrooms on top would be, to say the least, redundant." He loves sounding authoritative when neither of us has anything of importance to gain or lose. I huff. "Well, it's not redundant if I really, really like them." I'd like to be able to tell you that this is a much different interaction than the ones John and I usually engage in on our way home from church. It would be nice, and impressive, too, if I could say that we routinely expound upon Pastor Tom's eloquent teachings or bond while recalling how the worship songs-and especially the Irish whistle playing "Be Thou My Vision"-thrill our souls. But adding lying to the list of sins we commit upon exiting the church parking lot seems like a bad idea to me. I don't know why exactly-it just does. Posted by Katy on 06/20/05 Permalink HerStory (#105) My mother's still working on her obit, and while she hasn't shared it with me in its entirety, she says it's coming along nicely. This project all started, you'll remember, when she began comparing a decrepit, demented old lady at her Funny Farm, whom they called Little Betty, to the woman's sterling credentials as they appeared in the Kansas City Star upon her death a couple weeks ago. Mom couldn't believe that Little Betty ("She didn't look like much to me...") could have had such an eventful, successful, ambitious, and illustrious past. "I've added something new," Mom says. "I'd forgotten to say that I was born in Milwaukee and moved to Kansas City when I was five. What do you think?" "Well, yeah. You've gotta mention your birthplace. Did you also mention that you were the only child of Carl and Bernice Pattengale?" "No. I hate all three of those names: Carl, Bernice, and Pattengale. And I hate my middle name, too. None of those names will be in my obit." "But, Mom, won't the readers wonder how you got to Kansas City without parents bringing you here? And wouldn't that make them wonder the names of your parents?" "Nobody cares about that. I'm going to put that I flew here with angel's wings." "Um, you know I love you, Mom. But you're no angel..." Now, I can understand how young people can visit a nursing home and imagine that the residents there have never had a life. Young people, after all, really only have the experience of however many years they've actually lived from which to draw reliable conclusions. A 15-year-old pretty much understands something of what it is to have been every age, up to and including the age of 15. But wouldn't you think a 75-year-old woman, who's surrounded by a retirement community of her peers, would easily understand that the deteriorating minds and bodies she's confronted with every day are real people with real histories? That each of them is more than the fragile, stooped shell he appears to be, that each one has a story that's taken a whole lifetime to tell? It makes me question whether I might be looking at my own peers with the same lack of recognition. Do I see their weaknesses rather than their wisdom, their frailties more clearly than their faith, their blemishes but not their beauty? "After I'm dead, you're going to put the names of Carl, Bernice, Pattengale, and Gracia in my obit, aren't you?" "I gotta tell ya, it's gonna happen, babe." "Katy, you make me so darned mad." "Oh, yeah? Tell me something I don't know." She raises her hand like she might slap me, but we both know she's playing. We laugh, and I remind myself to remember: No matter what she may look like to others, to me, and even to herself, this isn't just some old lady who never had a life. This is the woman who had the guts to give me life, and then some. And you know what? Whether I'm smart enough to realize it or not, she's still got it goin' on. Posted by Katy on 06/19/05 Permalink Godspeed (#106) It's 1:30 on Thursday afternoon. Kevin just kissed us good-bye. I didn't plan a speech for this moment, and I didn't make one, either. But I heard myself say this, "Kev, you'll get married one day and then you'll have your first child. You'll turn around 25 years later and the last one will be walking out the door, and it will feel so strange to you. Because you'll still remember exactly how you felt the first time you brought a new baby home from the hospital, when all of life was ahead of you. Life goes really fast, babe. Do what you're here to do..." He nodded like he nearly understood, like he had at least a fleeting grasp of what I meant, as if he might just file my wisdom-of-the-ages away and call it to remembrance later, in some distant melancholy hour. All I know is that he held onto us for a few seconds longer than he would have otherwise. His eyes sparkled differently than usual, too, like diamond flecks of sunshine through a steady spring rain. Posted by Katy on 06/16/05 Permalink My Baby’s Leaving (#107) I haven't slept, really slept, in 26 years. For those of you who are still looking forward to becoming parents, for those of you who might not even be 26 years old yet yourselves, this might seem impossible. But I assure you it's true. I've heard of babies who sleep through the night. Occasionally, a fortunate couple produces one of these miracles and brags to the rest of us pathetic schmucks until they're blue in the face, or until we wish they were. Do they really imagine that it's their own magic touch--and not some stroke of mercy inexplicably bestowed upon them by a benevolent Savior--which has resulted in a life of peace, quiet, and restful sleep? I'm not bitter, at least not anymore. There comes a point in the downward spiral of sleep deprivation where there's no energy left for negative emotion. Emotion is sucked up by exhaustion. So last night, the first night Kevin was back in town after his nine-day road trip to the east coast, Kevin wasn't home at all. But I kept expecting him to roll in, kept expecting to see his headlights reflected in the window across from my bed as he sped up our long and winding road. Midnight turned to one o'clock and then two. I'd long since gotten up from the bed, because Doug and I managed to take turns tossing, keeping each other awake in the process. I sat in the recliner in Doug's office, reading a novel and praying for my son. Finally, I called him. "When will you be home?" "I'm dropping John off now. So another 45 minutes or so." "Kevin, I'm done. It's been 26 years of feeding, changing, screaming, puking, crying, driving, partying, and road-tripping. And that's just what happens when I'm trying to sleep. I can't do this anymore. Please, in the name of all that's holy, move out." "You mean tomorrow?" "..." "Mom...I love you." I love him, too. It's now almost noon, and he's just awakened. He comes in my bedroom where I sit writing. "It's gonna take me a few more trips to get my stuff over to the apartment. So, can I spend one more night here?" I remember back to the day when he was six and told me the wonderful plan he had for his life. "I'm going to get married, Mom. But don't worry. When I find a girl, I'll bring her home to live with you." Can he spend one more night here? This boy, the youngest of the three best gifts God's ever given us, hears the music winding down, but somehow knows the dance isn't quite finished yet. "One more night," I hear myself say. "But then, Kevin, I'm going to need a little sleep." He smiles and kisses me. "Thanks, Mom." And he really means it. "For now," I say, "I must write..." "Let me guess the title." His eyes twinkle like they've done every day his whole life. "My Baby's Leaving." God, I'll miss this man. Posted by Katy on 06/15/05 Permalink Thanks For The Meme-Story… (#108) When I was a kid, I never got picked for teams. I don't mean I got picked last, I mean I was invisible. I got left standing there, alone. Which was fine with me, really. Because, honestly, if I'd gotten picked, I would have disgraced not only myself but my team, and my otherwise intact popularity would have disintegrated into filmy vapors. I did, however, become "it" in the game of tag with predictable regularity. Sigh. Just call me the It Girl, I guess. And thus it is with memes. I move too slowly, too clumsily, too much like the metabolism-challenged middle-aged chick I am to avoid getting tagged. Amber at Muddy Art proved too agile for me, but at least I can comfort myself knowing that she pulled a fast one on Michael Main, too! (Waving to Amber and Michael!) Like Michael, I will now be taking my permanent leave of memes, much as I was compelled to do in the '70s when Tupperware parties threatened to overtake both my checkbook and my cupboards. I couldn't say no to only certain friends back then, so I decided to do the right thing and say no to all my friends! Instead of answering the questions the book meme poses, though (and they are good ones, all of which you can copy from Amber's site if you'd like to participate), I'm going to tell you a bit about the last novels I've read. And I can't resist the element of the meme that suggests we post pics of our bookcases. You should know that this collection represents a thinned-out version of what we owned six months ago. We've donated at least 300 books to the library recently, which explains the inordinately tidy shelves I'm displaying here. Ha. A Place to Belong, by Nancy Moser and Vonette Bright. This is the fourth and final book in the Sister Circle Series, written by my lovely friend Nancy and the wife of Bill Bright, founder of Campus Crusade. I met Nancy at our local writers group many years ago, before her first humor book was published. If it weren't for Nancy kicking my derrierre, I probably wouldn't be writing today. Let's just say she's got a gift for motivation! Now, several humor books and maybe a dozen novels later, I can barely keep up with the great stories she writes. A Place to Belong is no exception. Nancy has knit the lives of a score of women (and more than a few great men) into this series, which revolves around Peerbaugh Place, a boarding house started by a widow who had no choice. Evelyn Peerbaugh is bitter to think that her crummy husband died and left her so financially bereft that she's forced to take in strangers. She has little vision for her future, doesn't trust her own instincts, and has a big secret in her past that's never stopped haunting her. Little by little, though, Evelyn takes ground. She begins to grow as an individual, begins to learn how to stand up for herself. But she also starts to believe she has something to give and that the kooky assortment of ladies that share her home need what she's got. These aren't romance novels, but it's hard to wait until Book Four for Evelyn to find the man of her dreams. Yeah. I'm a real sucker for late-in-life romance, and A Place to Belong doesn't disappoint. It's a satisfying conclusion to a great series. The Victory Club by Robin Lee Hatcher. I've read Robin's blog for quite a while now, but had never read even one of her acclaimed novels! Then she mentioned one she'd written about an Irish immigrant from County Armagh, and of course, that pushed my buttons. When I emailed her to let her know I HAD to start with In His Arms, she actually sent me an autographed copy. I thoroughly enjoyed it, which made me jump at the chance to read The Victory Club, her newest release, as soon as it came out. It's the story of four women who work at a plant together during WWII, and the club they form in order to help families affected by their loved one's service in the war. They'd paint a wife's porch, babysit, encourage in whatever way they could. But, needless to say, they had their own problems, problems they had committed to help each other through, even if they didn't feel they had the strength. My favorite character is Margo, who is transformed in the course of the story from a woman who lives (and demands others live) by the letter of the law to one who both accepts and extends grace. The historical accuracy of the story contributed a lot to my appreciation. I found myself understanding more about the North African and Italian campaigns than I'd ever known, which meant something to me personally because my dad served with the British Army in both Egypt and Sicily. If you'd like a novel which gives you a real flavor for what it was like to live during WWII, both abroad and stateside, this is the book for you. Club Sandwich by Lisa Samson. This book hit me where I live right now. The Sandwich Generation, baby! And I'm not talking a piece of marshmallowy white bread here--that's too easy. You're not a bona fide member of the Sandwich Gen until you become the ham and cheese in the middle that doesn't just get swallowed whole, it gets chewed up first! Ivy, the caretaker, has not only one member of the Greatest Generation living in her home, but three. That's right...her mother, her father-in-law, and her own father, who's been estranged from the family since he abandoned them years ago, but who now needs Ivy's help. Of course, Ivy has to sequester her dad in the basement lest her sometimes-demented mother find out he's under the same roof! Add to the mix three needy kids, an absentee barbershop-quartet singing husband, and a couple of siblings who aren't "hospital people," and you've got yourself a real mess. And I do mean REAL. If you're a member of the Middle, or know someone who is, get this book. You will find comfort for your soul. By the way, I've met Lisa, too. Doug and I spent an evening with her and her hubby Will last summer, and she is a doll. She has encouraged me so much, both in my writing and as a friend. What's next for Katy McKenna Raymond, Lean Mean Reading Machine? A Nest of Sparrows by Deb Raney. I'm so excited to dig into this book. It's been nominated for several awards and has gotten excellent reviews. In fact, I just heard this morning that it's won the prestigious Holt Medallion Award. Deb and I belong to the same national writers group, American Christian Fiction Writers (Robin Lee Hatcher is also a member), so we've gotten to know each other online and at book signings. Congrats, Deb! Posted by Katy on 06/14/05 Permalink House Of Cards, Indeed (#109) The story Renee told me might have curled my hair if I hadn't recently gotten a perm. "My daughter's mother-in-law is hitting her up for money again. Can you believe it?" "You're kidding? I thought the old chick inherited a huge wad when her mother died?" "She did--about $300,000. Remember how she borrowed $1000 from Megan and Robby when they first got married? And how it was their wedding money, which they planned to use to remodel their bathroom?" "Serena paid Megan and Robby back when her mom died, right?" "Yeah, two years ago, but not before she made them feel horribly guilty every time they asked her to make at least a partial payment. So guess what? She's spent her way through 300 grand already, and is calling to borrow enough money to last her until her husband gets paid in five days..." "Wait a minute. Isn't that why God made Pay Day Loans?" Serena's husband makes around $80,000. They are empty-nesters, so I'm thinking 80 grand isn't too bad. What's bad is that the people they're hitting up--Renee's daughter and son-in-law--have three kids under age five, and make a combined income of less than $30,000. "But what did she do with the money?" Curious minds and all that. "They bought a camper trailer that they parked somewhere down in the Ozarks, but Serena doesn't like to drive down there to stay in it. They practically gutted their house to redecorate, but didn't pay off the house or even do any of the major repairs it needs. And they bought a $42,000 truck." "Did they pay off their credit cards? Because wasn't that their biggest problem in the first place?" "Before Serena's mother died, they had a jillion credit cards, all run up to the top. They weren't even making minimum payments. Nothing. When Serena got the loot, they caught up with all their minumum payments and stayed caught up until the money was gone. Now they have all the same credit cards, all back at the top, and they're not making any payments." "But I still don't get it. Where did the rest of the money go? Serena is a recluse, so we know they didn't take any big trips. Heck, she won't even go to the Penney's Outlet Store. I figure there's still $150,000 unaccounted for..." "Well, they've got all those spare bedrooms since the kids moved out, you know. Two of those rooms are filled floor to ceiling with all the stuff--still in boxes--that Serena buys on the Home Shopping Network. And the third room, that's her Avon room." I'm picturing a desk and file cabinets and Avon brochures in little plastic bags ready to hang on her neighbors' doorknobs. Serena's never earned even a nickel, so starting a home-based venture would be huge for her. "You mean she's started a business? She's an Avon Lady?" "Oh, nooooo....." Renee said. "She's not selling it. She's just buying it. Megan says the room is so stuffed that Serena can barely open the door to wedge in one more lipstick." Renee is rightfully worried that her daughter and son-in-law are going to get sucked in to perpetually bailing these people out. I'm always shocked when I hear stories like this one, which by the way is completely true except for the names. But it looks like inside of twelve months, millions of people will get the shock of a lifetime. I read this today at dollarstretcher.com and I'm just going to copy it here for simplicity's sake. All I can say, folks, is please don't let this happen to you! If you don't have a real plan for getting out of credit card debt, now would be the time to get one. And no, I'm not selling anything! (Though I do know someone with a couple boatloads of Avon...) A Storm Is Coming... by Greg Moore Credit card payment crisis looms What would you do if your required minimum monthly payments on each of your credit cards doubled without your charging a cent more? For example, suppose you owe $10,000 on a card and your required minimum payment is 2% of your balance or $200. What would you do if your required minimum payment ballooned to $400? Reduce retirement savings? Increase the debt on your home? Decrease your standard of living? Panic? Twelve months from now this will be a desperate reality for thousands of credit card holders making minimum payments. According to "Business Week," April 25 edition, a rule change by the Office of the Comptroller of the Currency first introduced in January of 2003 is now being strictly enforced, requiring credit-card companies to increase required minimum monthly payments over the next 12 months. Today, typical required minimum monthly payments are 2% of the balance. Some credit-card companies require as little as 1% of the balance. In 12 months, typical required minimum monthly payments will double to 4% of the balance! This rule change is an attempt to eliminate Black Holes, also called negative amortization, where payments don't cover at least the interest due. It's also an attempt to assure at least some of the principal is paid with each minimum credit card payment. Although well intentioned, a noose is tightening...Inflation is accelerating... "Soaring energy costs helped drive the U.S. Consumer Price Index up in March by 0.6 percent, the sharpest monthly gain since October." -- USA Today ...taking a bigger bite out of paychecks leaving little room to absorb payment increases. Paychecks are getting smaller... "Wages for average worker fell in 2004, after adjusting for inflation, first such drop in nearly decade." -- N.Y. Times ...so we can't count on bigger paychecks to make these payments. If you think bankruptcy will provide some relief, think again. A new bankruptcy bill has been signed into law making it tougher for heavily indebted Americans to wipe out their obligations. Look for a cascade of financial pain for many Americans about 12 months from now... Credit card minimum payments increase, which leads to missed payments, creating late fees and higher interest rates, which decreases FICO score, triggering Universal Default clauses on other credit cards causing their interest rates to skyrocket, and more missed payments, and so on. And not even bankruptcy will guarantee escape. The only guaranteed way to avoid this disaster is to start today with a systematic plan to pay off all debt, but especially your credit card debt, as fast as possible. Even paying off 1 or 2 cards will create some cushion to absorb increases 12 months from now. The first warning shot was fired back in January 2003. You have a 12-month window of opportunity. Take it. _____________________ Greg Moore is the Architect of the Wealth Building System, 'DebtIntoWealth -- Lessons from My Journey to Debt Freedom' providing knowledge, tools, and support to families seeking to escape conventional financial wisdom in order to save their financial lives. Visit http://www.debtintowealth.com/stretcher.html Posted by Katy on 06/13/05 Permalink Page 41 of 84 pages « First < 39 40 41 42 43 > Last »


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

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