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Adjusting Her Meds (#596)

So Doug’s sister Lynn has those electric cuff things on her legs, the ones that pump up every minute or so to keep a post-surgery patient from developing blood clots.

I noticed yesterday morning, within an hour of her arriving in her room, that she was hitting the button on her self-administered morphine pump every time the electric cuffs kicked in.

I’ve endured anesthesia often enough to understand the logic. The cuffs kind of jolt you awake, and then by golly, while you’re thinking clearly, you give yourself another little dose of pain relief.

Kills two birds, right? Maybe for some people, but not for anyone I know.

I personally cannot stand morphine, and don’t intend to ever suffer its miserable effects in the future. Doug’s mother was a raving lunatic back in June for several days following her surgery, all morphine induced. And our son Scotty, who survived a burst appendix at the age of twelve, detested the way he felt on the drug so much that he discontinued it after only a few hours.

Lynn ended up shooting herself full of about six times more morphine than she can stand, apparently, and it took hours for her to calm down from its effects.

By this morning, though, she’d found the right amount to ameliorate her pain without making her nutty. In fact, I think she was pretty darned with it.

A nurse came in while Doug was there and said to Lynn, “Oh, is this your significant other?”

Lynn, still totally stoned but in a good way, didn’t miss a beat. “No,” she said, “this is my significant brother.”

There’s nothing better than the right dosage.

Posted by Katy on 11/17/05
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But Who’s Counting? (#595)

It’s been five weeks since anyone in our family had surgery, a record these days.

So Doug’s sister Lynn stepped up to the plate again today, this time to have a two-foot length of “redundant” colon removed, a condition corroborated by last month’s appentectomy and exploratory surgery.

She came through just fine, though she’ll be in the hospital for 4-7 days, and off work for upwards of eight weeks.

I know Lynn has her previous surgery date, October 7, firmly established as a day to commemorate in family history. And that’s OK, particularly since my mother’s arm surgery, also scheduled for that date, got cancelled.

Every one knows there’s a one-surgery-per-day rule on anniversary celebrations, just like everyone should be entitled to have his own birthday, unless he’s a twin. And maybe even then.

But guess what, Lynnie Binnie? You’re going to have to fight me for November 15!

That’s right. Today’s the sixth anniversary of my brain surgery.

Are we having fun yet?

Posted by Katy on 11/15/05
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Skipping Thanksgiving (#594)

It’s not how it sounds.

I’m thankful, REALLY thankful. In fact, it’s a distinct possibility that this Thanksgiving may produce in me the most genuine thanks of any holiday for a very long time.

Because, you know what? Thanks to the wisdom of my daughter-in-law, Brooke, I realized that my earlier plan of hosting my 35-member clan at my house—including dragging Mom here and hoisting her up five steps to the front door—wasn’t something I was looking forward to.

Not one little bit.

You see, in nearly 29 years of marriage, Doug and I have not spent a single Thanksgiving (or Christmas or Easter, for that matter) with just our own little family. Nor have we divided the day rather reasonably between our little family, and then either his extended family or mine.

Oh, no, we don’t take turns with the in-laws. We might offend someone!

You may have noticed I’ve been under a lot of stress lately, and my siblings and I don’t always get along like model adult children of a needy mother during difficult times. We can rise to occasions, as long as occasions don’t occur very often, if you know what I mean.

So when Brooke suggested that maybe this year I should consider a different approach to the holiday, I took her seriously.

I started gently but firmly retracting my offer of hosting the whole slew of McKennas. A few questioned me.

“But why aren’t you doing it at your house?”

“It’s simple, really,” I said. “I don’t want to.”

And then it came out that none of them wanted to do it at their houses, either, so what exactly was the point, anyway?

My siblings (with none of their family members) and I are going to eat Thanksgiving lunch with Mom at her Funny Farm dining room. Doug and his siblings are going to do the same thing at their mom’s Funny Farm, at the same time.

Then, in the early evening, I will serve Thanksgiving dinner to my husband and children ONLY.

What’s up with that?

I’ll tell you what: I may be Skipping Thanksgiving in the way I’ve always practiced it, but in no way at all will I be skipping thanksgiving in my heart of hearts.

In fact, it’s already begun.

Posted by Katy on 11/14/05
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The Tell-Tale Sun (#593)

I didn’t actually get dressed in the dark this morning, but I might as well have.

I’d moved all my sweaters into the closet the other day, and decided to pop on a black one for its first trip outside this fall. I got it last year and have only worn it once or twice, so it seems practically brand new.

And why haven’t I worn it? Even I couldn’t answer that question as I pulled it off the hanger and checked it out.

It’s got the coolest lacy crocheted cuffs and bottom edge, and I knew it would look fantastic with the black and bronzy-gold boho skirt that I’d just gotten recently.

Between the time we left the house and when we arrived in the church parking lot eight minutes later, the clouds rolled out and the sun emerged in all its fashion-faux-pas revealing brilliance.

I saw the error of my ways just a little late, I’m afraid. The black and bronzy gold skirt really ONLY looks good with a pitch black sweater, and suddenly I realized just why this particular sweater had gotten so little play. The sweater’s color is chameleon, only instead of altering to match whatever other colors it’s near, it alters to clash with them.

Quite a marketing concept, huh? The sweater that will never go with anything else you wear, forever and ever, amen?

During church, every time someone greeted me with even the slightest twinkle in her eye, I wanted to blurt out, “What? Haven’t you heard that bluish-purple charcoal grey is the new black?”

But because I tend to practice my Christianity in earnest within the sanctuary, I held my tongue.

It’s a good thing. In the sunny parking lot on the way back out to the car, I realized I’d forgotten to wear a slip.

Posted by Katy on 11/13/05
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Two Writers Conferences In One Year? Woo-Hoo! (#588)

I believe with all my heart that God’s mercies, as it says in Psalms, are new every morning.

Sometimes, I sleep so poorly and dream so voraciously that the advent of dawn is a tremendous relief even if nothing too wonderful is on the day’s agenda. I may still be exhausted, I figure, but at least THAT’S over for another sixteen hours.

Other times, there’s something really fun to look forward to, something that makes me pump my fist and say YES! when the alarm clock goes off.

For me, the anticipation of a writers conference is a rip-roaring, fist-pumping way to start the day. (By the way, if you know what is meant by the term rip roaring, feel free to clue me in. I make it my business to never say words like rip roaring, but today I’m in the mood.)

Every fall, our Christian writers group here in the Kansas City area hosts a two-day event. I didn’t know whether I’d actually make it to this one or not, because of my family obligations, but I plunked my money down a few weeks ago and hoped for the best.

And guess what I got? The best—a relaxing, inspirational, and refreshing break from my nutty routine. Just what I needed!

One of my best buddies and favorite writers, Nancy Moser, taught a fiction track which had the attendees begging for more. I’ve benefitted from her teaching at a local community college, too, and learn something new every time she speaks. Besides that, we got to enjoy lunch alone together yesterday, a joy for me.

Ginger Kolbaba, the editor for Marriage Partnership magazine, represented the family of Christianity Today publications as she met with those of us pitching ideas. She and I had a very positive meeting about an article idea, and her teaching sessions were also entertaining and energetic.

I surprised myself by deciding to sit in on a workshop about writing “gift books,” presented by Todd Hafer, an author of 30 books who also acquires titles for Hallmark’s gift book line—his day job.

The writing of gift books is a segment of the publishing industry with which I have little to no familiarity, so learning from someone as drop-dead hilarious as Todd was a genuine pleasure. He also taught a humor-writing class, and reignited my excitement about the funny business.

In a past life, I sold quite a number of humor pieces to magazines and the Kansas City Star, and then I kind of got, shall we say, sidetracked.

But you know what? There’s little point to a life without laughter, and I’ve decided I’m going to lighten up—both in person and at the keyboard.

If God’s mercies really are new every morning, I’m thinking a big part of mercy is to have a good chuckle at life’s expense.

After a good night’s sleep, I’m going to do just that!

Posted by Katy on 11/13/05
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Celebrate Good Times! (#586)

Hey, guess what? That last post, according to my post counter, was Fallible’s Number 500!

And not only that—in the nearly 5 years since Fallible began, I’ve received 3244 comments. OK, some of those were my own, but still. You people are the greatest commenters anywhere.

On December 15, I’ll celebrate the fifth anniversary, but for today? Five hundred posts, baby!

Hope you’ve enjoyed them half as much as I have.

Posted by Katy on 11/09/05
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Mixing It Up (#585)

Although I haven’t really had time to give it much thought yet, it looks like Doug and I will be hosting the McKenna family Thanksgiving event.

There are 35 of us, give or take an absentee young married couple who committed to the in-laws’ party, or a new baby I accidentally forgot to count.

I got myself a new Kitchen Aid Artisan mixer last fall, at the suggestion of my lovely daughter-in-law Brooke. I love it! But my occasions to use it haven’t been too many—until now. One of the reasons I’m eager to host Thanksgiving is because I’m so thankful for that great mixer!

When it comes right down to it, one of my favorite things about Thanksgiving is licking the beaters. I’ll cook for a few days running in advance of the holiday, and even if I personally don’t lick beaters coated with Eagle Brand Sweetened Condensed Milk any more, I guarantee you that someone will.

Poor Doug!

But, truly, is there anything sadder than plunking a heavy-laden-with-a-gooey-concoction-from-heaven beater into a sinkful of greying dishwater?

So, who gets to lick the beaters in your house? Do the kids take turns? Or do they discover Mom out in the garage finishing them off?

Do you have to “be good” to earn a beater? Or is getting one a basic human right?

Is anyone else as thankful for beaters as I am?

Posted by Katy on 11/09/05
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When Mary Met Perceival (#584)

“I’m thinking about lots of people back at the nursing home,” Mom said. “You know, the whole time I was there, I only made friends with one resident.”

“You mean Julius?”

“I call him Perceival.”

“But his name is Julias.”

“I know, but I can’t ever think of that name. So I call him Perceival.”

“Isn’t it a little odd that you CAN think of the name Perceival? I’ve never thought of that name once in my life.”

“Whatever, Katy. That’s not the point of my story.”

“Sorry, Mom. Continue.”

“The point is that I really got along great with him. He lives with a woman, you know. He’s had her for twenty years, since right after his wife died.”

I’ve always giggled at the way Mom says so-and-so “has” someone, but I stifled myself.

“Well, he’s a pretty charming fellow,” I said, “with his snow white hair, and the way he winks at all the girls.”

“On our last night together, I told him so,” she said. “Ruth showed up to visit right during dinner, and when she left, she kissed him on the mouth. Rather passionately, if you ask me.”

“Mom, what exactly did you tell Julius?”

“After she left, I mentioned that he and I were widowed at around the same time, and that I’d been available right when he was.”

“Oh. What else did you say?”

“I said that if Ruth hadn’t entered the picture, and if we’d met back then, I would have made a play for him.”

I had a really hard time not thinking about When Harry Met Sally, so hard in fact that I couldn’t resist.

“So, are you saying you’ll have what Ruth’s having?”

“You got it.”

Posted by Katy on 11/08/05
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Time Flies Even If You’re Not Exactly Having Fun (#583)

Today we got my mother completely moved into a new assisted living apartment.

I got home an hour ago after five months away from home. You think I’m exaggerating, huh? If only!

Between my mother-in-law’s near death experience in the early summer, and my mom’s nursing home stay, I’ve pretty much been an unpaid healthcare professional/patient advocate for approximately as long as I can remember.

My sister Liz just called to see if the cable guy had been to the apartment, and if Mom’s phone got hooked up. “And do you happen to know her new number?”

“I’m in bed,” I said, “but lucky for you I’m cuddled up with The Mom Three-Ring Binder.”

Yeah. That’s right. A binder full of all the info I need on a regular basis to keep Mom’s situation manageable and managed.

“Katy,” Liz said, “maybe it’s time you lose the binder for a while.”

I hope with all my heart it’s time.

If anyone would like to pray that Katy McKenna Raymond gets a life before she’s too old and decrepit to know what to do with one, I would not object!

I love you people.

Good night.

Posted by Katy on 11/07/05
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I Will Not Be Afraid Of The Terror By Night, Nor Of The Dream About The Guy Who Breaks The Piano (#582)

I’ve written about this before, but I’m not sure I’ve mentioned it on fallible—which is weird in itself, since you probably think that in five years’ time, I’ve pretty much mentioned everything on fallible.

See? You’re not always right!

I wrote an essay once called “So We’re Not The Dream Team,” about how my night life differs so vastly from my hubby’s.

Since the term “dream team” started getting used more widely in the common vernacular during the OJ Simpson trial, which happened after the June 12 car chase involving the white SUV which happened to fall on our son Scotty’s birthday and also on the elder George Bush’s birthday, approximately a dozen years ago if memory serves, you may surmise that this is a very old essay.

See? You got that one right!

Anyway, in that essay I describe my dreams as having all the horrifying, gripping elements of a Stephen King novel with all the special effects of a Stephen Spielberg film. And I contrast my nocturnal style with Doug’s, who dreams of vacuuming.

Yes, my friends. Doug considers The One About Vacuuming to be a high psychological thriller, more compelling even than The One About Having A Theater-Style Popcorn Popper In Our Very Own Kitchen, and that disturbing cult classic, The One Where The Leaky Faucet Stops Dripping.

This morning was so typical.

In the last scene of my many-hours-long nightmare, which was divided into sections by my six trips to the bathroom as distinctly as if a velvet curtain were opened and closed, I lost my mother.

She didn’t die in the dream, you understand—I actually physically lost her.

My father made a cameo appearance in the dream, and with a cast of characters of no fewer than 50,000 to keep track of, I became separated from him, too. But since he’s been dead in real life (and sometimes lively in real death) for 21 years, I didn’t feel liable for losing him like I did for my mother.

The last hour of my sleep—if you can call it that—was spent in a frantic search for Mom, whom I’d misplaced somewhere in the gruesome assortment of vicious murderers, surrepticious thieves, brazen terrorists, sleazy politicians, and other assorted n’er-do-wells, including telemarketers.

In the instant before opening my eyes, I found her. And then before I knew what happened, I was awake and bawling my head off.

“Katy, you’re all right,” Doug said. “It was just a nightmare, but it’s over.”

“I lost my own mother!” I cried. “She’s my responsibility and I lost her! How could I let that happen?”

Doug could not calm me down until he finally said, “Sit up, Katy. You need to get out of bed.”

This may sound like a simple solution to you, one I should have been able to come up with myself. But Doug knew just what to do to help me shake off the horrible dream and separate me from the not-so-awful reality.

But then he went too far.

“If it’s any consolation,” he said, “I had a very weird dream, too.”

I shuddered one of those big shudders that happens when you’re winding down from a good, long sob. “Tell me…”

“I was in a huge auditorium, and this guy was playing a piano.”

“OK…then what?”

“Well, he played it so hard that he broke it.”

“And?”

“Ummm…nothing much happened after that.”

“WHAT? How could it be a freaky dream if nothing much happened? What did you do the rest of the night? Just LIE there?”

He rubbed my back and poured me a cup of coffee. “Why don’t you tell me the rest of your dream, Katy—only if you want to, that is.”

So I told him every bit of it and he hugged me tight and promised he’d be right here with me no matter what—even if I somehow manage to misplace my mother in the craziness of life.

And I realized that even though I’d teased many years ago about us making unlikely bedfellows, we make a pretty good Dream Team, after all.

Posted by Katy on 11/06/05
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Overstepping My Boundaries (#581)

You may not have noticed this about me, but it’s possible that I have a few issues with boundaries.

You may be laughing out loud right about now and thinking, “Oh, my gosh! She thinks we don’t know? Isn’t it painfully obvious to everyone and her mother?”

You’re probably right. Evidently, even my mother gets it.

This morning, I called the nurse at her current Funny Farm to ask how Mom’s horribly swollen knee looks today. (I discovered it yesterday, much to Mom’s chagrin, who said, “Stop looking at my leg! And don’t tell the nurse!”)

It would be nice for me if I didn’t know that swollen body parts mean something. If would be lovely for me if I didn’t go home after discovering a swollen body part and google myself into oblivion for the better part of an evening. It would be just swell if I didn’t know that a pulmonary embolism can start with a blood clot in the knee, but alas, I know.

So at 7:30 a.m., I phoned the nurse. “Maybe you shouldn’t give her that flu shot today,” I said, “until we figure out what the swelling is. I may want to pop Mom in the car and take her to the doctor.”

Valerie headed down to Mom’s room to give her an insulin shot and told Mom that I’d called. Minutes later, I called Mom to ask how her knee looked today.

“I am NOT going to the doctor!” she shrieked. “I can’t BELIEVE you called Valerie so early in the morning! You are NOT going to come storming in here this early in the day! There is NOTHING wrong with my knee!”

“OK, Mom. I’ll talk to you later, after you calm down.”

“ME??? I’m CALM! I slept fine, but you told Valerie that you kept waking up thinking about my KNEE! YOU’RE the one who’s not CALM!”

So. I guess she told me, huh? You know that old saying, “I know when I’m not wanted?” Maybe THAT’S what this whole “boundaries” thing is about.

Ya think?

Posted by Katy on 11/04/05
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It’s Been A Very Extremely Long Three Months, And Then Some (#580)

I…I…I…well, that was weird. After typing the word “I,” nothing else came. For a long time, perhaps thirty seconds.

I felt like Ricky Ricardo used to sound when he’d say “I-I-I-I-I” to Lucy, only both of them knew just what he meant. If he’d been speaking English, it couldn’t have been clearer.

I’ll start again: She-she-she-she-she. Ah, that’s more like it.

Mama, that is. She had a meltdown ten days or so ago, a crying jag which lasted a good four hours, longer than she bawled when either of her parents died, or my father, for that matter.

She was nearly paranoid, I’d say, convinced that her current Funny Farm was keeping her there against her will, that she’d never get sprung, that she’d never see the light of Harrah’s casino again in this lifetime.

She said (rightly) that she’d seen four roommates come and go, and that the one with her now would soon be on her way home, too. She cried that everyone was getting better except for her, that her arm would be broken forever, that she would never be whole.

It came to a head during wheelchair volleyball (dear Lord, deliver me!), when a lady named Janet told the group that she’d be going home the next day. Mom couldn’t hold back her feelings. She said, loud enough for fifteen deaf oldsters to hear, “Bragger!”

Mom would not be dissuaded from her belief that she’d live out the last of her sorry days in a space the size of an office cubicle until I’d involved her RN and the social worker.

I would have tracked down the chaplain for counseling and maybe a little Extreme Unction, just in case, except that Mom lost faith in her when I let slip that the gal is a Methodist.

“What?” Mom said, outraged. “But this is a Catholic joint! Wait till I tell the others at lunch…”

Anyway, by late that afternoon we’d talked her down from the ledge, and convinced her that no one can make her stay there against her will. Of course, we had no way of knowing whether the assisted living facility in her retirement complex would take her in her present condition, either.

All I knew was that the minute insurance stopped paying for her therapy, I’d need to spring her.

The last week has been spent in a flurry of geriatric activity the likes of which I hope to engage in as seldom as possible during the rest of my ever-shortening life.

Sunday, Bridget and Baillie (my sister and her darling daughter) came to town and the three of us packed Mom’s belongings at the apartment she left three months ago, when she broke her humerus and a rib. This Saturday, we’ll move her stuff into her new assisted living apartment. Next Monday, Doug and I will move Mom out of the nursing home, into her new digs.

I’ve ordered a hospital bed, purchased a portable wheelchair, done all the interviews to get her a power chair through Medicare, gotten a transfer bath bench—and that’s just the durable medical equipment, people.

Then there’s the non-durable, fragile human component: Dignity to preserve, decision-making power to relinquish, responsibility to assume, losses to comfort.

The Scripture that comes to me every day now is “Let everything be done decently and in order.”

I-I-I-I-I…I’m trying, Lord. I really am.

Posted by Katy on 11/02/05
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Lessons (#579)

Many, many years ago, I learned not to ask a woman her baby’s due date, unless of course I knew for a fact that she was pregnant.

You know what I’m learning this year? Never assume a person out in public on October 31 is actually dressed for Halloween, no matter how freakish, frightening, dark, gothic, streaked, spiked, or punctured.

You used to be able to say, “Great costume!” But these days, unless the person is sporting a tail, I wouldn’t dare!

Posted by Katy on 10/31/05
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OK. I’m Sorry, But Those Really WERE The Days! (#578)

Twenty-one years ago tonight, my crazy sisters and I dressed our (then) collective eight babies in the get-ups you see here.

Liz found the costumes—complete with wigs and stage make-up—for $2 each at the J.C. Penney’s Outlet Store. Two bucks was a little steep for us in those days, but we three mothers decided to bite the Halloween bullet and go with the kooky clown motif.

Scotty the Gregarious is in the lower left hand corner of the group pic, and on the right in the close-up shot. Carrie the Cutie is on the upper right in the group.

I was seven months pregnant with Kevin that night, which is why I’m not pictured. Believe me, I could have easily upstaged an entire couch full of clowns!

Posted by Katy on 10/31/05
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Words To Avoid Living By? (#576)

Any mottos you love, but refuse to live by?

I’ve got a sign in my kitchen that reads “Life Is Uncertain. Eat Dessert First.” I love it, and I lived it for the first 46 years of my life, but no more.

Still, there’s no way I’ll take down the sign. NO WAY! It makes me smile, without inducing me to consume any sugar, every time I look at it.

I also love the old bumper sticker that says “We’re Spending Our Children’s Inheritance”—most often seen on RVs driven by contented pensioners—but I’m not planning to live by that motto, either.

Even “There Are Two Kinds Of People—The Irish, And Those Who Wish They Were” speaks to my soul, but I’m way too generous-hearted to live so exclusively. There’s no point in making the less fortunate feel hopeless, after all.

How about you? Any mottos you’re crazy about, but prevented from fully embracing by conscience or good sense?

I’d love to know.

Posted by Katy on 10/28/05
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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	Adjusting Her Meds (#596) So Doug’s sister Lynn has those electric cuff things on her legs, the ones that pump up every minute or so to keep a post-surgery patient from developing blood clots. I noticed yesterday morning, within an hour of her arriving in her room, that she was hitting the button on her self-administered morphine pump every time the electric cuffs kicked in. I’ve endured anesthesia often enough to understand the logic. The cuffs kind of jolt you awake, and then by golly, while you’re thinking clearly, you give yourself another little dose of pain relief. Kills two birds, right? Maybe for some people, but not for anyone I know. I personally cannot stand morphine, and don’t intend to ever suffer its miserable effects in the future. Doug’s mother was a raving lunatic back in June for several days following her surgery, all morphine induced. And our son Scotty, who survived a burst appendix at the age of twelve, detested the way he felt on the drug so much that he discontinued it after only a few hours. Lynn ended up shooting herself full of about six times more morphine than she can stand, apparently, and it took hours for her to calm down from its effects. By this morning, though, she’d found the right amount to ameliorate her pain without making her nutty. In fact, I think she was pretty darned with it. A nurse came in while Doug was there and said to Lynn, “Oh, is this your significant other?” Lynn, still totally stoned but in a good way, didn’t miss a beat. “No,” she said, “this is my significant brother.” There’s nothing better than the right dosage. Posted by Katy on 11/17/05 Permalink But Who’s Counting? (#595) It’s been five weeks since anyone in our family had surgery, a record these days. So Doug’s sister Lynn stepped up to the plate again today, this time to have a two-foot length of “redundant” colon removed, a condition corroborated by last month’s appentectomy and exploratory surgery. She came through just fine, though she’ll be in the hospital for 4-7 days, and off work for upwards of eight weeks. I know Lynn has her previous surgery date, October 7, firmly established as a day to commemorate in family history. And that’s OK, particularly since my mother’s arm surgery, also scheduled for that date, got cancelled. Every one knows there’s a one-surgery-per-day rule on anniversary celebrations, just like everyone should be entitled to have his own birthday, unless he’s a twin. And maybe even then. But guess what, Lynnie Binnie? You’re going to have to fight me for November 15! That’s right. Today’s the sixth anniversary of my brain surgery. Are we having fun yet? Posted by Katy on 11/15/05 Permalink Skipping Thanksgiving (#594) It’s not how it sounds. I’m thankful, REALLY thankful. In fact, it’s a distinct possibility that this Thanksgiving may produce in me the most genuine thanks of any holiday for a very long time. Because, you know what? Thanks to the wisdom of my daughter-in-law, Brooke, I realized that my earlier plan of hosting my 35-member clan at my house—including dragging Mom here and hoisting her up five steps to the front door—wasn’t something I was looking forward to. Not one little bit. You see, in nearly 29 years of marriage, Doug and I have not spent a single Thanksgiving (or Christmas or Easter, for that matter) with just our own little family. Nor have we divided the day rather reasonably between our little family, and then either his extended family or mine. Oh, no, we don’t take turns with the in-laws. We might offend someone! You may have noticed I’ve been under a lot of stress lately, and my siblings and I don’t always get along like model adult children of a needy mother during difficult times. We can rise to occasions, as long as occasions don’t occur very often, if you know what I mean. So when Brooke suggested that maybe this year I should consider a different approach to the holiday, I took her seriously. I started gently but firmly retracting my offer of hosting the whole slew of McKennas. A few questioned me. “But why aren’t you doing it at your house?” “It’s simple, really,” I said. “I don’t want to.” And then it came out that none of them wanted to do it at their houses, either, so what exactly was the point, anyway? My siblings (with none of their family members) and I are going to eat Thanksgiving lunch with Mom at her Funny Farm dining room. Doug and his siblings are going to do the same thing at their mom’s Funny Farm, at the same time. Then, in the early evening, I will serve Thanksgiving dinner to my husband and children ONLY. What’s up with that? I’ll tell you what: I may be Skipping Thanksgiving in the way I’ve always practiced it, but in no way at all will I be skipping thanksgiving in my heart of hearts. In fact, it’s already begun. Posted by Katy on 11/14/05 Permalink The Tell-Tale Sun (#593) I didn’t actually get dressed in the dark this morning, but I might as well have. I’d moved all my sweaters into the closet the other day, and decided to pop on a black one for its first trip outside this fall. I got it last year and have only worn it once or twice, so it seems practically brand new. And why haven’t I worn it? Even I couldn’t answer that question as I pulled it off the hanger and checked it out. It’s got the coolest lacy crocheted cuffs and bottom edge, and I knew it would look fantastic with the black and bronzy-gold boho skirt that I’d just gotten recently. Between the time we left the house and when we arrived in the church parking lot eight minutes later, the clouds rolled out and the sun emerged in all its fashion-faux-pas revealing brilliance. I saw the error of my ways just a little late, I’m afraid. The black and bronzy gold skirt really ONLY looks good with a pitch black sweater, and suddenly I realized just why this particular sweater had gotten so little play. The sweater’s color is chameleon, only instead of altering to match whatever other colors it’s near, it alters to clash with them. Quite a marketing concept, huh? The sweater that will never go with anything else you wear, forever and ever, amen? During church, every time someone greeted me with even the slightest twinkle in her eye, I wanted to blurt out, “What? Haven’t you heard that bluish-purple charcoal grey is the new black?” But because I tend to practice my Christianity in earnest within the sanctuary, I held my tongue. It’s a good thing. In the sunny parking lot on the way back out to the car, I realized I’d forgotten to wear a slip. Posted by Katy on 11/13/05 Permalink Two Writers Conferences In One Year? Woo-Hoo! (#588) I believe with all my heart that God’s mercies, as it says in Psalms, are new every morning. Sometimes, I sleep so poorly and dream so voraciously that the advent of dawn is a tremendous relief even if nothing too wonderful is on the day’s agenda. I may still be exhausted, I figure, but at least THAT’S over for another sixteen hours. Other times, there’s something really fun to look forward to, something that makes me pump my fist and say YES! when the alarm clock goes off. For me, the anticipation of a writers conference is a rip-roaring, fist-pumping way to start the day. (By the way, if you know what is meant by the term rip roaring, feel free to clue me in. I make it my business to never say words like rip roaring, but today I’m in the mood.) Every fall, our Christian writers group here in the Kansas City area hosts a two-day event. I didn’t know whether I’d actually make it to this one or not, because of my family obligations, but I plunked my money down a few weeks ago and hoped for the best. And guess what I got? The best—a relaxing, inspirational, and refreshing break from my nutty routine. Just what I needed! One of my best buddies and favorite writers, Nancy Moser, taught a fiction track which had the attendees begging for more. I’ve benefitted from her teaching at a local community college, too, and learn something new every time she speaks. Besides that, we got to enjoy lunch alone together yesterday, a joy for me. Ginger Kolbaba, the editor for Marriage Partnership magazine, represented the family of Christianity Today publications as she met with those of us pitching ideas. She and I had a very positive meeting about an article idea, and her teaching sessions were also entertaining and energetic. I surprised myself by deciding to sit in on a workshop about writing “gift books,” presented by Todd Hafer, an author of 30 books who also acquires titles for Hallmark’s gift book line—his day job. The writing of gift books is a segment of the publishing industry with which I have little to no familiarity, so learning from someone as drop-dead hilarious as Todd was a genuine pleasure. He also taught a humor-writing class, and reignited my excitement about the funny business. In a past life, I sold quite a number of humor pieces to magazines and the Kansas City Star, and then I kind of got, shall we say, sidetracked. But you know what? There’s little point to a life without laughter, and I’ve decided I’m going to lighten up—both in person and at the keyboard. If God’s mercies really are new every morning, I’m thinking a big part of mercy is to have a good chuckle at life’s expense. After a good night’s sleep, I’m going to do just that! Posted by Katy on 11/13/05 Permalink Celebrate Good Times! (#586) Hey, guess what? That last post, according to my post counter, was Fallible’s Number 500! And not only that—in the nearly 5 years since Fallible began, I’ve received 3244 comments. OK, some of those were my own, but still. You people are the greatest commenters anywhere. On December 15, I’ll celebrate the fifth anniversary, but for today? Five hundred posts, baby! Hope you’ve enjoyed them half as much as I have. Posted by Katy on 11/09/05 Permalink Mixing It Up (#585) Although I haven’t really had time to give it much thought yet, it looks like Doug and I will be hosting the McKenna family Thanksgiving event. There are 35 of us, give or take an absentee young married couple who committed to the in-laws’ party, or a new baby I accidentally forgot to count. I got myself a new Kitchen Aid Artisan mixer last fall, at the suggestion of my lovely daughter-in-law Brooke. I love it! But my occasions to use it haven’t been too many—until now. One of the reasons I’m eager to host Thanksgiving is because I’m so thankful for that great mixer! When it comes right down to it, one of my favorite things about Thanksgiving is licking the beaters. I’ll cook for a few days running in advance of the holiday, and even if I personally don’t lick beaters coated with Eagle Brand Sweetened Condensed Milk any more, I guarantee you that someone will. Poor Doug! But, truly, is there anything sadder than plunking a heavy-laden-with-a-gooey-concoction-from-heaven beater into a sinkful of greying dishwater? So, who gets to lick the beaters in your house? Do the kids take turns? Or do they discover Mom out in the garage finishing them off? Do you have to “be good” to earn a beater? Or is getting one a basic human right? Is anyone else as thankful for beaters as I am? Posted by Katy on 11/09/05 Permalink When Mary Met Perceival (#584) “I’m thinking about lots of people back at the nursing home,” Mom said. “You know, the whole time I was there, I only made friends with one resident.” “You mean Julius?” “I call him Perceival.” “But his name is Julias.” “I know, but I can’t ever think of that name. So I call him Perceival.” “Isn’t it a little odd that you CAN think of the name Perceival? I’ve never thought of that name once in my life.” “Whatever, Katy. That’s not the point of my story.” “Sorry, Mom. Continue.” “The point is that I really got along great with him. He lives with a woman, you know. He’s had her for twenty years, since right after his wife died.” I’ve always giggled at the way Mom says so-and-so “has” someone, but I stifled myself. “Well, he’s a pretty charming fellow,” I said, “with his snow white hair, and the way he winks at all the girls.” “On our last night together, I told him so,” she said. “Ruth showed up to visit right during dinner, and when she left, she kissed him on the mouth. Rather passionately, if you ask me.” “Mom, what exactly did you tell Julius?” “After she left, I mentioned that he and I were widowed at around the same time, and that I’d been available right when he was.” “Oh. What else did you say?” “I said that if Ruth hadn’t entered the picture, and if we’d met back then, I would have made a play for him.” I had a really hard time not thinking about When Harry Met Sally, so hard in fact that I couldn’t resist. “So, are you saying you’ll have what Ruth’s having?” “You got it.” Posted by Katy on 11/08/05 Permalink Time Flies Even If You’re Not Exactly Having Fun (#583) Today we got my mother completely moved into a new assisted living apartment. I got home an hour ago after five months away from home. You think I’m exaggerating, huh? If only! Between my mother-in-law’s near death experience in the early summer, and my mom’s nursing home stay, I’ve pretty much been an unpaid healthcare professional/patient advocate for approximately as long as I can remember. My sister Liz just called to see if the cable guy had been to the apartment, and if Mom’s phone got hooked up. “And do you happen to know her new number?” “I’m in bed,” I said, “but lucky for you I’m cuddled up with The Mom Three-Ring Binder.” Yeah. That’s right. A binder full of all the info I need on a regular basis to keep Mom’s situation manageable and managed. “Katy,” Liz said, “maybe it’s time you lose the binder for a while.” I hope with all my heart it’s time. If anyone would like to pray that Katy McKenna Raymond gets a life before she’s too old and decrepit to know what to do with one, I would not object! I love you people. Good night. Posted by Katy on 11/07/05 Permalink I Will Not Be Afraid Of The Terror By Night, Nor Of The Dream About The Guy Who Breaks The Piano (#582) I’ve written about this before, but I’m not sure I’ve mentioned it on fallible—which is weird in itself, since you probably think that in five years’ time, I’ve pretty much mentioned everything on fallible. See? You’re not always right! I wrote an essay once called “So We’re Not The Dream Team,” about how my night life differs so vastly from my hubby’s. Since the term “dream team” started getting used more widely in the common vernacular during the OJ Simpson trial, which happened after the June 12 car chase involving the white SUV which happened to fall on our son Scotty’s birthday and also on the elder George Bush’s birthday, approximately a dozen years ago if memory serves, you may surmise that this is a very old essay. See? You got that one right! Anyway, in that essay I describe my dreams as having all the horrifying, gripping elements of a Stephen King novel with all the special effects of a Stephen Spielberg film. And I contrast my nocturnal style with Doug’s, who dreams of vacuuming. Yes, my friends. Doug considers The One About Vacuuming to be a high psychological thriller, more compelling even than The One About Having A Theater-Style Popcorn Popper In Our Very Own Kitchen, and that disturbing cult classic, The One Where The Leaky Faucet Stops Dripping. This morning was so typical. In the last scene of my many-hours-long nightmare, which was divided into sections by my six trips to the bathroom as distinctly as if a velvet curtain were opened and closed, I lost my mother. She didn’t die in the dream, you understand—I actually physically lost her. My father made a cameo appearance in the dream, and with a cast of characters of no fewer than 50,000 to keep track of, I became separated from him, too. But since he’s been dead in real life (and sometimes lively in real death) for 21 years, I didn’t feel liable for losing him like I did for my mother. The last hour of my sleep—if you can call it that—was spent in a frantic search for Mom, whom I’d misplaced somewhere in the gruesome assortment of vicious murderers, surrepticious thieves, brazen terrorists, sleazy politicians, and other assorted n’er-do-wells, including telemarketers. In the instant before opening my eyes, I found her. And then before I knew what happened, I was awake and bawling my head off. “Katy, you’re all right,” Doug said. “It was just a nightmare, but it’s over.” “I lost my own mother!” I cried. “She’s my responsibility and I lost her! How could I let that happen?” Doug could not calm me down until he finally said, “Sit up, Katy. You need to get out of bed.” This may sound like a simple solution to you, one I should have been able to come up with myself. But Doug knew just what to do to help me shake off the horrible dream and separate me from the not-so-awful reality. But then he went too far. “If it’s any consolation,” he said, “I had a very weird dream, too.” I shuddered one of those big shudders that happens when you’re winding down from a good, long sob. “Tell me…” “I was in a huge auditorium, and this guy was playing a piano.” “OK…then what?” “Well, he played it so hard that he broke it.” “And?” “Ummm…nothing much happened after that.” “WHAT? How could it be a freaky dream if nothing much happened? What did you do the rest of the night? Just LIE there?” He rubbed my back and poured me a cup of coffee. “Why don’t you tell me the rest of your dream, Katy—only if you want to, that is.” So I told him every bit of it and he hugged me tight and promised he’d be right here with me no matter what—even if I somehow manage to misplace my mother in the craziness of life. And I realized that even though I’d teased many years ago about us making unlikely bedfellows, we make a pretty good Dream Team, after all. Posted by Katy on 11/06/05 Permalink Overstepping My Boundaries (#581) You may not have noticed this about me, but it’s possible that I have a few issues with boundaries. You may be laughing out loud right about now and thinking, “Oh, my gosh! She thinks we don’t know? Isn’t it painfully obvious to everyone and her mother?” You’re probably right. Evidently, even my mother gets it. This morning, I called the nurse at her current Funny Farm to ask how Mom’s horribly swollen knee looks today. (I discovered it yesterday, much to Mom’s chagrin, who said, “Stop looking at my leg! And don’t tell the nurse!”) It would be nice for me if I didn’t know that swollen body parts mean something. If would be lovely for me if I didn’t go home after discovering a swollen body part and google myself into oblivion for the better part of an evening. It would be just swell if I didn’t know that a pulmonary embolism can start with a blood clot in the knee, but alas, I know. So at 7:30 a.m., I phoned the nurse. “Maybe you shouldn’t give her that flu shot today,” I said, “until we figure out what the swelling is. I may want to pop Mom in the car and take her to the doctor.” Valerie headed down to Mom’s room to give her an insulin shot and told Mom that I’d called. Minutes later, I called Mom to ask how her knee looked today. “I am NOT going to the doctor!” she shrieked. “I can’t BELIEVE you called Valerie so early in the morning! You are NOT going to come storming in here this early in the day! There is NOTHING wrong with my knee!” “OK, Mom. I’ll talk to you later, after you calm down.” “ME??? I’m CALM! I slept fine, but you told Valerie that you kept waking up thinking about my KNEE! YOU’RE the one who’s not CALM!” So. I guess she told me, huh? You know that old saying, “I know when I’m not wanted?” Maybe THAT’S what this whole “boundaries” thing is about. Ya think? Posted by Katy on 11/04/05 Permalink It’s Been A Very Extremely Long Three Months, And Then Some (#580) I…I…I…well, that was weird. After typing the word “I,” nothing else came. For a long time, perhaps thirty seconds. I felt like Ricky Ricardo used to sound when he’d say “I-I-I-I-I” to Lucy, only both of them knew just what he meant. If he’d been speaking English, it couldn’t have been clearer. I’ll start again: She-she-she-she-she. Ah, that’s more like it. Mama, that is. She had a meltdown ten days or so ago, a crying jag which lasted a good four hours, longer than she bawled when either of her parents died, or my father, for that matter. She was nearly paranoid, I’d say, convinced that her current Funny Farm was keeping her there against her will, that she’d never get sprung, that she’d never see the light of Harrah’s casino again in this lifetime. She said (rightly) that she’d seen four roommates come and go, and that the one with her now would soon be on her way home, too. She cried that everyone was getting better except for her, that her arm would be broken forever, that she would never be whole. It came to a head during wheelchair volleyball (dear Lord, deliver me!), when a lady named Janet told the group that she’d be going home the next day. Mom couldn’t hold back her feelings. She said, loud enough for fifteen deaf oldsters to hear, “Bragger!” Mom would not be dissuaded from her belief that she’d live out the last of her sorry days in a space the size of an office cubicle until I’d involved her RN and the social worker. I would have tracked down the chaplain for counseling and maybe a little Extreme Unction, just in case, except that Mom lost faith in her when I let slip that the gal is a Methodist. “What?” Mom said, outraged. “But this is a Catholic joint! Wait till I tell the others at lunch…” Anyway, by late that afternoon we’d talked her down from the ledge, and convinced her that no one can make her stay there against her will. Of course, we had no way of knowing whether the assisted living facility in her retirement complex would take her in her present condition, either. All I knew was that the minute insurance stopped paying for her therapy, I’d need to spring her. The last week has been spent in a flurry of geriatric activity the likes of which I hope to engage in as seldom as possible during the rest of my ever-shortening life. Sunday, Bridget and Baillie (my sister and her darling daughter) came to town and the three of us packed Mom’s belongings at the apartment she left three months ago, when she broke her humerus and a rib. This Saturday, we’ll move her stuff into her new assisted living apartment. Next Monday, Doug and I will move Mom out of the nursing home, into her new digs. I’ve ordered a hospital bed, purchased a portable wheelchair, done all the interviews to get her a power chair through Medicare, gotten a transfer bath bench—and that’s just the durable medical equipment, people. Then there’s the non-durable, fragile human component: Dignity to preserve, decision-making power to relinquish, responsibility to assume, losses to comfort. The Scripture that comes to me every day now is “Let everything be done decently and in order.” I-I-I-I-I…I’m trying, Lord. I really am. Posted by Katy on 11/02/05 Permalink Lessons (#579) Many, many years ago, I learned not to ask a woman her baby’s due date, unless of course I knew for a fact that she was pregnant. You know what I’m learning this year? Never assume a person out in public on October 31 is actually dressed for Halloween, no matter how freakish, frightening, dark, gothic, streaked, spiked, or punctured. You used to be able to say, “Great costume!” But these days, unless the person is sporting a tail, I wouldn’t dare! Posted by Katy on 10/31/05 Permalink OK. I’m Sorry, But Those Really WERE The Days! (#578) Twenty-one years ago tonight, my crazy sisters and I dressed our (then) collective eight babies in the get-ups you see here. Liz found the costumes—complete with wigs and stage make-up—for $2 each at the J.C. Penney’s Outlet Store. Two bucks was a little steep for us in those days, but we three mothers decided to bite the Halloween bullet and go with the kooky clown motif. Scotty the Gregarious is in the lower left hand corner of the group pic, and on the right in the close-up shot. Carrie the Cutie is on the upper right in the group. I was seven months pregnant with Kevin that night, which is why I’m not pictured. Believe me, I could have easily upstaged an entire couch full of clowns! Posted by Katy on 10/31/05 Permalink Words To Avoid Living By? (#576) Any mottos you love, but refuse to live by? I’ve got a sign in my kitchen that reads “Life Is Uncertain. Eat Dessert First.” I love it, and I lived it for the first 46 years of my life, but no more. Still, there’s no way I’ll take down the sign. NO WAY! It makes me smile, without inducing me to consume any sugar, every time I look at it. I also love the old bumper sticker that says “We’re Spending Our Children’s Inheritance”—most often seen on RVs driven by contented pensioners—but I’m not planning to live by that motto, either. Even “There Are Two Kinds Of People—The Irish, And Those Who Wish They Were” speaks to my soul, but I’m way too generous-hearted to live so exclusively. There’s no point in making the less fortunate feel hopeless, after all. How about you? Any mottos you’re crazy about, but prevented from fully embracing by conscience or good sense? I’d love to know. Posted by Katy on 10/28/05 Permalink Page 36 of 84 pages « First < 34 35 36 37 38 > Last »


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

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