A very important call came in last night at 9:30 p.m. It was from my grandson, Dashiell II (or Bunny to us), who was refusing to go to bed, I guess. He is 3-1/2 years old.
Actually, Bunny's dad (big Dash) called me earlier at the request of little Dash. Little Dash -- Bunny -- has been pestering his parents to come over to "Nana and Carter's House" to spend the night. This has apparently been of great importance to him as he has been nagging them about it for several days.
Here's some excerpts from that conversation:
Me: "Hi Bunny! You going to come over and spend the night next weekend?"
Bun: "Are da chickens out?"
Me: "They're in the cage. Behind the gate" (he's afraid of our chickens, but he likes to go with Carter to feed them.)
Bun: "Okay. Where's Yaya? (the dog)"
Me: "She's right here. We're going to go night-night."
Bun: "Oh... Is da bird out? (our cockatiel)"
Me: "No, she's going night-night. Why aren't you going night-night?"
Bun: "I not tired."
Me: "Okay, so what are we gonna do when you come over? You gonna sleep in your own bed?"
Bun: "yeeeah. I got two rooms"
Me: "Really? Where?"
Bun: ''I got one room at yer house, and one room at my house. I got two rooms."
Me: "That's right! You DO have two rooms! If you sleep in your own room do you want to have Dumbo in the bed with you?" (Dumbo is the stuffed animal we got at Disneyland for my birthday)
Bun: ''Uhhhhmmmm. Nooooo.. I want. I want. I want... Daisy.... and Pluto."
Me: "Okay, I think we can do that."
Bun: "How?"
Me: "Well I guess I'll have to see if I can find them somewhere."
Bun: "Do you have pink yogurt"
Me: "Yes, we have pink yogurt for you."
Bun: "Do you have chocolate?"
Me: "Yea, (laughing) I have some chocolate for you" (I sometimes give him a few M&M's if I have them)
Bun: "Do you have canny?"
Me: "I probably have some candy somewhere... I don't know."
Bun: "do you have gum?"
Me: "Yeah I have your orange gum" (it's sugarless)
Bun: "Do you have Nana gum?" (That's my nicorette gum which he pretends he's going to eat and then doesn't. Thank God).
Bun: "Nana! Your leg broked off?"
Me: ''No, it's all in once piece. You'll see... it's not broken off at all"
Bun: "is all togedder?"
Me: "Yeah, it's all in one piece! It's totally okay!"
Bun: "Where's Carder?"
Carter and Bunny talk ... I hear a discussion about whether there are presents for him and such....
I get the phone back.
Bun: "NANA!"
Me: "Yes, baby?"
Bun: "Are da 'tars in my room?"
Me: "Yes my love, the stars are in your room. They're waiting for you to come spend the night."
Bun: "In my room? Are duh stars in dere?"
Me: "Yeah, your stars are on the wall. They're waiting for you"
Bun: "Did the 'tars go to sleep?"
Me: "Yes, love, they went to sleep. They're waiting for you to come so they can shine again."
Bun: "Okay, Nana..."
Me: "I love you this big"
Bun: "Nana, I love you thiiiiiiis big".
Saturday, May 19, 2012
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
The World Moves Around Me
Today is the first since breaking my ankle that I took time to stop distracting myself for a time. My husband went off to a seminar for most of the day, after making breakfast at 10 a.m. and the house was suddenly just mine. Well, me and the dog.
I turned off the T.V., which has been blaring in the background for a week and half. I finished a book, Mrs. Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children, a quick read, the first novel by a young man who has created a rather engaging story of the supernatural, time travel and misfit children, using found Victorian-era photos that supplement the strange, quirky characters. It's really a Young Adult book, but charming in its way, and clever. I've not focused on my reading much in the recent past.
I open the window next to me, the breeze, cool and fresh wafts in, tangles of light between the wispy wisteria outside filter through the floral curtains. I hear my self-employed neighbor come and go, the sound of tires as they park. I know who is coming and going by the sounds of the wheels and the doors shutting. As the day gets later, more people come home.
I listen to the sounds of the neighborhood. The Amtrak train which through years of repetition has become a sound I am mostly immune to. My grandson always hears it; "choo-choo, Nana, choo-choo!" he says several times a day when he visits. The trains come more frequently than I remember it, but it's been time since attention was paid. The resident crows, there are two permanent ones, caw off and on, moving from tree to tree. There are lots of birds in the trees outside and my cockatiel periodically chirps an answer to any that appeal to her.
The traffic comes bumping by, some cars too fast over the speed bumps make a resounding crack. Most just crunch over the loose gravel of our unkempt street. It needs to be repaved, but the nice thing is that I can hear everything that passes by be it car, bicycle or jogger. Random pedestrians come through, chatting amiably as their easy gaits, their two working legs, move them up the street and beyond my hearing.
Our mailman is afraid to push the mail through the slot. Yaya sits there for a few minutes in anticipation of his arrival. She is silent. Just waiting. As the mail comes through, there emerges a throaty, angry growl and she savagely grabs it, yanking it through. The mailman is understandably perturbed, so I tell him that if the window is open, he can just hand me the mail. He says that "Yaya is a bad dog!" He is good-natured about it, but if I were him, I'd probably stop delivering through the mail slot. He goes off to harangue the next door neighbor as he has done for years "HEY JOE! When you gonna grow some hair?"
My husband finally comes home, after calling to tell me he is worried because I've not answered my cell phone. I didn't realize I had it turned down, and apologize. He says he is very hungry, so I figured he'd come home in a mood, but on the way he stopped for something and he still comes in edgy. Sensitive, I wish he'd brought me something to eat, or had asked if I wanted something. I don't want to ask him now because I feel like a burden. He wants to know what I want for dinner; I don't know what I want. So I just say that. I say the 1/2 a chocolate bar I had is okay for right now. It's true. He hands me the ice tea from his late lunch. That's okay too.
I'm at his mercy at the moment, and I can't go away and do something else. I feel kind of broken and alone.
My broken ankle doesn't really hurt today. All it is, at the moment, is a useless appendage. It cannot propel me anywhere. It cannot take me away. It is dead weight. A dead healing weight that will, with careful diligence, take me outside again and move me where I need to go.
An airplane flies overhead, I imagine where it might be going. It flies and doesn't need legs. As the crow flies, it is 2,443 miles to Kauai. 2,543 miles to Nicaragua. 5,133 miles to Tokyo. 5,558 miles to Paris. 10,535 miles to Africa.
I turned off the T.V., which has been blaring in the background for a week and half. I finished a book, Mrs. Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children, a quick read, the first novel by a young man who has created a rather engaging story of the supernatural, time travel and misfit children, using found Victorian-era photos that supplement the strange, quirky characters. It's really a Young Adult book, but charming in its way, and clever. I've not focused on my reading much in the recent past.
I open the window next to me, the breeze, cool and fresh wafts in, tangles of light between the wispy wisteria outside filter through the floral curtains. I hear my self-employed neighbor come and go, the sound of tires as they park. I know who is coming and going by the sounds of the wheels and the doors shutting. As the day gets later, more people come home.
I listen to the sounds of the neighborhood. The Amtrak train which through years of repetition has become a sound I am mostly immune to. My grandson always hears it; "choo-choo, Nana, choo-choo!" he says several times a day when he visits. The trains come more frequently than I remember it, but it's been time since attention was paid. The resident crows, there are two permanent ones, caw off and on, moving from tree to tree. There are lots of birds in the trees outside and my cockatiel periodically chirps an answer to any that appeal to her.
The traffic comes bumping by, some cars too fast over the speed bumps make a resounding crack. Most just crunch over the loose gravel of our unkempt street. It needs to be repaved, but the nice thing is that I can hear everything that passes by be it car, bicycle or jogger. Random pedestrians come through, chatting amiably as their easy gaits, their two working legs, move them up the street and beyond my hearing.
Our mailman is afraid to push the mail through the slot. Yaya sits there for a few minutes in anticipation of his arrival. She is silent. Just waiting. As the mail comes through, there emerges a throaty, angry growl and she savagely grabs it, yanking it through. The mailman is understandably perturbed, so I tell him that if the window is open, he can just hand me the mail. He says that "Yaya is a bad dog!" He is good-natured about it, but if I were him, I'd probably stop delivering through the mail slot. He goes off to harangue the next door neighbor as he has done for years "HEY JOE! When you gonna grow some hair?"
My husband finally comes home, after calling to tell me he is worried because I've not answered my cell phone. I didn't realize I had it turned down, and apologize. He says he is very hungry, so I figured he'd come home in a mood, but on the way he stopped for something and he still comes in edgy. Sensitive, I wish he'd brought me something to eat, or had asked if I wanted something. I don't want to ask him now because I feel like a burden. He wants to know what I want for dinner; I don't know what I want. So I just say that. I say the 1/2 a chocolate bar I had is okay for right now. It's true. He hands me the ice tea from his late lunch. That's okay too.
I'm at his mercy at the moment, and I can't go away and do something else. I feel kind of broken and alone.
My broken ankle doesn't really hurt today. All it is, at the moment, is a useless appendage. It cannot propel me anywhere. It cannot take me away. It is dead weight. A dead healing weight that will, with careful diligence, take me outside again and move me where I need to go.
An airplane flies overhead, I imagine where it might be going. It flies and doesn't need legs. As the crow flies, it is 2,443 miles to Kauai. 2,543 miles to Nicaragua. 5,133 miles to Tokyo. 5,558 miles to Paris. 10,535 miles to Africa.
Thursday, May 3, 2012
The Carpenters
The last couple days, my lower right leg has been buzzing with activity. Sensations of buzzes, thumps, sharp stabs and electrical escalations are all occurring under the cast. At first these sensations were alarming, but I've come to believe something new to me: there are little microscopic carpenters in there. These little workers are building scaffolds, and clambering all around my broken right leg, where they are pulling, pushing, hammering and jimmying the injured bone, pulled muscles and strained tendons. They are working overtime to try to pull the broken bits and pieces together, and as annoying as these guys can be, I appreciate all their hard work.
To be truthful, I need to believe there are little workers in there. It makes it possible for me to stay in touch with my body and its healing. It makes it possible for me to let go and let them do their work. If there is a Higher Power, these little guys are it. They are a part of me and belong to me, but they work all on their own. I can help or hinder them, so I take some extra calcium and I try not to move around and disrupt the work they are doing.
What I would ask of them is if they could stop the jack-hammering at 4 a.m. Guys, it disrupts my sleep and hurts like hell when you bring out the jack-hammers that early!!
They aren't listening to me, though. They want to get the job done, so they continue to work 24 hours a day, and it's only day six of 42, but I couldn't ask for a better team of workers.
To be truthful, I need to believe there are little workers in there. It makes it possible for me to stay in touch with my body and its healing. It makes it possible for me to let go and let them do their work. If there is a Higher Power, these little guys are it. They are a part of me and belong to me, but they work all on their own. I can help or hinder them, so I take some extra calcium and I try not to move around and disrupt the work they are doing.
What I would ask of them is if they could stop the jack-hammering at 4 a.m. Guys, it disrupts my sleep and hurts like hell when you bring out the jack-hammers that early!!
They aren't listening to me, though. They want to get the job done, so they continue to work 24 hours a day, and it's only day six of 42, but I couldn't ask for a better team of workers.
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Healing from the Inside
I broke my ankle on Friday, April 27 2012. It was my husband's birthday and we took a little hike, which for the most part was a nice little ramble at the shore side behind the Seabreeze Cafe. At the end of the walk, we decided to take a shortcut over a large hill, the downside a quarry of sorts where East Bay Regional Parks are doing some dirt excavation. Somewhere part of the way down, my left foot hit a crumbly, gravelly patch and shot out in front of me, while the right leg neatly folded slid directly under me, hyper-extending the foot. A loud pop was the only telling sign that something rather seriously wrong happened. My foot look more or less intact, with a new hard lump on the outer side. Pissed and slightly nauseous at the rising pain, I hobbled the 1/4 mile or so back to the car. No way it was broken, we were thinking.
A few hours at Kaiser proved us wrong.
So it's Wednesday now. Four days into this. I have a nice new red cast that is tightly strangling the ankle. It is a walking cast so it has to be tight. Yesterday morning the aching of it, so tightly encased, made me panic with claustrophobia. A sense of intense fear gave rise to an immediate necessity of removing the thing. Deep breaths didn't help. Getting up and moving around a bit didn't help. I turned a fan on and let the rush of air blast my face. Breathe deep. I feel trapped.
Here's the beauty of social media, however. An old friend of mine who wrecked her ankle last year during roller derby messaged me. She gave me some tough love, which for her sounds something like this "Dude, cut that shit out and let yourself heal!" There was more, including her amazing blog in which she chronicled the saga of her broken bones -- fibula, tibia and tendons wrecked -- surgery, post-surgery, doing it without pain meds (not because she's superwoman, but because they all make her so incredibly ill).
Sara is a sincerely tough cookie, but she's incredibly intelligent, empathetic, thoughtful and right thinking. Our on-line conversation gave me a place to start letting go and allowing this to be what it is. There's nothing I can do to change what it is, and I can't hurry the pace of my body's healing itself.
Next Monday, I will find out whether I got lucky and merely have to stump around in this awful cast for six weeks, or if I will have to have surgery to repair and pin together the gap between bones, which will add several more weeks of healing time and will effectively render me in no weight-bearing status. I'm putting all my positive energy into healing that little gap.
I am no longer panicking, I'm just letting go.
A few hours at Kaiser proved us wrong.
So it's Wednesday now. Four days into this. I have a nice new red cast that is tightly strangling the ankle. It is a walking cast so it has to be tight. Yesterday morning the aching of it, so tightly encased, made me panic with claustrophobia. A sense of intense fear gave rise to an immediate necessity of removing the thing. Deep breaths didn't help. Getting up and moving around a bit didn't help. I turned a fan on and let the rush of air blast my face. Breathe deep. I feel trapped.
Here's the beauty of social media, however. An old friend of mine who wrecked her ankle last year during roller derby messaged me. She gave me some tough love, which for her sounds something like this "Dude, cut that shit out and let yourself heal!" There was more, including her amazing blog in which she chronicled the saga of her broken bones -- fibula, tibia and tendons wrecked -- surgery, post-surgery, doing it without pain meds (not because she's superwoman, but because they all make her so incredibly ill).
Sara is a sincerely tough cookie, but she's incredibly intelligent, empathetic, thoughtful and right thinking. Our on-line conversation gave me a place to start letting go and allowing this to be what it is. There's nothing I can do to change what it is, and I can't hurry the pace of my body's healing itself.
Next Monday, I will find out whether I got lucky and merely have to stump around in this awful cast for six weeks, or if I will have to have surgery to repair and pin together the gap between bones, which will add several more weeks of healing time and will effectively render me in no weight-bearing status. I'm putting all my positive energy into healing that little gap.
I am no longer panicking, I'm just letting go.
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