Turtles Go Bump

There are turtles going bump in my kitchen, and in my living room. I am starting to get use to the sounds. When the turtles first started to take over my home I would find the noises startling. There have been a few times when I have gone through the house with a large club thinking someone was in the house, only to realize that it was a turtle knocking a log against a tank.

My youngest son loves turtles. His favorite turtles are musk turtles. Today we have 4 red-eared sliders, 5 musk turtles, and a 3-toed box turtle. He is hoping to purchase a Russian tortoise next.

It is shocking to me that I am allowing all these turtles in to my kitchen and living room. For years the kitchen was my place. No one was allowed to add anything into my kitchen without my permission. The living room was my domain also. The kids had their rooms, their playroom, and a computer room to mess up all they wanted, but the kitchen and living room, were all under my control.

As I sit here listening to the newest turtle bang against the box set up for her to lay her eggs, I am wondering what happened? My first thought was when did I lose control? However, as I continued to think about it I realize that I did not lose control, I gave up control.

Why did I give up control? Because I realized that my boys are going to be gone in just a few more years and then I will be sitting here alone looking at all the neat, orderly rooms and wishing they were messy. Because of the smile I get on my face when I hear my youngest say good morning or goodnight to all his turtles. Because I don’t want my boys to say that they didn’t enjoy their childhood because I had to have a perfect kitchen or living room.

So as I sit here listening the turtles go bump in the kitchen and living room I feel a smile tug at my lips because I know my boys get more pleasure in having turtles in the kitchen and living room than I ever did by those rooms being neat and orderly.

I’m Turning into a Hypochondriac

Between the ads on television, newspapers and magazines; the stories on the news and on other television shows; and my mother’s doctors I am turning into a hypochondriac. None of those ads or stories used to bother me until I realized that I am now a single parent and that I need to stay alive as long as possible to be here for my boys. Once that hit me I seemed to start suffering from every disease and illness out there and felt the need to take every medication advertised except for the one that could cause a 4 hour erection.

I have fibromyalgia. I do better than most people with it and unless I am in a major flare up, I don’t think about it. I am seldom sick, and even though I am obese, I consider myself to be fairly fit. I walk at least 15 miles a week; doing 3 miles M-F and I try to pick up some extra miles on the weekends. Our vacations almost always include several days of hiking. So even though I know I am obese and I am not truly healthy, I consider myself to be in good shape, however, this constant battering of my psyche by the drug companies makes me feel like I should be on life support just to get out of bed.

It is bad enough that I seem to have every symptom listed for whatever illness the current drug advertised on television can alleviate, but now my mom’s doctor has placed a curse on me. My mom has always had very bad varicose veins. She has had at least four surgeries in my lifetime, and probably more before that, she can no longer remember. Now 36 years after her last surgery, she needs a vein procedure again. (Notice I said procedure, they no longer actually operate on the legs, a catheter is used.) At her last doctor’s visit the doctor said that he was sure I had varicose veins due to the family history and he wanted to do a work up on me after we were done with all of mom’s procedures.

At first I didn’t think much of what he said, but then I had a chance to go back into the room to get procedure instructions and I asked him how I would know if I had varicose veins. He went over some symptoms with me and I left thinking about how I didn’t have a single symptom.

I went home that afternoon and took a good look at my legs (something I haven’t done in years). I have some veins that look like varicose veins above my knees, but I thought about how I didn’t have any symptoms and I would not have the tests because that would be looking for trouble. Then I saw the ad for some kind of silent circulation problem that could cause something to happen to your heart. Since then the symptoms have not stopped. I have shooting pains down a vein in my left leg, my lower legs feel so heavy I don’t think I can lift them out of bed in the morning, my inside left ankle seems to throb with each beat of my heart, and the list goes on.

I need to get off this computer and finish my laundry so that I can get my feet up over my head to allow the vein reflux to be relieved in my varicose veins, while I watch the clock to time my trips to the bathroom to see if I have an overactive bladder, and at the same time read my latest magazine to see what drug I may need to take for my anxiety over my hypochondria. Is multi-tasking a disease?

Queen of Unhandy

I have been the Queen of Unhandy most of my life. It isn’t that I don’t want to be a good handyman (woman, person, whatever), I just never seem to manage to finish a project without having some problem arise during the project, and most of those problems seem to cause me personal embarrassment.

In the 70’s we moved into a new house my dad built. We had a young good looking painter working for us and I decided I wanted to get his attention by impressing him. I was going to do this by painting a small slatted table with metal tube legs to match my bedroom. It gave me a chance to be in the same room with the painter and show how we had something in common. I finished the bottom and was flipping the table over to do the bottom as I was glancing over to see if the Adonis painter had noticed what a terrific job I had done when SLAP. I had flipped the table too hard and it slapped across my face. This incident might not have been too bad if it had been the unpainted side that had hit my face, but no it was the painted side. I had black slats going across my face from my mouth up to my forehead. Of course, the painter found the whole thing hilarious, and said that things like that happened sometimes when children tried out new projects. I couldn’t decide whether to be upset because I had black stripes on my face or because he had called me a child, after all I was almost 14 years old!!!

Move forward from the 70’s to the early 80’s when I decided to refinish the dressers Raymond’s parents had handed down to us when we got married. I was doing the work in the garage, and Raymond, as per our agreement, was leaving me alone to do the work, and quite unaware where I was in the project.

Everything seemed to be going quite well and I was very pleased with how the dressers were turning out. I was down to the last step of applying the tung oil, but unfortunately, it would not pour. I looked into the bottle and gave it a gentle squeeze to see if it moved as I was afraid it had hardened. It did not move so I continued the squeezing process several more times, each time adding more pressure to the squeeze with no results. I finally squeezed the bottle as hard as I could and the tung oil came exploding out all over my head.

I went running to the inside garage door and banged my fist on the door to get Raymond to let me in. He opened the door, took one look at me and before I could say a word, rushed me to the sink, pushed my head in and turned on the cold water faucet to full force. I was sputtering trying to ask him what he was doing, but he was too busy shouting for me to be still and let him get the water on my head. I thought he was trying to drown me!

He finally let my head up and asked me if I was okay. I told him I was until he tried to kill me. He started asking me if I could see at the same time I was asking him what was wrong with him. He finally explained that having stripper all over me could be very caustic. That is when I told him it was tung oil and I really just wanted a towel. At that point he got really mad at me and went stomping off saying I had scared him for nothing.

We got over the incident, but the cold water had set the tung oil up in my hair and I had to wear the same lacquered hairstyle for about three weeks. I decided I would never use tung oil again.

I have had so many more handyman incidents over the years, I cannot count them, but the one I had last Saturday reminded me of the one with the tung oil. The current incident involved silicone and a caulk gun.

My youngest son’s tortoise tank needed to have the glass lamp top resealed. I had a tube of silicone, and I had used caulk in a caulk gun before, so how hard could it be? Probably not hard at all if the tube of silicone had cooperated.

I placed the tube in the caulk gun and started pulling the trigger. After a minute or so, I decided something was wrong, so I took the tube out of the caulk gun, examined it and started over. Nothing. Then the father of my son’s friend stopped by and I invited him in and he saw what I was doing. He said he could help. After several minutes of beating on the tube of silicone, triggering the caulk gun, etc., he came to the conclusion that there was something wrong with the tube. I agreed and decided to cut the end of the tube off further and just squeeze it out onto the area I needed it, and that is what I did while talking to the man that had been helping. The silicone was coming out, I was smoothing down the seam, and everything seemed to be working great. The man left, and I started to clean up.

I have only worked with caulk. Caulk has always washed right off my hands. The silicone would not come off my hands with a towel, soap and water, Goop, or any other method I tried. Normally that would not been a problem as I would just keeping working at it until something removed the silicone from my hands, this time however, thanks to those lovely water pills I take to lower my blood pressure. I really had to go to the bathroom. It was obvious to me that I was getting ready to have an “I Love Lucy” moment.

I scrubbed my hands some more while crossing my legs so many times they looked like a piece of Twizzler candy and hopping up and down, while my youngest laughed. My hands were so sticky at this point that my fingers were stuck together, I had paper towels stuck to my palms, and I could not wait another minute to run to the bathroom.

It was an interesting experience. I hope I never have to unzip my jeans using only my two pinky fingers, with my legs crossed, and hopping up and down again. It is too much work. Maybe I should buy some Depends for the next time I decide to try to repair something.

It took me another thirty minutes or so to get all the silicone off my hands, but it gave me time to decide that my next project should be a tiara for the Queen of Unhandy.

Another Decision Made

Wow, I seem to be on a roll. Today I met with a tree trimming service to see about tidying up the trees in the yard. Raymond and I haven’t been able to do the trimming for several years and they are really out of control.

Raymond and I planted over 120 trees on this property since purchasing it in 1993. Most of them are in very good shape, but some need to be topped, shaped, or need the dead limbs cut out. I called one of the tree services recommended by the engineer I hired to look at my foundation. The man came right out to give me an estimate and we walked all up and down the driveway, and around the house to discuss what I wanted done. The man made a lot of suggestions, and really knew his trees. I was impressed by him.

The bid given me did not seem too horrible once I divided it out on a per tree basis. He is also giving me a great deal on a root barrier I needed for a tree on the west side of the property. The work will be done Friday morning, and then I will be able to quit worrying about how bad the property looks from the road.

Whereas I seem to be on a decision making roll, the cost of bringing the house and property back up to the standard it was before Raymond was too sick to help me is always on my mind. I know that I won’t be able to hire people to do all the work that needs to be done, but I am hoping to be able to get to a point where the work that needs to be done will be manageable for the boys and me.

It Happens Every Spring by Gary Chapman and Catherine Palmer

Gary Chapman wrote the Four Seasons of Marriage and The Five Languages of Love, and now he has teamed up with Catherine Palmer to write a fiction series based on the Four Seasons of Marriage. It Happens Every Spring is the first of the series.

I really enjoyed this book even though I am a widow. The main story on this particular season is a couple whose children have left the nest, and the husband has a new career that has taken over his life, leaving the wife to sort out what her new role is in life and the marriage.

I related to this book because I too am trying to sort out my new “life” role. Being a single parent is certainly a different experience, and I am truly blessed to have such wonderful boys. I don’t know how equipped I would be to handle boys that were out-of-control.

Being a single homeowner is turning out to be a big challenge for me. Raymond and I did the best we could to keep the house in good repair between doctor and hospital visits and everyday life, but there were a lot of things that fell behind. So as I read about the remodeling of the home in the book I could dream about having all the repairs made in my home.

I’m looking forward to the next season in this series.

Oh How I Wish it Wasn’t So!

Rosie O’Donnell just announced that she would only be a guest co-host and doing specials next year instead of being a regular host on “The View.” I really am so stunned and numbed by this news. I know she is not popular with a lot of people, but to me she is a daily refuge. I tape the show daily and make sure I get a chance to at least watch the Hot Topic section.

I loved Rosie when she had her own show, even though I seldom had a chance to watch it at the time it was on. I truly was devastated when her magazine ceased to be published because it is the only magazine I have ever subscribed to that made me laugh every single month.

I love Rosie because she is not afraid to voice her opinion, which makes her a woman after my own heart. When I am watching Rosie on “The View” it is like having Raymond here with me, in that he and I would always have such lively conversations. I miss that so much.

Very few of my friends have the same interest in current events that I have, and I can understand that because they are busy with their families and sometimes their work, but it often makes me lonely even in a crowd.

I will miss my conversations with Rosie. I know she couldn’t hear me, but talking to Rosie on the television has really kept me sane this past year.

Oh how I wish it wasn’t so.

A Good Birthday

I had a good birthday, but I missed being with my oldest, especially since we share a birthday.

I was able to have face time with some of my favorite people on my birthday, and the day after I was able to spend some quality time with a friend that has been there for me every time I’ve called on her. Our relationship goes beyond being “best” friends. It was a good birthday.

I woke up on my birthday and felt my “birthday” hug from Raymond. It made me happy all day.

Raymond always managed to give me a birthday gift that was special to me. He would find something that went with whatever hobby I had at the time. He always wanted me to enjoy my day.

There was something else Raymond did to make my birthday, Christmas, or Mother’s Day special for me. He would go through my kitchen and find whatever needed to be replaced and go out and purchase it for me. Spatulas, chipped mixing bowls, knives, measuring cups, etc., he always wanted me to have quality, well-maintained equipment.

I will probably never have unchipped mixing bowls again, because I won’t spend money to replace something that can still be functional and is not seen by others. When I took down my big glass mixing bowl yesterday I noticed it had a small chip on the rim. At first I was afraid I would break down in tears, but then I realized I was smiling. I was smiling because I was remembering how much Raymond loved me, and all the ways he showed me that love.

Yes, it was a good birthday, and, so far, 48 does not feel too bad.

Senseless

I just finished watching to Convocation held at Virginia Tech for all the people that lost their lives senselessly in yesterday’s rampage by a gunman. The gunman has been identified, but I will not name him here. I think it glorifies these madmen when their names get placed in print over and over again, whether they are alive or not.

I can’t stop crying. It was all I could do yesterday to keep from driving up to see my oldest on his campus. I restrained myself. It was the same kind of motherly pull I felt after 911. Gather your children close.

Yes, I am a grieving widow, but to me, the grieving process for a person that died from a long, painful, illness is different than the grieving process for a person that died totally unexpectedly, especially when the death is due to a senseless act of violence. I had time to grieve and prepare for final grief for eight years. The loved ones of the men and women that were killed at Virginia Tech yesterday could not have dreamed that this could have happened to their families. I never dreamed Raymond would get cancer, but at least we had options for treatment. The ones killed yesterday at Virginia Tech were not given options.

To be the recipient of a call telling you that your child was shot down as they went about their day learning in order to better their future is inconceivable to me.

My heart goes out to all those that are suffering due to this senseless act of violence, especially to the mothers and fathers. May they find some solace in the special memories they hold of their loved ones.

Widow Speak and Those Slow Knowing Nods

(And maybe Widower Speak, I haven’t had that many conversations with Widowers)

I had the pleasure of taking my mom to a nail clinic yesterday. This particular nail clinic seems to specialize in diabetic foot care. At one point I was sitting with two women older than I am but a few years younger than my mother’s 85 years. We all struck up a conversation. At first the conversation was about the weather, diabetic shoes, and the bizarre opening statements in a trial taking place in Tennessee where a wife killed her pastor husband, but it wasn’t long before the conversation turned personal. Since I was the youngest they all asked about my husband and did I have children. When I stated I was a widow with two children I could sense a change in the room. If asked, I could not state what exactly had changed, but I found myself feeling intrigued by the feeling.

When I stated I was a widow, the two women did a slow nod of their heads, indicating they understood. It was after those slow knowing nods that the conversation became what I can only call “widow speak.” It went something like this:

Woman 1 (“W1”): “When did it happen?”

Me: “It will be a year in May.”

W1: “5 years for me.”

Woman 2 (“W2”): “It is hard.”

W1: “Yes, don’t I know it.”

W1: “How?”

Me: “Cancer”

W1: “Never gets easier, it feels easier, but it isn’t.”

Me: “Yes, you go along, then wham.”

Slow knowing nods all around.

W1: “Sure gets lonely.”

W2: “Sure does.”

Me: “I miss the conversations most.”

Slow knowing nods all around.

And so it went. Everything was in short speak with several slow knowing nods as emphasis on key points. It was oddly comforting to be speaking in such a way. I went away feeling good because we were not together long enough to get into a long depressing remembrance, but had enough time to commiserate and remember that we are not alone in the world.

I do not personally know a lot of widows/widowers, but I know a lot of people that have lost their parents or siblings. Having lost my father and now Raymond, I find the loss of my spouse to be very different from the loss of my father, even though I was close to my father. It has been my experience that the loss of a spouse can only be understood by a person that has experienced the same loss. The widows and widowers I have met have been the only ones to truly understand the loneliness, the loss of conversation, and the emptiness the room always seems to have even when full of people. It is a profound loss, and yet, it can be expressed in a slow knowing nod.

Okay, I Bucked Up, Let’s Hope I Don’t Pass Out

It took me until today, Thursday, April 5, 2007 to get up the nerve, but I just hung up the phone from saying “yes, please come fix my foundation.” I do like the man I am dealing with, and I really do want the interior of my home to look better, but when I looked at the first estimate I made sure I was seated for fear I would swoon. The final estimate and contract will be for even more because I asked for steel piers instead of concrete ones. I hope he carries smelling salts with him.

The engineer said that I did not have to repair the foundation; I could just fix what was causing the problems, and then wait it out. He said that if I wasn’t selling the house, there was no reason to spend the money. What the engineer did not know is that I lived like that my whole life. My dad would let little repairs fall to the wayside, things that my mom or I would of liked to have done to enhance our living experience in the house but were not vital to the maintenance of the home, and then he would practically work himself to death making all the improvements and then some when he wanted to sell the house. I remember how angry I would get to think about strangers enjoying the things that I did not have the chance to enjoy. I am not going to do that in my own home. I will probably be in this house for at least five more years, so I want it to be pleasing to my eye, even if the cost of the repairs keeps me awake for weeks. I do not want to spend the money later so that some strangers will have walls without 5/8 inch cracks.

Now I have to buck up and finish my youngest child’s application to SMI.

Guided Reading

I am an avid reader, as was Raymond, as are my boys.

It really hurt my heart when Raymond’s eyes could not focus because of the medications and he couldn’t read. He never stopped trying though. He was reading Crazy Wisdom by Wes “Scoop” Nisker at the end. He had read it in the past and asked for me to bring it to him after he was bedridden.

Throughout my life, books have come to me by chance at the perfect time. After Raymond died, my hold at the library for Fannie Flagg’s Can’t Wait to Get to Heaven came in. It was perfect. If you ever read it, check out the character named Raymond. It was like Raymond sent me a last private joke.

A few months later, I stumbled across Lolly Winston’s Good Grief, purely by accident. I had never heard of her or her books before. The widow Sophie was experiencing my life in so many ways I was truly amazed. It was as if this book leapt out at me so that I could start dealing with my grief. It was a blessing.

For the last two weeks I have been savoring Annie Freeman’s Fabulous Traveling Funeral by Kris Radish. Notice I said savoring, not reading. It does not take me two weeks to read a book. I found this book by accident while looking for a different book by another author, in a way it forced itself into my life. It was as if there was this giant hand guiding me to this book and the messages it delivers.

This book should be read by anyone that has ever suffered a loss, male or female. It had so many passages that touched me that I am ordering my own copy. I have been thinking all day about whether or not I will be able to highlight in my copy. I have decided I won’t because I can’t stand to mark in a book, but I will buy little sticky notes to mark the passages I fell in love with. I seldom ever find a book that I want to quote.

Annie Freeman’s Fabulous Traveling Funeral (“AFFTF”) has allowed me to move forward in my grief. It reinforced so many things I was thinking, and allowed me to look at my family and our way of dealing with grief.

Males should not be afraid to read this book. Yes, it looks like “chick lit” but don’t be fooled by the title or the cover. If you have suffered a loss, it will touch you, and give you a chance to heal.

I had to take pause so many times and examine the words against my feelings and thoughts. Sometimes I would only get through two pages before I would have to set the book aside and reflect upon how what I was reading pertained to my life. I would fall asleep thinking about the words I had read, only to wake up at four a.m. to read more.

From one of the entries in the funeral book for Annie Freeman “Laura Thought: Sometimes I am so pissed that you are gone I could go blind with anger and then I realize that not once, not even once, in my life has anger given me anything positive or taken me to a new place.” (“AFFTF”) I took a long pause at that passage.

Every time I get angry about Raymond’s death, cancer, being a widow, the situation I am in because Raymond is no longer by my side, I get angry a second time because I know Raymond would be disappointed in me. I am not behaving the way he asked me to behave (did I ever? – another thought for another day) after he was gone. I end up feeling bad about disappointing Raymond and not living up to his expectations of me, and that is certainly an example of nothing positive coming from anger or being taken to a new place.

The next book I am reading is just a book by an author I always read, but I am looking forward to the next book I am guided to read.

Easter Egg Hunt

We just finished with our Easter Egg Hunt. We have always had it Easter morning, but this year the oldest won’t be here for Easter. (Yes, I’m disappointed, but trying to be brave.) I was so surprised the boys still wanted an egg hunt. I thought last year would have been it.

Coloring Easter eggs has always been a tradition in this house. I boil two dozen eggs and then we all sit down and color them. Last year we set a table up next to Raymond’s hospital bed and colored our eggs together in the living room. I can close my eyes now and see him humming and being very artistic and funny. It was a great time, but in my head it was the last time.

The boys did not feel that way. So Friday night we colored 25 boiled eggs (I miscounted when boiling), and put them aside in the fridge for today. We laughed and experimented with the colors. It was fun, just missing one.

The youngest gave me a break this year by saying I only had to hide the boiled eggs. In the past we hid the boiled eggs, plus around 80 or so plastic eggs, most of those filled with candy or pennies, dimes, and nickels. It sometimes took hours to find all the eggs. Today it probably took about 20 minutes to find all the eggs, but I still had to give hints.

We won’t be doing Easter baskets this year because I have already given the boys their Easter gifts. Since my kids have never been into the traditional Easter candy, they have always received books, games, or movies in their baskets. Last week they both came up with books they wanted and were going to buy themselves. I paid for the books and called it their Easter gift. I will probably still have a chocolate bunny for each of them next week.

Since the oldest is not coming home for Easter, we will go to him on Good Friday. We will go order a tux for prom, eat out, and go to a movie. For Easter dinner I will make my mom some chicken and dumplings this year. She has wanted some for a couple of weeks. I really don’t want our usual meal, too emotional for me. Plus, I can box all the up for her to eat later in the week.

Notice I have not mentioned church. The last two times I went to Easter service without Raymond I just couldn’t take it. It is a horrible thing to sit in church and wonder why you can’t be there with one you love. All this resentment starts building up inside me and then the guilt comes pouring on because I am in a place of worship. No it doesn’t work for me right now. I’m not there yet. My pastor understands what I’m saying. I have talked to many widows that feel the same way.

My family and I understand the meaning of Easter. We also understand being together as a family and as one. To me it is all about love and caring for one another. That is what we do everyday, and so Easter will we just stop and think about why that is so important.

I Need to “Buck Up”

Definitions for “buck up” include “to strive with determination” and “to summon one's courage or spirits,” and that is what I need to do to start making decisions and accomplishing goals and dreams in my life.

I have so many decisions I need to make right now. How do I insulate my house so that I do not have $600 electric bills this year even though my a/c is set at 90 and I’m sitting here sweating and miserable? Do I get the concrete or the steel piers when repairing my foundation? Do I cut down a tree I love because some engineer said it could cause problems in the future? Do I drive to Denton to drive my oldest to pick out a tux for prom, or make him ride the bus, and then do I drive up there the day of prom to pick up the tux or let him drag it back to campus on the bus, or do I take my youngest hiking? Do I start looking into assisted living for my mother, or just plan on her living here when the time comes? Do I look for a job or hold on to being a stay-at-home mom, like Raymond wanted until the youngest is out of school? If I had a job, how would I take care of my mom?

I have no one to blame but myself for my feelings of despair. I am a control freak, and when I think about how making the wrong decision will affect my life, I often just sit down and don’t make the decision. The doctor keeps offering me pills that won’t let me worry. I tell her I cannot conceive the idea of not worrying. If you don’t worry, how do you get your bills paid on time?

The other part of not making decisions is that if I don’t make a decision then I won’t spend money. If I don’t get my foundation fixed, then that money will stay in the bank account where I can see it when I look at the statements. That is my security. That is what lets me know I can take care of the boys and keep a roof over their heads. It seems as if every big decision I need to make right now has a price tag attached. Decisions with price tags have always been hard for me. It was that way for Raymond too. When we bought our first house we didn’t sleep well for weeks. It wasn’t that we didn’t love the house, it was the fact that we had just made a huge decision that involved years of debt. We both hated debt.

I now fear debt. That is the other problem about making decisions to repair my house. I have the money to make the repairs, but if I do it wrong I’ve wasted the money. If I waste the money, I may need to go into debt for other repairs. Fear of making a wrong decision when money is involved is immobilizing me.

If I make wrong decisions in guiding my boys I could ruin their lives. If I make the wrong decisions about what the doctors want for my mom, then I could ruin what life she has left.

What if I am making the wrong decision about not taking the “no worries” pill? Why can’t wonderful tasting food take away the worries without making the scale go up?

When I read this it sounds ridiculous to me that I cannot make decisions. I, the person who barred Raymond’s hospital door with my body and refused to let anyone in until they promised to not put a feeding tube in him because I knew he just needed a few more days. I had watched him go over a month without eating during one of his treatments, now we were at day 28 and they wanted to put in a feeding tube! I made an X out of my body, barred the door and said that no one would get in until someone with sense came to see us. At one point I can remember Raymond’s OT, and PT being out there staring at me, but backing me up. I remember the nurses asking me to think about what I was doing, and then backing me up after I told them I had. I remember telling them that I was making a decision that I knew my husband would want me to make. I stopped the feeding tube, and two days later Raymond could eat. I gave no thought to my decision to bar the door. It was what needed to happen. The doctor that was used to getting his way decided he didn’t want to work on Raymond’s case anymore, but I didn’t want him either, so I did not fret over losing him with my decision.

All through Raymond’s cancer treatments I made decisions in matters of minutes or hours and did not fret. One time the doctor came to me and asked if they could try a treatment that had only been in written about a month earlier in an overseas medical journal. They said they knew very little about how the treatment would work, but it might help the condition Raymond was in at that time. It was not a new treatment, just a new use for the treatment. (It was not a cancer treatment.) I asked if I could think about it. They gave me two hours. I had never used the internet before we went to Houston. Raymond’s company loaned us a laptop and a friend paid for us to have internet service. I had only learned how to send email, and search for readily available information. How was I going to research this treatment that was in some obscure medical journal somewhere? How would I make this decision? I sprang into action. I emailed everyone I could think of and told them what I needed, when I needed it, and to please help. People started responding immediately. My main concern was side effects from the treatment. When the doctor returned I agreed to the treatment because I had decided that the side effects were worth the risk. The treatment ended up having no effect, it was a wash. But I made the decision.

When Raymond went in to have his fifth surgery in five days, I made the decision to ask the doctor if they could operate by using a local anesthetic as I was worried about him being completely under so many days in a row. They could and they did. He did so much better that day than the days before. The doctor said she had never operated on a patient that was awake before. She didn’t like it, but she said she would remember it for future cases.

I need to find that decisive part of me again. I must still have some of that “whatever” inside me to make decisions. Maybe that part of me that made the decisions before is tired from the years of making stressful decisions and years of interrupted sleep. Maybe I just need to buck up and do what needs to be done.

If I write it here, maybe I will do it. This week I vow to call and make arrangements to fix my foundation. I’ll buck up.