Tag Archives: Life

Tales of the ER

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How was your Saturday evening? I hope it was better than mine, which you can probably surmise was spent in the emergency room.

Since I’m relegated to enforced rest at the present time, this might be a longish and rambling post…sorry in advance!

Here’s a little background to set the scene:

Lately, I’ve become obsessed with houseplants. It started gradually and before I knew it, I was fully engulfed in collecting, rescuing, propagating, and growing everything from Fiddle Leaf Figs to Calatheas to flowering cacti, and finally, MONSTERA. Yes, I’ve gone completely bonkers for Monstera.

I bought a giant specimen and had finally found the perfect feng shui location for it to thrive, but noticed that it could really benefit from some support.

I ordered a set of moss sticks from Amazon. They were due to arrive yesterday in the late afternoon and as I DO, I kept refreshing the tracking updates.

It was raining heavily when I finally heard the delivery truck.

I was so excited for those stupid moss poles that I FLEW down the flight of oak steps to the front door, wearing my favorite warm but very SLIPPERY socks; a gift from the original Angel Boy…

Without warning, because of course that’s how these things happen, I slipped and fell HARD. I mean really hard because I had been running, so my entire body weight slammed into the last few steps.

Since I’m no stranger to accidents, I sat there for a minute to triage the damage, upset with my stupidity and carelessness, When I ascertained that I hadn’t broken any major bones like a hip, I got up, went outside and picked up my package.

At that point, I had no idea what really happened.

The only part of me that had sustained the major hit was my left shin and I got an ice pack and lay down on the sofa. The pain was intensifying and when I lifted the ice pack, I saw a lot of blood seeping through my leggings.

WARNING: THE REST OF THE STORY IS KIND OF GROSS, not for the faint of heart.

You know how you have a feeling of impending doom? That’s what was going on with me.

I went to the bathroom, and before I looked at my leg, I brought out all my first aid stuff; gauze, tape, compression pads — just in case.

I washed my hands and gingerly and gently pulled up the bottom of my leggings and almost fainted (or threw up) at what I saw.

My leg looked like someone had slashed it with a hatchet and there was an open, gaping wound on my shin, all the way down to the tibia. I saw muscle and BONE. For real. Definitely not for the faint of heart, but I was trained by a wonderful nurse, and knew what to do.

I didn’t bother cleaning it at this point. I ripped open a large sterile gauze square with my teeth because I needed BOTH HANDS to close the two sides of the laceration. I did the same with the tape. After I placed a compression pad over the gauze and secured it with more tape, I knew this was no easy fix and I’d have to endure a visit to the emergency room.

I drove to the better of my two ER options, walked up to the desk and explained that I had a deep laceration that needed to be sutured.

They actually took me to a room immediately. I’m grateful that it was a slow evening and not very many people were there.

From the moment I arrived, everyone was helpful and lovely. Also since it was a slow night, many people came in the room to look at my leg. They praised my initial bandaging, and made jokes about why didn’t I sew it up myself, since it looked like I knew what I was doing.

At a time like this, humor is a great quality to possess, and I enjoy a good joke to lighten the atmosphere. I showed off pics of the grandkids, we discussed football playoffs, and they shared some of their more grisly ER injuries.

One person said she came in to see my leg because of how calm I was when I explained why I was there and she didn’t expect to see an eight-inch gash that must have hurt like hell, but I told her I’m always calm in the face of disaster and it didn’t hurt that much. (It does now, though. A lot.)

Because of the severity of the wound, I needed to have an x-ray to rule out any damage to my tibia before it got sutured. Luckily, my bone wasn’t compromised; no breaks or chips or blood vessel issues.

Other parts of my body are bruised from the impact, but my poor leg took the brunt of the fall from these beautiful but apparently now deadly oak stairs…no one has ever slipped before; I guess it was my lucky day, right?

More people came in to observe this AMAZING trauma surgeon repair the laceration. His wife was a doc too, an ophthalmologist, and we chatted about medical things while we waited for the suture cart and he determined how he was going to sew me up.

After the lidocaine injections, I couldn’t feel a thing, so I watched him work. It was kind of like an out-of-body experience. I probably bothered him with a million questions (like I always do) but he also taught medicine and he was patient and pleased to provide me with detailed answers.

A wound like that (think sharp hatchet splitting wood) needs layers of internal sutures as well as the exterior ones.

I had a total of twelve sutures and a few internal ones. After finishing the job, the doc told me how very lucky I was, because if the wound had been even a couple inches to the right, tendons and muscles would have had to be surgically repaired. Yup, I was lucky.

The tech came back in to dress my leg, adding about fifteen Steri-Strips between the sutures.

The nurse took a bunch of pics that are too graphic to post here and I know it’s going to leave an ugly scar, but I don’t mind because it’s a constant reminder to NEVER again wear slippery socks on those oak steps. EVER. NEVER. Lesson learned.

Strange Days | The Disappearing Object Phenomenon

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I bought some things that I subsequently needed to return which my son calls my “catch and release” program because I do it a lot.

This time, I was in a rush. I picked the wrong kind of noodles and the wrong kind of applesauce, and a pineapple I discovered was rotten and gross; also a first pair of jeans for Angel Girl 2.0 that were the wrong size.

I located the receipts and put them in safe place, or so I thought.

To backtrack, I never lose things and I also save EVERY receipt because I know that I MIGHT return whatever it is. I’m thrifty like that, so what happened next is significant.

I left early to shop cos it’s getting crowded for Thanksgiving. When I got in my car, I looked for the receipts and could only find one, but I KNOW I had saved both of them together.

I searched every inch of the car-nothing. I searched my purse-nothing. I looked in the outside trash (eww) -nothing. I went back in the house and couldn’t find it anywhere. I took a few deep breaths and decided to accept the reality that for once, I had somehow lost a receipt, but I’d still try to return the items and not be upset if that wasn’t possible.

In the grand scheme of life, this wasn’t anything to worry about. Mistakes happen.

I parked my car, walked around to the passenger side to collect my shopping bags and the items to be returned. There, on the seat, right next to the sad old pineapple, I spied the receipt.

WTF? Where did it come from? I had OCD thoroughly searched every single inch of my car, even taking everything out, and never saw it, because it wasn’t there. But there it appeared, ON THE SEAT. ON THE SEAT where it had NOT been before.

I shook my head, called out a silent thank you to the universe and its witchy ways, and laughed at my good fortune.

The rest of the day has been full of sunshine and joy, but I still can’t figure it out.

Is it the disappearing object phenomenon? How did it happen? WHY did it happen? And what’s the lesson?

According to my Google research, these are the areas to explore if you have experienced the return of a lost item:

Lessons on the 3D level:
Must you always have a physical explanation for any occurrence?  Why?
Do you believe that there is only one answer for any occurrence? Who told you that?
What happens if you can’t find an explanation for this occurrence?

Lessons on the 4D level:
Can I concede that I can’t explain this occurrence just yet?
Do Others have power over me?
Do Others have powers that I don’t have? (St. Anthony, or Archangel Chamuel, for example?)
Can they see more than I can see?
Who are these Others?  Are they mirrors of me?

Lessons on the 5D level:
Is this an item you love? If not, why is it here?
How long was this item gone before you missed it? Are you rightfully managing this energy (including time)?
What is the disparity of frequency between the You that could see them and the You that couldn’t?
What is the energy of the missing item?  Sad?  Nostalgic?
Does it represent a period in your life needing release?
Does it remind you of something you need to get done?

I haven’t had to the time to explore and examine my relationship to the receipt and discover the deeper symbolism, but I highly recommend reading this entire article. It blew my mind!
https://www.areyouawakening.com/life-on-earth/when-an-item-youve-lost-suddenly-reappears/

Featured image from Pinterest

Enter The Vortex – No Help

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My frustration level is OFF THE CHARTS.

Here’s what I learned today. Since Angel Girl turned four years old, I needed a new car seat. When it arrived, I didn’t have too much trouble assembling it (although it took an HOUR) but I couldn’t figure out how to properly install it next to her brother’s. I didn’t pay much attention when Dad did it.

I read the cryptic instruction booklet and it was like reading hieroglyphics. I watched several YouTube videos and they didn’t help me, either. This isn’t unusual–I’m not very mechanically inclined.

I figured that our friendly police department would surely be able to assist me, so I drove to the local station. This is where the vortex of frustration began…

Guess what? Our police do NOT help to safely install carseats, but they said OTHER grandmas have come in asking for help, too.

The police department referred me to AAA.

AAA also does NOT help to install or make sure they’re installed properly.

AAA referred me to California Highway Patrol which DOES have a program to safely install car seats but they’re booked up through January 2024. That’s no help at all. AT. ALL.

CHP said the Sheriff does it, but they most likely are booked up too. I called to make an appointment, had to leave a message, and no one returned my call.

I even called a neighboring city’s police department and they don’t install car seats either.

After that, I called Children’s Hospital which does have a car seat installation program but it charges FIFTY DOLLARS per car seat!!!

Our local fire department doesn’t assist in installation or inspection to make sure car seats are properly installed.

The final call I made was to Safe Kids Worldwide’s Child Passenger Safety, a nonprofit organization, and there is no tech in my area. Also, no one responded to my email.

I’m exhausted from running around the dead end rabbit hole with my vain attempt to ensure the safety of the Angel Kids.

I eventually tried to install it but noticed there was no anchor with this particular booster-type seat with a back, and it seemed a bit unstable, so I took an anchor strap from the old seat and tried to attach it. I’m not sure if it’s OK but at least it’s not moving around and seems more secure.

And from the manufacturer, I read comments and questions from others who wanted information about no latch/anchor:  “Thank you for your interest in the Turbo Booster 2.0 Highback Booster Seat! Unfortunately, a LATCH system is not offered for this product. We hope this helps! – The Graco Team” Well…it doesn’t really help at all, because why NOT??

Friends have said I should just leave it for Dad to do it again but I wanted to make life easier for all of them when I pick up at the airport. It’s much less stressful to jump in the car and head straight home than to have to sit at the curb and wait for him to hook it up.

This says volumes about lack of community service and safety from the entities that should absolutely care. My very final outreach was a call to the community relations department of our police department to suggest they recommence their former program of assisting/examining installation of car seats. Not surprisingly, I’ve received no return call.

Frustration level? OFF ALL THE CHARTS.

UPDATE: A neighboring city’s sheriff’s office returned my call, I made an appointment for this morning, and their in-house certified car seat tech examined both car seats and gave me a few tips to keep the kids extra secure. It took less than ten minutes–peace of mind = PRICELESS. I’m still concerned that it took so much effort to get it done. I don’t think most people are as tenacious as I am, and if they quit too soon, their children might not be secured properly in an accident.

Adult Regrets | Forever Young

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I’m not talking about the dark night of the soul burdensome self-condemnation kind of regret, but I was randomly thinking about how sad it is that when we grow up, people stop asking us who we’re going to be for Halloween.

There was always a great deal of excitement around this conversation, “Who are you going to be for Halloween?” or “What are you going to wear?”— whether we dressed as a witch or a ghost or a princess or a superhero or a pirate. It’s a way to step outside of ourselves for a couple of hours, to escape into an innocent fantasy.

Some might claim I’ve never grown up and that’s simply not true. There’s a difference between being childISHly puerile and one-dimensional as opposed to the open-hearted ability to discover and appreciate simple, joyful, childLIKE pleasures in life. That’s a good thing, in my opinion.

For Halloween, I’m never scary. I usually dress like a princess (of course) but next week I’m going to be a ballerina. I hauled out my sewing machine and made a longish sparkly pink tutu with a tulle overlay, reminiscent of Les Sylphides.

I’ll adorn myself with pink ballerina earrings (an unexpected treasure from Goodwill), my toe shoes and a tiara, so I’m really going to be a princess ballerina.

Je ne regrette rien. No regrets. Forever young.

Who are YOU going to be for Halloween?

Cosmic Blunders

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I don’t know about you, but today has been a day full of frustrations, miscommunications, stress, anxiety, and a general sense of agitation and discord everywhere I turn.

People tell me they didn’t get my emails that I CLEARLY have a record of sending while one misunderstood word engendered disagreements and verbal sparring before the matter was cleared up.

I don’t like stress, not that anyone really does, I guess. but for me, stressful situations cause my poor little heart to pump too hard and raise my blood pressure.

This is when I need to practice breathing and meditation. It will all work out, I’m sure, but in the meantime, I won’t really be able to relax.

In addition to the annular “ring of fire” solar eclipse on the 14th, in SoCal we’re on the verge of a Santa Ana weather event; windy, very low humidity, and lots of swirling energy, so it’s probably a good idea to go outside and water my plants to redirect my mind.

BREATHE!

Oh, and stay hydrated, ‘cos when I get stressed, I shut down and don’t eat or drink, so I’m sitting here with a giant water bottle. There’s nothing worse than a dehydration headache.

Unearthed Primitive Artifact Or…

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Before I even begin my strange tale, I want to be sensitive to negative colloquialisms such as “‘Burying the hatchet’.

The use of this term trivializes the ancient peace-making ceremony in which two fighting nations symbolically buried or cached their weapons of war.

Offensive language like this is a result of centuries of violence and continues to perpetuate stereotypes that have real-life impacts on Native communities.

Indigenous Peoples and their cultural traditions are real and deserve respect. They are not historical artifacts, caricatures, or mascots. (radicalcopyeditor.com)

But I don’t know how else to describe what I just found in my garden…an actual buried hatchet.

Look at it!

It’s a joke from the Universe, right?

I have no idea how long it’s been there or how it became buried near a path that leads to some steps to the second level.

I can’t even figure out how, after all this time, it became UNburied enough for me to notice that bright blue handle.

So with deepest respect, I brushed away the dirt around the buried hatchet.

I’m not sure what to do next. Dig it up? Leave it there? Anyone care to hazard a guess about what it means?

Almost Everything But a Washcloth Full of Holes

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I’m known as the “fixer” because I have a certain amount of success in gluing together broken bits of china, repairing toys, and mending torn clothing…just call me the all around problem solver.

The original Angel Boy recently came to me with a few hand sewing tasks; a ripped seam in his windbreaker, tighten the upper arms of his gardening sleeves where the elastic stretched out so they won’t fall down, (which is super annoying), and sew or iron patches on AB2’s jeans, where he must slide on one knee A LOT,

After I completed my work under the watchful eye of my faithful sidekick, Angel Girl, she rummaged around in her room for something for me to repair (she doesn’t like to be left out of anything) and ran back with a dress that had short-ish butterfly sleeves that didn’t meet her high fashion standards.

“I don’t like this part, Grandma, so you can fix it.”

I took a look at it and figured it wouldn’t be a too difficult job to remove the flutter sleeves and resew the seams, which I did.

It made her very happy.

Later, while mom was giving her a bath, I could hear them chatting about her day. All of a sudden, she said, “I’ve got to give this to Grandma.”

She jumped out of the tub and came running into my room dripping wet, holding a raggedy torn and tattered washcloth full of holes.

“Here you go, Grandma, fix this.”

It must have been washed dozens of times and there really wasn’t any life left and sadly, that worn out fabric was far beyond my capabilities to magically repair, but I love the faith and confidence that angel has in me as the “fixer”, the one she can count on to make things right and restore everything back to the way they should be.

Yup, I’m a fixer, but not always.

Random Mitzvah

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Do you know what a mitzvah is?

I don’t mean the ultra religious definition of doing something good to fulfill one of 631 commandments and I don’t mean BAR/BAT Mitzvah, (which I never did) but doing a mitzvah has also come to express an individual act of human kindness; a good deed.

Here’s the story. A couple days ago, I had a doctor’s appointment . As I walked to the office, I said hello to two people sitting on the curb out in front. They were a bit older than me but looked frail, and the man was in a walker.

There was a wait for the doctor and I chose to sit outside because no one in the waiting room was wearing a mask (except for me) and there was a lot of coughing AND the door was closed. (Yup, I’m still a mask wearer in crowded placed, even if no one else does.)

While I was standing outside on the sidewalk, I chatted with the couple. They told me they had been waiting an hour in the hot sun (we’re having a heat wave) for their Uber. The woman was on the phone trying to find some way to communicate with the company, which is impossible, by the way.

I felt horrible that these older people were left stranded and told them if they were still there when I was finished with my appointment, I’d drive them home as I learned they didn’t live all that far away from the doctor’s office. In case you thought they could take a bus, that’s not an option. Public transportation is horrible in my area.

I went back in the office and could see that the doc was so backed up, I’d probably be forced to wait at least an hour to see her, so I decided to reschedule my visit to next week.

When I left, I saw those poor people were still waiting, still on the phone, looking pretty stressed out. I told them I’d be more than happy to drive them home, which I did.

They were beyond appreciative and repeatedly offered gas money which I declined. They couldn’t believe a total stranger would help them. The man had cancer, was diabetic, in overall poor health, and his wife wasn’t much better.

How could I not help?

It was such a small thing to do for another human; a mitzvah, a helping hand.

I have so much to be grateful for in my life; it felt nice and right to extend a simple and random act of human kindness, not for any reward in this life or the next — for no reason other than I felt like it.

In a similar situation, would you help, too?

Self Portrait

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The Angels love to look through the photos on my phone, especially all the ones I’ve taken of them, of course.

When we clicked on this rose, I told them it was a selfie of ME cos I’m Princess Rosebud. They thought that was funny but being their dad’s kids, they just HAD to disagree…

“Grandma, you are so annoying! You aren’t a REAL princess!”

“Yes, I am.” I replied. “And you are Princess Charlotte and Prince Theodore.”

“Dad, Grandma’s being annoying again!”

OMG did they just tattle about me to my original Angel Boy? That’s too funny.

From the other room, I hear him say, “Mom, stop being annoying.”

I guess that’s going to be my legacy…however, we’re all royalty around here, so I thought I’d share this little joke to start the week.

This particular rose smells as good as she looks. Spicy and sweet, just like me.

I think a backstory needed to explain the origin of being called “annoying”, thanks to my new friend, wonderfully talented author Debbie Russell. I should have explained it in more detail and to be fair to the Angels.

I first began to reference myself that way when I bothered them as they were busy doing things (just to be funny) like standing in front of the TV during a show they were watching and I’d say, “Aren’t I the most annoying Grandma?” and they’d say “Yes, you are! Stop it!” And I’d stop, of course. Also for example, when I’d read a book to them, a book I’d literally read a thousand times before, to make it more interesting for ME, I’d change the names or spice up the story a bit differently, mainly to see if they were paying attention (which they were) and then they’d say, “Read the exact words, Grandma!” which I thought was pretty cute. And then I’d say, “Do you find it annoying when I do that?” The answer was always yes.

The Angels weren’t being disrespectful. Grandma was!

Fellini-esque Homeless Encounter

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Yesterday I drove to an appointment for a physical therapy session to work on my knee, the one with the torn meniscus. Since I hate parking garages with low, oppressive ceilings, I chose to park a block or so away.

The sky was blue, the sun was out, and I briskly walked to my destination. Restaurants were full of happy people enjoying balmy weather on the last day of spring break.

I crossed the street and noticed a gnome-like, wizened, obviously homeless guy on a bench.

Exactly as if he had been watching and waiting for me, he stood up and blocked my path when I approached. He held out a pen and asked me if he could write his name on my body.

(Yes, for a nanosecond, I imagined he was holding a knife. Adrenalin production ramped up in my body, but it was just a pen.)

I shook my head and firmly replied, “No, you CANNOT!”

He said, “Why not? Because then you’d belong to me.”

This wasn’t a pleasant encounter — his demeanor was filled with contempt. With those few words, the tone he conveyed was sarcastic, sardonic, mocking, even derisive.

I continued to walk, shook my head at the oddness of his words. Many times, I’ve been asked for money by street people, but this was out of the ordinary for sure.

Instead of “homeless”, advocates suggest the use of language like unhoused or unsheltered to describe people “experiencing homelessness” to imply a worldview that sees homelessness as a structural and societal failing, not a personal problem.

Whatever language one uses, we have a large population here, and I think our city has a fairly responsive and compassionate approach to this crisis. Not great, but better than their past one-dimensional militant approach.

About an hour later, I retraced my steps as I made my way back to my car. The little man was still there, perched on the same bench. This time I noticed that his feet didn’t touch the ground, which means he was even shorter than my five feet. I didn’t feel like I needed to take any effort to avoid him.

This bench was positioned in the middle of the sidewalk and near the intersection at the stoplight where I needed to cross the street.

As I walked by, he cackled and stuck his foot out as if to trip me. I circumvented this potential ill-mannered assault as he called out to me with an abundance of animosity, “Hey curly!”.

Of course I didn’t respond and made it safely back to my car, but I was curious about these two slightly peculiar encounters in an otherwise completely normal day.

As I pondered the deeper meaning of what occurred, it reminded me of a Fellini film; the blending of fantasy and baroque images with raw earthiness — opening a portal to what lives beneath the surface of seeming normalcy.

What did the angry man represent? Why me? Why did he say I would be his if he wrote his name on me? There was an essence of something shadowy and devious and outlier about him; a glimpse into a version of a world I don’t inhabit.

How utterly strange and slightly unsettling, like I was actually IN an art film or an alternate reality or another dimension.

The only way I can describe it is how Caryn James in an old newspaper article described a Fellini film…”that moment when you walk headlong into a scene so strange you think you’re hallucinating; then it turns out to be real.

What I know for sure is that it was borderline creepy and I was SO glad to go home. To be home. There’s no place like home.