Growing up, the first sign I saw of spring was the discussions revolving around Lent. Each year, my dad in particular would ask us what we were going to do for Lent. It could be something we were going to do or something we would give up. Something to help us prepare for Easter. A sacrifice, or a penance, to acknowledge what a wondrous gift God gave us in sending His Son here to earth as a sacrifice for us to gain eternal life with Him in heaven. The penance is for my sins, my many sins throughout the year. A sign that I am trying, that I want to be worthy of the rewards of heaven. An acknowledgment that I will always fall short, but I will keep trying.
I carefully contemplate my options of what to do. I want something that is challenging. But I want to be able to do it. It is more serious than the other "resolutions" or goals. For this is also a gift of sorts. As I've grown older, it typically becomes a 3 pronged gift. I try to do something to grow my prayer life, something I give up or do, and then something I give to others that is beyond my typical.
This year, I will try to get to church once a week by myself. Not that I need to be in a church to pray, but the quiet there allows me a focus I don't have in my life right now. I will not use my computer until after the boys are asleep unless I have to do something specific. I don't know what I'm going to do for others, but this is the one I'm least concerned about, as something always seems to come up. I just have to look for it and be willing to act.
As I think about this each year, I know as I come toward this season of Lent, spring will be starting to come in full force. This year, spring should be here in earnest. So always, I think of these things, I think of hope, and life, and spring.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Monday, March 7, 2011
A visitor
Two weeks ago, a perfectly healthy woman in her 50's was in a car accident. The "only" injury was to her head. Unfortunately, she has never regained consciousness. She has not once responded to her name, the voices of loved ones, a touch, or painful stimulus. A ventilator is breathing for her. She is getting her nutrition through a tube. As I was moving her joints and positioning her, I felt nothing. Her vital signs did not change as I was moving her. Her family is not ready to see her go.
As I was moving her, her daughter and a co-worker of hers came to her side. Her daughter spoke to her, told her to open her eyes, told her to move, positioned her in bed, repositioned her in bed, asked for her nurse, asked about her care, asked for her co-worker to talk to her mother. I could feel the pain of the daughter. How much she wants her mom to get better. I've felt it before from other family members, for other patients. It makes me want to cry. Not for the patient, but for the family that is here on earth.
Today was different in a sense. It was the co-worker. A co-worker that cared enough that she was visiting her in ICU. And it was obviously not her first visit. That alone would be enough. The act of visiting.
But there was more. The words that were spoken. There were no words of wishes that she would get better. Or commands to move that would not be responded to. But simple observations of what was happening that the patient would have reacted to. Things at work. Happenings of friends and family. Life.
When the daughter would ask "Did you see that?", then look at the co-worker and I. I would respond with a simple "no", wishing I could answer yes but I never saw anything. It would have been easier for the co-worker to say "yes" or "I wasn't looking" or any other number of lines that I have heard others give when questioned if they saw a perceived active movement. But the co-worker each time responded "no". The truth is hard to speak.
Even above this, was the visitor's touch. She touched this woman with a kindness, a tenderness. A patience and well practiced hand that had obviously care for others. There was no hesitation or fear in her touch. A simple act of love and peace. So many times, touching someone in a similar condition is met with fear, a fear that you can feel in the air. That you can see with the hesitation in the moments, the uncoordination with the touch.
It was a quite peace that surrounded the visitor.
I wanted to thank her for visiting. For the patient. For being with the daughter. For her kindness and love. For her quiet honesty, peace, and strength.
Yet, I couldn't. As it was time for me to move on. And she was in the middle of a conversation with her daughter. A conversation that didn't seem right to interrupt. And I didn't know what I really wanted to say other than thank you.
Thank you.
As I was moving her, her daughter and a co-worker of hers came to her side. Her daughter spoke to her, told her to open her eyes, told her to move, positioned her in bed, repositioned her in bed, asked for her nurse, asked about her care, asked for her co-worker to talk to her mother. I could feel the pain of the daughter. How much she wants her mom to get better. I've felt it before from other family members, for other patients. It makes me want to cry. Not for the patient, but for the family that is here on earth.
Today was different in a sense. It was the co-worker. A co-worker that cared enough that she was visiting her in ICU. And it was obviously not her first visit. That alone would be enough. The act of visiting.
But there was more. The words that were spoken. There were no words of wishes that she would get better. Or commands to move that would not be responded to. But simple observations of what was happening that the patient would have reacted to. Things at work. Happenings of friends and family. Life.
When the daughter would ask "Did you see that?", then look at the co-worker and I. I would respond with a simple "no", wishing I could answer yes but I never saw anything. It would have been easier for the co-worker to say "yes" or "I wasn't looking" or any other number of lines that I have heard others give when questioned if they saw a perceived active movement. But the co-worker each time responded "no". The truth is hard to speak.
Even above this, was the visitor's touch. She touched this woman with a kindness, a tenderness. A patience and well practiced hand that had obviously care for others. There was no hesitation or fear in her touch. A simple act of love and peace. So many times, touching someone in a similar condition is met with fear, a fear that you can feel in the air. That you can see with the hesitation in the moments, the uncoordination with the touch.
It was a quite peace that surrounded the visitor.
I wanted to thank her for visiting. For the patient. For being with the daughter. For her kindness and love. For her quiet honesty, peace, and strength.
Yet, I couldn't. As it was time for me to move on. And she was in the middle of a conversation with her daughter. A conversation that didn't seem right to interrupt. And I didn't know what I really wanted to say other than thank you.
Thank you.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Scarring
When walking home from high school, I had a pair of sunglasses in my pocket (I don't know why I was not wearing them, maybe it wasn't sunny) and my arm brushed against the corner of them, and I got a cut. It didn't bleed much. There was nothing really noteworthy of the event apart from it left a small think scar. I still have it. I always will. I've cut myself many times worse than that, but that one scarred. I'm not sure why.
At lunch today, I read a blog that talked about words that stayed with you. Hurtful words. Some of the words were not intended to have long term effects, but they did. Or should I say they do.
I got to thinking about the words that surround me. According to wiki.answers, adults speak an average of about 16,000 words per day. They participate in an average of about 1270 conversations. That is a lot of words, and a lot of conversations. For the most part, the words don't make a lasting impression. But others stick with me. Some of these words are positive. Some are negative. And I've been thinking of some of the words that have truly stayed with me.
I remember in 8th grade, the stinging words of a teacher, my teacher telling me I shouldn't think about going to college because I wasn't smart enough but I was very good with children so I think about working in childcare. I remember the feeling of fury over being told that. Of swearing to myself I would go to and graduate from college. I did. And I remember the irony and glee I felt when I ran into the mother of my classmate from that year. This classmate always had the highest grade on every test. We were always told how smart she was. I was visiting my family on the 4th of July, waiting for fireworks to start. Classmate's mom walked by. Stated how classmate was going to graduate that December in a challenging field. I asked what. My field. The exact degree I had received two years earlier. Classmate mom then asked me what I did. I very happily stated my job. Classmate's mom tried to say I was an aide or an assistance (which there is nothing wrong with those jobs, just they are/were not my job). I corrected her politely. She said there was no way I could have graduated with a degree in that, much less before her daughter did. She then walked away. My mom laughed and complimented me that I acted so mature. Then she laughed some more and said it felt so good for her to hear that conversation but knew it must have felt better for me. Both my teacher's and my classmate's mom's words scarred into me and my sense of ability and accomplishment than most comments on tests, papers, and formal job evaluations.
I remember one night after swim practice my freshman year, my coach saying to me if I put in as much effort and determination into my career as I did into swimming, I would excel. And I still get a warm feeling when I think about the compliment. I doubt if she remembers making the specific comment that night. But I do.
I remember the day my dad got his terminal diagnosis of cancer. I was at work. Long story short, everyone in the room including some people that we shared a break room with but nothing else, knew from the look on my face what had just happened in my phone conversation. Everyone but my boss. She made the comment, "I've been trying so hard to not know you, I had no idea what was happening." I think about this comment a good bit because it is my only clear recollections of spoken words that day. I don't remember what was said or how it was said in the phone conversation with my dad. I don't remember how I told Jett that evening. I don't remember what I said to my 12 year old brother that was visiting us (I know I didn't tell him specifically of the diagnosis, but he knew Dad was going to the doctor, and he must have asked something, and I must have responded). I'm assuming my co-workers said words of sympathy. But I don't remember any of them, I remember the hug that a co-worker whose mother was diagnosis with breast cancer 2 days earlier before I even had a chance to open my mouth. I remember another co-worker who carried most of the weight of my job for the rest of the day. But it bothers me that the only words that I remember were that of my boss telling me she had been trying to not get to know me. That should not have been a statement that was worthy of being remembered from that day, or week really. Why were those the words that were scarred into my brain?
My sister and I talk a lot. She knows that I would love to have another child. Last summer, she made a comment, a single comment, that has caused me to not bring up that hope with her. I doubt I will again, or at least not until she is in a different place. She said "With all the problems you have with Obsidian (referring to his medical mystery issues) and not as much with Pyrope (referring to his speech and social issues), it is probably best you don't have another." The words instantly cut. I knew it was a deep cut. One that would scar. One that would alter what I say to her. She did not mean the words to be mean or vindictive. More of just a statement. I have wanted to write a blog entry about the statement, but I can't. Not yet. At the same time, it was the comment that really gave me a push to start blogging. More of a place for me to write and try to figure out what I'm thinking and feeling more than anything else.
Other scarring words bring a smile to my face. "Is this the house?" Was asked to me and my sister while we were standing in our front yard, by a man dressed in an immaculate black suit, peering over the top of his very dark sunglasses, sitting next to another man dressed in a black suit, driving a black minivan hertz an hour after our dad passed away. It felt like it should be a scene in a movie. Not asking us if it was the residence of our surname, or our address, or something along those lines but "Is this the house?" My sister and I looked at each other on the spot and laughed. We then said in all seriousness "We hope so." (At that point, on our street, there was a lady in very poor health, one "normal" house, our house, one "normal" house, then a house with another man on hospice. We sincerely were hoping that there were not two deaths on the street that afternoon (there weren't). I do remember parts of conversations with others from that day, but "Is this the house?" is always right up there.
I worked at a residential summer camp for 4 summers. One of the two comments that specifically stay with me from that experience, was by a camper, who I don't remember her name, that said her favorite part of the week was when she did something that she didn't think she could do but I said we were going to do it, and we did. I wonder if she still remembers sleeping outside all night...
Some of the more obvious words, I understand why they stayed with me. I struggle to figure out why some comments that I should have just let roll off of me, scar so deeply. I wonder why some words have been forgotten.
And I resolve to think at least twice before I speak. I don't know which of my 16,000 words I speak each day will scar. And I know even less if that scar will be good or bad.
At lunch today, I read a blog that talked about words that stayed with you. Hurtful words. Some of the words were not intended to have long term effects, but they did. Or should I say they do.
I got to thinking about the words that surround me. According to wiki.answers, adults speak an average of about 16,000 words per day. They participate in an average of about 1270 conversations. That is a lot of words, and a lot of conversations. For the most part, the words don't make a lasting impression. But others stick with me. Some of these words are positive. Some are negative. And I've been thinking of some of the words that have truly stayed with me.
I remember in 8th grade, the stinging words of a teacher, my teacher telling me I shouldn't think about going to college because I wasn't smart enough but I was very good with children so I think about working in childcare. I remember the feeling of fury over being told that. Of swearing to myself I would go to and graduate from college. I did. And I remember the irony and glee I felt when I ran into the mother of my classmate from that year. This classmate always had the highest grade on every test. We were always told how smart she was. I was visiting my family on the 4th of July, waiting for fireworks to start. Classmate's mom walked by. Stated how classmate was going to graduate that December in a challenging field. I asked what. My field. The exact degree I had received two years earlier. Classmate mom then asked me what I did. I very happily stated my job. Classmate's mom tried to say I was an aide or an assistance (which there is nothing wrong with those jobs, just they are/were not my job). I corrected her politely. She said there was no way I could have graduated with a degree in that, much less before her daughter did. She then walked away. My mom laughed and complimented me that I acted so mature. Then she laughed some more and said it felt so good for her to hear that conversation but knew it must have felt better for me. Both my teacher's and my classmate's mom's words scarred into me and my sense of ability and accomplishment than most comments on tests, papers, and formal job evaluations.
I remember one night after swim practice my freshman year, my coach saying to me if I put in as much effort and determination into my career as I did into swimming, I would excel. And I still get a warm feeling when I think about the compliment. I doubt if she remembers making the specific comment that night. But I do.
I remember the day my dad got his terminal diagnosis of cancer. I was at work. Long story short, everyone in the room including some people that we shared a break room with but nothing else, knew from the look on my face what had just happened in my phone conversation. Everyone but my boss. She made the comment, "I've been trying so hard to not know you, I had no idea what was happening." I think about this comment a good bit because it is my only clear recollections of spoken words that day. I don't remember what was said or how it was said in the phone conversation with my dad. I don't remember how I told Jett that evening. I don't remember what I said to my 12 year old brother that was visiting us (I know I didn't tell him specifically of the diagnosis, but he knew Dad was going to the doctor, and he must have asked something, and I must have responded). I'm assuming my co-workers said words of sympathy. But I don't remember any of them, I remember the hug that a co-worker whose mother was diagnosis with breast cancer 2 days earlier before I even had a chance to open my mouth. I remember another co-worker who carried most of the weight of my job for the rest of the day. But it bothers me that the only words that I remember were that of my boss telling me she had been trying to not get to know me. That should not have been a statement that was worthy of being remembered from that day, or week really. Why were those the words that were scarred into my brain?
My sister and I talk a lot. She knows that I would love to have another child. Last summer, she made a comment, a single comment, that has caused me to not bring up that hope with her. I doubt I will again, or at least not until she is in a different place. She said "With all the problems you have with Obsidian (referring to his medical mystery issues) and not as much with Pyrope (referring to his speech and social issues), it is probably best you don't have another." The words instantly cut. I knew it was a deep cut. One that would scar. One that would alter what I say to her. She did not mean the words to be mean or vindictive. More of just a statement. I have wanted to write a blog entry about the statement, but I can't. Not yet. At the same time, it was the comment that really gave me a push to start blogging. More of a place for me to write and try to figure out what I'm thinking and feeling more than anything else.
Other scarring words bring a smile to my face. "Is this the house?" Was asked to me and my sister while we were standing in our front yard, by a man dressed in an immaculate black suit, peering over the top of his very dark sunglasses, sitting next to another man dressed in a black suit, driving a black minivan hertz an hour after our dad passed away. It felt like it should be a scene in a movie. Not asking us if it was the residence of our surname, or our address, or something along those lines but "Is this the house?" My sister and I looked at each other on the spot and laughed. We then said in all seriousness "We hope so." (At that point, on our street, there was a lady in very poor health, one "normal" house, our house, one "normal" house, then a house with another man on hospice. We sincerely were hoping that there were not two deaths on the street that afternoon (there weren't). I do remember parts of conversations with others from that day, but "Is this the house?" is always right up there.
I worked at a residential summer camp for 4 summers. One of the two comments that specifically stay with me from that experience, was by a camper, who I don't remember her name, that said her favorite part of the week was when she did something that she didn't think she could do but I said we were going to do it, and we did. I wonder if she still remembers sleeping outside all night...
Some of the more obvious words, I understand why they stayed with me. I struggle to figure out why some comments that I should have just let roll off of me, scar so deeply. I wonder why some words have been forgotten.
And I resolve to think at least twice before I speak. I don't know which of my 16,000 words I speak each day will scar. And I know even less if that scar will be good or bad.
Friday, March 4, 2011
How I write
One of my quirks is choosing what I use to write with. I have a vast array of pens and pencils. I spend money all the time to "just try" a new pen or pencil.
For as long as I can remember, I have thought about the physical act of writing and what I use to accomplish it. When I was in kindergarten and younger, I only liked to use crayons or wide markers. Nothing else. I didn't like how the others felt in my hands. In 1st and 2nd grades, I was only allowed to use "Laddie" pencils. I did not like these blue pencils. First off, they had no eraser. Second, they were wider and I didn't like how it felt in my hand. However, they were the only thing I was allowed to write with in school. 3rd, we could use any #2 pencil we liked, and I was okay as long as my pencil was a hexagon one with a good eraser. 4th grade came ball point pens. I discovered that I only liked how certain brands of pens write. How smoothly they write on the paper, how much I smear the ink while I'm writing (ahem, my grip is not that great on my pens/pencils, which is amusing considering my profession), the size of the ball of the pen, the color of the ink, the type of ink, they size of the shaft, exc. Then enter in mechanical pencils, fountain pens, and dip pens.
I have definite preferences of what I use to write with in what circumstance. Up until this fall, at work, I did my paperwork on carbon paper sheets (then tear them part and put each copy where it belongs). I had a certain brand of "clicky" pen that I liked best. I could use the pens they gave me at work, but I always had to go out an buy "my" pens. We now do our "paperwork" on the computer for the most part. I still need to write notes for myself throughout the day so I can remember what to write on the computer. I hate my clicky pens for that. I was having issues with them not writing when I wanted them to. I've gone to mechanical pencils with a gel type clicky pen with a larger ball for items I have to actually sign (would not like to use this to write for any length as I would smear it and would go though too many pens too quickly). I have specific pens I write on the calendar with, others that I like to jot down messages with. If I am to physically write a letter, I still like my fountain pen. It is more labor intensive, but I do like the results for a personal letter.
Jet thinks I'm nuts about this in many ways. He loves nice pens, but does not have such, um, strong feelings for having the right (pun intended) pen or pencil for the specific job.
I wonder why I have such strong feelings on the subject. I could care less if my shoes match my outfit. Heck, I would be happy wearing a pair of athletic shoes or strap sandals (weather pending) all of the time (or boots if it is too cold outside). I am somewhat mystified by people that have a lot of shoes and are always looking for more. Many of them (and others) are probably mystified about my constant looking for, buying, and trying new pens and pencils (yes, I even have strong feelings of what type and brand of pencil I use).
The oddest part of this obsession with how I write is this. I'm dyslexic. I do, by far, my best writing on a computer, by typing. It is far more efficient. I get more of my ideas out. I can write them more concisely. I was actually accused/suspected of plagiarism in college when I was asked to write an essay with pen and paper instead of on a computer (it was an English class, but part of the class was also on using word processing programs on computer, but due to a power outage, we had to write with a pen and paper one day in class. My essay was so different than what I had been turning in, I had to sit with the professor looking over my shoulder as I typed a different essay later that week to prove I really could write as well as my previously written on computer papers).
Tonight, I came home from the store with a different type of mechanical pencil to try at work. And a new pen. I have no idea what I will use this pen for, but I want to see how it writes. How it feels in my hand. How it feels on different types of paper. Sometimes I say it is a professional interest (which I can somewhat get away with). But if I'm honest, I would do it no matter what my profession.
For as long as I can remember, I have thought about the physical act of writing and what I use to accomplish it. When I was in kindergarten and younger, I only liked to use crayons or wide markers. Nothing else. I didn't like how the others felt in my hands. In 1st and 2nd grades, I was only allowed to use "Laddie" pencils. I did not like these blue pencils. First off, they had no eraser. Second, they were wider and I didn't like how it felt in my hand. However, they were the only thing I was allowed to write with in school. 3rd, we could use any #2 pencil we liked, and I was okay as long as my pencil was a hexagon one with a good eraser. 4th grade came ball point pens. I discovered that I only liked how certain brands of pens write. How smoothly they write on the paper, how much I smear the ink while I'm writing (ahem, my grip is not that great on my pens/pencils, which is amusing considering my profession), the size of the ball of the pen, the color of the ink, the type of ink, they size of the shaft, exc. Then enter in mechanical pencils, fountain pens, and dip pens.
I have definite preferences of what I use to write with in what circumstance. Up until this fall, at work, I did my paperwork on carbon paper sheets (then tear them part and put each copy where it belongs). I had a certain brand of "clicky" pen that I liked best. I could use the pens they gave me at work, but I always had to go out an buy "my" pens. We now do our "paperwork" on the computer for the most part. I still need to write notes for myself throughout the day so I can remember what to write on the computer. I hate my clicky pens for that. I was having issues with them not writing when I wanted them to. I've gone to mechanical pencils with a gel type clicky pen with a larger ball for items I have to actually sign (would not like to use this to write for any length as I would smear it and would go though too many pens too quickly). I have specific pens I write on the calendar with, others that I like to jot down messages with. If I am to physically write a letter, I still like my fountain pen. It is more labor intensive, but I do like the results for a personal letter.
Jet thinks I'm nuts about this in many ways. He loves nice pens, but does not have such, um, strong feelings for having the right (pun intended) pen or pencil for the specific job.
I wonder why I have such strong feelings on the subject. I could care less if my shoes match my outfit. Heck, I would be happy wearing a pair of athletic shoes or strap sandals (weather pending) all of the time (or boots if it is too cold outside). I am somewhat mystified by people that have a lot of shoes and are always looking for more. Many of them (and others) are probably mystified about my constant looking for, buying, and trying new pens and pencils (yes, I even have strong feelings of what type and brand of pencil I use).
The oddest part of this obsession with how I write is this. I'm dyslexic. I do, by far, my best writing on a computer, by typing. It is far more efficient. I get more of my ideas out. I can write them more concisely. I was actually accused/suspected of plagiarism in college when I was asked to write an essay with pen and paper instead of on a computer (it was an English class, but part of the class was also on using word processing programs on computer, but due to a power outage, we had to write with a pen and paper one day in class. My essay was so different than what I had been turning in, I had to sit with the professor looking over my shoulder as I typed a different essay later that week to prove I really could write as well as my previously written on computer papers).
Tonight, I came home from the store with a different type of mechanical pencil to try at work. And a new pen. I have no idea what I will use this pen for, but I want to see how it writes. How it feels in my hand. How it feels on different types of paper. Sometimes I say it is a professional interest (which I can somewhat get away with). But if I'm honest, I would do it no matter what my profession.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Thankful Thursday
- The flooding in our finished basement was minimal. It was only at one end, and was not sewer issue, the water literally come up through the floor. Many, many of my friends and neighbors (some just a house or two away) were not so lucky and had a couple of feet of water in their basements with everything totaled (furnace, hot water heater, exc, exc)
- After today, Pyrope is not going to weekly speech therapy. I was the one who initiated it stopping for the time being but he is doing much better. If he keeps up momentum, he will not need to restart. I'm thankful he is doing well enough I can choose to do this. And I'm thankful that I don't have to go weekly and entertain Obsidian in the waiting room for an hour.
- Options. I'm tired of my job, but really I have options of where I can go. I just need to decided that I really want to move on, and what I want to do.
- That I really like Obsidian's PT, on many levels.
- Getting out to see plays with just Jet on close to a monthly basis. Last month we didn't due to the weather. This month, the weather was good enough, and on top of that the play was good.
- Slow cookers. I love the smell of food cooking in it. And I love dinner being done without a whole lot of time spent immediately before the meal.
- That diesel trains can not steal the alphabet from us because they are machines and we make them work. And that after a 10 minute discussion, I convinced Obsidian of this as well so he could fall asleep.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
At the end of the day
Today was crazy. I don't know how else to explain it. After I write this, I will go to bed and pass out. But unless I process some of it, I will not pass out.
We started with a series of thunderstorms last night, sometime right after midnight. These were not small thunderstorms, but wicked strong ones, ones that I would expect in the middle of the summer on a hot day. Three nights earlier we had a snowstorm, it dumped 12" on us, and drifted above my waist in parts of my yard. It was a blast to dig out from. Obsidian had been waking up on and off since 10:30 pm. And at least for the beginning of each round of thunderstorms. We lost power for a couple hours in there. At 4 am, Obsidian decided to talk. And talk. And talk. Jet and I 1/2 listened in our sleep to his views on everything from the classic cars Jet owns, to his tricycle, to "Grandpa's train", to "Uncle M diesel train", to Toy Story, to favorite foods. And he kept talking. All day. Our city's public schools were closed due to flooding and no phones. Pyrope goes to a private preschool, but often they follow the city's schools. After several calls, I found out Pyrope does have school. We decided to have a playdate, we debated which of our house's, and eventually decided here. By 9:30, they were here. As the kids were playing, they kept coming up from our basement with wet socks. We yell at them for spilling things. I go down stairs a couple of times and throw a towel or 2 (which really in the end totaled 8 towels during the playdate, and another 4 before I figured out what was happening; but I wasn't paying that much attention and didn't realize the number until I looked in my washing machine). I get a phone call from a co-worker. Another co-worker of ours had called off the day before (Sunday) because her in-laws were in a serious car accident and life flighted to a trauma center. We knew that the driver (who had lost control of the car because of the previously mentioned snowstorm had not fully been cleaned up) had passed away. We knew the passenger in that car had been life flighted as well and was in critical condition (co-worker's in-laws were in stable condition by Sunday). So today (Monday), co-worker who was calling me husband goes into work. He is a school teacher. His favorite student had passed away on Sunday after being in a car accident that also killed his mother. Yes, it was the same accident. He was 15. So I listen to my co-worker talk. I offered a few words, but she wanted to talk. A boy she had heard so much about, was gone. And she indirectly knows the other vehicle involved. What a small world. And how much our world can change in the blink of an eye. After her kids needed her, I hung up and told my friend but in general went back to my crazy day. The "spills" in my basement continued. As she was leaving with her kids around noon, she tells me to call her if I figure out what the kids have spilled, its odd. So I am soaking up the spots with towels and decide to look on Facebook. One of the first posts I read is from another friend that lives a 1/2 mile away. Her basement flooded early this morning. Her furnace, hot water tank, a refrigerator, washer, drier, computer, and most of her kids toys were destroyed. They started smelling something funny, call the fire department, the fire department tells them to turn off the power to the house... yes electrical fires were starting because the flooding was so bad in some basement yet the power lines were not down, so fires were starting. I feel terrible for her. Then as I'm picking up yet another towel, I realize "My kids aren't spilling things, my basement is flooding!!!" I call my friend, who turns around and takes my kids to her house (although it takes a while because a good number of roads are closed due to flooding). I call my husband, who doesn't pick up his cell phone. I call his boss and tell her that I can't get a hold of Jet, and our basement is flooding, can she please find him and tell him. The basements that got flooded really bad were sump pump failures. Ours on the other hand, the ground was so saturated, it was literally coming up from the concrete floors (then through the padding and carpet). It was only one section (that is finished, part of our basement is not, but this was in the finished part). So I was shop vac the areas, picking up the electrical stuff and more valuable stuff. Cranking up the dehumidifier. Turning up the heat in the house. Setting up fans to blow the moisture upstairs out of the basement. Shop vacuum some more. Repeat. Jet was shoveling and snow blowing all the snow he could from around the house, then was checking the down spouts and gutters. The one down spout was washing away dirt from under our deck and effecting a couple of the deck's supports. A trip to Home Depot and shoveling of dirt later, it is much better. Our basement is in okay shape. The water isn't coming in nearly as quickly (for a while I was clearing out a gallon or so an hour). Our carpet at a minimum will need to be professionally cleaned. It might need to be removed. But that is it. Our house is fine. Our stuff is fine. More importantly, we are fine.
And as I'm doing all of this, I keep thinking. "This isn't bad. This is all stuff. What is important, my husband, my kids, and my friends, are not in serious harm's way. Even if this is destroyed, it is stuff. And it is stuff we don't need. We like it, but we don't need it. We need a safe house to live in, but if it was gone we would have my mom's, my friend's house that my kids are at, several co-workers house's, exc."
And that is what I have at the end of the day. My family. My friends.
We started with a series of thunderstorms last night, sometime right after midnight. These were not small thunderstorms, but wicked strong ones, ones that I would expect in the middle of the summer on a hot day. Three nights earlier we had a snowstorm, it dumped 12" on us, and drifted above my waist in parts of my yard. It was a blast to dig out from. Obsidian had been waking up on and off since 10:30 pm. And at least for the beginning of each round of thunderstorms. We lost power for a couple hours in there. At 4 am, Obsidian decided to talk. And talk. And talk. Jet and I 1/2 listened in our sleep to his views on everything from the classic cars Jet owns, to his tricycle, to "Grandpa's train", to "Uncle M diesel train", to Toy Story, to favorite foods. And he kept talking. All day. Our city's public schools were closed due to flooding and no phones. Pyrope goes to a private preschool, but often they follow the city's schools. After several calls, I found out Pyrope does have school. We decided to have a playdate, we debated which of our house's, and eventually decided here. By 9:30, they were here. As the kids were playing, they kept coming up from our basement with wet socks. We yell at them for spilling things. I go down stairs a couple of times and throw a towel or 2 (which really in the end totaled 8 towels during the playdate, and another 4 before I figured out what was happening; but I wasn't paying that much attention and didn't realize the number until I looked in my washing machine). I get a phone call from a co-worker. Another co-worker of ours had called off the day before (Sunday) because her in-laws were in a serious car accident and life flighted to a trauma center. We knew that the driver (who had lost control of the car because of the previously mentioned snowstorm had not fully been cleaned up) had passed away. We knew the passenger in that car had been life flighted as well and was in critical condition (co-worker's in-laws were in stable condition by Sunday). So today (Monday), co-worker who was calling me husband goes into work. He is a school teacher. His favorite student had passed away on Sunday after being in a car accident that also killed his mother. Yes, it was the same accident. He was 15. So I listen to my co-worker talk. I offered a few words, but she wanted to talk. A boy she had heard so much about, was gone. And she indirectly knows the other vehicle involved. What a small world. And how much our world can change in the blink of an eye. After her kids needed her, I hung up and told my friend but in general went back to my crazy day. The "spills" in my basement continued. As she was leaving with her kids around noon, she tells me to call her if I figure out what the kids have spilled, its odd. So I am soaking up the spots with towels and decide to look on Facebook. One of the first posts I read is from another friend that lives a 1/2 mile away. Her basement flooded early this morning. Her furnace, hot water tank, a refrigerator, washer, drier, computer, and most of her kids toys were destroyed. They started smelling something funny, call the fire department, the fire department tells them to turn off the power to the house... yes electrical fires were starting because the flooding was so bad in some basement yet the power lines were not down, so fires were starting. I feel terrible for her. Then as I'm picking up yet another towel, I realize "My kids aren't spilling things, my basement is flooding!!!" I call my friend, who turns around and takes my kids to her house (although it takes a while because a good number of roads are closed due to flooding). I call my husband, who doesn't pick up his cell phone. I call his boss and tell her that I can't get a hold of Jet, and our basement is flooding, can she please find him and tell him. The basements that got flooded really bad were sump pump failures. Ours on the other hand, the ground was so saturated, it was literally coming up from the concrete floors (then through the padding and carpet). It was only one section (that is finished, part of our basement is not, but this was in the finished part). So I was shop vac the areas, picking up the electrical stuff and more valuable stuff. Cranking up the dehumidifier. Turning up the heat in the house. Setting up fans to blow the moisture upstairs out of the basement. Shop vacuum some more. Repeat. Jet was shoveling and snow blowing all the snow he could from around the house, then was checking the down spouts and gutters. The one down spout was washing away dirt from under our deck and effecting a couple of the deck's supports. A trip to Home Depot and shoveling of dirt later, it is much better. Our basement is in okay shape. The water isn't coming in nearly as quickly (for a while I was clearing out a gallon or so an hour). Our carpet at a minimum will need to be professionally cleaned. It might need to be removed. But that is it. Our house is fine. Our stuff is fine. More importantly, we are fine.
And as I'm doing all of this, I keep thinking. "This isn't bad. This is all stuff. What is important, my husband, my kids, and my friends, are not in serious harm's way. Even if this is destroyed, it is stuff. And it is stuff we don't need. We like it, but we don't need it. We need a safe house to live in, but if it was gone we would have my mom's, my friend's house that my kids are at, several co-workers house's, exc."
And that is what I have at the end of the day. My family. My friends.
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