A year ago Monday, it was a Sunday.
Bryan and I took the kids to beautiful Mt. Cutler in Cheyenne Canyon. It's about a 30 minute drive to get there, and the hike is about a mile long with a gradual elevation gain, so the kids could do pretty well with it.
The view along the way are amazing and at the top, as per our usual, because we did this hike a lot, we set out our blanket and ate our picnic as we overlooked the canyon.
Then we headed down. Joshua was too big for the baby backpack, so we took turns carrying him on our backs and making him hoof it. I was carrying him when: Slip. Going Down. OhnomakesureJoshualandssafely. Pop. Joshlandsonhisfeet. I land. . .on. . .my. . .butt. . .what is that horrible, horrible pain?
I screamed. A general, "Owwww! OOOWWWWW!" kind of scream.
Bryan and Gemma heard me and caught up in a hurry.
We took stock. I has slipped at the top of the last switch back of the trail. So. Maybe 2 to 3 city blocks to go. (This is how I picture distance: by how they would be measured off in concrete sidewalk squares.)
Bryan took the kids and hustled down the mountain as I lay there. He was going to lock them into the car and then come back up for me.
I was praying, praying, praying. That everything would turn out OK. Shortly after he left, a tingly numbness set it and my ankle suddenly didn't hurt anymore. It just. . .tingled.
A couple of hikers came upon me on their way down and offered help. I sized them up, and while I didn't want to refuse help in a time of great need, I also didn't want what appeared to be a man weighing 120 lbs and a woman weighing about 90 lbs to involve themselves. Particularly when my husband would be along shortly.
But the little man declared, "Let's get you down this mountain." At first we tried one of my arms over each set of their shoulders, but that didn't work. The woman was just too small for the job.
The man's next idea: I should just climb onto his back.
I told him, no need, my husband would be coming for me in just a few minutes, besides
a) that's how I hurt myself in the first place and I was only carrying a baby and
b) If you fall with me like I fell with my baby, it will really hurt. For me. Not just you. and
c) Although the surgeon I will meet tomorrow and the surgeon I will meet months from now after a breast cancer diagnosis will both tell me that I am thin, I am still way too big for you.
He was not deterred. And, God Bless him, he piggybacked me the rest of the way down.
Bryan caught up to us at the very end. I remarked, "I think I only sprained it. If I'd broken it, the pain would be a lot worse, no?" I hadn't realized that the adrenaline was responsible for the tingly feeling.
I got into the car. Then the adrenaline wore off when we hit our first bump and I dropped a very loud f-bomb. Right in front of Gemma and Joshua. It was, however, the only cuss word I used in the whole escapade.
A painful 30 minute drive home ensued. We were in the Volvo, which gets some serious pick-up. Normally, I am the annoying sort of wife who nags her husband about driving too fast and too aggressively.
On this drive, as we barrelled down the road at 70 in a 55, I was gritting out between clenched teeth, "YOU HAD BETTER MAKE THIS LIGHT!!!!"
We got home (which is on the way to the ER). Bryan stayed with kids while my neighbor took me to the ER. Now, at this time, the Presidential election was 5 weeks away and I still had hair. Dark hair. I wore it up on the sides and in front. I wore glasses. I wore lipstick. So it was not too surprising to me when the nurse who wheeled me into triage said, "Look! We have Governor Palin in our hospital tonight!"
To which I said, as I did to the several others who made this remark to me that September and October, "I had this brainy look going a long time before she came along."
I fractured my tibia and fibula right above the ankle, and dislocated a small ankle chip. I got an appointment with the Chief of athletic medicine at the Air Force Academy. This is the kind of surgeon one wants for this operation because this is the guy who fixes tib-fib fractures all day long. But he wasn't supposed to be my doctor.
No. Originally, I was supposed to have my surgical consult with a guy at Ft. Carson. The night of the accident, with the consult scheduled for the next morning, I called my brother-in-law, a bone surgeon, to ask what kind of questions I should be asking the surgeon I'd go to see. You know: to make sure I wasn't dealing with an idiot.
Brent said, "Amy, you're not going to Ft. Carson! You're going to the Air Force Academy where Senators' sons go!!" and he called one of his best friends, Dr. Tokish, whom Brent knew from his own tour at the Academy. Der! I had totally forgotten that Brent had even served as a surgeon at the AFA!
I labor to explain all this because months later, when I was set up with a surgical consult at Ft. Carson, I wanted nothing to do with him. Mayfield. Whatever. The Air Force surgeon wasn't available because he was in Iraq. But Ft. Carson? No way. I had been strongly cautioned against it. So Bryan and I went to that appointment with both guns loaded with reasons why we wanted a referral to some place else.
But. Well. Score one for Ft. Carson.
That Sunday night, after I got home from the ER, Bryan brought the kids to Betsy's house and they stayed there until Thursday, when my mother arrived to help for 2 weeks.
The next day I saw Dr. Tokish and he operated on me at 4:30 Monday in the civilian hospital right up the street from my house. I saw the after x-ray and my ankle now looks like a home improvement project: a 3 inch stainless steel plate held in with 4 screws, plus an additional screw stuck in from the other side for good measure. So I was bionic almost a year before the port installation.
We had a great time with Mom. Then Gayl, Bryan's Mom, came for the next 2 weeks and we had a great time with her. I was able to do a lot more myself by then, so she was free to help him on the basement finishing project, the kind of thing they both love to do, so that was a special blessing for them.
I came to appreciate my children in a fundamentally important way through the experience of being off my feet for 6 weeks. And I could go on about all the great things the Lord did in our lives and my heart through this accident and the recovery.
Just think: At the time, I thought this would be the Big Event of my 30's!
I wrote an e-mail to my family a couple days after surgery, giving all the details of what had happened, and I concluded with this paragraph:
"My neighbors are taking good care of me. Ladies from our church will be bringing meals. The pain is very well controlled with pretty mild stuff. And the JFCC IMD/J35 "family" just sent me flowers. Really, we are very, very blessed and I feel very, very loved. Nothing to complain about, given how bad things could have been and just how great things are."
Funny.
Even though things, in some ways, are now a lot worse, other things are, in some ways, so much better. And I feel like I could write that same paragraph today, a year later, and still mean every word.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Friday, October 2, 2009
The Name Game: Pressing On!
People.
Round #4 of chemotherapy starts on Monday. From that point forward, we will have just nine weeks before the official end of the chemotherapy portion of treatment and, therefore, the end of The Name Game.
We have 416 names to go if we're going to hit 800.
That means we need to find an average of 46.22... names a week if we want to hit our goal. Can we do it? Can we do it???
Some housekeeping items:
Sister #2 suggests in the comments that if we take "Rudolph" into the men's list, then we must also take his companions, Dasher, Dancer and so on.
But I don't think so. Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner and Blitzen are not actual men's names. Stage names in certain bars, perhaps, but not men's names, per se. So, just as Ben is a man's name used to describe a rat (we think), and so we take it, we take Rudolph, a man's name used to describe a reindeer. But this doesn't mean we take all reindeer names, just as we wouldn't take all rat names.
Except for "Mickey," of course. A rat on two different levels. (Holla', Suzanne!)
Second item: Last week, I said we wouldn't be counting, "Peggy Sue" as different from "Peggy" and "Sue."
I'm going to claim a HER moment on this one. Why wouldn't we? My own sister is named Mary Jean, and she definitely not called Mary, and definitely not called Jean. Mary Jean is its own name.
So Peggy Sue is in. As is Mary Lou, which Mary Lou Queeney tells me is in a song from years ago.
That's 2 more!
Sister #4 came up with Tallulah from the cute movie, "Bugsy Malone"--a film that gave both Jodie Foster AND Scott Beo their big breaks. Without it, we might never have gotten Charles in Charge. Whew. I don't even like to think of that national treasure never coming into production.
Sister #3 gave us Nicki from Prince's song, "Little Nicki."
Which brings us to another note: Nicki, even if we already have Nicole? Judges are going with "yes" on this. Nicknames are in. Because how are we to know if that birth certificate read Nicki or Nicole? My sister-in-law is named "Sandi," and not Sandra.
Am I stretching the rules a tad to facilitate the climb to 800? Yes.
And that's it from the trenches. Two new names. Two names from last week that we're now counting. 4. Four names.
Well shy of this week's average requirement.
But let's not despair. I've done a little thinking of my own. So. Ahem:
Sandra Dee from 'Grease'
Evangeline from that song that hit the Pop 40 when I was a Freshman in college. . .so the year was. . .1997-98. Don't know the group. But I'm sure many of you do. Nick, for instance, knows exactly what I'm talking about, right?
Gidget from the TV show
Dot from the Animaniacs theme song
Cynthia, a Springsteen song by the same name
Early Pearly, so, Pearl, also from the Boss in 'Blinded by the Light'
And from Mambo #5, we get several names, some of which are already on the list, but new ones include:
Angela
Pamela
Monica
Erica
Tina
Finally, and I think it's time to unsheathe this weapon, we have a little help from Google.
For instance, I thought of a random name, Babette, and plugged it into Google as "Babette Lyrics" and sure enough, there is a Frank Zappa song titled "Babette."
Then I thought, "Hmm, each of my sisters' names is on the list except for Leslie's."
Same thing. Came up with "Leslie is Different," by Small Fred.
I don't know who Small Fred is. I don't know anything about him except that a) He's probably small is some sense of the word and b) he wrote a song titled "Leslie is Different."
The question now is this: Does Google work on your computer, too?
I mean, with Google on our side, we could have this thing licked in a week or two!
For now, 17 new names to add.
Check the Name List on the labels to see the updated total.
FINALLY: It occurred to me as I was trying to think of names, too, that part of the frustration here is the long list. I thought of "Alberta," for instance, from Clapton's song, and then scrolled up and--DOH!--it's there already.
Maybe this kind of thing is holding you back. You don't want to have to look it up to see if it's there. And so you don't bother at all.
Well don't hold back any longer! Put up all the names you can think of and I'll sort through which ones are new.
Oh, finally, no, seriously, this is the final point: I plan to blog live again from the chemo barn on Monday. Dr. Science should be back in, and I'm hoping he did his homework on the family history thing so I can fill you all in on the madness that got this game started.
Round #4 of chemotherapy starts on Monday. From that point forward, we will have just nine weeks before the official end of the chemotherapy portion of treatment and, therefore, the end of The Name Game.
We have 416 names to go if we're going to hit 800.
That means we need to find an average of 46.22... names a week if we want to hit our goal. Can we do it? Can we do it???
Some housekeeping items:
Sister #2 suggests in the comments that if we take "Rudolph" into the men's list, then we must also take his companions, Dasher, Dancer and so on.
But I don't think so. Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner and Blitzen are not actual men's names. Stage names in certain bars, perhaps, but not men's names, per se. So, just as Ben is a man's name used to describe a rat (we think), and so we take it, we take Rudolph, a man's name used to describe a reindeer. But this doesn't mean we take all reindeer names, just as we wouldn't take all rat names.
Except for "Mickey," of course. A rat on two different levels. (Holla', Suzanne!)
Second item: Last week, I said we wouldn't be counting, "Peggy Sue" as different from "Peggy" and "Sue."
I'm going to claim a HER moment on this one. Why wouldn't we? My own sister is named Mary Jean, and she definitely not called Mary, and definitely not called Jean. Mary Jean is its own name.
So Peggy Sue is in. As is Mary Lou, which Mary Lou Queeney tells me is in a song from years ago.
That's 2 more!
Sister #4 came up with Tallulah from the cute movie, "Bugsy Malone"--a film that gave both Jodie Foster AND Scott Beo their big breaks. Without it, we might never have gotten Charles in Charge. Whew. I don't even like to think of that national treasure never coming into production.
Sister #3 gave us Nicki from Prince's song, "Little Nicki."
Which brings us to another note: Nicki, even if we already have Nicole? Judges are going with "yes" on this. Nicknames are in. Because how are we to know if that birth certificate read Nicki or Nicole? My sister-in-law is named "Sandi," and not Sandra.
Am I stretching the rules a tad to facilitate the climb to 800? Yes.
And that's it from the trenches. Two new names. Two names from last week that we're now counting. 4. Four names.
Well shy of this week's average requirement.
But let's not despair. I've done a little thinking of my own. So. Ahem:
Sandra Dee from 'Grease'
Evangeline from that song that hit the Pop 40 when I was a Freshman in college. . .so the year was. . .1997-98. Don't know the group. But I'm sure many of you do. Nick, for instance, knows exactly what I'm talking about, right?
Gidget from the TV show
Dot from the Animaniacs theme song
Cynthia, a Springsteen song by the same name
Early Pearly, so, Pearl, also from the Boss in 'Blinded by the Light'
And from Mambo #5, we get several names, some of which are already on the list, but new ones include:
Angela
Pamela
Monica
Erica
Tina
Finally, and I think it's time to unsheathe this weapon, we have a little help from Google.
For instance, I thought of a random name, Babette, and plugged it into Google as "Babette Lyrics" and sure enough, there is a Frank Zappa song titled "Babette."
Then I thought, "Hmm, each of my sisters' names is on the list except for Leslie's."
Same thing. Came up with "Leslie is Different," by Small Fred.
I don't know who Small Fred is. I don't know anything about him except that a) He's probably small is some sense of the word and b) he wrote a song titled "Leslie is Different."
The question now is this: Does Google work on your computer, too?
I mean, with Google on our side, we could have this thing licked in a week or two!
For now, 17 new names to add.
Check the Name List on the labels to see the updated total.
FINALLY: It occurred to me as I was trying to think of names, too, that part of the frustration here is the long list. I thought of "Alberta," for instance, from Clapton's song, and then scrolled up and--DOH!--it's there already.
Maybe this kind of thing is holding you back. You don't want to have to look it up to see if it's there. And so you don't bother at all.
Well don't hold back any longer! Put up all the names you can think of and I'll sort through which ones are new.
Oh, finally, no, seriously, this is the final point: I plan to blog live again from the chemo barn on Monday. Dr. Science should be back in, and I'm hoping he did his homework on the family history thing so I can fill you all in on the madness that got this game started.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Note From Vacation
I'm back from my blogger break. Has a term for that been coined yet? Or should we just call it a "blogger break"?
It is Thursday, so the standard is to post a theme song. But you've all been without me for an entire week, and I'm not sure you could bear not hearing from me in a chatty post. Besides, tomorrow is a Friday round up of The Name Game and I'm going to have to beat you up for coming up with a whopping, what?, 3 names so far??? So I'd better be nice to you today.
Mom, Dad, Uncle Fe and Aunt Jill came and went. They had a very nice vacation and got around to see a lot. I do have a few niblets to report:
On Thursday, Bryan, the kids and I went with them to the Air and Space Museum at Peterson Air Force Base. They had a pretty impressive collection and our docent was very chatty, so it made for an informative, longish sort of morning.
We went from there to the commissary, a place that I've been wanting my Dad, Master Grocery Shopper, to experience. Mostly, I just wanted to brag about our awesome prices.
And, oh yes, he covetted.
We had the kids with us while Bryan and the others were down the corridor at the Base Exchange, the military version of a department store. Dad was pushing the spaceship cart, the kind where the kids sit up high and face forward and pretend to drive with their little, fake steering wheels.
Dad ordered the volpi salami and prosciutto from our deli and this brought out the Italian in him because he then turned to the imported cheese bin, looked for the provolone and, when he couldn't find it, shouted to the guy stocking the bin,
"Hey, que sedice!!"
The guy, a grown man, not, like, a 16 year old punk with earphones stuck in his head, looked up at Dad with an expression that read, roughly, 'What the hell is your problem?'
And I kind of don't blame the guy. This is a military commissary in Colorado Springs. Who goes around shouting random Italian phrases at people?
I asked Dad something along these lines and he said, "It means, 'Pay attention!'"
Yeah. And the cheese manager of the Peterson Air Force Base commissary is supposed to know that?
Dad got his cheese. Then struck up a conversation with an old lady who grew up in Germany. That is, Dad was commenting aloud at how cheap our meat is and she overheard and said, "It is crazy, out in town, how much they charge!" with a thick accent.
So where was she from? Oh, that's right by where he was stationed years ago. What year did she leave? Blah, blah, blah, yaddy yaddah. . . I was glad he was having such a great time.
After paying, we headed for the door closest to the corridor we'd go down to meet the others. I hadn't realized this was an entrance only. Then I saw the big letters, "ENTRANCE ONLY NO EXIT" and said, "Ooops."
Dad saw the letters, "ENTRANCE ONLY NO EXIT," continued walking towards the door anyway, and rammed the cart right into them, knocking the right one off its magnets. Then he said, "Ooops."
I think in regular grocery stores, even when doors say "NO EXIT," they open anyway. Is this true? Because it would go a long way towards explaining. I should test it out. . . In the moment, though, I thought, "I cannot take you anywhere."
We went down to the BX to find the others and found instead a yo-yo demonstration in celebration of Duncan's 80th anniversary.
I had no idea that
a) one could do so much with a yo-yo nor
b) anyone over the age of 10 was making much of an effort to do so nor
c) that one could become a pro yo yo thrower and get paid a living wage.
Did any fellow graduates of Immaculate Conception (heh heh heh) remember Mrs. Field suggesting this was an option?
This particular guy was not at the BX, but I figure, "Why not post a video of the world champion if I'm going to post a video of a yo yo guy?"
Here we are in front of the Air and Space Museum. The guy in the blue "Italia" jacket is Uncle Fe. The other guy is the docent. Dad is taking the photo.
On Friday, they took the cog railway up to Pike's Peak. We were supposed to go with, the kids were so excited!, but Bryan was so sick and I didn't really want to go for the first time without him. We would have had to wake very early to get there, and the kids and I all ended up sleeping until almost 9:00, so it's a good thing we sat it out instead.
Dad is wearing Bryan's pea coat and, apparently, holding up the train. Looks like a nice day for them, right?
It is Thursday, so the standard is to post a theme song. But you've all been without me for an entire week, and I'm not sure you could bear not hearing from me in a chatty post. Besides, tomorrow is a Friday round up of The Name Game and I'm going to have to beat you up for coming up with a whopping, what?, 3 names so far??? So I'd better be nice to you today.
Mom, Dad, Uncle Fe and Aunt Jill came and went. They had a very nice vacation and got around to see a lot. I do have a few niblets to report:
On Thursday, Bryan, the kids and I went with them to the Air and Space Museum at Peterson Air Force Base. They had a pretty impressive collection and our docent was very chatty, so it made for an informative, longish sort of morning.
We went from there to the commissary, a place that I've been wanting my Dad, Master Grocery Shopper, to experience. Mostly, I just wanted to brag about our awesome prices.
And, oh yes, he covetted.
We had the kids with us while Bryan and the others were down the corridor at the Base Exchange, the military version of a department store. Dad was pushing the spaceship cart, the kind where the kids sit up high and face forward and pretend to drive with their little, fake steering wheels.
Dad ordered the volpi salami and prosciutto from our deli and this brought out the Italian in him because he then turned to the imported cheese bin, looked for the provolone and, when he couldn't find it, shouted to the guy stocking the bin,
"Hey, que sedice!!"
The guy, a grown man, not, like, a 16 year old punk with earphones stuck in his head, looked up at Dad with an expression that read, roughly, 'What the hell is your problem?'
And I kind of don't blame the guy. This is a military commissary in Colorado Springs. Who goes around shouting random Italian phrases at people?
I asked Dad something along these lines and he said, "It means, 'Pay attention!'"
Yeah. And the cheese manager of the Peterson Air Force Base commissary is supposed to know that?
Dad got his cheese. Then struck up a conversation with an old lady who grew up in Germany. That is, Dad was commenting aloud at how cheap our meat is and she overheard and said, "It is crazy, out in town, how much they charge!" with a thick accent.
So where was she from? Oh, that's right by where he was stationed years ago. What year did she leave? Blah, blah, blah, yaddy yaddah. . . I was glad he was having such a great time.
After paying, we headed for the door closest to the corridor we'd go down to meet the others. I hadn't realized this was an entrance only. Then I saw the big letters, "ENTRANCE ONLY NO EXIT" and said, "Ooops."
Dad saw the letters, "ENTRANCE ONLY NO EXIT," continued walking towards the door anyway, and rammed the cart right into them, knocking the right one off its magnets. Then he said, "Ooops."
I think in regular grocery stores, even when doors say "NO EXIT," they open anyway. Is this true? Because it would go a long way towards explaining. I should test it out. . . In the moment, though, I thought, "I cannot take you anywhere."
We went down to the BX to find the others and found instead a yo-yo demonstration in celebration of Duncan's 80th anniversary.
I had no idea that
a) one could do so much with a yo-yo nor
b) anyone over the age of 10 was making much of an effort to do so nor
c) that one could become a pro yo yo thrower and get paid a living wage.
Did any fellow graduates of Immaculate Conception (heh heh heh) remember Mrs. Field suggesting this was an option?
This particular guy was not at the BX, but I figure, "Why not post a video of the world champion if I'm going to post a video of a yo yo guy?"
Dad and I were captivated by the 3 yo yo guys there. They were all between 19 and 22 years old. Dad asked them if they ever thought about getting real jobs. I, on the other hand, wanted to know if they ever did their yo-yo thing to impress women.
The guy I asked, who was a slight fellow, sporting Elvis Costello glasses and black jeans with white socks and black wingtips, said, "Of course."
I asked if it worked.
He said, "Yes. . . in the sense that women are impressed." And not, I gathered, that it led to any, say, exchange of phone numbers.
But when your job in life is to travel the country throwing a yo yo around, it's OK if other parts of your life aren't going as well as you'd like.
We finally met up with the others. Mom, Aunt Jill and I went out to lunch and then shopping while the boys took a driving tour of Ft. Carson and Betsy and Amy took the kids out. We had dinner at home that night. Bryan retired early with flu-like-symptoms. While I felt some compassion for him, I mostly just didn't want him to get me sick.
So he moved down to the basement guest suite and was sacked out all of Friday and Saturday.
He was well enough Sunday to be out and about whereas I had a detectable cold by then and I decided to hunker down and drink gallons of fluid to ward off the worst. It worked.
So, while Uncle Fe and Dad both caught the germ from Bryan--and blamed him for it!--I offered up the following defense: No one's immune system is more taxed than mine is right now, so if I could shake the germ, all others should be able to as well. They just didn't drink enough fluids, as per my constant advice from the moment they landed. . .
Ah, well. Hope they're feeling better now.
As for some photos that Mom took and sent:
Here we are in front of the Air and Space Museum. The guy in the blue "Italia" jacket is Uncle Fe. The other guy is the docent. Dad is taking the photo.
On Friday, they took the cog railway up to Pike's Peak. We were supposed to go with, the kids were so excited!, but Bryan was so sick and I didn't really want to go for the first time without him. We would have had to wake very early to get there, and the kids and I all ended up sleeping until almost 9:00, so it's a good thing we sat it out instead.
Dad is wearing Bryan's pea coat and, apparently, holding up the train. Looks like a nice day for them, right?
Well, not so much. The Cog wouldn't go to the top. Stopped at 12K feet because of wind, snow and ice at the top. So I was very glad I hadn't hustled the kids out there for the trip.
A view from the window of the train. Note the goat!
At the Edelweiss restaraunt in town to celebrate Mom and Dad's 50th anniversary. Bryan was home sick. Uncle Fe got to telling his stories from his Taylor street childhood, stories that always make me laugh. It was a great night. Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad!
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