Lobotomy/Lobectomy, Po-ta-to/Po-tot-to

                                   

I watched the numbers on the odometer slowly roll to the next tenth of a mile and my eyelids seemed to be tugged further down as each rotation triggered another yawn.  I wondered how I had driven 14 hours to Georgia, just two months after my lobectomy, when I am now struggling to stay awake on a simple 20 minute trip to Pennsylvania.

This was the third lung surgery in 18 months, and I am starting to doubt that I am as recovered as I thought.  Though the initial pain has subsided, the occasional sharp twinge and hyper-sensitive patches of skin serve as a constant reminder of the fact that I am still unable to turn the page on this chapter of my life. This last surgery removed a nodule the size of a golf ball, yet the lab results are still inconclusive.

Perhaps the stress of the unknown is why I feel my mind wearily wanders from the task at hand, and I feel I’m viewing life peripherally, completely unfocused.  Two years…first the bloody cough, then the news that there are spots on both lungs…the words lung cancer” tossed about like an errant ball in the hands of children, coming ever closer to the neighboring window.  Eighteen months of fighting with the insurance company over bills that should have been paid from the first two surgeries, but haven’t, because of a simple typo on their end that they can’t seem to fix.   Anxiety levels getting ratcheted up a notch each time a CT or PET scan was postponed, waiting for insurance approval.

I’m unable to throw away collection notices, which, in my mind have become ransom demands,  because of the Stockholm syndrome-like bond that has formed between me and the insurance company.

I continued to bounce from test to test, surgery to surgery, waiting for the inevitable shattered window, which came the day I was released from the hospital in the news that a family member had lost her fight with cancer.  It was hard to celebrate my good fortune of leaving the hospital, being told my tumor was not cancer, when the life of someone so young with two little children had been cut short so prematurely. A kind of survivor’s guilt overcame me, and I kept wondering why I was so fortunate.  I previously said I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop, but now I wonder if it hasn’t been thrown, hitting me in the head and leaving me in some post operative state of confusion. 

Nothing is sharp.  Not that sharp would be a word I’d use to describe myself!  My face is round, as is every part of my body. Even my hair gets round with an increase in humidity! The only thing capable of being sharp would probably be my tongue.

I’ve heard of disorders such as postpartum depression, and post traumatic stress syndrome. I have to wonder if there is a post-op perplexity disorder and I’m the new poster child.  I feel like I am in a room, surrounded by people having a toke from some community reefer, and I’m stuck in the middle, feeling disoriented from the contact high!

There are so many horror stories of hospitals performing the wrong surgeries on patients and amputating the wrong limb. If it weren’t that I distinctly remember the doctor marking the surgical site with indelible ink, I would swear he performed a lobotomy instead of a lobectomy! My memory is shorter than the life expectancy of a mayfly. I would like to think if there was a problem like Alzheimer’s, it would have shown up on my periodic brain MRI, which monitors a spot found on my right frontal lobe.  I would think if it had grown, I would have at least gotten a courtesy call.  Hmmm, that is…I don’t remember getting any call…..

Sisters on the Fly

We get many types of camping groups during the season.  There are canvas campers, Pwp’s, Scouts, church groups etc.  Last weekend we had a group called Sisters on the Fly.  Intrigued by the name, I immediately went to the computer and consulted the google guru. Sisters on the Fly began with two sisters who liked fly fishing and were having such a great time, they started inviting their girlfriends along.  It reminded me of the old Faberge shampoo commercials.  Do you remember them?  The original user was so pleased with the product that she told two friends, and they told two friends and so on…and so on….capitalizing on the impact word of mouth has on advertising and marketing.  This sisterhood has done the same, growing from the original two to the over twenty-six hundred members currently signed up. I was awestruck by these women, and if I am to be honest, a little envious of these ladies, who could gather together for a carefree jaunt without husbands, boyfriends, children or pets.  Not that I have never traveled without husband or children myself, but that there were so many others who did so on a  regular basis in such an organized fashion impressed me.  I felt an immediate kinship with these women of all ages, occupations, and personalities.  Some of them were meeting for the first time, though their exuberance and excitement at seeing each other gave the impression they had known each other all their lives.    They are a sisterhood of fun-loving independent women with arms open waiting to embrace a new family member.   Several travel in vintage trailers, and tiny teardrops, tricked out and named to reflect their own personalities.  I had my doubts about fitting in, since my husband and I recently purchased a 30ft motorhome  on the hope that we’d be able to sneak away a few times per year. But I was assured that it wouldn’t make a difference what I was camping in.

Though I never had the urge to buy Faberge shampoo, I was compelled to buy into this sisterhood.  Rather than living vicariously through their friendly blogs on their website, I joined after that weekend, and am now sister #2615.  I wasn’t sure what to call my RV.  I am always looking for a reason to bug-out of my duties at the campground, and have been accused of doing it at lightning speed!  I relate to lighting more and more as I get older –as my mind produces an occasional brilliant flash before returning to a dark void of nothingness. And…. during a menopausal hot flash, I can not only rumble like thunder, I’m capable of vaporizing anyone or anything in my path just like lightning! And I almost glow, flushed with excitement at the idea of leaving the campground. In view of these observations, I’ve  decided on Lightning-Bug-Out.  My daughter even sketched a cartoon lightning bug standing thumb out, motioning an escape, a martini glass, wine glass and jug in the other hands.  Now I am anxious to attend a meet-up, to feel that I truly am a part of the family of adventurous Sisters on the Fly!

A very "Public House"

                                                          

I attended a convention in Sturbridge Massachusetts last March.  Even though I had to make the drive and attend the convention alone, I was looking forward to seeing other campground owners from the Northeast.

Judy, a good friend and campground owner from Cape May, assured me that I wouldn’t regret making the trip and she’d keep me company.  Most of the luncheons and dinners are included in the registration for the event but there was one night that dinner was on your own.  We met up with three other campgrounds from our state and decided to go to a well known restaurant called “the Public House”.  We looked forward to swapping stories and knew we always laugh and enjoy the time we spend together.

We hurried into the public dining area where our table for eight was waiting.  Our time was limited, because we had to return to the hotel for a “cracker barrel” discussion, so we put in our orders as soon as the waiter came to the table.

 “Oh my God!”  Judy exclaimed as she ducked her head behind the menu she still held in her hand.  “I don’t know where to look!”

All but the gentleman sitting opposite her at our table were now following her line of sight to a woman seated at the table a few feet from us who was breast feeding her baby. 

Although breast feeding is only natural, I must admit the public display was a little uncomfortable.   I was born in an era when discretion and modesty was an inherent condition.  Having had two children of my own, I know there are many ways to feed an infant discreetly when in public.  This woman, however, was not interested in utilizing any of them.   Judy, being older than myself, was of the Ozzie & Harriet generation and such things were not even discussed in mixed company, let alone demonstrated.

It became quite obvious that the intention of this mother was to attract as much attention as possible, and she was indeed successful in her endeavor. The fact that she used breast feeding to that end was nothing short of offensive. I remember wondering if she had chosen the “Public House” for the name alone. It was as though she purposely tried to expose as much of her body as possible, making no attempt at draping her chest but rather exposing herself from the top of her blouse down.  She was sitting at a table against the window, which would have given her complete privacy had she chosen any of the three other seats at the table, angling herself away from the other diners. However, her choice was the chair that faced the entire restaurant full of diners.  After an hour and a half went by, it was obvious the child was not the least bit interested, but she kept forcing his face toward her breast.  How much could a child so small drink? Especially when she had been nursing him in the crowded lobby only minutes before? Seriously?  Even a dairy cow would have emptied in less time. 

 As we glanced around the room, other customers sat with heads tilted, trying to obliterate her from even their peripheral fields of vision (not an easy feat due to the size of the room and placement of the tables). Discussion at our table deteriorated rapidly into bad puns and jokes as a result of our own discomfort which I’m sure contributed to our raucous behavior.   The woman looked to be glaring directly at us and called the waiter to her table several times. However, we weren’t sure if she was lodging a complaint against our table or trying repeatedly to draw the young man’s attention to her bare breast.

Service was extremely slow, and we just wanted to get out of there.  I usually drink my coffee black, but thought cream might help to cool it down and speed up our ability to depart.   Already late for the cracker barrel session and feeling the tension around the room, when my coffee was poured I turned to Judy and inquired “Got Milk?”  The laughter that ensued got the check to the table quicker than any of the dinner courses.

Wasted Youth

All dressed up to go, one last check in the mirror

I thought that I looked nice and neat.

I was half through the room, when I swapped out my shoes,

Cause the heels started hurting my feet.

Great dinner with friends, though we’re tired by the end

When the waitress came by with the bill,

I stood up to leave and, the pain in my knee

Told me, shit, I have crested the hill.

Youth has been wasted on red pimply faces,

Ungrateful with life so they whine.

Till one day that mirror reflects the years passing;

And they see they’ve been ravaged by time.

I’m watching the kids play, they’re all in their heyday,

The energy spent is a crime.

They’re running and jumping, my own heart is pumping

And telling me I’m past my prime.

Youth is just wasted on young lads and lasses,

They squander away precious time.

They sit on their asses with rose colored glasses,

And I wonder, what happened to mine?

As youths we would laugh at our old aunts and uncles,

 They’d sit tapping their toes ‘neath the table.

They’d watch us all dancing, to loud music playing

Reminiscing the days they were able.

Our feet seemed to fly as we’d spin and we’d glide;

We’d all drank and had eaten our fill

It never occurred to us, we’d soon be tapping

Our toes when we crested the hill.

The tick of a clock, is an audible mock

as we use up our time here on earth.

I’ve heard there’s a rumor, it’s God’s sense of humor

And how He will measure our worth..

Time is the stuff that a youth’s dreams are made of,

And time slips away when we’re old.

When you are over the hill, and your youth is all gone;

They’re the golden years, so I am told.

We round up.

It was a moonless night and I could not get into the house fast enough as the wad of keys tumble between my fingers.  I felt for the one with the three gemstones at the top which would open my front door, balancing the items which belonged at home, that had somehow migrated up to the office.  As always, I left the house in the early morning, forgetting to turn on the outside light; knowing I wouldn’t return until long after dark.  Someday we’ll get that motion light, I thought to myself as I turned the key, pushed open the door, and dropped everything I was carrying into the foyer .

It was an exhausting holiday weekend and there was still one more day to go before the majority of campers would pack up and head home.  I nearly tumbled down the steps to the family room, making a beeline for my newest best friend- the nespresso c-100, with its companion, the aerocino plus.

The shiny piano black surface twinkled as I flipped on the overhead light.  It drew me to it like a moth to flames and I opened the wooden black box which held the 16 grand crus coffee capsules hot with anticipation.  Hmmm, ristretto, espresso, lungo or cappuccino….which will it be…?  The small cardboard carton of vanilla milk made the decision for me as I poured it into the aerocino and hit the button.   The hum of the nespresso and the aroma of the dark liquid expressing through the  gold colored capsule marked livanto dispelled all the tension that had accumulated from dealing with the public all day. In cantrast, the aerocino frothed the milk in total silence and anonymity.

Holiday weekends seem to bring out large groups of people rather than the individual families that take the weekend jaunts into the great outdoors.  Each holiday we get the same scenario.  Groups waiting til a day or two before, calling for several sites and flabbergasted when they find out we are full and have no space left.  Looking down the list of reservations, matching names to site numbers, the map of the campground is transformed into a microcosm of world cultures. I find it fascinating how members of the same cultures develop similar attributes and we unconsciously brace ourselves accordingly.  Politically incorrect? No doubt.  There are some cultures who do not feel they should be subject to the same rules as everyone else.  Others, no matter how hard they try, or how often you may remind them of quiet hours, seem to be genetically incapable of speaking  in  a quiet tone of  voice.  Another group of persons, may be so accustomed to European beaches where clothing is optional, they simply cannot understand our insistence on wearing the top to their bikini while at our swimming pond.  

And then there are those who do not count children as people.  The discussions and court battles we have in America over the abortion issue and when a fetus is considered a viable person is amazing.  Is it at the moment of conception? First trimester?  This weekend, I received a phone call from a man who wanted to reserve a tent site. I knew by the name and accent what the sticking point in reserving would be. We allow a maximum of six persons per site, no more than four of which can be adults 18years or older.   Even though the man knew the terms, he insisted he only needed one site, explaining that he only had four adults and 2 and ½ children.  “So you have seven people, I said, you will need two sites.  No, he insisted, I only have six people, 4 adults and 2 ½ children, I only want one site; the other child is very small.  At what age do young children become humans in his culture?  After several minutes of disagreeing as to the definition of a person, I finally put it to him in my most polite but firm end of discussion tone replying “Is it out of the womb and breathing on its own?  Then it’s person, you need two sites.  Hanging up the phone I thought perhaps I should have told him in the case of a half a child,  we round up!

Looking back on the phone call now as I sip my cappuccino, I realized that there was probably a better way to handle the situation, although even with the second sip I couldn’t think of one at the moment. I simply shrugged my shoulders and kicked of my shoes as I settled back into the deep leather chair.  I made a mental note to perhaps ask one of the seminar hosts on hospitality for a suggestion the next time I have someone of that nationality call for a reservation.  Meanwhile, I was contemplating what color capsule I’d treat myself to next.

My Big Fish Story

   

My friend Carol was generous enough to invite us to spend time this winter at her house on Summerland Key, Florida.  Being from NJ, oceans and waves go hand in hand, so the first time I visited the Keys, I was surprised that there were no waves.  It almost seemed like her house was lakefront instead of ocean front.  The water was calm and there was a slight breeze.  

I’m going to take a short kayak ride” Carol said, “why don’t you come with me.” I shot her a doubtful look.  I’ve never kayaked before.   I peered over the edge of the dock trying to gauge the distance down to the kayak that was waiting for a rider.  The idea of maneuvering myself down the ladder of her dock and stepping onto the floating kayak was laying the groundwork for an anxiety attack. I slowly sucked in some air and insisted that Carol go first. I wanted to watch how she boarded the boat that was bobbing in the water below.  But I also wanted her down there ahead of me so she can help when I fell out of mine. There was no doubt in my mind that even if I managed to get into the boat, I was  going to be in the water at some point, and there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that I’d be able to get back on in deep water!  I watched as Carol climbed down the ladder and boarded her kayak without a problem.  She paddled out of the way and pushed the second kayak into position and I started my decent. 

As I reached the bottom rung of the ladder, I had to point my right foot and drag the kayak closer with my toes.  I took a deep breath and started to lower myself down toward the seat while still trying to cling to the ladder.  “You know, Carol, this would be much easier if you added another rung or two to the ladder”.  With that said, my hand slipped off the bottom rung and I plopped onto the seat.  The kayak responded with a quick shudder.  I made a fast adjustment and the kayak proved to be more stable than I had expected.

 It was then that I realized I was holding my breath the whole time in anticipation of what I thought would be an inevitable plunge into the water.  We chose to kayak across the “flats” where the water was shallow and I’d be able to stand up and re-board after I flipped the boat, which I was still waiting for.  We went about a half mile then turned around and came back.  I made it to the dock feeling very proud of myself.  Though this was never on my bucket list, I decided to add it, so that I could have something to check off!

It did not take a lot of cajoling to get me back in the kayak later that day.  I actually enjoyed it and was feeling much more confident.  So much so, that we stayed in the deep channel, and I removed my life vest for comfort.  We were commenting on the various homes and gardens as we passed and were heading for the mangroves. 

“There’s a whole school of fish that just raced past me” Carol called back to me.  I glanced around me but saw nothing. As I put my paddle onto the water on the right side of my kayak, something hit hard on the left side, level with my thigh, and I felt the boat start to tip.  I shifted my weight. As the left side of my brain told me to jump out of the boat before whatever it was landed in my lap, something big splashed down hard into the water. 

“Was that you?  Did you fall in?” Carol called back to me, as she heard the thump and splash.

 But at that moment, the right brain screamed “NO! You’ll never get back in the boat and then you’ll be stuck in the water with it… and it may be a  them!” 

“BIG F-ING FISH!” I answered Carol.  My right brain continued yelling at me for pushing my luck and taking another trip out...for removing my life vest... for forgetting that this was not a lake but an ocean that had sharks and barracudas and God only knows what else!  I wondered at the whereabouts of the Portuguese man ‘o war we were looking at the morning before from the dock…. 

Carol manage to turn her kayak around and face me as the cold water from the splash rained down on me.

“BIG F-ING FISH!”  I repeated-- relieved I was still in the boat and hadn’t listened to the left brain and thanking God that the fish arched left instead of right when it jumped.    We both nearly rolled our kayaks from laughter. We paddled a little further before turning to go home, commenting that my big f-ing fish was probably the reason Carol saw all the smaller fish swimming so fast.

 I’m sure the entire Summerland Key heard me, as sound amplifies across the water.  I suppose I could have apologized for the language that escaped my lips, but at that point I didn’t care about anything but returning to land.  The adrenaline rush got me back across the flats in half the time it took to go out.  I kept looking back for Carol.  She was trying to keep up, “you’re like a horse heading for the barn! she yelled laughing, commenting on my speed.

But there was nothing that would have distracted me from my focus point of that ladder on the dock!  .

Before leaving the Keys, we met with another friend who lives there full time and kayaks quite often.  She too laughed at my reaction, but also told us of an incident that occurred a few months earlier.  A woman kayaking was speared in the back by a needle fish that jumped from the water and punctured her lung.  Luckily, her fiancé was with her and had a cell phone to call for help. 

I only saw a part of the fish that struck my boat and couldn’t identify it.   I just know that it hit so hard it nearly tipped the boat and made a loud enough noise that Carol heard it - even though she was several yards ahead of me.  The resulting splash rose above my head, and the part I did see was fat and meaty.

Yes, I went kayaking again with my husband that same afternoon.  All things considered, it was a good time.  I plan on buying a kayak for home to use on the lake or river next week.   However, I may stick to the flats next time I’m in the keys and will probably keep the life vest on. No sense in tempting fate!

  

"Name, Address and License Plate"

Being stuck in the office and store doing the same jobs day in and day out 7 days per week can become monotonous.  In fact, the routine becomes so ingrained on you that you sometimes forget what day of the week it is, because one day is exactly like the next.  Unless something so out of the ordinary happens like it did one beautiful summer day…

Because we are a campground, all cars must be registered.  We also require adults to sign a walking waiver that states they are walking at their own risk and will not hold us responsible if they trip or fall.  We were signing in wolf watchers as we do every day, indicating where on the page we need their name, address and license plate number.  The words become a mindless repetition, almost a mantra as we point and repeat “name, address, license plate and signatures of anyone 18 years and older”. 

 A large percentage of the general public do not memorize their license plate numbers and thus have to go out to the parking lot to check.  When I pointed to the book and repeated for the umpteenth time that day “name, address, license plate and signature”, it did not surprise me when the man set the pencil back down and said, “I’ll be right back”.   He returned about five minutes later and tried to hand me the metal rectangle he had just removed from the back of his car. When he saw the expression on my face followed by the burst of laughter, I could almost see the cartoon light bulb over his head when he realized his error.

  “Uh, you didn’t mean you needed the actual plate did you”, he asked with a sheepish smile.

  No, but you have just made my day” I said laughing, as I copied the number into the requisite space.  The rest of the day sailed by with intermittent giggles from staff members. 

 Are there any of us who can say we haven’t had those moments that did not give the impression of having the intelligence we’d like others to credit us with?  Wouldn’t it be nice if we could freeze frame and rewind time to take back something we said or did before anyone would notice?  Personally, I’ve had more of those dim witted moments than I’d care to admit to.  In fact, there are enough expressions out there to suggest it’s not all that uncommon to have had those moments when our own boat may have been in the water without the oars.

 Not the sharpest knife in the drawer…, not the brightest bulb in the pack…, dumber than a stump…, playing with an incomplete deck…a few fries short of a happy meal…not the brightest crayon in the box…a few planks short of a bridge…all foam and no beer…a few screws short of a hardware store…elevator doesn’t go all the way to the top floor…,couldn’t pour water out of a boot if the instructions were on the heel…too much yardage between the goal posts…half a bubble off plumb…no lifeguard in the gene pool… an so on. 

How do we recoup some dignity after saying or doing something to spawn a new colloquialism?  Humor.  We have to be able to be the first to laugh at ourselves. Sadly, many people today have lost their sense of humor.  We are wrapped so tight in our own egos that we are unable to accept even constructive criticism.  Mockery and name calling was just as prevalent when I was young as it is today.  What makes it different than what goes on presently is the manner in which the mocking was handled.  There was not a physical or legal retaliation.  There were two simple phrases that raised the protective shield up around us “sticks and stones may break my bones but names can never hurt me” as well as “I’m rubber you’re glue, whatever you say bounces off of me and sticks to you”.  It’s cheaper than lawyers, and less hazardous than physical attacks.  Sounds stupid or foolish?  Most certainly, but isn’t that what all of us have most in common?  Didn’t Shakespeare sum it up with “all the world’s a stage and the people in it merely players. I'm thinking life is a comedy, and we're a long way from winning the "Oscar".