First of all, let me say this: Don't in a moment of weakness try something you don't want to continue as a family tradition. I did. One Christmas we bought the two oldest ones new bikes. Up till then they'd had garage sale rejects.
I bought them well before Christmas and needed a place to hide them. So I thought and thought: Well, they never clean under there beds or even look under there for missing items so I hid them under their beds. When Christmas came it was a tradition to go midnight mass. Well, by the time we got home and began wrapping and playing Santa, I didn't feel like dragging them out from under their beds and putting them together at 2 a.m. Cristmas Day. Instead I came up with an ingenious plan to hide clues to their locations and leave them about the house. It was a hit! The scrambling for clues the next day was so much fun and they ejoyed it so much I had to continue to hide presents and clues for years there-after until they grew up and left home.
Second of all, let me say that we were mighty cheap in those days. No bow wasn't a recycled bow. No ribbon was thrown away until it was good and ragged. And I insisted we keep the 'to and from' tags after the ripping and tearing was all done. They only lasted a minute functionally and then we were supposed to throw them away? No way! So we saved them and those Christmas mornings at 2.m. we would ask eachother "You got one from mom to Louis? Do you have one from Louis to Patrick?" It struck me as odd they never noticed our handwriting on the tags or tat the same tags came up over and over. Until they would whisper to me in November, "Tell Santa I want a _." Little did they know the effort we put in to bring thme uniform happiness, one where everyone had a BIG present of equal stature.
Friday, December 26, 2008
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Holiday Traditions Part 2
Everyone must come at the same time is the rule. We open presents at the same time: Only thing is that we open one each, one at a time. One Christmas came together at midnight Christmas Eve. We have also gone from mealtime to mealtime, opening gifts. Piles are established as one of the young or most out-going youngsters is dubbed the go-fer. Some younger ones strangely don't get very far before an older one takes over their unwrapping.. There are designated used-wrap points. Don't get to close to one and get wrapped up. You must also designate the one to chronicle who gave who what so that theoretically thankyou's are sent after-the-fact.
It's like one of those I Love Lucy and the conveyor belt things: The gifts seem to magically replicate themselves under the tree. Just like they did outside the front door every day as delivery vans pulled up and on the count of three they knocked on your door, scurried back to their trucks and drove off before you could get to the door. Some how they received extra credit if they made a clean get-a-way. Rain or shine or dark of night couldn't deter them from there appointed targets. One envisions night-vision goggles, earphones and a self-destructing tape.
When the last gift-wrapping is shredded, the random camera flashes will be replaced with a grand finale of flashes reminiscent of 4th of July as every combination of siblings, heritages, creed, religious affiliation and national origin is photographed and documented for next year's Christmas letter.
Everyone also had to participate in the formal sit down dinner complete with genuine tea gasses (the tea had to be brewed); good china that has to be washed before using; the requisite silver place settings that have to be polished before using (The Brasso taste is necessary to some recipes) and include every known specialty knife, fork, spoon or serving utensil; napkin holders; real cloth Christmas napkins; real butter you can't spread on concrete without damaging the concrete, much less a roll; decorative salt & pepper shakers that hold 4 grains of salt and 6 grains of pepper; pepper grinders stout enough to clean golf balls; and the polished, solid wood dining table that you're allowed to touch two days a year at Thanksgiving and Christmas. All this must be ceremoniously blessed like the fishing fleet with a hub-bub of humanity presided over with a soliloquy only a couple words shy of King Lear with lots of "Father's", "Jesus's", and "Almighty's" punctuated with the word "blessings." No fidgeting allowed and you better keep your eyes closed because the Pope can see thru his/her eyelids.
When everyone has exceeded their limits of tolerance, naps, inane parlor games and family feuds just before it becomes the dreaded Day After Christmas, the last one leaves the scene of the tumult.
Now every thing reverses except the loot piles which must remain untouched for 3 months before they can be assimilated into the vortex we cal our milieu. Grandma can then stencil an image of Santa on the door frame or her sewing basket. Amen.
It's like one of those I Love Lucy and the conveyor belt things: The gifts seem to magically replicate themselves under the tree. Just like they did outside the front door every day as delivery vans pulled up and on the count of three they knocked on your door, scurried back to their trucks and drove off before you could get to the door. Some how they received extra credit if they made a clean get-a-way. Rain or shine or dark of night couldn't deter them from there appointed targets. One envisions night-vision goggles, earphones and a self-destructing tape.
When the last gift-wrapping is shredded, the random camera flashes will be replaced with a grand finale of flashes reminiscent of 4th of July as every combination of siblings, heritages, creed, religious affiliation and national origin is photographed and documented for next year's Christmas letter.
Everyone also had to participate in the formal sit down dinner complete with genuine tea gasses (the tea had to be brewed); good china that has to be washed before using; the requisite silver place settings that have to be polished before using (The Brasso taste is necessary to some recipes) and include every known specialty knife, fork, spoon or serving utensil; napkin holders; real cloth Christmas napkins; real butter you can't spread on concrete without damaging the concrete, much less a roll; decorative salt & pepper shakers that hold 4 grains of salt and 6 grains of pepper; pepper grinders stout enough to clean golf balls; and the polished, solid wood dining table that you're allowed to touch two days a year at Thanksgiving and Christmas. All this must be ceremoniously blessed like the fishing fleet with a hub-bub of humanity presided over with a soliloquy only a couple words shy of King Lear with lots of "Father's", "Jesus's", and "Almighty's" punctuated with the word "blessings." No fidgeting allowed and you better keep your eyes closed because the Pope can see thru his/her eyelids.
When everyone has exceeded their limits of tolerance, naps, inane parlor games and family feuds just before it becomes the dreaded Day After Christmas, the last one leaves the scene of the tumult.
Now every thing reverses except the loot piles which must remain untouched for 3 months before they can be assimilated into the vortex we cal our milieu. Grandma can then stencil an image of Santa on the door frame or her sewing basket. Amen.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Holiday Traditions- part 1
Another Christmas was looming on the horizon. We called the movers early to reserve a spot on their under-manned work order list. It was necessary at this time of year to move the larger part of our surplus household goods like my boat; my mounted deer trophy head with the prized nine-point rack; my favorite footstool that hid many cherished heirlooms like my squiggly pencils collection in its gut; a couple of phones we didn't use every day; any book that didn't have Christmas or Santa in its title; any figurine that didn't resemble Jesus, an angel, a shepherd or a snowman; any stuffed toy that didn't appear brand-spanking new or resemble some wintry, cuddly creature; anything that couldn't be categorized loosely as an ornament; any greeting card that didn't have a spectacular seasonal scene on ir or fold out into a diorama; any memorabilia that wasn't a fugitive from a White-elephant Christmas gift exchange; or any school paper or art class memento "drawn" by some angelic grandchild or child in our lifetimes.
All this emptied the house considerably but was replaced by seasonal knick knacks that also replaced the crocheted pumpkins, curled up and once typical fall leaves, witches and goblins once deserving of homage. Pretty post cards, pretty paper and lights twinkling incessantly (just the lights twinkling, the other stuff kept us busy re-tacking them up as they fell with every passing day). Santa took his rightful place on the front door with his annoying "Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas!" followed by a jangling rendition of Jingle Bells. Out came an assortment of red, white and green cookie dishes and objects for displaying fattening sweets proudly boasting 0 grams of trans-fat. For you probies, that's fat about to be transformed into blubber on your body.
Emails and frantic phone calls emitted from HQ, asking for wish-lists for the big exchange (between gift-givers, not stores). Every immediate family member angled for a coveted time-slot on Christmas Day: Poor kids and melded families were torn between new traditions trying to form and old ones trying to survive. Traditions were cherished by all, just not the same ones. My son would spend Christmas out of town for the crucial time slot for the first time in 38 years. The tangy taste it left was not due to being shot at in Iraq, being low man on the totem pole at a workplace or indigence/pennilessness, but merely a choice of doing something different. Such family gatherings had endured from the days of bright-eyed parents and cooing babies until the melee required uniformed crowd control and traffic cops mixed with parking attendants. The latter also required coordination with neighbors to avoid parking confrontations and lawn signs warning of dire consequences for blocking views of Youtubular lighting displays whose prerequisite audio renditions vied with revelers.
The kitchen was maintained at an uncomfortable 90 degrees as the perfume of real (cheap) vanilla extract from Mexico and sacrificial Pillsbury Dough-boys filled the air. Each batch was carefully saran-wrapped onto a special decorative plate. Oops, that one looks defective. Mmmmm!
stay tuned for continuation of this narrative of Christmas..
All this emptied the house considerably but was replaced by seasonal knick knacks that also replaced the crocheted pumpkins, curled up and once typical fall leaves, witches and goblins once deserving of homage. Pretty post cards, pretty paper and lights twinkling incessantly (just the lights twinkling, the other stuff kept us busy re-tacking them up as they fell with every passing day). Santa took his rightful place on the front door with his annoying "Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas!" followed by a jangling rendition of Jingle Bells. Out came an assortment of red, white and green cookie dishes and objects for displaying fattening sweets proudly boasting 0 grams of trans-fat. For you probies, that's fat about to be transformed into blubber on your body.
Emails and frantic phone calls emitted from HQ, asking for wish-lists for the big exchange (between gift-givers, not stores). Every immediate family member angled for a coveted time-slot on Christmas Day: Poor kids and melded families were torn between new traditions trying to form and old ones trying to survive. Traditions were cherished by all, just not the same ones. My son would spend Christmas out of town for the crucial time slot for the first time in 38 years. The tangy taste it left was not due to being shot at in Iraq, being low man on the totem pole at a workplace or indigence/pennilessness, but merely a choice of doing something different. Such family gatherings had endured from the days of bright-eyed parents and cooing babies until the melee required uniformed crowd control and traffic cops mixed with parking attendants. The latter also required coordination with neighbors to avoid parking confrontations and lawn signs warning of dire consequences for blocking views of Youtubular lighting displays whose prerequisite audio renditions vied with revelers.
The kitchen was maintained at an uncomfortable 90 degrees as the perfume of real (cheap) vanilla extract from Mexico and sacrificial Pillsbury Dough-boys filled the air. Each batch was carefully saran-wrapped onto a special decorative plate. Oops, that one looks defective. Mmmmm!
stay tuned for continuation of this narrative of Christmas..
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Incident at the end of Cowboys-Giants
This is the story of the lemon squares incident. It happened in the waning moments of the Giants-Cowboys game tonight.
Flashback to this afternoon. I watched the Texans eke out a victory over Tennessee. I began my cough again. I coughed until I thought I would expire. I saw spots in front of my eyes, things were getting darker and I was beginning to reflect on my childhood. I couldn't breathe, I was short of breath. I think I found Cher's stomach.
With three dots showing on the gas gauge, I went to pick my wife up at the airport. I circled the airport 8 times and parked anyway. She was standing there when I walked up to passenger pickup. While she had made her connection, her bag didn't. (Like the helpful hubby I am, I'm waiting up for them to deliver it to the door while she sleeps.)
Strike one. I stayed up last night til after midnight to try and get her Christmas present at the all-night Wal-Mart. I missed one or two doses a day of medication while she was gone. Strike two and foul tip.
Going into the parking lot, the arm lifted w/o me getting a ticket so I didn't get one. Broken-bat foul screamer at the coach's head. Luckily, the EZ-tag was the reason, so she only had to back out of the Visa lane against traffic swerving and honking to get far enuf back to go thru the EZ-tag line. A vicious cut resulting in a foul-tip that went off my bare ankle.
We started back with two dots on the gas gauge. It started to sprinkle. Ful-tip into thecatcher's mit. We had to go str8 home and whip up a salad for church supper we then went str8 to where no one touched her salad. Back home we got to watch a nice(?) Lifetime Channel Christmas show. Instant replay review in booth restored me back to only 2 strikes.
She headed for the bathtub when the Lifetime show was over while I turned (trumpet flourish worthy of 20th Century Fox movie intro) to the waning moments of the Giants-Cowboys game. I coughed a fit and up-chucked. With the footrest up, and no rag handy, I swallowed down (Ugh) most of it, spitting a handful on my shirt. With action befitting a non-Parkie, I dammed it up within the folds of my shirt and waited for it to dry enough to get up and continued to watch the Giants knock on Dallas' door. A few passes and I went into a second or third, I forget which, coughing fit. I up-chucked a stomach-full right smack in the mdddle of the remote, filling my lap. Squeezing my legs together, now sacrificing my slacks, I held the puke from the chair. Clamping my legs until they cramped, I began yet another coughing fit. Yes, I upchucked another mouthful of vile, er bile. Since my lap was full, I searched frantically for something within reach, spying my half-finished mug of a drink. I spit it up into the mug. Dallas won.
"Help!" I called frantically, unheard over the roar of the jacuzzi. I sounded as pitiful as I felt. No reply. I called out some more. I called home from the cell phone in my pocket, letting it ring loudly. It too fell on deaf ears with her wondering why I didn't answer the damn phone. I called again to no avail. I turned up the TV until my brain rattled, again to no avail. The bedroom door opened a sliver and a voice from inside said something about the phone.
"Help!" I again pleaded with more confidence. She stepped thru the door asking who was on the phone. Me, I replied, could she please help by getting something to sop up the vomit so I could get up from the chair. I explained what happened, she curled up her nose., making a face. Strike three I muttered. She handed me my towel and I handed her the mug of Pepsi Puke. Rescued at last! Rising I went to Febreeze the remote and clean it, nay, detail it with Q-tips. As you envision me here with a pukey shirt and slacks, what, pray do tell, you ask, does this have to do with lemon squares? The vomit looked like Chinese Lemon Square broth, clear, barely yellow, with bits of lemon square. Yccck, too much info I know. Now I wait, struck out, gift-less, coughing, fuming up the joint, waiting for the errant suitcase. Molotov!
Flashback to this afternoon. I watched the Texans eke out a victory over Tennessee. I began my cough again. I coughed until I thought I would expire. I saw spots in front of my eyes, things were getting darker and I was beginning to reflect on my childhood. I couldn't breathe, I was short of breath. I think I found Cher's stomach.
With three dots showing on the gas gauge, I went to pick my wife up at the airport. I circled the airport 8 times and parked anyway. She was standing there when I walked up to passenger pickup. While she had made her connection, her bag didn't. (Like the helpful hubby I am, I'm waiting up for them to deliver it to the door while she sleeps.)
Strike one. I stayed up last night til after midnight to try and get her Christmas present at the all-night Wal-Mart. I missed one or two doses a day of medication while she was gone. Strike two and foul tip.
Going into the parking lot, the arm lifted w/o me getting a ticket so I didn't get one. Broken-bat foul screamer at the coach's head. Luckily, the EZ-tag was the reason, so she only had to back out of the Visa lane against traffic swerving and honking to get far enuf back to go thru the EZ-tag line. A vicious cut resulting in a foul-tip that went off my bare ankle.
We started back with two dots on the gas gauge. It started to sprinkle. Ful-tip into thecatcher's mit. We had to go str8 home and whip up a salad for church supper we then went str8 to where no one touched her salad. Back home we got to watch a nice(?) Lifetime Channel Christmas show. Instant replay review in booth restored me back to only 2 strikes.
She headed for the bathtub when the Lifetime show was over while I turned (trumpet flourish worthy of 20th Century Fox movie intro) to the waning moments of the Giants-Cowboys game. I coughed a fit and up-chucked. With the footrest up, and no rag handy, I swallowed down (Ugh) most of it, spitting a handful on my shirt. With action befitting a non-Parkie, I dammed it up within the folds of my shirt and waited for it to dry enough to get up and continued to watch the Giants knock on Dallas' door. A few passes and I went into a second or third, I forget which, coughing fit. I up-chucked a stomach-full right smack in the mdddle of the remote, filling my lap. Squeezing my legs together, now sacrificing my slacks, I held the puke from the chair. Clamping my legs until they cramped, I began yet another coughing fit. Yes, I upchucked another mouthful of vile, er bile. Since my lap was full, I searched frantically for something within reach, spying my half-finished mug of a drink. I spit it up into the mug. Dallas won.
"Help!" I called frantically, unheard over the roar of the jacuzzi. I sounded as pitiful as I felt. No reply. I called out some more. I called home from the cell phone in my pocket, letting it ring loudly. It too fell on deaf ears with her wondering why I didn't answer the damn phone. I called again to no avail. I turned up the TV until my brain rattled, again to no avail. The bedroom door opened a sliver and a voice from inside said something about the phone.
"Help!" I again pleaded with more confidence. She stepped thru the door asking who was on the phone. Me, I replied, could she please help by getting something to sop up the vomit so I could get up from the chair. I explained what happened, she curled up her nose., making a face. Strike three I muttered. She handed me my towel and I handed her the mug of Pepsi Puke. Rescued at last! Rising I went to Febreeze the remote and clean it, nay, detail it with Q-tips. As you envision me here with a pukey shirt and slacks, what, pray do tell, you ask, does this have to do with lemon squares? The vomit looked like Chinese Lemon Square broth, clear, barely yellow, with bits of lemon square. Yccck, too much info I know. Now I wait, struck out, gift-less, coughing, fuming up the joint, waiting for the errant suitcase. Molotov!
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
My Worst Christmas Ever
In 1960 at Christmas time I was enrolled at Oklahoma Military Academy, Claremore, Oklahoma. It was a fine school although I gravitated to the group of guys figuring out how to get out of everything. For example I figured out one Saturday morning after maneuvers that when I was told to shine my boots afterwards (it would have taken a few hours) that I could just walk out the door and go to town the back way without signing out, known in our vernacular as going AWOL. As long as I left with the crowd and returned with the crowd, no one noticed. Hmmmm.
Back to the story, I fell in with a family in town that I adopted as my 'home away from home' where I could show up like Eddie Haskell from Leave It to Beaver. 20 years later I went back to tell them how much they meant to me. I explained myself to "papa" but he wasn't showing any signs of recognition. When I started to talk about watching TV there, his eyes lit up, "Oh, you're that kid that used to come over all the time to watch TV!" Yep, that was me. Well, anyway, I left the campus with the crowd, duly loaded with a few bucks spending money I had withdrawn from my account at the business office. I visited the local drugstore malt shop (they weren't shoppe's back then), and I went to the movies, spending most of $1. I then went to the Snelling's, intending to spend Christmas with them. I even talked Joanie into going to the movies with me. She was 17 and I was 14 and she insisted I couldn't hold her hand or put my arm around her because I was too young for her and her friends would talk and give her the business. I never understood that gem of wisdom.
I ate with the and slept with them wherever there was an empty bed or easy chair. They just went to bed and I just didn't go "home." After a couple of days Mrs. Snelling announced they were going t Oklahoma City for Christmas and I'd have to leave the house. Why didn't they invite me to go with them? I just didn't understand. Now I ad to go back to the campus to my barracks, penniless and alone. The barracks were locked up and the doors chained shut (they always were when the campus was shut for the holidays). I was used to that. I always left something undone like a window latch so I could get back in. All was taken care of except money to eat on and walking 2 miles to town to eat. What were my parents thinking when I spent maybe $10 or $15 over two weeks to live on, room and board? It cost maybe $1-$2 a night to stay at the YMCA in Tulsa (that's another story). Even if I spent $1/day for food, that's $28 minimum! I had spent the night in the Tulsa bus station, ticket to Claremore in my hand, more than once. Kind of stood out in my uniform.
B-A-C-K to the cold, frost-bitten, snowy campus. I knew in the court-yards there were fountains and cadets threw coins in them for luck: nickels, pennies and maybe a dime or two. I braved the bitter cold and cracked the ice on top of the fountains and cleaned them out of coins. Why the merchants in town didn't notice all my purchases were made with "cold cash" in the form of mostly pennies, I'll never know. Any way I dug out enough to subsist until I endured my 'worst Christmas ever.' I spent most days and nights listening to my records; songs such as "He Will Break Your Heart" "Are You Lonesome Tonight?" "Don't Worry" "Will You Love Me Tomorrow" "Broken Hearted Melody" "First Name Initial" "Til I Kissed You" "Save the Last Dance for Me" "I'm Sorry" "I Want to Be Wanted" I'd put on a stack and listen to them over and over and over. What'd I know about sadness?
Back to the story, I fell in with a family in town that I adopted as my 'home away from home' where I could show up like Eddie Haskell from Leave It to Beaver. 20 years later I went back to tell them how much they meant to me. I explained myself to "papa" but he wasn't showing any signs of recognition. When I started to talk about watching TV there, his eyes lit up, "Oh, you're that kid that used to come over all the time to watch TV!" Yep, that was me. Well, anyway, I left the campus with the crowd, duly loaded with a few bucks spending money I had withdrawn from my account at the business office. I visited the local drugstore malt shop (they weren't shoppe's back then), and I went to the movies, spending most of $1. I then went to the Snelling's, intending to spend Christmas with them. I even talked Joanie into going to the movies with me. She was 17 and I was 14 and she insisted I couldn't hold her hand or put my arm around her because I was too young for her and her friends would talk and give her the business. I never understood that gem of wisdom.
I ate with the and slept with them wherever there was an empty bed or easy chair. They just went to bed and I just didn't go "home." After a couple of days Mrs. Snelling announced they were going t Oklahoma City for Christmas and I'd have to leave the house. Why didn't they invite me to go with them? I just didn't understand. Now I ad to go back to the campus to my barracks, penniless and alone. The barracks were locked up and the doors chained shut (they always were when the campus was shut for the holidays). I was used to that. I always left something undone like a window latch so I could get back in. All was taken care of except money to eat on and walking 2 miles to town to eat. What were my parents thinking when I spent maybe $10 or $15 over two weeks to live on, room and board? It cost maybe $1-$2 a night to stay at the YMCA in Tulsa (that's another story). Even if I spent $1/day for food, that's $28 minimum! I had spent the night in the Tulsa bus station, ticket to Claremore in my hand, more than once. Kind of stood out in my uniform.
B-A-C-K to the cold, frost-bitten, snowy campus. I knew in the court-yards there were fountains and cadets threw coins in them for luck: nickels, pennies and maybe a dime or two. I braved the bitter cold and cracked the ice on top of the fountains and cleaned them out of coins. Why the merchants in town didn't notice all my purchases were made with "cold cash" in the form of mostly pennies, I'll never know. Any way I dug out enough to subsist until I endured my 'worst Christmas ever.' I spent most days and nights listening to my records; songs such as "He Will Break Your Heart" "Are You Lonesome Tonight?" "Don't Worry" "Will You Love Me Tomorrow" "Broken Hearted Melody" "First Name Initial" "Til I Kissed You" "Save the Last Dance for Me" "I'm Sorry" "I Want to Be Wanted" I'd put on a stack and listen to them over and over and over. What'd I know about sadness?
Sunday, December 7, 2008
My story about my surgeries
I was in the study for bilateral DBS implants for tremor (an ANS Activa unit).
I had my series of operations in October of 2006 around Halloween. Isn't that a sign? I was gonna dress up as Uncle Martin for Halloween. I spent one night in Methodist Hospital for the lead implants and day surgery for the IPG installation.
I'm a guy and I had generous (?) hair before. I told the nurse to take a little off the sides. I asked what was the hold up, it wasn't like it was brain surgery. oh,yeah, it was. My guy skint me pretty good and I wore a little hat (kind of like Gilligan's but muted flowery) in public, including in church. (However, I'm told hats are a no-no. Now they tell me! Because of danger of infection, the bad case scenario). It takes probably 3-6 weeks to get it back. Actually, because of the shaved head and all, I stayed out of the public eye until I felt ready to come out. I was afraid of upsetting the grandkids, but one granddaughter didn't like the hat!
Since I had bilateral, they put the IPG's in two weeks later and shaved some again. Coincidentally they took out the staples at the same time. I like to get my money's worth when I get a haircut, so it gets ragged before I go, and if I comb it just so, I can see the surgery spots through the hair. My head feels lumpy and one can feel the leads coming down the side of my neck (under the skin). The IPG for one side is above my collar bone and is clearly visible without my shirt. I got bilateral as I was in a bilateral study but the right brain side doesn't do anything as far as I can tell. The other one is in my gut. Since then I talked to the programmer and he said their location is dependent on the short lead lengths provided with them. While I complained about the one in my abdomen being right where I bent over counters and things, he said most complaints were about the chest ones affecting golf and tennis swings!
They say that the brain has no feeling but the skull sure does! I said it felt like he'd used a jackhammer to make the holes. I asked if there was a chunk I could keep for a souvenir, he said as he drilled that there wasn't anything to save. I got scared at one point and made the nurse (who was looking me in the eye and relaying my reactions to changes) come back. Actually, the second surgery hurt worse than the first.
So far I am happy as a lark. I had my programmer crank mine up till my voice slurred and then back off. The change in tremor on vs off is dramatic. Just like that video of the guy who wrote the song "Don't Shake My Hand it Shakes Just Fine by Itself."
Boy, when my IPG for the tremor side turns on, I can feel it in my face and my mouth-droop disappears. It's an Activa and I call my remote switch my garage door opener. I am not crazy about turning it off as it makes my hand and arm tired to flop like a fish so much.
In 2007 I had my hand operated on. When they went to put in a drip I had to turn off the DBS for the EKG and my hand was flopping like a fish. It was the arm to stick and the one that doesn't flop was the one to work on. The nurse said if I hold it, will it stop shaking? I said no, then she'd start shaking. She said I'm gonna get a nurse to hold it while I stick it, that should keep it still enough. I said unless she's a good looking nurse, then it'll flop more.
The next time I went in for hand surgery, it was the other way around. The nurse looked at my flopping hand kid of concerned and I said to her, "Don't worry it'll stop flopping when I fall asleep." I knew what she was thinking.
The next thing to get fixed was my enlarged prostate. I knew it was gonna have to be done sooner or later and I already missed the height of the fishing season so I figured sooner was better than later. On the day of the surgery, we had to be there at 5:30 a.m. An old friend of ours was the anesthetist, and I warned him to look for a surprise when I got into the operating room. Marty has some googly eyes in her craft supplies and I snagged two of them and pasted them on the soon-to-be-star of the operating theater. I'd have given $10 to see the look on the operating teams' faces when they peeled back my gown!
I had my series of operations in October of 2006 around Halloween. Isn't that a sign? I was gonna dress up as Uncle Martin for Halloween. I spent one night in Methodist Hospital for the lead implants and day surgery for the IPG installation.
I'm a guy and I had generous (?) hair before. I told the nurse to take a little off the sides. I asked what was the hold up, it wasn't like it was brain surgery. oh,yeah, it was. My guy skint me pretty good and I wore a little hat (kind of like Gilligan's but muted flowery) in public, including in church. (However, I'm told hats are a no-no. Now they tell me! Because of danger of infection, the bad case scenario). It takes probably 3-6 weeks to get it back. Actually, because of the shaved head and all, I stayed out of the public eye until I felt ready to come out. I was afraid of upsetting the grandkids, but one granddaughter didn't like the hat!
Since I had bilateral, they put the IPG's in two weeks later and shaved some again. Coincidentally they took out the staples at the same time. I like to get my money's worth when I get a haircut, so it gets ragged before I go, and if I comb it just so, I can see the surgery spots through the hair. My head feels lumpy and one can feel the leads coming down the side of my neck (under the skin). The IPG for one side is above my collar bone and is clearly visible without my shirt. I got bilateral as I was in a bilateral study but the right brain side doesn't do anything as far as I can tell. The other one is in my gut. Since then I talked to the programmer and he said their location is dependent on the short lead lengths provided with them. While I complained about the one in my abdomen being right where I bent over counters and things, he said most complaints were about the chest ones affecting golf and tennis swings!
They say that the brain has no feeling but the skull sure does! I said it felt like he'd used a jackhammer to make the holes. I asked if there was a chunk I could keep for a souvenir, he said as he drilled that there wasn't anything to save. I got scared at one point and made the nurse (who was looking me in the eye and relaying my reactions to changes) come back. Actually, the second surgery hurt worse than the first.
So far I am happy as a lark. I had my programmer crank mine up till my voice slurred and then back off. The change in tremor on vs off is dramatic. Just like that video of the guy who wrote the song "Don't Shake My Hand it Shakes Just Fine by Itself."
Boy, when my IPG for the tremor side turns on, I can feel it in my face and my mouth-droop disappears. It's an Activa and I call my remote switch my garage door opener. I am not crazy about turning it off as it makes my hand and arm tired to flop like a fish so much.
In 2007 I had my hand operated on. When they went to put in a drip I had to turn off the DBS for the EKG and my hand was flopping like a fish. It was the arm to stick and the one that doesn't flop was the one to work on. The nurse said if I hold it, will it stop shaking? I said no, then she'd start shaking. She said I'm gonna get a nurse to hold it while I stick it, that should keep it still enough. I said unless she's a good looking nurse, then it'll flop more.
The next time I went in for hand surgery, it was the other way around. The nurse looked at my flopping hand kid of concerned and I said to her, "Don't worry it'll stop flopping when I fall asleep." I knew what she was thinking.
The next thing to get fixed was my enlarged prostate. I knew it was gonna have to be done sooner or later and I already missed the height of the fishing season so I figured sooner was better than later. On the day of the surgery, we had to be there at 5:30 a.m. An old friend of ours was the anesthetist, and I warned him to look for a surprise when I got into the operating room. Marty has some googly eyes in her craft supplies and I snagged two of them and pasted them on the soon-to-be-star of the operating theater. I'd have given $10 to see the look on the operating teams' faces when they peeled back my gown!
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Fun things to do when there's othing else to do
When Patrick was in training (I'm kind of groggy from cough medicine, so bear with me if this is kind of strange & disjointed) he was in a class of English sailors and made fast friends with them and I pulled out a fake jar purported to be "armadillo pate" for him to give to his new British friends. I also gave him some "rattlesnake eggs" but still it didn't seem enough. Ever the pranksters, we dummied up some labels to be affixed to regular baby food jars after you soaked off the original labels. I don't know what the British thought, but if you have some British friends coming over...
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Thanksgiving excursion, Part II
Well, we went back to books on CD and MP3's on CD. I did good. We made 2 stops for nature and 1 for gas.. I was able to convince her to go straight home and we left right after granddaughter Addie's birthday party...her 3rd or 4th one of the week. She is now officially 4 yrs old. She had 4 friends over and one of them wanted to sleep with her present for Addie. She was so excited about it, she didn't want to forget it. She asked if it was time from 6 a.m. till start time of 2 p.m. Addie for her part got up singing "Happy birthday to me! Happy Birthday to me!" Everyone had a grand time.
Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. The first night we went to a Japanese restaurant with chairs around the grill where the "chef" performed his culinary and juggling expertise. Addie was so adamant about 'no fire' because it scared her. The chef got the message and was allowed to make a 'volcano' with onion rings, but hand to pretend it was the engine of a choo choo train to get away with it.
We stopped on the way back home in Hammond, LA. It was budget accommodationsa but not as bad as the time we stayed in one where the room numbers were put on the doors with a Magic Marker! We managed to ride the crest of the wave of returning families into Conroe ahead of the crowd. Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home. Thanking you for your support and saying so long till the next entry.
Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. The first night we went to a Japanese restaurant with chairs around the grill where the "chef" performed his culinary and juggling expertise. Addie was so adamant about 'no fire' because it scared her. The chef got the message and was allowed to make a 'volcano' with onion rings, but hand to pretend it was the engine of a choo choo train to get away with it.
We stopped on the way back home in Hammond, LA. It was budget accommodationsa but not as bad as the time we stayed in one where the room numbers were put on the doors with a Magic Marker! We managed to ride the crest of the wave of returning families into Conroe ahead of the crowd. Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home. Thanking you for your support and saying so long till the next entry.
A second try at Thanksgiving
Well, after the roofers incident, we left at 4:44 pm for Hattiesburg, MS. Without a flight plan, even, although we were flying along the interstate (once we got to it in Beaumont, TX)
Since I make a lousy front-seat driver, I occupy myself with my MP3 player or (this time) with the portable DVD player. Now I see why parents put on the Finding Nemo DVD and drive happily onwards. I made it through 59 songs and 3 WWII classics, and I use the term loosely. They may have been classics in Italian, even Jack Kelly and Lee Van Cleef's voices were dubbed in in English. Marty, well, she was feeding books on CD into the car's player. I can't make out what the narrator is saying, so I turn to my own devices every time. She cant stand the overflow from my earplugs so she turns up the volume and I change the audio setup to come out mostly the speaker on her side. You'd think as clearly as I mcan hear the narrator over Bits and Pieces by Dave Clark 5, I would be able to follow them both, but N-O-O-O-O!
We make it all the 3 hr way to Beaumont where we stop for gas, potty and goodies. As if I didn't eat steadily the whole trip over and back. Next stop was some Mississippi rest stop. We have to drive in the right lane you know and swing out to the left lane to pass and back again. We have to drive the speed limit (or better) at all times. This makes for a million cas passed before we get out of the driveway! That's why I lean back and sleep or listen to music or both. Except when, for example, a bull wanders onto the numberless Nebraska highway and we make the transition from a carefree 70 mph to 0 mph so he can saunter off. This is where the radio failed and gave rise to MP3 players and books-on-tape: We pushed the "seek" button on the radio and the darn thing wouldn't stop looking for a station until we turned it off.
Back to our TG trip. We tooled into Hattiesburg at 12:44, give or take a time zone or a daylight hour saved. We tip-toed into the back door of her old house. Her mother died a year or two ago and her brother and his wife who were living there taking care of mom, stayed there, inheriting the house. Wife got some family property in Tennessee. Anyway she went running around the next day while I slept. As usual we ate out for supper. As usual they fought over the check.
Next day finds us at a Hattiesburg pump to fill up and fill further up....burp. Off we go to the tune of "After 800 yards, turn right." Followed by "At the first opportunity, turn around." We were off to Montgomery, AL and the son and wife and grandkids there. Also the daughter-in-law's parents, brother and his wife, another son, his friend and his friend's wife, 13 in all. We interrupt a card game of hearts and I sieze the opportunity to play. We played many games the next 2-1/2 days. Marty made 3 pies, they bought a pumpkin pie as only I ate it...yeah, but over 2-1/2 days. They all preferred lemon ice-box pie and chocolate pie.
Well, it's time for dominoes, so this is to be continued..................................
Since I make a lousy front-seat driver, I occupy myself with my MP3 player or (this time) with the portable DVD player. Now I see why parents put on the Finding Nemo DVD and drive happily onwards. I made it through 59 songs and 3 WWII classics, and I use the term loosely. They may have been classics in Italian, even Jack Kelly and Lee Van Cleef's voices were dubbed in in English. Marty, well, she was feeding books on CD into the car's player. I can't make out what the narrator is saying, so I turn to my own devices every time. She cant stand the overflow from my earplugs so she turns up the volume and I change the audio setup to come out mostly the speaker on her side. You'd think as clearly as I mcan hear the narrator over Bits and Pieces by Dave Clark 5, I would be able to follow them both, but N-O-O-O-O!
We make it all the 3 hr way to Beaumont where we stop for gas, potty and goodies. As if I didn't eat steadily the whole trip over and back. Next stop was some Mississippi rest stop. We have to drive in the right lane you know and swing out to the left lane to pass and back again. We have to drive the speed limit (or better) at all times. This makes for a million cas passed before we get out of the driveway! That's why I lean back and sleep or listen to music or both. Except when, for example, a bull wanders onto the numberless Nebraska highway and we make the transition from a carefree 70 mph to 0 mph so he can saunter off. This is where the radio failed and gave rise to MP3 players and books-on-tape: We pushed the "seek" button on the radio and the darn thing wouldn't stop looking for a station until we turned it off.
Back to our TG trip. We tooled into Hattiesburg at 12:44, give or take a time zone or a daylight hour saved. We tip-toed into the back door of her old house. Her mother died a year or two ago and her brother and his wife who were living there taking care of mom, stayed there, inheriting the house. Wife got some family property in Tennessee. Anyway she went running around the next day while I slept. As usual we ate out for supper. As usual they fought over the check.
Next day finds us at a Hattiesburg pump to fill up and fill further up....burp. Off we go to the tune of "After 800 yards, turn right." Followed by "At the first opportunity, turn around." We were off to Montgomery, AL and the son and wife and grandkids there. Also the daughter-in-law's parents, brother and his wife, another son, his friend and his friend's wife, 13 in all. We interrupt a card game of hearts and I sieze the opportunity to play. We played many games the next 2-1/2 days. Marty made 3 pies, they bought a pumpkin pie as only I ate it...yeah, but over 2-1/2 days. They all preferred lemon ice-box pie and chocolate pie.
Well, it's time for dominoes, so this is to be continued..................................
Monday, December 1, 2008
Captain's blog, stardate 12.1.2008
Well, I have returned from Alabama where I seen my suzianna. I got to see Patrick and his highschool hum Dwight and got to forward a drum solo to dwight. You can see his drum solos at dafontenot in YouTube. I have some there too under "viggune." Well, my long suffering wife drove us to Hattiesburg, MS last Monday after the roofers finished. They were good guys and wished me bien viaje. I gave the foreman a CD of old Mexican music. Funny, they looked at the insurance estimate and theirs was the same. Duh!
Captain's blog, 12,2,8: I had to nap in the middle of a blog entry yesterday and after a few added words today I find this blog so boring, I need another nap. SO I'll post this and zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Captain's blog, 12,2,8: I had to nap in the middle of a blog entry yesterday and after a few added words today I find this blog so boring, I need another nap. SO I'll post this and zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Monday, November 24, 2008
Monday morning too early
I like the British
They use the keenest words
No matter they be glad or sad
Their English is rarely bad
They're verrrry properrr in their rendition
Of the Queen's condition
Using her English (why they haven't their own?)
It's mellifluous, truth be known
Now you've gone and done it!
I laughed a horse laugh out loud,
And nearly fell out of the fridge-a-computer
Most nearly waking up the baby.
She eats and sleeps a lot too,
But there isn't room in here for us both.
It wouldn't be so bad
If I weren't trying to hide it from the wife
And her always asking,
"What's this empty peanut can doing in the pantry?"
And stuff like that.
I plan to be fishing when she discovers
That all the chip bags with clothespins and clips on them are empty.
chuckle
Good grief! I am torn between interest in your project
Like Vic ar,
And the thought of what I'd look like startkers.
Ach du lieber! Googles?
Were they 38D goggles?
And what do figs have to do with it all?
Your colorful posts keep me smiling...and thinking.
Thinking, "Now what was I looking for? I forgot."
The peanut that died came back
His shell all tattered and torn
Under the bunks in Shelby's Barracks
Where the tile was well kept but worn
What peanut could so be blamed
When, at last, he loudly proclaimed
"Now where is that S.O.B.
Who said he worked for me?"
So, I'm a wee laddie am I
Fateful that I've a UTI, naye?
and go about with a wee wee here
and a wee wee there
Lucky I've no pigs
Or I'd have wee wee everywhere
altho that depends
Father William you say you're old
Yet ye stand on yer head?
Can that apoplectic phenomena be?
They use the keenest words
No matter they be glad or sad
Their English is rarely bad
They're verrrry properrr in their rendition
Of the Queen's condition
Using her English (why they haven't their own?)
It's mellifluous, truth be known
Now you've gone and done it!
I laughed a horse laugh out loud,
And nearly fell out of the fridge-a-computer
Most nearly waking up the baby.
She eats and sleeps a lot too,
But there isn't room in here for us both.
It wouldn't be so bad
If I weren't trying to hide it from the wife
And her always asking,
"What's this empty peanut can doing in the pantry?"
And stuff like that.
I plan to be fishing when she discovers
That all the chip bags with clothespins and clips on them are empty.
chuckle
Good grief! I am torn between interest in your project
Like Vic ar,
And the thought of what I'd look like startkers.
Ach du lieber! Googles?
Were they 38D goggles?
And what do figs have to do with it all?
Your colorful posts keep me smiling...and thinking.
Thinking, "Now what was I looking for? I forgot."
The peanut that died came back
His shell all tattered and torn
Under the bunks in Shelby's Barracks
Where the tile was well kept but worn
What peanut could so be blamed
When, at last, he loudly proclaimed
"Now where is that S.O.B.
Who said he worked for me?"
So, I'm a wee laddie am I
Fateful that I've a UTI, naye?
and go about with a wee wee here
and a wee wee there
Lucky I've no pigs
Or I'd have wee wee everywhere
altho that depends
Father William you say you're old
Yet ye stand on yer head?
Can that apoplectic phenomena be?
Sunday, November 23, 2008
again
They are Spanish speaking so I got a chance to show off my broken Spanish. I loaned them my extension cord and my leaf blower to clean my gutters of the grit and shingle flotsam. Which reminds me, yooou know what strawberries and grits taste llike? Strawberries. Blueberries and grits? Blueberries. Butter and grits? Butter. Horse manure and grits? Grits.
I seem to be groggiest on Sunday. Maybe it's the one last vestige of work patterning. Anyway, I am zonked when I get up and while Istarted the 8:30 a.m. service attendance, I find I can't get Sunday-ready by then anymore. Just too slow. During the week, I can get ready quickly enough: A hat to hide my finger-in-a-socket hair-do, my jeans from yesterday (and the day before, etc as well as the tee shirt), socks (ditto) shoes (tied butloppy enough slip on, morning breath and I'm ready.
I seem to be groggiest on Sunday. Maybe it's the one last vestige of work patterning. Anyway, I am zonked when I get up and while Istarted the 8:30 a.m. service attendance, I find I can't get Sunday-ready by then anymore. Just too slow. During the week, I can get ready quickly enough: A hat to hide my finger-in-a-socket hair-do, my jeans from yesterday (and the day before, etc as well as the tee shirt), socks (ditto) shoes (tied butloppy enough slip on, morning breath and I'm ready.
Well, I made it
Here I am, Lord. Sitting here on a Sunday morninga capitive sheep of yours trying to stray but tethered by mom and friends, including my staunchest friend, Marty. The roofers bang away, if I'd have been THE hunchback, it would be bells. Instead it'll be the usual ringing of tinnitis, not bells.
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