September 30, 2011

IF IT'S NOT ONE THING...IT'S YOUR MOTHER(S)

Mom knew she had arrived earlier than the appointed time when she pulled up in front of Dora’s house, but she was anxious to be on her way to Amarillo…anxious to get the dreaded spinal decompression surgery over with. Dora stuck her head out the front door and hollered that she was almost ready, then disappeared back into her house. To pass the time and calm her nerves, Mom pulled her paperback book out of her purse, rolled the car windows down, and quickly became absorbed in her latest story.

Several minutes had passed when Mom heard a faint sound coming outside the passenger window. Glancing over, Mom saw a hand waving at her through the window and heard Dora’s voice calling for help. She hurriedly opened her door and walked around the car, surprised to find Dora lying uncomfortably between the curb and the car.

“What are you doing on the ground…did you fall?” asked Captain Obvious, aka, Mom.

“Yes, I've fallen and I can’t get up! You’re gonna have to help me!” exclaimed my Mother-in-law, Dora.

Mom shuffled around to the back of the car and pulled her walker out of the trunk.

“Here…use this.” she instructed as she plopped the walker down in front of Dora.

“Dang it, Donna! I said: I. Can’t. Get. Up! I think I hurt my leg.” replied Dickie’s clumsy Mama.

As luck would have it, a white knight in a beat up truck saw the two little ladies beside the road and stopped to help. He managed to get Dora tucked into the car, returned the useless walker to the trunk, and sent them merrily on their way.

Uh, except the merrily part only lasted until Panhandle. At least for Dora. That’s when her leg began throbbing with pain. Which Mom – whether out of stress or a warped sense of humor - found to be hysterically funny.

I happened to be working in the same hospital where Mom was scheduled for surgery. I thought it was sweet that Dora wanted to come with Mom, to offer her support. They had planned to drive straight to my house, and I was waiting for a call to tell me they had arrived safely. That was not the call I received…

“Robin…hahaha…we’re almost to Amarillo…hahaha, but I swear, all that’s holding the two of us together is duct tape and bailing wire, hahaha. Dora thinks she hurt her leg, hahaha. She fell trying to get into my car…haha…and I didn’t even hear her …haha…cause I was reading my Nora Roberts book and you know how good her love scenes are, hahaha.”

“Wait a minute, Mom. If Dora is hurt, why are you laughing so hard?”

“Hahaha! Isn’t it awful…haha? I shouldn’t be laughing, cause Dora is really hurting, hahahaha. You don’t think she broke her leg, do you? BWHAHAHAHA?”

“Mom. Seriously. Stop laughing and drive straight to the hospital. Call me when you get lost.”

She called three more times trying to figure out how to get to the hospital. Mom’s sense of direction is about as warped as her sense of humor.

I had a wheelchair and a couple of my physical therapy buddies ready to help them out of the car when they arrived. Mom still had the giggles, but Dora’s ashen face wasn’t quite so jolly. According to the x-rays, she didn’t have much reason to be. Yep, it’s all fun and games 'til somebody breaks a hip.

And that, my friends, is how my Mom and my Mom-in-law came to be on the same floor of the same hospital after undergoing orthopedic surgeries a mere two hours apart on the same day. That was seven years ago. Since that fateful day, they have not been allowed to travel together without a responsible adult in the car.

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Tuesday happened to be my day for being the responsible adult.

Call me crazy, but I don’t agree that doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results is insanity. In my dysfunctional world…it’s optimism. Which is why, in an effort to kill two birds (or Moms) with one stone, I had optimistically made their cardiology appointments on the same day at the same time, with the same doctor. Bless my heart.

Act One of the Donna and Dora Traveling Road Show began in the clinic waiting room.

As the wait grew longer, the Moms’ patience grew thinner. They began to express their frustration loudly and vocally, their boiling disgust spilling onto the entire medical profession (excluding optometrists and pharmacists, of course).

Mom pointedly explained to everyone present how she had almost become a nurse, but thank goodness had come to her senses. She had, in fact, bought the white shoes, stockings, dress and hat ensemble that all good nurses of the 50’s wore and had actually worked two entire weeks in the hospital. She explained how her budding career as a nurse came to a screeching halt when she was asked to bathe an elderly male patient. After she had modestly dabbed his chest off with a wet washcloth, he removed the towel across his hips and asked if she minded washing his...uh, junk. That was when Florence Nightingale threw the washcloth at her patient and walked out of the room. And continued walking right on out of the hospital.

But HAD she become a nurse, Mom explained to us all, she would never leave her patients waiting a whole hour in the waiting room. How. Rude.

Dora agreed, mumbling how she made it all the way to her wedding night without ever having to see a man’s junk, much less, wash it.

Finally (thank you Baby Jesus) we were called back to the examining room. Carrying three purses while leading two Moms through the maze of halls was not unlike herding cats. Slow, shuffling, noisy cats. With 45-pound purses.

Dora went through the battery of tests first. As Mom watched the nurse place electrodes on Dora’s chest for an EKG, she told us how much she had always envied Dora’s greatly endowed boobage. But not so much any more...

Dora bragged to the the nurse that her EKG would be better than my Mom’s, because she had never been a nasty smoker and everyone knows that smoking affects your heart. And makes your breath stink. And probably kept your boobs from growing. According to Dora.

After the tests, the exhausted nurse gave both Moms a copy of their individual lab results.

Dora looked at hers in confusion and said, “I never did know what a cholesterol was.”

“Oh you have one.”
Mom told her, helpfully. “Everyone has a cholesterol.”

Finally, the doctor came in and attempted to give each of them a good report. I felt like an interpreter at a UN Summit Meeting, between the heavily accented Arabian doctor and the stereophonic babbling Moms. He seemed to feel safer addressing Dora. Especially after Mom told him she didn’t want any more tests done. Ever. “Might I ask why?” He politely asked.

“Because, hey…you gotta die with something, right?”

“That’s right Mrs. Cooper.” He replied with his eye twitching.

Two hours and thirty minutes it took us. One hundred and fifty minutes to essentially learn that smoking will make you flat and that all God’s children have a cholesterol.

But being around these two Moms of mine...with their indomitable spirits and wacky humor...best 2 ½ hours of my week.

Even as they frazzle my brain, they fill my heart, and make my belly ache with laughter. I count it nothing but honor to stand with them as they stand together, united in their fight against the fast fade, connected forevermore through their grandchildren, great-grandchildren and generations of Cooper-Haneys to come.

I didn’t need no stinkin doctor to tell me their hearts were good. Both my Moms have the Very Best Hearts. And my own is grateful for every day they are still with me. Duct tape, bailing wire, and all...they bless my heart, indeed ♥

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September 24, 2011

He washed MY feet

Mothers of boys…we see our sons in their most vulnerable moments. We’re the ones they come to when they are sick, when they get hurt, when they’ve had a broken heart or a bad dream.

And because we’re the ones who see them with their guards down, it makes it harder for us not to over-protect and over-manage. Hard to keep ourselves from going before them to make the crooked paths straight.

We alone know the heart of our son, the heart that grew right under our own, in a way nobody else ever will.

This is why it is almost impossible for us to look at our son and see a man. Even if he has hair on his face and an apple on his Adam, we still look through those grown-up eyes and see the breakable heart of our own little boy.

Instead of the 27-year old man, we see the 4-year old little guy that we dropped off for his first day of preschool. The one that walked off sadly with his teacher, tugged on her hand to stop, then turned around to look back at me. As he looked me up and down with all the solemnity of a judge, Jacob's parting shot was: “I just wanted to remember what you looked like...”

Letting go is hard.

It’s been even harder with Jacob. Partly because he’s my baby, partly because he’s always been the sensitive one, and mostly because he’s traveled down a long and crooked road that only he could finally make straight.

I’ve learned so much from Jacob. As a little guy, he was my peacemaker…the one that always wanted everybody together in the same house in the same room singing Kumbaya and passing out cookies. He has always seen the best in everyone and everything around him. Every meal that I cooked was the best one he had ever eaten, every song his brother taught him on the guitar was the best one he had ever heard, every ballgame he and his Dad played was the most fun ever.

 
Jacob has always seen life in extremes…from the brightest hues of the rainbow to the darkest grays imaginable. For him, those days that weren’t The Very Best, were almost always The Worst.

To experience life so deeply is both a blessing and a curse. To be born with a heart so empathic that it never stops feeling must be both wonderful and terrifying. I never really understood depression until I had to watch my young son struggle in its grips. I never realized how far one would go to escape those dark feelings, until he almost escaped too far.

We’ve been through a lot, my Jacob and I. Much like any parent-child relationship, not all of it has been pretty. But we’ve never given up on each other. No one could love him more.

++++++++++

Last Saturday, I was kneeling on the floor beside the Dickman’s chair, looking over his shoulder as he read about me making fun of him in my last blog. As we were laughing together, I felt something cold and wet touch my feet. I swung my head around to see Jacob on the floor beside me, washing my feet off with a paper towel.

Let me repeat myself: Jacob was washing MY feet.


To fully appreciate this act of kindness, you would have to know what ugly feet I have. My feet are Fugly. Truly. My own Mom once told me that my feet looked like they had worn out three bodies. My husband tells everyone that he married me IN SPITE of my ugly feet. I have bunions. I have callouses. I have cracked heels. I even have a spot on the bottom of my right foot that occasionally grows a tiny hair, but we’ll save that for another story.

“What in the world are you doing? Are my feet really THAT dirty?” I said to J.P. in surprise.

“Nah, they’re not too bad. I just wanted to wash your feet.” He replied.

Distracted by my husband’s hysterical laughter as he watched another video of his sedated self…I paid my son little heed. Until a few moments later, when I felt him gently rubbing lotion onto my now clean feet.

“Seriously, dude…lotion?” I said.

“Yeah. Your feet are really dry. This will make them feel better.” So said my handsome manservant.

Again, without much thought, I turned back to my laughing husband.

++++++++++

Later that day I pulled up to Jacob’s new apartment. He and his Dad had begun moving him in and thankfully, I had timed it just right so there was nothing heavy left for me to carry up the stairs. As the guys were busy doing manly stuff like putting bed rails together and hooking up cable, I puttered around in his tiny kitchen, trying to not to wonder what might be growing in a half-empty bag of flour that had survived six weeks of storage in a horse trailer.

No sooner had we moved him in, than he was ready for us to be on our way. As I walked back down the steps of his apartment he called out to me and I turned around.

“Mom…? Thanks. I really mean it. Thanks for everything. I know I’ve put you through a lot. That’s why I washed your feet this morning.”

“Well, baby…that was really so sweet of you. But I’m sure you washed my feet because they were hideous and your OCD just couldn’t stand it.”
 
“No, Mom. I mean…yeah, it started out that way. I got a paper towel to wipe a smudge off your foot. But then I thought about how Jesus washed his disciples’ feet and I wanted to do the same for you. I couldn’t find any oil, so I just used lotion. I wanted to show you that I’m sorry. And that I love you.”


I looked at this beautiful man that was once my little boy.  I really looked at him. And suddenly all I saw was the man, standing strong and vulnerable before me. His tender heart shining out of blue eyes full of hope...hope that I would understand the importance of the gift he had given.

Finally, I saw.

I walked back up the steps and hugged him. I wrapped my arms around this son of mine who had been through so much, who had fought so hard to stand right where he was standing. I told him I was sorry. That I didn’t realize at the time just how precious a gift he had given me. But now? I got it.

As Jacob’s mother, there is nothing that I’ve ever done to make me worthy of him washing my feet. Even so, I got it.

There I stood - just like Peter – confused and unworthy.

And there he was - being Jesus - giving the purest of gifts in the most humble of ways.


As I was driving away, I glanced back one more time and took a long, appreciative look at the man standing on the stairs. In that moment, with a heart filled to bursting...I just wanted to remember what he looked like.

September 17, 2011

Going Down Tobacco Road With A One-Way Ticket To Paradise

After so many years together, it's safe to say that my husband and I have few surprises left for each other. That's why it was such a shock to see an entirely new side of the Dickman - one I had not known existed - when he underwent an Upper and Lower GI last year.

Other than giving birth to a kidney stone and, oh yeah, a recent unfortunate case of the 'Kneesles' which developed from a dog bite to the knee ---> (hahaha), Dickie has always been disgustingly healthy.

As you might expect, his experience with hospitals and medical procedures has been very limited. In fact, prior to last year's scope, he had never been under any type of anesthesia or sedation.

Suffice it to say, he really didn't need to take the pre-procedural Go-Lightly, cause he was pretty much scared sh*tless.

And take it from me, fear is not an emotion that the Dickman wears well. Thankfully, he is a man of few fears. In fact, except for roller coasters and PMS'ing women, the only thing the Dickman is afraid of is...needles.

So, what do you get when you combine a deep-seated needle phobia with an overt need to be in control? One Crappy Patient. Which in itself is surprising, as Dickie has always excelled at most every other thing in life. Except chewing gum and threading needles. And maybe a few other little things. (You can email me for a complete list.)

The main problem is - just like every other male of the species - the Dickman wants to be in the driver's seat. Both literally and figuratively. Whether driving an actual car or guiding an actual surgical tube through his own orifice(s). He does not like giving over control.

In spite of it all, he survived the dual-ended scope. In fact, Dickie was awarded an A+ on his butt scope, which to my understanding is the same as saying he is, I mean...has...a perfect butthole. As for the Upper GI, the doc recommended that Dickie undergo a follow-up scope this year. In my opinion, this was prescribed simply because Loopy Dickman is so darn entertaining.

Seriously, there is nothing funnier than the Dickman under the influence of the conscious sedation drug,Versed. In all the many fun-filled, rip-roaring years of my marriage, I have never laughed harder at anything or anyone than Dickie post-scope.

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A few weeks back I was in the process of filling out my WOTY (Wifey Of The Year) entry form when Dickie called to let me know he had scheduled his upper GI scope.

Don't judge me, but I can't tell you how excited I got in anticipation of seeing Dickie under the influence once again. I was especially excited because this time I would be prepared. This time I was taking a camera to record Dick on Drugs for all posterity and his grandbabies to see.

[Is that wrong? Go ahead and nod your head yes, I really don't care. Because in all my excitement of getting to laugh at my sedated husband, I forgot to send in my WOTY entry form.]

I'm not sure why Dickie has such a crazy reaction on Versed. I've had the same drug and do exactly what I'm supposed to: sleep like a baby in between short wake-ups to ask "Is it over? Am I okay?".

But no, not the Dickman. Not only does he refuse to relax and go to sleep, he won't shut up. And his personality changes into a character that can only be described as a combination of his Uncle Harold shooting the bull with a bunch of guys outside the Borger Bulldog bus barn and former president Bill Clinton holding court at a summit meeting.

I submit Exhibit A...the Dickman in the early throes of mindless utopia as he begins to channel President Clinton, his voice in sincere meeting mode:



Throughout the entire debacle, Dickie remained very fixated on his Diet Dr. Pepper. Here he is trying to figure out the existential meaning of a Dr. Pepper gone flat while going down Tobacco Road with a One-Way Ticket to Paradise:



And my very favorite...more Diet DP deliberation mixed in with a little French lesson amid declarations of true love:



Yeah, sure I'm gonna let you drive home. You can't even operate the bendy straw in your drink can.

When the nurse had enough of the Loopy Dickman, she came in and asked who he was going home with. In all his virile glory, Dickie assumed the nurse was hitting on him. (Another weird side effect of the Dickman on Versed...he suddenly becomes irresistible to nurses, but only in his mind. Bless his heart.)

Thankfully, he still liked me best, and not just because I was the one taking him home.

Finally, here he is...happy to be going home with me, a special child of the universe:



I might add that before we left, the doc came in to talk to us and gave me some Good News and some Bad News. The Good News was that Dickie had checked out fine. The Bad News was that he wouldn't have to have another scope for three years.

"What??" I said, "I have to wait three more years to enjoy my husband on Versed again?!" "'Fraid so, Mrs. Haney" the doctor said...then skedaddled away.

Oh well - look at the bright side. With a three-year hiatus, I might actually have a shot at winning Wifey of the Year.

September 11, 2011

REMEMBERING 9/11

Flashbulb Memory (noun) a memory laid down in great detail during a highly personally significant event. These memories are perceived to have a "photographic" quality. For example, a great many people can remember exactly where they were when they heard of the terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001 or the assassination of John F. Kennedy or John Lennon. (Webster)

With both sons away at college and my husband in Philadelphia on a business trip, that Tuesday morning in September was unusually quiet and peaceful in my little corner of the world.

I made it all the way to the hospital before I was alerted to the catastrophic events unfolding in NYC. Walking into a patient’s room to begin therapy, the unbelievable images on the television slowly seeped into my brain. I calmly excused myself and went to the therapy office, where fear and confusion had erupted among my young co-workers. I distinctly remember one therapist on the phone, sobbing to her mother, telling her over and over how much she loved her.

Another young student was sitting quietly in shocked silence as hot tears streamed from her disbelieving eyes. I wrapped my arms around her in motherly comfort, having nothing else to give her. There were no words, only the unspoken understanding that everything had suddenly changed.

I looked up to see my boss searching the room, watched as his eyes settled on mine. He came over to me and with great concern asked if I had spoken to Dickie. I did not know what he had just learned. That a third plane had exploded on impact right outside of Philadelphia.

In spite, or perhaps because of the horror that had filled the morning, I hadn’t given a thought to the fact that my husband might be so close to the tragedy. I told my boss that Dickie was supposed to have flown out of Philadelphia earlier that morning. He said, “You need to call him, Robin. Another plane just went down.”

As I heard his words, I stopped for a moment to check my heart. My heart has carried Dickie around inside for so many years, I knew there would be a physical change in rhythm if he were not okay. Even so, he had never felt so far away.

It took awhile to get through to him. All circuits were busy. When I finally heard his sweet, ‘Hey, baby…are you okay?”, I felt the world shift shakily back onto its axis. Beyond being frustrated and helpless – and oh so sad – he was okay. All flights had been cancelled, all rental cars had been rented. On the day of the worst tragedy in history, he wanted nothing more than to be home with his family but was powerless to do anything but return to his hotel and wait.

In the hours and days that followed, my time was either spent in front of the TV or on the phone. There were endless conversations with my sons, with my mother, and with Dickie, who was slowly going crazy trapped in his hotel room. All of us shared our frustration and our fear, hopelessly trying to make sense of a senseless act, trying to find words of reassurance. With each image of Ground Zero, of the Pentagon, of the field in Pennsylvania, we all felt the impact of those airplanes like a punch to the chest. We shared in the unspeakable grief for the thousands that had been impacted directly.

I remember calling my 93 year old grandmother who suffered from dementia and had a hard time figuring out the world on a good day. I called my Flodie at her supervised group home, just wanting to hear her precious voice. Her caregiver answered and said my grandmother was agitated, but fine. As soon as she heard my voice Flodie excitedly said, “Robin, I think something bad might have happened.” I said, "Why do you think so?” She replied, “It was on TV...somebody made a mess.”

“I think you’re right, Flodie,” I said. “Somebody made a big mess...”

Two days later, Dickie was able to connect with a friend from Amarillo who was also stuck in Philadelphia. They had somehow secured one of the last rentals to be found and drove straight through to Texas in 22 hours.

With Dickie safe at home, I was finally able to release my feelings - on paper. This is the letter I sent to my sons:

===========================================

September 15, 2001

Lucas & J.P.,

What a week! You guys don’t know how many times I’ve wanted to pick up the telephone during this past week just to hear your voices, and how thankful I am to God that I was able to do so. Part of me wanted to have you close to me at home; but most of me felt peace knowing that you were at ACU, praying in Chapel, praying in groups, praying all alone for our people and our country.

What has happened this week affects all of us deeply. Beyond that, the results of Tuesday’s Terrorism will have a profound effect on My Grandbabies-To-Be. I thank God that my sons have had the privilege of making it into manhood without directly knowing the threat of war. No matter what the near future may bring as a result of this terrorism, I believe that both of you are mature enough and strong enough in your faith to deal with it. But I’m selfish enough to admit that it really infuriates me that My Grandchildren will not be able to grow up with the same sense of security. And I can’t help but wonder what kind of world they will inherit…

I’d like to think that there will be ‘trade-offs’. My little blue & green-eyed (brown-eyed?) Grandbabies will be born into a nation left with obscene scars that were unimaginable to us less than one week ago. But they will never grow up taking their freedom for granted, as our generations have done. My Grandbabies will never think that it’s ‘corny’ to sing the national anthem or question the tears that form in the eyes of their parents and grandparents when we hear their sweet voices singing of the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave. The words to the Pledge of Allegiance – One Nation, under God - will never be empty words, but words of promise and hope to My Grandbabies. Most of all, I believe that My Grandbabies will grow up depending on God with their every breath, not just in times of chaos and trouble. I believe that their faith will be stronger, their hearts will be softer, their pride indestructible. I’m sad that some asshole from Afghanistan has shaken the physical foundation that I believed would remain intact for My Grandbabies. But I thank God that they will grow up in a world whose eyes have been opened, and whose spiritual foundation became renovated, reconstructed and reinforced on 9-11-01.

I challenge you both to be an active part in helping to bring our nation back to God. I want My Grandbabies to know and believe in foundations that can’t be broken apart by cowards and unbelievers. I challenge you to stay strong and keep the faith. You are My Baby Boys and I love you both more than you could ever know.

Mom
Psalm 46


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Ten years later…I now have three of those blue-eyed grandbabies. Three beautiful souls full of innocence and hope, who are not yet old enough to understand the monstrous evil unleashed upon our nation a decade ago.

The fact that Islamic terrorists wanted revenge is not what is important for them to understand about 9/11. What I hope they will understand is the amazing bravery of the First Responders; how everyday people turned into heroes; how we should never take our liberties – or our life – for granted. I hope they come to realize that in spite of the best efforts of a cowardly band of terrorists, we still remain the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave.

Most of all, I hope they will grow up to be the kind of people that speak these words as a prayer...that will whisper or sing or shout these words with a hand proudly placed over a heart filled with faith:

GOD BLESS AMERICA.