I try as best I can, I am human after all, not to look over other people’s fences and find their grass to be greener than that growing in my own yard. Instead, I try to concentrate on being grateful for the roof over my head, the food in my refrigerator, and my lovely friends and family. There are times, I have to admit, my mind wanders to what life might have looked like had I gotten a stellar education and made something spectacular out of myself, or come into this world meant to leave something important behind me. But really, what is the point of looking back like that? It only serves to make you unhappy, and that has never been my goal in life. All the wishing and hoping won’t change one single thing at this bend in the road. When I ponder those kind of thoughts, I tend to wonder what I would do differently had I to do it over again.
The universe did not exactly hand me a bag load of God given talents as I came down the chute, to help make my choices crystal clear. For example, I’m not the least musical. My singing voice is far more suited to emptying a room than, it will ever be to filling it. Music in general, isn’t my strong suit, other than listening to other people perform it, which I really enjoy. In middle school, I decided to try my hand at playing an instrument. Of all choices, I opted for the clarinet. My music teacher told me I hit notes he didn’t even know the instrument was capable of achieving, and this, I assure you, was not meant by way of a compliment. After listening to the painful notes I generated on the woodwind, he strongly suggested I continue with my higher education in another field. Fine.
I am a fairly good artist. Van Gogh is not worried on the other side that I will surpass him in accolades, but I do have a certain talent for putting pencil to paper. This is a gift which has brought me much joy over the years. The farthest I’ve ever taken it out into the world, was three years in my mid thirties where I spent weekends at art and wine festivals hawking my greeting cards, and framed prints. I also thoroughly enjoy transferring that art to working with fabric and have created many, many aprons, quilts and the like for family and friends as well as paying customers during that time. Life now, feels incredibly full, and finding time to relax and enjoy my creative urges seems elusive to me for the moment.
There is a lot going on in the universe, or it certainly resonates that way. Everyone I talk to of late seems to be dealing with physical challenges either for themselves or a family member, and each seems to be asking, “what is going on”? Not to be outdone, Richard has now decided to step up to the plate and was recently diagnosed with gallstones. This is producing some gastrointestinal issues for him which are uncomfortable. Though a treatable condition, thankfully, it may require the removal of the offending organ. I had mine removed thirty years ago and have been cruising along just fine without it ever since. The only side effect I ever experienced once the organ was in the jar, was an intolerance for garlic. I still eat the delicious pungent little bulb, mind you, one cannot live without garlic, but now pay afterward for the privilege.
When I had my surgery, they were still removing gall bladders the barbaric way. Basically, the surgeon cut a diagonal line across your mid section and snip, snip, snip, cut the darn thing out. Though I heal well, you can still see the long scar clearly if the sun hits it exactly right. With new methods in place, they now have you in and out before you can say malpractice. You don’t spend one night in the hospital. The procedure is done laparoscopically. They cut four little holes in your abdomen, get out the Hoover from behind the closet door, and vacuum that baby right out. I’m sure it may be a little more complicated that that. After all, medical school is fairly extensive, but that’s my abridged version of the procedure.
In November, after my birthday on the first, I am submitting my hand to a local hand surgeon for repair. It’s broken, but not a bone. I have what is termed medically, Dupuytren’s Contracture. It is, so I’ve read, most common in people of Northern European (of which my current DNA sample revealed I am 98%) or Scandinavian descent, and far more common in men than women. When it’s in full bloom as mine is, it will cause one of your fingers to begin to bend in toward the palm, no longer allowing you to place your hand flat on a surface. There is no pain involved, but as it progresses, it does begin to become a problem. It is painless, but awkward. In my case, it involves my pinkie on my left hand. This is a plus, because my right hand is my dominant hand. However, as my finger has become more bent, it is making it difficult to use a keyboard properly as my finger is no longer in the correct position to hit the keys. The first hand surgeon suggested I could have it cut off. Whoa. Back off Bubba. Here we go back to the barbaric side of medicine again. As he said it, a vision popped into my head of a big man wearing a black mask with two eye holes cut out of it, holding an axe over my hand. NOT, I repeat, not happening. I came into this world with ten fingers, well actually eight and two thumbs, and I plan to go out the same way. Sooooo, I have agreed to the surgery. I will be unable to button my pants for eight weeks or so, but what the heck.
At any rate, I am headed to my new hairdressers today to get beautiful. They posted a coupon on line saying 20% Beauty Special, so I said, “sign me up”. A group of women I was with the other day for a friendly gathering, got to discussing women and the comparisons we deal with as we age when it comes to being held up to famous women in the media. Most of us “normal” ladies don’t have the money in our bank accounts for expensive skin treatments, high dollar stylists, or plastic surgeons. What life provided us, we will have to make the best of, with a little skin cream, makeup and sunscreen added in for good measure.
Happy Tuesday. Love who and where you are, if only right now. It’s where you are supposed to be. Today will be in the past in 24 hours, make a good memory.
I remember as a student, intern, and resident assisting surgeons with cholecystectomy procedures (the old fashioned way). I was always grateful for a relatively slim patient because larger patients often ended in fray tempers in the operating theatre with surgeons demanding better vision. This meant I wasn’t doing my job properly in holding the liver and everything else out of the way.
Well I am that, slim. I have heard that before from surgeons. It is more difficult when there is a lot of fatty tissue. Glad Richard doesn’t have to deal with the old fashioned way. With me they nicked the bowel, and I was back in for another eight days.
Yikes, I assume you endured peritonitis because of the spillage from the intestine. Eight days is a long stay on top of what you already experienced. In the old procedures I remember some patients recovered slowly because of the post-operative pain.
These days with laparscopic procedures, it’s like it’s a magic show.
So much better. Yes peritonitis. I was a sick puppy but once I was out of the hospital mended quickly.