As A Matter Of Fact, I Don't Want To Know

Here's a suggestion to all of my well-meaning relatives and friends: When I tell you I've scheduled a colonoscopy, please do not regale me with tales of every person you know who had their colons perforated during the procedure.
Over the past six years, I've had two colonoscopies, both problem free, thank you very much. Aside from the grueling prep the night before, once the twilight-sleep was administered, I didn't feel a thing. And the best part, my colon was (and still is, hopefully) cancer and polyp free. My maternal grandmother and uncle both had colon cancer so I don't take any chances. A healthy colon is a happy colon.
As suggested by my doctor, now that I'm over fifty and because of the family history, I get a colonoscopy every five years. Why do the people in my life insist on delving headfirst into the annals of alledged medical mishaps? They share stories of their great aunt's daughter's next door neighbor who had their first colonoscopy ever and ended up in the intensive care unit after the doctor sneezed, twitched, passed out, or just plain screwed up a routine health screening.
I don't want to hear it, but that doesn't stop them.
"Oh wow, you're getting a colonoscopy?" my neighbor asked. "My co-worker had one last month and her husband had to rush her to the emergency room. She almost died."
"Really? Well thanks for sharing," I said. "I'm sure it was a fluke."
First of all, as reasonable people, we should all understand that simply getting up and out of bed each morning comes along with risks. Nothing is risk free, not even a colonoscopy, but the odds are usually in the favor of the person on the table with a probe up their tushy.
I have no proof, but it wouldn't shock me if the female contingency who share this information do the same with new moms-to-be, dredging up every delivery room horror story from the past several centuries and reciting it like a Shakespeare soliloquy. Who doesn't want to hear about potential tragedy and botched episiotomies days before giving birth?
The other day, a card from my doctor was in the mail, reminding me it was time for another colonoscopy.
I'll tell everyone about it when it's OVER!

If You Go Away Quietly, I Promise Not To Hurt You

In the musical Scrooge, before he meets the three ghosts who change his life, Scrooge bellows out in song, loud and clear: "I hate people, and I don't care if they hate me."
I know exactly what he means. I'm not a big fan, either. Well, not this week, anyway.
Maybe it's the onslaught of snow we've had the past couple of weeks and being held captive, but as of now, anything standing upright with a pulse is getting on my nerves...BIGTIME!
This is a problem because at work I have to be nice to people and have a smile on my face and joy in my voice. It's not much better on the homefront. We live in a big old renovated warehouse with lots of open space, but not many doors. No matter where I'm located, no matter how hard I try to eek out a little space for myself, there is always someone around me. My daughter is the only one with an escape. Her bedroom actually has a door.
I actually asked my husband recently why we couldn't put a door on the bathroom in our bedroom.
"That would take away from the suite-like feel of the room," he said.
I was sitting on the toilet at the time, thinking some privacy would be nice.
When I was young and didn't know any better, it was so much easier to put up with other people. I was stupid and happy, and had the same easy-going attitude as a Golden Retriever puppy. It's hard to pinpoint exactly when people started to piss me off, but now I'm old and cynical and it takes every ounce of my patience and willpower to not reach out and grab someone by their ears and throttle them around.
It would be so theraputic, but I'm not willing to risk the assault charges it would most likely bring.
Maybe what I need is a punching bag. I could put it in the garage and anytime I felt the need to whallop the crap out of someone head down there and spend some quality time pounding the leather.
I feel better already.

The People Who Eat My Brain

Let me tell you about the people who live in my house. One is big and hairy, and old and moody. The other person, is young and pretty, and self-absorbed. But she's a teenager and I'll cut her some slack. I will refrain from mentioning their names because they have no interest in playing an active role in my ramblings.

Let's call them the People Who Eat My Brain.

Old and Moody for example, has managed to avoid most family vacations over the past sixteen years, not to mention spending much time with either branch of our respective families. He will make exceptions for funerals which we all think is so grand of him!

Over Summer or Winter breaks, it was me and the child, and many times when we were on one adventure or another, white-water rafting in Utah, or DisneyWorld, people rightly assumed that I was a single mom.

But every once in a great while O/M completely floors me.

"When does Spring break fall this year?" he asked while we were preparing dinner the other night. "I was thinking of taking the girl on a road trip."

Well I'll be darned, I thought.

"Where are you thinking of going?" He has a two seater convertible and I couldn't imagine exactly what type of voyage was brewing in that brain of his.

"The Grand Canyon," he said, as casually as if he was planning to take her up the street to the CVS. "I think we can get there in a couple of days."

Unless he was thinking of strapping rocket jets onto his tiny wind up toy of a motor vehicle, I couldn't comprehend how he thought he'd get there so fast from our Eastern seaboard home. But I stayed positive for his sake, as well as our daughter's.

"Well that sounds wonderful," I said. "You two will have a great time."

As if on cue, braineater #2 walked in, apparently having caught the tail end of our conversation.

"Where's dad taking me?"

"The Grand Canyon for Spring break," I said. "Doesn't that sound like fun?"

"Can't we go to Maine instead?" she asked.

MAINE!?

"No, that's too far," said #1.

Too Far? I sensed this grand adventure coming to an end before it even started.

"C'mon, you two, a father-daughter trip is a great idea," I insisted. "Life is short, go have some fun!"

"Oh, mom...you just want to have the house to yourself," chimed #2.

You're darned right I do, little girl....and I don't care if it takes duct tape, valium, and two round trip tickets on a Greyhound bus bound for the great Southwest!

Bring On The Eggnog.

I prefer mine spiked with a little bourbon. Hopefully, at this writing, the adult male member of the household has made the run to the grocery and liquor stores, and we're fully stocked with the makings of some good,old-fashioned eggnog.
It's how we like to spend our Christmas eve.
We're not really a family that's big on tradition, but it seems our years evening before Christmas consists of the spiked nog, settling before the television, and watching the video of  our daughter's first Christmas, when both her Nonnie and Papa were still alive. Afterwards, we watch A Christmas Story and then It's a Wonderful Life.
If I can work up the ambition and enough guilt, I'll make my way to a midnight mass.

To be honest, Christmas eve hasn't been the same since my mom passed away. She made it special for everyone and anyone who showed up at her house. The number of gifts under the tree were embarrassing. We could have helped restock a homeless shelter with clothing, bath items, and electronics. No one left my mom's house empty-handed.
One of my favorite dinners she'd make was a pork roast with an apricot glaze. I never bothered to get the recipe from her, and after she died, I had to make long search of the internet to track down something that came close. The only thing I remembered was the glaze was made with apricot jam and Russian salad dressing. It sounds disgusting, but it is seriously delicious.
After she passed away, my brothers and I started doing our own holiday plans with our respective families. I usually make the trek north to see them the day after Christmas. We all like for the young cousins to see each other and stay close, or at least as close as possible. Not always easy when your homes are separated by more than five hundred miles.
So tonight, I will try to figure out what to feed the two other members of my household. It won't be an apricot glazed pork roast, I'm sad to admit. Maybe next Christmas eve.
But I'll always have eggnog.

When Life Hands You Other Plans

     If you want to hear the most heartbreaking sound in the world, listen to your father cry. Fathers aren't supposed to cry, at least not when you're an adolescent and they're the rock that keeps the family in a solid place. When your mom is chronically ill, and in and out of the hospital, all you have is your dad. To hear him sobbing behind his locked bedroom door is, to say the least, bewildering.
     My mother isn't even forty and the doctors say her kidneys will fail within years and she'll eventually need a transplant if she wants to live. Three days a week she depends on dialysis and her hope is that a suitable donor will be found. Still, she refuses to even consider her doctor's insistence that one of her three children be tested to see if they can donate. My father's healthy kidneys are not a suitable match.

     Fourth of July, 1974, my mom is in the hospital yet again. I don't even know why this time. It's become so common place to not have her in the house, I don't even ask. I'm afraid to ask. My grandmother is over, giving my dad a hand. We've finished dinner and all I want is for the sun to go down so I can go outside and light firecrackers and sparklers with my friends. I want to have fun. I want life to be normal, but normal in our family ended several years ago.
     I go upstairs to ask dad if it's okay to venture across the street but mere inches from his door, I hear him on the other side, even though his sobs are low and muffled. His face must be buried in a pillow, maybe two. I press my ear to the door, yet I cannot knock, scared to disturb him. He would be so embarrassed, deny that he is crying.
     Is he envisioning my mother's possible early death like I have so many times in my worst nightmares, seeing himself as the young widower with three children to raise on his own?
     I can't think about it anymore, have already spent too many hours worrying about my life as a girl without a mother. I run down the stairs, pretend that all is well.
     My grandmother is in the family room watching television. Bob Barker is helping contestants with Truth or Consequences.
     "Where are you going?" she asks.
     "Across the street."
     "Did you tell your father?"
     "Yeah, he said it was fine," I lie.
     "Don't stay out too late," she says.

     As I run to join the other neighborhood kids, I notice dad's bedroom light has been turned off. Perhaps he's waiting for my mother to join him in his dreams.


(In loving memory of Alex G. Keurejian on this day, 9/22, his birthday. You should have been eighty-one years old, dad...but life had other plans)