It's Not the Message... It's the Messenger

I stomped out to the car and angrily slammed the door. I was having a no-good-terrible-horrible-very-bad day and now I had to make another freaking trip into town to pick up more medicine for Da Mamas.

As I merged onto the loop, my sucky attitude went into overdrive. I was angry at that trucker for going 5 miles under the speed limit! I was frustrated with my brother-in-law for slamming cabinets while searching for Fritoes!! I was furious with the Dickman for being twenty minutes late for supper (I made REAL mashed potatoes, dang it!!!).

At that precise moment in time, I felt overwhelmed and underappreciated.

Then, I turned onto Bell Street, and saw this beautiful lady holding a sign just for me...

I stared at her as I drove by, and caught her eye just long enough to give her a 'thumbs up'. 

The further away from her I drove, the more impactful she became.

I wanted to know what had motivated this lovely soul to spend a selfless afternoon on a windy street corner, offering sweet inspiration to random passersby.

I wanted to give her a hug.

I drove thru the pharmacy and headed back her way, intending to stop and find out her story.

At the last minute, all I did was slow down enough to snap a picture and wave to her like a besotted admirer.  Because by then, I was.

It wasn't so much about the message; I know I am important to my people. I know  they love me whether or not I spend hours slaving over a hot stove mashing  potatoes. 

So, even though the words on the sign were powerful, I was much more inspired by the messenger than the message.

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A few weeks ago, I got a text from my hairdresser, Penny, asking me to stop by her shop for a minute.

Of course I went by. She's my hairdresser, for Pete's sake. She knows more about me than the Dickman. She hates my gray and she washes it away. She refuses to give me a perm, even when I beg. She saves the best issues of PEOPLE magazine just for me (Is Bruce Jenner really a tranny?). AND... she lets me wear a cape.

I got there as quick as I could, and she handed me a big box full of gifts.

“What for...?” I asked in surprise.

“For you. You'll understand when you read the card.”

Among all the goodies in her sweet care package, Penny had included a pot of impatiens (for patience with Da Mamas), a pot of sedums (because she wanted me to have One Freaking Thing that was Low Maintenance – thank you Baby Jesus), a sunflower head to plant with my G-Babes, and my favorite of all, a wooden sign...

In her card, Penny said she made the sign because it reminded her of me.  She said that I was an inspiration to her.

Oh, man.

To say Penny's thoughtfulness touched me deeply would be a ridiculous under-statement.  You know in the Bible where Jesus is washing the feet of his disciples and Peter gets all squirrely, because he knows he is not worthy? I was Peter. As I held that box full of love and thoughtfulness, I knew exactly how he felt. 

I was humbled to the roots of my professionally colored hair, y'all.

Here's why...

You see, Penny is not just an awesome hairdresser. She is one of the most amazing and inspirational human beings I have ever known.

She is a single mom who, after standing on her feet for twelve hours straight dealing with schmucks like me, goes home to take care of her disabled daughter whom she refers to as Her Angel.

Her daughter was born with disabilities so severe that doctors said she would never live a functional life... she was blind, she was paralyzed, and they said she  would never be able to communicate.

But Penny didn't listen to no stinkin' doctors. She took her baby girl home and loved her as only Penny can.

That baby is now 14 years old. She's a beautiful, silly, brilliant girl who plays a pink guitar and loves her brother and her puppy dogs and has the most infectious laugh you've ever heard.

Penny's daughter is a force of nature. All because her mother refused to believe she would be anything less.

As if all that is not enough, Penny spends her 'spare' time helping out with women's shelters, taking in strays and feeding the homeless.

And, oh yeah... she also brings dogs back from the dead.

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After a particularly stressful day, Penny walked into her house and glanced out the window to see her dogs chasing each another around the backyard. All of a sudden, one of Penny's dogs fell limply to the ground. She and her son rushed outside and were shocked to see that their big strong boxer had stopped breathing.

"Diesel's dead!” cried her son.

“Oh, no he's not!” screamed Penny. “You don't get to die on me, Diesel!  Cause if you die, I have to dig a grave. And I'm way too tired to go digging a grave. Not today!”

Then with all her 100 pounds of might, Penny started slamming her fist into the huge boxer's chest.

Her son was screaming at her to stop beating on the poor dead dog when they heard Diesel cough softly.  Once.

Then he began to move...

“He's alive!!!”, her son exclaimed in surprise.

“Yep. Now we gotta figure out how to get him in the car.” Penny said. “And then take him to the vet. And pay the vet's bill.  But at least I don't have to dig a grave. Not today.”

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Words are important.  Words teach.  But when you're too tired to dig...

Da Mamas... No Teeth, No Beard, No Worries

Our Mamas are as different as night and day. Literally.  

His is an early-to-bedder and mine is an up-all-nighter. His is a worrier and mine is fearless.  His has teeth... and mine does not.

There must be some existential meaning behind Mom cutting her wisdom teeth at the ripe old age of 79, though I'm not sure what it is. All I know is that there is something way wrong in the timing of wisdom teeth that decide to come in after all the other teeth have gone.  That just ain't right...

So, there we were – Mom and I – sitting in Day Surgery, awaiting extraction.

“Two Things, Robin. I want you to remember Two Things.”

“Okay, Mom. What are they?”

“When I get out of surgery, make sure nobody sees me without my top dentures. And even if I'm drunk as a skunk, tell them I'm okay so we can hurry up and get out of here.”

True to form, she came out of the Recovery Room chirping, er... slurring, like a drunken magpie with top dentures intact, telling the nurse she was starving and ready to go home.

“Tell them I'm ready to go home, Robin.”

“But Mom, you can't even feel your tongue.”

“So...? Go get that nurse and tell her I'm ready to go home.  And bring me a hamburger.”

She finally wore those poor nurses out. My Loopy Chipmunk was discharged home in record time.

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Home...

Dickie's Mama has wanted to go home ever since we kidnapped her.

We lured her out of her house by convincing her she was sick and needed to see a doctor. (There are few things my mother-in-law likes better than a trip to the doctor.)

I got her an appointment with a geriatric specialist in hopes of obtaining a definitive diagnosis regarding her dementia.  (She thought she was going to talk to a professional about her favorite topic:  Stool Softeners.)

Throughout the testing, she charmed the doctor completely. He kept patting her arm and telling her what a "good job" she was doing. By the end of the test, she was convinced she had passed with flying colors.

“See... there is nothing wrong with me!” Dora proudly announced. Then, she looked at the besotted doctor and said, “Now will you tell them I can go back to my home?!”

The doc patted her hand again and said, “One more week. I think you need to stay with your family one more week.” Then pulled us aside and said, “Hopefully, she will forget and eventually settle into her new surroundings.”

Fat Chance, Doc.  

Every couple of days Dora would ask to go home.  We became increasingly clever in our delaying tactics...

“Uh, the car is in the shop...”

“Sorry, not today – it's supposed to rain. Hard. Heavy rain with hail and stuff.”

“I would take you home today, but you promised you would help me fold the laundry.”

Yep. Our excuses were growing as thin as Mama Dora's patience. 

There was wailing. There was gnashing of teeth (because, like I said... Dora still has hers).  

Her frustration landed heaviest on the two she loved most. 

Even though they surprised her with flowers...

And tempted her with sweet, fat Great Grandbabies...

Our Mama Dora never stopped asking to go home.  

She was perpetually angry at either Dickie or Jackie, sometimes both at the same time.  And she was especially frustrated when she couldn't remember which one was which.

“You're married to the youngest one, aren't you?” she asked me, over and over.  

“Yes. I'm married to Dickie, the one with the gray hair and beard.”

“He needs to shave that beard!! It makes him look older than the Other One.”

“But the Other One act likes he's the Younger One.” I reminded her.

Which only made her more confused. And frustrated.  

And sad.

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Until today.

Dora woke up this morning saying she had been here “more than a week” and had something she wanted to tell us.

“I had a long talk with... Him... you know... The Man Upstairs. I couldn't sleep. I prayed for two months. I mean two hours. I asked him to... I said 'help me'. And He did. And then I had dreams. Of boys. Those two boys that are brothers. They were little and playing and it made me so happy. And I just want you to know... that I am staying here. I'm gonna live here with my family.”

We whooped and we hollered and we jumped for joy.

Then, she got that wily little gleam in her eye and looked right at her baby boy.

“Now. What are YOU going to do for ME?” she asked Dickie.

Never underestimate a Mama's ability to get her way. Alzheimer's be danged.

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And say hello to Dora's younger looking son...

...the one who shaved his beard for his Mama.