Boy, less than 72 hours, and I have four "followers" and lots of words of support. But I must keep reminding myself, that's beside the point. Comforting, nevertheless.
I find myself missing Dad this time of year. Not really the sighing-and-crying kind of missing him, it's never been like that. It's more the I-forgot-to-ask-you kind. Let me suggest to anyone who is fortunate enough to still have a surviving parent or two, if there is something you want to know, a question you've always wanted to ask, you need to ask NOW. There are no guarantees of tomorrow, even if you're a youngster. There really isn't any reason to put it off. Time won't make the question or the answer any easier or more difficult, so you might as well get on with it. I inherited the McCarthy gene that prods one to run as quickly as possible in the opposite direction of any kind of conflict, and I've taken it to an art form. What I have learned in the last 10 or 15 years, however, is that you don't get that time back - once it's gone, it's gone, and no amount of begging or pleading will accomplish its return. Because my Dad died in the month of December many years ago, the holidays have never quite been the same. The first few after he died were pretty awful, but time, distance, and new babies bring healing. Nowadays, I just think about things on which I would have sought his opinion, or stories I would have liked him to elaborate on. I can't promise he would have answered even had I asked, but it would have been worth the shot. There are just as many things I would have liked to have told him, too. But we won't go there today.
Since mid-November, I have been battling bronchitis and its aftermath. I thought by mid-December, I had pretty much won the battle, but now I'm wondering if I'm losing the war. Two doctor visits, one antibiotic, one inhaler, and countless coughdrops later, I'm still barking like a seal. So I kinda made this deal with my dad...yes, I know that's magical thinking....and here's what happened. At Christmastime, there were always two songs that would stop my Dad in his tracks. The first was Nat King Cole's Christmas Song, and the other was Frank Sinatra's "I'll Be Home for Christmas" - and ONLY those versions. As I was barking my way to the grocery store the other day and wondering what should be my next step, Nat King Cole started singing about roasting chestnuts on an open fire. So I said, OK, God, if I hear I'll Be Home for Christmas - only Sinatra's version - before I get home, I'll know that Dad is telling me this is something that requires follow-up. This is significant because my dad was diagnosed with inoperable lung cancer after refusing to return his doctor's phone calls to hear the results of chest X-rays. Now, I don't think I have lung cancer, but this sure feels weirder than garden variety bronchitis. And as I pulled into our driveway, guess what came on the radio? Yup, Ol' Blue Eyes...."you can plan on me....". I felt like the earth had moved....so today, I called my doctor, who is probably the best diagnostician next to Greg House, and he ordered a chest X-ray and pulmonary function test. Sheesh. And it's probably nothing, but I need to acknowledge my instincts. Stay tuned....
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Monday, December 26, 2011
How Do I Start This Damn Thing????
Welcome to the rantings of a middle-aged Irish female.....
I'd like to think of myself as a fairly knowledgeable - not expert, mind you - web user; but after trying to edit my blogspot profile, I'd better re-think that...geez, I feel like an idiot....
Ten years ago, my New Year's resolution was to be published within 5 years. Not only did I fail, I didn't really make much of an attempt. Rejection is not something of which I'm particularly fond. I know I'm a good writer, it's a matter of wanting validation that other people think I'm a good writer, the way that they swoon when they discuss their favorite authors. I think I probably need to give up on that one, and write for my own satisfaction and clarity, and if it gets read and enjoyed, terrific. If not, so be it.
Every year seems to bring more evidence that I'm not getting any younger (duh!) and I, as well as the people I love, are yet another heartbeat or two closer to the end. Morbid, I know, but I'm just amazed - my mother was right: my body is decrepit, but my heart is still 19. The only time I'm brought up short is when I catch an unintended glance in the mirror - Aaacckkk! I look like my mother! And she's been dead for 16 years! So, rather than fight against an enemy which cannot be vanquished, I've decided to roll with it, and do pretty much whatever strikes my fancy. And this blog is step number one.
Being December 26, we've just finished Christmas 2011. It's important to understand just how much I HATE the end of Christmas. It has the potential to send me into a funk that doesn't end until St. Patrick's Day. Radio stations that have been pounding Christmas music in my ears since the week before Thanksgiving abruptly halt it on the dot of midnight, 12/26. Why can't we celebrate it they way it was intended, for 12 days, until Epiphany? Then we can sort of ease out of it. I've been known to pay my son to dismantle the tree and household decorations so that I won't have to do it, and when I come home from work, all evidence of the holiday will be gone. Talk about a weenie.....
But this year, I've decided to throw back my shoulders and embrace the end of the season as the beginning of new possibilities. I don't make ridiculous goals and resolutions; if I was ever going to be a size 5 (which is overrated anyway), it would have happened by now. As Rhoda Morgenstern once said on the Mary Tyler Moore show back in the '70's, "The last time I wore an eight, it was on the back of my basketball jersey." I'm pushing 56 years old, and my definition of success has changed significantly. If I can keep my resting pulse rate under 65, my blood pressure around 105/70, and my total cholesterol at 165, that will have to be enough. I can out-walk/run most of my peers, even with controlled rheumatoid arthritis, so I need to stop whining about something that will never happen, and concentrate on the things I CAN do that make me special.
I don't know why, exactly, I think that anyone will care about what I write or even know that it's here. Again, that's not really the end result that I'm chasing. What I'm hoping is that somehow, the train of thought in my brain that's stuck in overdrive will be able to slow down a bit, and achieve enough clarity that I can sleep at night.
So, on the off chance that you a) see this, or b) read it, comment if you like, but please, be gentle.
I'd like to think of myself as a fairly knowledgeable - not expert, mind you - web user; but after trying to edit my blogspot profile, I'd better re-think that...geez, I feel like an idiot....
Ten years ago, my New Year's resolution was to be published within 5 years. Not only did I fail, I didn't really make much of an attempt. Rejection is not something of which I'm particularly fond. I know I'm a good writer, it's a matter of wanting validation that other people think I'm a good writer, the way that they swoon when they discuss their favorite authors. I think I probably need to give up on that one, and write for my own satisfaction and clarity, and if it gets read and enjoyed, terrific. If not, so be it.
Every year seems to bring more evidence that I'm not getting any younger (duh!) and I, as well as the people I love, are yet another heartbeat or two closer to the end. Morbid, I know, but I'm just amazed - my mother was right: my body is decrepit, but my heart is still 19. The only time I'm brought up short is when I catch an unintended glance in the mirror - Aaacckkk! I look like my mother! And she's been dead for 16 years! So, rather than fight against an enemy which cannot be vanquished, I've decided to roll with it, and do pretty much whatever strikes my fancy. And this blog is step number one.
Being December 26, we've just finished Christmas 2011. It's important to understand just how much I HATE the end of Christmas. It has the potential to send me into a funk that doesn't end until St. Patrick's Day. Radio stations that have been pounding Christmas music in my ears since the week before Thanksgiving abruptly halt it on the dot of midnight, 12/26. Why can't we celebrate it they way it was intended, for 12 days, until Epiphany? Then we can sort of ease out of it. I've been known to pay my son to dismantle the tree and household decorations so that I won't have to do it, and when I come home from work, all evidence of the holiday will be gone. Talk about a weenie.....
But this year, I've decided to throw back my shoulders and embrace the end of the season as the beginning of new possibilities. I don't make ridiculous goals and resolutions; if I was ever going to be a size 5 (which is overrated anyway), it would have happened by now. As Rhoda Morgenstern once said on the Mary Tyler Moore show back in the '70's, "The last time I wore an eight, it was on the back of my basketball jersey." I'm pushing 56 years old, and my definition of success has changed significantly. If I can keep my resting pulse rate under 65, my blood pressure around 105/70, and my total cholesterol at 165, that will have to be enough. I can out-walk/run most of my peers, even with controlled rheumatoid arthritis, so I need to stop whining about something that will never happen, and concentrate on the things I CAN do that make me special.
I don't know why, exactly, I think that anyone will care about what I write or even know that it's here. Again, that's not really the end result that I'm chasing. What I'm hoping is that somehow, the train of thought in my brain that's stuck in overdrive will be able to slow down a bit, and achieve enough clarity that I can sleep at night.
So, on the off chance that you a) see this, or b) read it, comment if you like, but please, be gentle.
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