|Photo by Ellie Holman, age 10|
Monday, December 30, 2013
Sunday, December 29, 2013
When I was a kid there were two days during Christmas break that I just loved. Christmas, for obvious kid-ly reasons, and New Year's Day for the annual Collins Family Reunion. My mother's sibs took turns hosting every year, and with armloads of yummy food to share, we gathered around card tables and sat on piano benches and had a blast. We hugged aunts and uncles and measured ourselves against growing cousins. We got to eat cookies and skip the veggies and have whole cans of orange and grape soda all to ourselves. I loved it.
Then one year, who knows which, plans were differed to the summer, when it would be warmer, and that year, it all somehow...stopped. The reunion never happened, not that year, and not ever again. The next time I saw my relatives, I was a married mama and it was at my uncle's funeral.
I didn't make a Christmas card this year.
I let it go.
I have made a card almost every year since Guy and I got married, and it is "the one thing" I get done even if I don't do anything else. But this year I decided that if it meant getting all stressed out, the card would not be worth it. It was so much easier to let it go after the year we have had. A few folks lament not getting "their card" this year. To them I can only say, I love you anyway.
I didn't make many homemade gifts, or bake. I didn't hang the Christmas cards on the wall like usual, or take a billion goodie plates to friends. I started to worry. Was I letting go of my traditions? Would I lose something that I would never get back?
The week before Christmas I decided to put up my village. I hadn't gotten to it, or to much else besides the tree. I thought about the fact that I didn't put it up last year, and I decided that it was okay to let some things go, as long as I didn't let go completely.
And the ghosts of Christmas's past poked their heads out of the box and said, "Hey, lady! We're baaa-aack!" And then I found him.
The tiny alligator that lives in our village. It roams the streets and climbs the porches, terrorizing the tiny townsfolk. And if you are the lucky one to find him, you get to hide him again. Long before the elf climbed up on any shelf, this little roving reptile has been wreaking havoc in Holmanville.
|Ellie during her gymnastics performance. She did great.|
|Pulla (pool-a), a lovely cardamom spiced braided bread from Finland,|
handmade by Guy, cuz he's awesome.
|And just to prove how awesome, look at the rest of our Christmas Eve spread! |
Yes, those are Cannoli and See's. Man cannot live on Pulla alone!
|"I saw mommy kissing Santa Claus!!!"|
|The Three Princesses|
|It's all about the Legos and Playmobiles, baby!|
|If you look closely you will find 6 human beings in this photo.|
It's like a Where's Waldo, but messier.
May your days be merry and bright!
Sunday, December 15, 2013
“Just go, take care of your shopping, and I’ll stay home with the kids,” he said, and walked me out to the van. I pulled out of the driveway and headed down the block, the Christmas lights on all the houses blurring with my tears. Guy was right. I didn’t feel like shopping for the little monsters either. Only I couldn't see how I could help the situation, and I knew crying about it wasn't going to help, and may get me into an accident. I said a little prayer as I drove a few house lengths, and immediately felt like I should turn the van around. I circled the block, calling Guy (hands free, of course) and said, “Get the kids in their shoes and coats, we need to go do some service.”
And I say most nights, because we try, but we don’t do all the things we ideally would do each day. We are like all families. We are trying. And sometimes we are selfish and sometimes we are not. No families are all bad or all good, just as no people are. And there is no such thing as “always” and “never”.
Monday, December 9, 2013
A bit ago Adam asked me if he could take the sleeping baby for me. I told him I was fine, but what I really needed was something to prop up my leg. He frowned at the thought of getting up from his cozy chair. “Oh, so you were willing to get up to get the baby,” I teased, “but not a footstool?”
“Well, taking the baby benefits me.” He smiled back, and then got up and got both the footstool, then the baby. He curled her on his chest and rocked her sweetly.
Tonight we had Advent. All by our little-old selves. For the past few years we have been invited along on the tradition with Kathy and Wayne’s family, but tonight they had plans with their extended family, so I announced to the family earlier this week that we would be having Advent all by ourselves.
“But we’re not Jewish!” Ellie argued. *Sigh*. Clearly, I need to work harder on teaching world religions in homeschool. I’m guessing she meant to say German, since Kathy is, and her Advent traditions include a lot of lovely wooden decorations from Germany, but with Ellie, you never know. I just laughed and explained it one more time.
After church I snuggled up with Natalie and we took a delicious nap in the living room. I awoke to see Guy putting up Christmas decorations. “For Advent.” He said, simply.
And so tonight after a candlelit dinner of a simple rice and sauce, Guy prepared the goodie table for Advent following the traditions Kathy has shared. At some point during my sale yesterday he had slipped out and bought fancy cookies and chocolates. He set out homemade fudge, peppermint tea and cocoa, lit the candles in the humble Advent wreath I made last year, and turned on Christmas carols.
Our Advent looked different than when Kathy does it. We ate and chatted about Christmas memories. Adam reminded me of how we sat up late last year making an Advent calendar out of match boxes for our friends the Motts, whose new baby was in the hospital, wrapping each tiny box in pretty paper after emptying out the matches. He then informed me he had taken said matches, scratched off the tips and made a pile, which he then ignited. He claims I was sitting just a few feet away. How did I miss that? The girls talked about leaving carrots for Santa's reindeer. Jonah ran around like a maniac, jumping, singing, taking his clothes off- the usual. Soon we were singing carols, but since we don’t have a tidy little homemade book of carols like Kathy does, we just did our best from memory. Ethan accused me of massacring Frosty the Snowman, which indeed was true. The girls asked me to join them in a rousing performance of Rudolf, wherein I sang the actual song and they did all the “Like a light bulb!” parts. Their version of reindeer games included Chutes and Ladders and Parcheesi.
At one point I really wanted to share a song from my childhood that talks about the meaning of Christmas, but as I sang, my voice was being drowned out by Jonah and the big boys, who were taking turns being his personal trampoline. “Never mind,” I said, “no one’s interested.”
“This is their way of bonding.” Guy gently reminded.
And it’s true. Just a few days ago I was lamenting that these last two little kids won’t have really “grown up” in a house of six children. By the time Adam leaves for his mission, which in essence means he will have left our little next to strike out into the world, never to really return, Jonah will be 8, and Natalie only 5. These are the memories they are making. Right now.
And at some Advent years from now, the memories Jonah shares could be, “I remember how Ethan and Adam used to let me use them as a jungle gym during Advent.”
Adam is asleep now in the chair, with sweet Natalie on his chest. She won't remember tonight, but maybe he will.
Monday, December 2, 2013
Jonah has taken on “three” with gusto. I am not used to it. Yes, I have six rug-rats, but you have to realize that I haven’t had a little boy in many years.
When Adam was three he threw a fit once. Once. I was so shocked, I said, “Who are you, and where is my little boy, Adam?”
He burst into tears. “Is me, Mama! I me!” I had broken his tender little heart.
So, really, I haven’t had a wild child since Ethan was little, well over a decade ago. I’m outta practice, man. My crime yesterday was not letting Jonah play with my phone before his nap. When he woke, the chant began.
“Mama not yike me!!!!” he accused. I wandered into my room and saw a lump under my quilt. It whimpered. I sat on the edge of the bed.
“I’m so sad,” I lamented, “I miss my little boy and I can’t find him anywhere. I’m sad because I love him so much.”
The lump began to cry, and insisted that his mama didn’t like him. I curled around him, and lifted the quilt off his head. I wiped big round tears off of his big round cheeks, and put on my best mommy voice, “What’s wrong sweetheart?” I was surprised at the depth of his sadness.
“Mama not yike me.” He wept, as though he were talking about some other woman, some other mean mama, confiding his secret to a trusted friend. I just held him close until the tears turned into giggles.
Tonight we had an encore performance when I said no to a third tortilla before bed (I know. Call CPS. I’m so mean). But with tonight’s show he took it up a notch. Now I not only don’t like him, I apparently don’t even LUB him!
I’m a mama. I am other things too, but it’s my first and best job.
In the past week I have been able to do a couple of other jobs, ones I also love. When I do those tasks, though, it does take me away from job #1. I got to help a dear friend this week as she welcomed her baby boy into the world (more on that later!), and I managed to get through the-day-before-the-first-day of my sale, which lasted until three AM and is way harder than the actual day of the sale (and more on that too!). I've been busy in happy ways, even too busy to post here. But even though I am a doula, and an artist, and a wanna-be-writer, I’m mostly just a mama.
And despite what some little boys might think around here, I lub my job.
Monday, November 18, 2013
It was recently pointed out to me that I hadn’t mentioned here the follow-up results of my testing and CT scan. I guess it just didn’t seem right to even think about it since it was during the same week that Stephie passed away. I just couldn’t try to be happy about my news, when it is the news we all wish had been her’s, too.
All is well. No cancer. No anything else, either. All of the blood tests looking for rare clotting disorders that are currently known came up negative, so my hematologist thinks I have a rare disorder that just hasn’t been identified and named yet. Many suggestions have been made that they name it after me, but who wants a disease named after them? Not me. Let them call it Wong’s Disease (that’s my doc). I’m still waiting on having a park bench named after me. Or maybe an overpass. Nothing says success like a dirty, grey, graffiti-decorated, someone-died-under-there concrete overpass. For generations to come, every hobo that pees there will think of me.
But I digress.
Certainly, you expected no less from me.
I had another leg scan as well, just to make sure that all that new metal in there was staying shinny. The stents are open and flowing, and on a clear day you can get AM radio on them, but you have to put your ear to my bellybutton to listen, so we might need to become better acquainted first.
I am often asked how I am feeling.
Hmmmm. Loaded question.
My leg, well, it’s not the same. I don’t limp much anymore, maybe at night a little, but a far cry from my wheelchair of only a few months ago. My foot stays cold to the touch. It aches and feels funny, all tingly and such, but I am learning to ignore it for the most part. I am finding the value of keeping my mind an hands busy.
My bod… it is taking a long time to get my strength back. I am like a dollarstore battery, good for a short job but not very powerful, and fizzles out quickly. I am exercising with Kathy now most mornings, but I would say I am at about 60% - but determined! One day, one limp-armed jumping jack at a time.
My heart… aw, geez. I don’t know. I am just still so grateful. Grateful to be alive, grateful for this unbelievably gorgeous baby asleep beside me, to be returning, in any form, to my life; to kissing my husband and hugging my kids, to singing and making art and nursing babies and wiping butts and noses.
But not a day passes that I don’t think about the people around me who have and are continuing to suffer. I think of Steph and Kristi, both young mamas, both gone from their families. I think of Lyn, gardening one morning, in the hospital the next, unable to speak or move from a massive stroke. And Dale, who went to work last week and suffered a massive heart attack and never came-to before he passed a day or so later. Of Dan, and Dave and Tyler, alone. My heart aches, because I got to stay. Isn’t that strange?
Stranger still is that I find I seldom cry for myself anymore; for my frustrations and rough days, but I am brought to tears for others in a shallow instant. I am a giant receptacle for the pain of others, a mirror for grief.
I am feeling… life. More color, more flavor, more heat and more cold. I find myself just watching everything around me in awe, and for now I am just feeling it all.
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
When you make a sculpture you sculpt.
When you make pottery, you throw.
I am getting ready for my 3rd Open Studio Art Sale and Boutique.
Details to come, but right now I am working on some nice little mugs and pots. Tomorrow I will start the silk painted scarves, and I just finished about 40 jewelry items. This year I am also making my own ceramic pendant and earring sets, each unique. I am being joined by several artisans who will be offering their great handmades. I hope you can come. We will have items starting at just $1.50 and Guy will be making his awesome fudge again.
I am feeling so grateful that I am able to do my sale again. It is not being super easy. For one, I have a 5 month old; super cute but very needy. And for two, I have Jonah, or “Destructo”. He likes to “help”. Ugh. And though sitting for a while makes my leg act up, I am just so grateful that I am alive and healthy-ish, and making art again. When you go through a big trial, it’s hard to believe that any “little thing” will ever matter to you again. Then one day you find yourself deeply invested in the cleanliness of your kitchen sink, or reading, or, as in my case, throwing. And I am glad I care. It is nice to be concerned over something that is not huge and traumatic.
It feels so good to feel good.
(I'm having major computer issues, and so I'm am embarrassingly behind on posting, but I have figured out I can write my posts, email them to myself, and paste them in with an app on my phone. Hoping to get caught up soon!)
Monday, November 4, 2013
Pride goeth before the Fall.
Or during. I'm not sure.
One thing I am sure of, is the humbling nature of cooking. You who have read this blog before will remember Candy Corn Soup. I make it every year. Every year it has all new ingredients, with only one constant; the candy corn.
This year, in my perpetual quest to stop being so darn lame, I planned to make the soup early in the week, on the night we would carve pumpkins, rather than crowd Halloween night with more to do. Here is where the pride part comes in. I set to work gathering a menagerie of ingredients from the fridge to dump into my pot; broth, onions, sundry leftovers and chunks of butter in crumpled wrappers. It was less "soup-making" and more "artistically cleaning out the fridge". I felt so proud as I used the last of this and the tail-end of that. I'm funny that way; I get tremendous joy from using every scrap of leftover food. I scrape peanut butter jars clean, use bread loaf heals, and get more mileage out of leftover rice than should be legal, all for the thrill of it! Perhaps all of the starving-children-in-China talk from my childhood took vigorous root, I don't know, but I love me a good used-up leftover.
So on this night I was very pleased with myself as I chopped and dumped and stirred. I noticed, though, that my jumbo pot of ingredients, some of them frozen, was simply not warming up.
(Oh, no. You see it coming, don't you? Put on your concerned face, and shake your head...)
I turned up the heat.
(now give an exasperated sigh.)
FLASHBACK MONTAGE: In this flash back you will see clips of the many, many times I have burned food, played in rapid succession to the tune of "Burning down the House" by Talking Heads (or The Platters"Smoke Gets in Your Eyes" if you are of the grey-headed generation). Smoke billows, my children fan the screeching smoke alarm with dish towels, and in the end, we see a cluster of clips of me scrubbing black char out of the bottom of the same darn cooking pot, over and over and over ...(in my flashbacks the part of me is played by Catherine Zeta-Jones. She looks tragic, yet sexy, so you forgive her for burning the food).
There are, in my disjointed little mental-kitchen, only two settings on a burner; OFF and HIGH.
You know the next part of the story. I walked out of the kitchen and got busy cleaning the tush of someone or another, and *sniff sniff*, that tell-tale burning smell wafted out to the living room, because bad odors always waft. Signal smoke alarm.
"I burned the soup." I pouted to Guy over the phone, almost hoping that he would say something judgy so that I could deflect the anger I was feeling at myself onto him.
"It's not a big deal. Just fix something else."
"I'm so lame," I said, feeling the words more deeply than my joking tone would let on.
"You're not lame. You just need to be more patient." was all he said.
What the heck?! Patient? What did patience ever have to do with cooking? Patience is for potty-training and teaching a kid to tie their shoes, and the entirety of the teen years. But the more I thought on it, the more I saw the wisdom in his words. In my haste, I put the pedal to the metaphoric medal, often. And if I allowed myself to think on it, I knew my speed-demon mentality spilled over into many other areas of my life, leaving a jet-stream of calamity in my wake. Isn't it strange how something so true can elude us for so long?
Life is kind enough to give us lots of do-overs. It is up to us not to waste them.
I went to the store the next day and bought some nice, squeaky-new, non-leftover ingredients, and vowed - not to NOT burn the soup - but to make it with patience. The next morning I slowly and carefully cooked a pound of bacon, staying in the kitchen the whole time, and not taking on any other tasks. I boiled yams and potatoes, peeled them, and then set about to assemble the soup.
Patiently cook 1lb of bacon (save drippings. Here the word drippings refers to pork lard. Deal with it.)
Bake or boil 5lbs of potatoes and 6 smallish, peeled yams or sweet potatoes.
Sautee 1/2 an onion and 2 tbsp. fresh minced garlic in the "drippings".
In a large pot, combine: cubed potatoes and yams, crumbled bacon, onions with drippings, 1 carton broth, 1 block cream cheese, 6-8 cups of milk, and 4-8 tbsp butter (oh, yeah, like you aren't eating your kid's Halloween candy right now. You can do extra sit-ups tomorrow).
Blend with hand mixer or in blender till creamy, then simmer patiently 20 minutes, stirring frequently. Add salt and pepper to taste, or until the guilt settles in... about 2-3 tsp salt.
Serve with 3 candy corns in each bowl (or with toasted candied almond slices), and garlic toast. If you burn it, don't feel bad. You are still a very nice person.
Sunday, October 27, 2013
Two weeks ago was ArtTrails. It is an annual art event in Sonoma County that Guy and I make a pilgrimage trip for each year, and have never missed since we began going when Ethan was just a toddler. Some of the artists have watched out family grow up as we return year after year. This year we took Kathy and Wayne with us, dumping sundry children at various locations along our way for tending (thank you Krista and Joanna!), and headed for the rolling amber hills and sunset colored leaves of Sebastopol.
Our first stop has become an important one. Talented potters Cheryl and Mikio of Nichibei Pottery have created a tiny haven there, and we are welcomed with hugs and smiles. This year was no exception, as we toted little Natalie in to show off to Cheryl, who was just a little bit surprised at #6 and more than happy to love on her. I will admit, though, we come here first for more than the sweet greeting; Cheryl and Mikio set out a "seconds" table. But if you want to take advantage of the deals to be found there, you have to be an early bird. Wait even a few hours, and the table will be picked clean. We love their art, but as their work is so skillfully and beautifully made by two master potters, we cannot afford most of it at regular price.
We also planned on meeting our dear Francine there. She had plans for the rest of her day, but as we have done at other times when we knew a long visit was not in the stars for that day, we met, however briefly, for a few hugs and a quick visit at Nichibei.
Francine and I wandered over to the seconds table, arm in arm. We marveled at what made something a "second" here, as every single piece on the table was so much better than anything I could produce on my gloriously-best-pottery day. A tiny chip on the foot, a pock mark in the glaze, a glaze that simply had failed to accomplish what its makers had hoped it would, and it was banished from the lovely studio gallery, with golden lighting and music playing, and relegated to the tired wooden table out by the kiln. I spotted the pot I wanted right away, a tall green vase with a proper pot belly, a delicate foot below and a lovely beige rim...oh, and a flaw. On this pot, it was four or five bumps, right on the front, where some other piece must have shifted in the kiln and touched the surface, breaking the uniform mat glaze with unwelcome texture.
I picked it up and hugged it.
I was amazed that something so beautiful had the misfortune of such marring, and pondered on the frustration it must have been when Cheryl opened the kiln with hopes of lovely pots, only to find this one in such a disappointing state. I felt a pang of familiar disappointment in myself.
I had been feeling inadequate lately; broken, chipped, marred... flawed. I see my housekeeping, my body, my to-do list (which is really a "to-be-improved-upon" list), and feel ever so much like one of those empty vessels, not having lived up to my own hopes. I know there has been a lot in our lives the last 9 months that would certainly justify a lackluster performance on my part, but ever since the clots, and now losing Steph and Kristi (another friend who died suddenly the same day Steph did), I have felt an urgency to make major strides toward important goals, but falling short.
"I would be on God's 'seconds' table," I told Francine with a giggle to cover the little ache inside.
"Well, you'd have plenty of company!" Francine sang out with a sort of childlike laugh. And I knew she was right. Not a soul on the planet would be in the gallery under the glistening lights. We would all, every single one of us, be on the seconds table. I pictured a massive table top, a continent long, with millions of tiny people standing on it with little discount price tags on our heads.
And in an instant, there it was. Freedom.
Freedom to be flawed,
permission to try harder without being ashamed of past failures,
-lots and lots of company-
there on the tabletop.
"And the vessel that he made of clay was marred in the hand of the potter: so he made it again another vessel, as seemed good to the potter to make it.
Then the Lord came to me, saying,
O house of Israel, cannot I do with you as this potter? saith the Lord. Behold, as the clay is in the potter's hand, so are ye in mine hand, O house of Israel."
~Jeremiah 18: 4-6
Monday, October 21, 2013
We talked about her laugh, her jokes, and her antics. It was a great way to spend her day, even though she couldn't be with us. It's hard to believe she's only been gone 4 days. Seems longer. She was sick for so long.
Last Sunday, as Guy and I were at ArtTrails with Wayne and Kathy, Dave called to tell me that Steph wanted to see me to say goodbye. We had just limped back to our motel on a spare tire after a blowout, and it would be at least two hours before repairs would get us on the road, and another two to travel. We rushed. There is no feeling like the feeling that you might miss your last chance.
When we got there, we slipped into her room as dim pink light filtered through the drawn curtains. Her mama directed us toward some chairs, and we sat, not sure of what to do. Prompted by her mom, I took Stephie's hand, and her eyes flickered open as she whispered, "hi", then fell right back to sleep. We thought we might just leave so she could rest, but then she opened her eyes and spoke to us.
I asked if she was scared. No, she said, just anxious to be out of pain. Was she excited to see what was coming next? Yes, she supposed. I asked if she would say hi to my mom for me. "Is there anything you want me to tell her?" she asked, but for all the millions of times I had wanted to tell my mom something, I couldn't think of a thing in that moment.
"My birthday is this week," she said after a while.
"I know, I guess you won't be wanting my present," I said.
"I always love your presents." she smiled.
I had thought about it, about her birthday and what I would have wanted to give her, but there is nothing I could have given her that she would not be leaving behind, so I said, "Can I sing to you?"
"I'd like that," she answered.
"What do you want to hear?"
I began softly with the only song that came to mind; the song I sang to Natalie as I labored with her, and what I sing to her now when she is sad.
"Sweet dreams till sunbeams find you,
sweet dreams that leave your worries far behind you,
but in your dreams, whatever they be, dream a little dream of me.
Say nighty-night and kiss me,
Just hold me tight and tell me you'll miss me
while I'm alone and blue as can be,
dream a little dream of me."
All through the song she closed her eyes and smiled, and at the end whispered her thanks. She was so tired then, that we said goodbye.
We had pink cupcakes tonight. She would have liked that. It was her signature color. We sang the birthday song, and had one of the kids blow out the matchstick we had improvised into a birthday candle.
I don't suppose anyone made a wish.
Saturday, October 19, 2013
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
Wednesday, October 9, 2013
Friday, October 4, 2013
|Two Cuties: Natalie and Jane|
"All right," I said with a shrug, in that chipper not-so-great-but-what'cha-gonna-do? tone. "How are you?"
"All right." he echoed, his words a bit more tired sounding than mine, but with all the cheer.
"I mean, were both here, right?" I joked. He looked up at the hospital as I pointed to it and laughed knowingly.
"Right." he conceded.
I gave it a few days to see if it was just adjustments from the swelling, new stents, and tools from the procedure. I could be brave in the daylight, and many times throughout the day I felt only very mild symptoms. But each night as I lay in bed, the symptoms seemed more pronounced, and in the dark it was hart not to imagine that a clot was forming; to picture it in there, filling specific veins whose locations and names I now know all too well. Popliteal, femoral, saphenous. Though I tried to shut it out, my mind conjured the image of a clot growing and finally breaking off and hitting my lungs. For several nights, I held little Natalie close and smelled her sweet, precious perfume, and prayed for sleep to come.
Monday I emailed Dr. F. a little 'heads up' and within 30 minutes was scheduled for an ultrasound with our angel Jane. As it was last minute, I went alone with little Natalie. Jane took us back, and her familiar face was a comfort. After a pleasant chat we settled in for the scan, and this time, things were very different. For the first time since the stents were placed, true blood flow could be captured by the ultrasound. The vein was lit up with profuse flow, and Jane very happily showed me these new and surprising images. Prior to my collaterals being blocked off by the new stents, there had been too much flow diverted through the alternative routes to force a vigorous flow through the femoral vein, but now that full flow was routed back along its normal course, there was no mistaking it. The vein was clear. Jane, Tara (one of my other favorite techs) and I celebrated, passing the baby around and enjoying the way a room feels that is filled with happy news.
Later that day I got a text from Dr. F. affirming what we had seen. There was no need to guess if the stents may still be blocked, or to do an angiogram just to be on the safe side. No drugs, no needles, no contrast dye, and no hole in my leg. Hooray for stents that work!
Yesterday on the way to see the hematologist we ran into Dr. F. in the hallway. He told us he had talked at length to my new doctor and given him a complete history. More importantly, he said he trusted Dr. W. and really liked him, and thought we would, too. We felt like we were being put into good hands.
Dr. W. met with us and though he had already spoken to Dr. F. and read my extensive and complicated file, he asked us to tell him all that we have been through. It was a very nice way to start off. He ordered some tests to look for cancer and other problems. He believes that the reason I clot so well while on blood thinners may be a rare clotting disorder. Most of the clotting disorders that are known today have only been discovered in the last 15 years. He said that this disorder may not have been defined yet. I guess well find out. I gave blood, and now we wait.
Next up: CAT scan. TBA
Post Edit: I guess it would help to mention here that the reason I am feeling increased pain and sensitivity is due to the increased flow. My tissues just aren't used to the intensity of it, and everything is coming back online as a result. Eventually I should get used to the flow and it will come to feel "normal" again.
Saturday, September 28, 2013
|Sweet Velma, one of my regular nurses.|
don't grow clots while on blood thinners.
The report on my scan came back clear of blood clots.
An interesting thing happens when I am on the table in the radiology procedure room. I can't see anything, and once my leg is numb, I don't really know what's going on. That's always when it comes, the news.
he said what he was thinking out loud,
but today has been better.