May 14, 2010

Sunday, when I was whining about all of the work I have to do until I finish school (don't worry, more about that later!), my mother suggested that I put a piece of candy in a jar for each day I have left this semester.  Each night, I'll eat a piece of candy and say goodbye to the hellish day through which I lived.  Now, Mama Peaches has gotten quite used to counting down days since her husband used to be in the Navy and go on six-month tours, so she knows how to count down like no one else I know.

Hence, the jar.

46 more days.

Slippin' was the wrong word.

So, I realize I'm a little late in writing this post (I've been a little busy), but the very evening I wrote about Daylight Savings Time I returned at some unknown hour to go to sleep to a clock that looked like this.

(The video has not been edited in any way- mostly because I don't really know how to edit videos.)

Dear Reader, let this be a warning to you:

Be careful what you say publicly about time.

Part Two

The woman I never called my grandmother, but who married my grandfather on December 5, 1997, got sick fast.  She was in the hospital only a few days before she was airlifted out of their rural town facility and sent to Lexington where they put her on a ventilator and allowed technology to keep her alive while the doctors tried to figure out what to do.

"There is an infection in her lungs, but we don't know what kind."

"Actually, we aren't really sure if there is one, or- if there is- if that is what is causing the problem at all."

"Now she has viral pneumonia... and we actually can't cure that, so..."

Then her one good kidney was attacked by the infection and the drugs used to try and cure her; it then  stopped working, too.

Since they were no longer being flushed out by the kidney, her body began to swell as the IV fluids she was given had no place to go.  Her elbows became a dimple in the side of her arm.  I couldn't find her ankles.  Her whole body doubled or tripled in size until her skin began to rip as the fluids screamed for escape.

I arrived at the hospital on Wednesday and couldn't help but think about what I would do should I ever be in the same situation.  I think we were all thinking that way.  I decided that I would cry and cry and cry, while laying on top of Mr. Peaches in his hospital bed, and refuse to let him go.  I would stay like that for days, for months, for years.  I would hold his warm hands and kiss his warm forehead.  I don't think I could bring myself to let him go.  

My grandfather, however, is different.  He's older, and so maybe that has something to do with it.  Perspective.  Empathy.  Understanding.  Seven days ago my grandfather made the brave and compassionate decision to take his wife off the ventilator and let her go.  To never kiss her warm forehead again.  To never hold her warm hands.

I understand now why people are religious.  I'm not, myself, but as I, my mother, my two aunts, a younger cousin, my younger brother, and my grandfather stood in a circle around her bed and watched his wife struggle to take a breath every 30 seconds... and then every 45 seconds... and then take her last... I wished I had my own God to whom to pray.  I wished that I believed she was going to a better life, to a bright and happy world of peace and love.  As a religious man, I'm glad my grandfather was able to cling to that image in his head.  "A better place."  When her heart finally stopped I- we all, I think- felt relief.  It took ten minutes and it felt like four days.

On Sunday we buried her.  From the church service held at the church in which they were so involved, we walked a few hundred feet to her final resting place.  I was comforted by the idea that he would be able to take flowers to her gravesite each week as he attended service.  That people who loved her would be able to step right outside and give themselves a minute to think about her.  That she was laid to rest in a tiny rural church cemetery, one that- to me, at least- represented their rural lives together.

Friendly reminder: Not one of us is invincible or immortal.

FYI

Nothing is wrong with me.

Well, I mean, nothing is physically wrong with me.

I started writing about the recent death of a family member and haven't had the time or emotional capacity to finish it, even though that's what I thought I wanted earlier this week.

No worries, people, no worries.

Part One

Our bodies are always walking that very fine line between sick and healthy, even if we don't know it.

"Something New!"  Our bodies scream, "Get it!"

Each day and night it works to fight off foreign threats, and, if we're lucky, we only have to think about it once or twice a year when the cold virus can no longer be stomped out or when the flu has gotten the best of us again.  We feel sick for a just a few days, maybe don't even visit the doctor (The Peaches do not have insurance), maybe don't even lay around in bed for a day or two, because our bodies quickly and effectively attack the shit out of some bugs.

But what happens when our bodies can't attack?  Or it attacks the wrong things?  Or both?

Well, then we can be in a world of trouble.

Time Keeps on Slippin' Slippin' Slippin'...

Since I left my parents' house and moved into a dorm room in New York City eight years ago, it has been my mother's job to call me during those two special times each year when most states change the clocks (note: I believe only parts of Indiana observe, although that may have changed, as it is not noted in the WikiAnswer- and everyone know WikiAnswers know everything) to remind me that it's that very special time of year.

I don't know who my mother thinks she is, but this past year she has been really off her game.  I guess she thinks that since I am 26 years old now I should be able to handle it.  Maybe it's because I have a Fella and a dog, to whom I refer to as "my family."  Or maybe it's because I have a college degree, almost two, and I am in charge of 150 students each week.  I am (supposedly) a role model and a mentor.  I speak another language (sorta).  I cook (again, sorta).  People who are younger than I and who don't understand how messed up you can really be at 26 think I'm an adult.  I LIKE grocery shopping.  

I don't know which reason it is, or if it's another reason entirely, but today marks the second time in my life when I have awoken totally confused about what freaking time it was.  

My alarm clock didn't change, but my computer did.  My cell phone didn't, but the voicemail feature did.  The microwave looks the same, but something happened to the clock on the DVR.  The confusion doesn't come because the times are different, that part's easy- just change all the clocks in the house to match the later time.  Yeah, I know, thanks.

The confusion comes in the days following, when I still haven't changed all of the clocks in the house.  Of course, one could argue that I could save myself the confusion by not writing a blog post and instead changing the clocks, but would would the fun be in that?

Either way, I haven't been awake at 11pm (I hope it's not 12) in a very long time.  I made the mistake of going to Starbucks at 530 (maybe it was 630?) and having a Venti coffee while getting some work done.  At 930 (I think it was 930, really) Mr. Peaches and I ate dinner together (and by together I mean in separate rooms, at separate times, completing separate activities- you know, together).  I'm way awake.

It's my mom's fault.  At least, that's what I'm sticking to.

And now, an open letter to my mother:

Dear Mom,

I don't know when the next time is that our society has collectively decided for me that I need to adjust my schedule, but get back on your game, Woman!

Love,

Ms. Peaches

(PS Don't google image search "mom" and expect to find a picture of a cute old lady with an apron.)

I'm Late!

No, I'm not preggers, I'm just technically late with the blog posts, which I've been trying to keep to every five days, at minimum.

Nothing of note has really been happening.  I am starting to feel like I'm treading water, though not as bad as I expected (yet).  In truth, I shouldn't complain at all, because even at my worst I get to spend a surprising amount of time at home.  Working at home, but at home nonetheless...EXCEPT...

Of course Mr. Peaches and I are totally broke.  This is no shock and we have been living this way for nearly two years.  However, this semester Mr. Peaches' awesome schedule affords him the opportunity of working a second job, and thus, possibly allowing us to continue to heat our house, or maybe- just maybe- we can afford to go see a movie once a month or celebrate his upcoming TWENTY-SEVENTH BIRTHDAY!!

But probably not, since his new job is at Omaha Steaks and they have an employee discount.  Bye bye fake disposable income...

(Although, OMG is that food delicious!)

A Wedding and The South

Spring has sprung in Kentucky.

I'm not from Kentucky, nor do I live in Kentucky, but I had the pleasure of traveling to and spending the weekend in Lexington this past weekend and Mr. Peaches and I had a blast.

First, though, I'd like to take this opportunity to say a little something about The South:

As soon as I traveled outside the Cincinnati Metropolitan Area, I could feel my pants tightening.  There is just no denying that they do food better in The South and I think it's the bacon grease and lard in the air that causes the automatic weight gain, even if you're just passing though.

But we didn't just pass through.

In fact, on Saturday, Miss Sarah (one of my oldest and dearest friends) took us to feast at the infamous Ramsey's Diner.  I'd like to say first, that if you are ever, EVER, in Lexington, KY (or within a sixty mile radius) GO EAT THERE.  I ordered the Country Fried Steak, a meal I have not eaten in many moons, and I could only eat HALF.  Mr. Peaches ordered Chicken & Dumplings, which was delicious (but a little less impressive), while Miss Sarah ordered...wait for it....

The Hot Brown

Excuse me? The HOT BROWN?  But there are so many distasteful and unappetizing jokes I can make about that! THE HOT BROWN?  What IS this elusive meal?

Apparently, it's a Kentucky favorite.  You can read more in-depth about it here, but I don't really recommend it.  (Although, Sarah, you'll be happy to know that the mystery "white sauce" is just more cheese.)

(note: This is not Miss Sarah's actual Hot Brown,

though it is from Ramsey's.)

After we stuffed ourselves full, we walked to a local bookstore and perused the shelves until we felt like normal human beings again.  Then?

THEN WE WENT BACK TO RAMSEY'S FOR PIE!

I think this is where mistakes were made.  Miss Sarah, Mr. Peaches, and I each ordered our own slice of homemade pie.  We then proceeded to taste and deliberate over every one else's pie.

Pretty sure I gained three pounds.  Pretty sure they are worth it.  Be careful in Kentucky.

However,  besides spending a lovely, much needed time with Miss Sarah, Mr. Peaches and I also went to the wedding of another close friend of 10+ years. 

Mrs. Young wore a beautiful red dress, a color I once admired for myself should the day ever come, and she looked stunning (and while I am still waiting on more pictures, I'll give you this one for free).

I was excited to see my friend so happy, though, as all good friends should, I offered her a ride far, far away the night before- you know, just in case.

For me and Mr. Peaches, the reception went off without a hitch, despite my nerves about sitting down and having dinner with people I haven't seen in practically ten years.  Mr. Peaches is such a natural at making friends and entertaining people that we had tons of fun.

Now my friend is all sorts of married and off on her honeymoon with her honey.  

Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Young!

A Disappointment

I have a picture, but I'm quite disappointed with it.

My injury occurred eleven days ago, on a Sunday afternoon.  On Monday, my foot was so swollen.  I couldn't WALK without wincing in pain.  I called off work (which, as a student teacher, is a ridiculously huge deal).  I went to the University doctor, who told me that I was baby.  Well, actually, he just told me that it wasn't broken and I should stay off of it.

On Tuesday, I limped back to work, feeling ridiculous.  Hi, I missed school because I dropped something on my foot.  Broken?  No, it's not broken, I'm just a baby.

Except Wednesday it was still swollen.

And Thursday.

By Friday, my toes started bruising, all the way to the knuckle.  Is it still a knuckle if you're talking about your toes, or do you only have knuckles in your fingers?  Is there a Doctor in the house?  It is significant that my toes started bruising because the frame landed near my ankle.  Have I ever mentioned that I wear a shoe size NINE.  That's a long way for a bruise to travel.

I kept waiting, day after day, for the bruise to spread all across my foot, to turn purple and yellow and to create a whole rainbow of beauty across my foot.  But that day never came.  It's been nearly two weeks and I'm still waiting.

Meanwhile, here's a picture of my swollen and (somewhat) bruised foot.  Be gentle.

Notice the bruising under my ankle bone as well.  See that dark pink could-be-a-heroin-injection-site indentation in the middle of all the SWOLLEN?  That's the point of impact.

My name is Peaches and even my body overreacts to the most mundane situations.