Medical Overshare Monday: I'll Go First.

Guess what, guys? It's Medical Overshare Monday!

This may not be an actual thing (yet), but the knitting Facebook groups of which I'm a member have all kinds of acronyms--we post pictures of our WIPs (Works in Progress), which transition to FOF (Finished Object Fridays), and humblebrag about our SABLEs (Stash Aquisition Beyond Life Expectancy).

I'm inventing MOM because I have some O'ing of my own to do. As you might have guessed, it is closely related to the high-quality artwork I found to open today's post. Can you believe it was a free download?

For the past year or so I've been whining that my shoulder was feeling wonky. I think I've even mentioned in this space a couple of times that my right arm was beginning to be a more reliable weather predictor than Channel 10, but pretty much everything I do depends on my right arm so instead of seeking an actual professional opinion I self-diagnosed the shoulder crankiness as aging pains. I continued to carry in grocery bags four in each hand, and I made the transition from earning most of my money at a computer keyboard to earning most of my money at a piano keyboard. Just for fun I knit, and knit, and knit some more.

Finally last week I decided I was tired of waking up in the night wincing because I'd jostled my shoulder in my sleep, and went to see my doctor. He did a couple of things that made me say "ow" then booked me in for an MRI. The results were available in my in-box the next morning.

Well.

The radiologist's report used the phrase "complete tear" several times, as well as the phrases "muscle atrophy" and "degenerative changes," and several other phrases that I won't bore you with but also sounded ominous. It appears that my arm is now attached to my body almost exclusively by thoughts and prayers, and as we've noted during the past few years, without some kind of action these are not always the most effective ways of dealing with concrete problems.

My doctor already had made me an appointment with a specialist, but May must be busy season for orthopedists because the earliest I could be seen is June 14. A piece of advice for you if you're in a similar situation: Dr. Google does not know the proper balance between "This may be manageable without much trauma" and "Get out the chainsaw, we're doing an emergency amputation."

Fortunately, my sons have shown excellent taste in marrying into families who are not only lovely and kind and have the most beautiful daughters, but also are brilliant in their own right, which is to say that Lovely Girl#2's father is an orthopedic surgeon who deals with this stuff every day.

Oh, yes, I did ask for help based solely on personal panic and from several states away the advice was excellent. With just a couple of texts the good doctor was able to talk me down off the ledge, and I'm now waiting patient-ly (that's a medical joke) until the actual appointment in a month. I'm hoping for a recommendation of physical therapy and some kind of miracle shots, but aware that I may end up on an operating table.

I'm trying hard not to pay any interest on a worry loan for which I might not need the actual capital, but also trying not to ignore ways I could make my life easier if the doctor here does recommend surgery.  Grocery delivery! Rolling luggage! Left-hand-heavy preludes! A stockpile of British procedurals for some posh-accent diversion!

In the meantime I have a pair of socks to finish in case I'm left-hand-only for a while.

Anyone else want to overshare?

Belated Mother's Day Observations

Boy#4 delivering flowers, and Boy#2 skeptical about whatever his brother is saying. 

The beauty shot that goes with today's observations will seem confusing at first glance. Stick with me, though, because it is emblematic of what I want to say about Sunday's celebration of motherhood. (I know, I know. I'm three days late, which also is emblematic of my motherhood style which began when I was a geriatric 32 and has always been behind the curve.)

Anyway, I almost skipped writing about Mother's Day even though this blog is just pretty much a series of blatherings on that subject. But I will plant my stake on one truth about being a mother:

No one knows how to do it.

Really.

I was sure I had motherhood all figured out when I was in my teens/20s and not yet a mother. I would be firm but fair. I would be my children's mother, not their friend. I would never be too tired to listen. I would teach them how to make pie crusts and read to them at every opportunity.

I had confidence in confidence alone, but it only took a few hours of actual motherhood to realize that I was unfit for the position. Boy#1 had been born precipitously (preeclampsia is a real thing) and I had sunk into exhaustion after midnight when the door of my hospital room swung open and in rolled a nurse with a sub-five-pound baby in an incubator.

"Time for his late-night supper!" the nurse said cheerily. I just gaped at her.

Honestly, it never occurred to me that after having done a full and strenuous day of work I would not be allowed to sleep through the night.

And that, my friends, should be the motto of motherhood, embroidered on sofa pillows in every home: Honestly, It Never Occurred to Me.

It never occurred to me that being firm but fair was a standard too high, until the day I heard myself callously telling a kid "Fair is where you take your pigs." (I didn't originate that phrase, but oh boy, did I appropriate it.)  It didn't occur to me that there are a lot of times when being a friend looks like a lot more fun than being a mother. It didn't occur to me how bone-tired I'd be during year after year of not-sleeping-through-the-night-yet babies, too tired for late-night discussions. It didn't occur to me that I make a lousy pie crust, so why would anyone want to learn that?

The only mothering vow I made that I kept was that I read to the Boys at every opportunity.

Still? I love being a mother. I loved the babies, and their pat-pat hands on my cheek. I loved the toddlers, who are the only age group who can properly wear overalls. And the school-agers, and even the teens (oh, the teens! Those tantalizing glimpses of solidity!). Honestly? Motherhood is equal parts roller-coaster emotions, cliff-hanging decisions, and boring slog, and no one knows how to do it.

We're friends with a family who had four children just older than ours, and that mom? She had it all put together. Her kids were kind, smart, and well-mannered at just about the time ours were going through their untamed hellion stages. A friend asked Sharon how she had been such a good mom, and she just laughed.

"You do the best you can every day, forgive yourself, then get up the next day and do it again."

That became my motherhood mantra, and I thought back on it Sunday. We'd spend Saturday car shopping with Boy#4, and he arrived with a gorgeous arrangement of spring flowers from all of his siblings. Then Sunday night we had what has become our Mother's Day/Father's Day/birthday tradition--a raucous Google Chat with the Boys trash-talking over each other and showing off the dog's latest trick and generally behaving as if they were at home around the table instead of in four different states.

I'm the luckiest mother in the word. We didn't know how to do it, but somehow Husband and I have children who are kind, smart, well-mannered, and obviously like us and each other. That this could be the outcome of such a terrifyingly uncharted journey?

Honestly, it never occurred to me.

At Least We Had Dessert

How much lemon tart can two people eat in three days? Apparently, this much.

This has been quite the week in Small Town.

It is early May, so there have been all manner of concerts and recitals as music instruction wraps up for the year. I've piano-ed until my wonky shoulder has begged for mercy.

It's the end of school, so the school board president (Husband) has attended receptions and congratulated retiring teachers and staff, clapped his hands sore for outstanding graduates, ooh-ed and aah-ed at dozens of final project displays, and marveled at the good work done by the folks in our public schools.

On top of this, I was scheduled to have club at the House on the Corner on Tuesday night. (Does anyone under the age of Way Too Old still use that phrase, "having club"? I'm guessing it's a quaint hold-over that we Baby Boomers learned from our mothers, signifying frantic cleaning and experimenting with fancy recipes.)

Anyway, that day I wasn't paying much attention to the forecast. All of my attention was on making sure there were enough chairs and that our immunity improvement system (a.k.a. accumulated dust) wasn't too noticeable.

Guests were to start arriving at 6:30, and with one hour to spare I looked around and lo, it was good. I had done all I could to make it look as if really high-class people live in the House on the Corner--fresh flowers! Napkins artfully fanned! Carefully casual arrangements of family photos! TWO lemon tarts chilling!

And then my text alert started to chime.

"Are you watching the forecast? Should we cancel?"

"Have you been watching the weather? It looks like it might get nasty."

Do you know what can be really irritating when you have spent all day trying to make it look as if you are something you really aren't, such as tasteful and put-together? Having that facade be unseen, that's what.

But the skies were darkening and getting that green-ish cast all of us Kansans recognize. I knew cancelling was the right thing to do, but...TWO lemon tarts! I was more than a little chippy as I made the calls telling my friends to stay home out of the weather, and that we'd meet a week later. "But come tomorrow afternoon for a coffee break and dessert," I told them.

My friend who calls me on my baloney texted me to remind me that this was the right call, even if I was being petty and pouty about it. She was right, of course, especially when we woke up the next morning to find that the forecast of rain had actually been understated--the system dumped nine inches just up the road from us, and flooding closed highways all around. It was so bad, in fact, that the coffee break had to be cancelled because my usual 20-minute commute home from work turned into six times that length as I spent nearly an hour trying to get across the only open bridge coming into Small Town from the south.

So it's been another learning experience. The lesson, obviously, is that I shouldn't complain about having a clean house and fresh flowers, even if I don't have guests to enjoy that false picture of daily life with me. Husband and I can come home from our May events and wait for the dust to re-accumulate, and while we do it, we can have a slice of lemon tart.

But we may have to pick up the pace of the forks. There's still a whole tart chilling.

It's My Bag(s)

You guys! I was going to start out this post with a disclaimer about our kitchen linoleum. (It's from the "So Old We're Calling It Retro" line of floor coverings.)

BUT! Meghan had her baby!

Do not call me out on overuse of exclamation points. Just do not. Because this is SO EXCITING! I happen to be a person who thinks the British royal family is all kinds of fascinating, and I prefer to ignore the moments when they are stupid or thoughtless or wear silly hats. I do not go to the extreme of forgiving of  actual Nazi sympathizers (looking at you, Edward VIII), but how can you not love Queen Elizabeth, especially if you have watched The Crown? And how can you not love royal babies?!

And there is a new one! Oh, I know that Harry has been something of a pill in the past (see also: wearing of Nazi uniforms as costumes), but he said just exactly the right things in just exactly the right tone of amazement and delight when he announced the birth.

But I digress. A few weeks ago I was looking at the distinctly un-royal corner of the kitchen where I dump carefully store my work gear. As a full-fledged member of the gig economy I have found that I not only wear a lot of hats, I carry a lot of bags.

Most of them are full of music: There's my accompanying-the-high-school-band-soloists bag, and my accompanying-the-college-music-majors bag, as well as my playing-for-funerals-and-church-services bag.

Some are what I call busy bags, because I whine and demand attention when I'm bored. These include the grand jury bag (which holds a knitting project and my special grand jury coffee cup), and the big bag that holds middle school choir music, my laptop (for freelance projects and blogging), and my lunch.

And there are the specialized bags, which in this picture include the bag of order forms and delivery cards for my women's group's annual flower sales.

Spring happens to be busy season for all of these gigs, but as they wrap up and we head into summer the bags also take a summer break. In the past two weeks we've had state music contest (yay, for all the participants and congratulations to I rating recipients!), college juries (reminding me why I was not a music major), the April grand jury session, and the delivery of thousands of plants. Those bags have been emptied and put back into storage. In a couple of days we'll have the final middle school concert of the year and summer break will be officially underway, so that bag can be on hiatus as well.

Wrapping up all of these responsibilities feels good, even as I know I'll miss them because did I mention I'm really enjoying all the gigs I have right now?

But if I had all my bandwidth on actual productivity, I wouldn't have had time this morning to shriek out loud at the IT'S A BOY! news or to obsess over possible names. (I'm on Team Philip; one of the Boys is named after his two grandfathers so I have a special place in my heart for this possibility.)

Congratulations, Sussexes. May all your bags hold diapers.

What I Would Have Said

A week ago today I received an award from the Small College where I've spent most of my professional career. The college recognizes five-year increments of service, and I had already collected my marble pen set, the college seal bookends, and the engraved salad bowl. This year I have been working there for three decades, which apparently is the crystal vase commemoration year.

I was conflicted about whether to attend the ceremony or not. Three years ago, I was told that while I would still be employed at the college, my employment was being drastically changed. It was unexpected and, frankly, unwelcome news.

So the thought of attending a ceremony to celebrate (woohoo!) 30 years was...fraught. The Boys, who have been my anger surrogates as I worked through All The Feelings associated with the end of my professional career, had all kinds of unprintable suggestions. But Husband had the best advice:

"You've done good work, and you only have one shot at this. You don't want to regret not showing up." And then he added a clincher: "And don't forget that they usually ask the 30-year recipients to make some comments."

Well. I was the only 30-year recipient, and since the organizers may have been unsure about what I would actually use my microphone opportunity to say, they skipped the comments moment. Fortunately, I have a blog! My own microphone!

Here's what I would have said:

"First I'd like to thank my husband for encouraging me to attend this ceremony. Between us we have one degree and 40 years of service to this institution, and it's been a huge part of our life together. But I'm also deeply grateful to the people who are here today, and to those who have moved on but were here during my time at Small College, who have been creative with me, and laughed with me, and supported me, and given me a chance to do what I believe I was called to do. Most of all, I want to thank all those who have been kind to me and have shown themselves to be brave and compassionate because Small College, like Soylent Green, is people."

The day I carried the final box out of my office across the street and set up my work computer at home, I added a screen saver that said "Give It a Year." I knew that most big transitions, whether positive or negative, take some time to shake out and that I shouldn't judge my altered life until I'd walked in the new shoes for a while. For some reason, though, the computer was glitchy and the screen saver never kicked on. No amount of re-setting settings or fiddling with toggles prompted it to play, and eventually I forgot that I had added this reminder.

Last week, in an eerie coincidence, the screen saver sprang to life. By then I'd given my new reality a year--three, in fact--and had pretty much worked through the blisters and calluses. I had told a friend in equal parts delight and relief that I am loving everything I do now, and so grateful for the life I'm living.

It's time for a new screen saver.

Looking Back on Bonus Year #2

A friend texted me last week.

"Congratulations on another bonus year," she said.

I had thought about that bonus year a few times as we moved into spring, thinking of all the things I would have missed if the toe-dip I made into the possibility of sudden death had gone south instead of north. Remember this? The pulmonary embolisms and heart attack?

During the first bonus year I was acutely aware of that event, and the wonder that I was still around to obsess over the bathroom remodel and to begin the search for the perfect Mother of the Groom dress. The adrenaline spike of unexpected survival wears off, though, and this year I have occasionally forgotten to consciously mark events I am so glad I did not miss when I was "imminently dead," as K. described me in her congratulatory message.

There is the delight I continue to take in the Taj MaJohn. Every time red carnations are available for $5 or less  at the grocery store I buy a bunch and stick them into a white pitcher and they make me inexplicably happy. The tick-tock-tail cat clock approves, too.

And there is my perpetual amazement that people keep asking me to sit down at the piano and play. I now accompany regularly for a middle school, a high school, and a college, and it has been a hoot to see the progression from the usually-endearing-but-sometimes-excruciating-squirrely junior high bundles of hormones to the usually-endearing-but-sometimes-excruciatingly-self-important collegiate bundles of angst. People under construction are fascinating.

Also, there is astonishment that this spring has been glorious, because an abnormally wet winter has led to acres of henbit spreading a purple tide across the lawns of Small Town and the bees and I are grateful for its beautiful weediness.

This is without mentioning the joy of the group texts each Sunday in which Husband sends a geography trivia question to our family and everyone contributes a guess. The Lovely Girls are dominant in coming up with the correct answers, although Boy#4 is an avid vexillologist and can be counted on for a fascinating commentary on the topic.

There are the friends who make me laugh and cry, and the satisfaction of editing a doctoral dissertation into final form, and...

So many things. So many things I would missed without the second bonus year.

"It was in my memories...you wrote a blog last year," K. reminded me.

"I need to go back and  read that," I replied. "And I need to start blogging again."

"Yes, you do. And yes, you do," was her immediate answer.

I will.

Excellent!

via GIPHY

Oh, hello there! 

I know, it's been two weeks since I last updated you on the happenings around these here parts, but honestly, there has not been much blog-worthy activity in the House on the Corner. It was spring break, so I was not doing my normal accompaniment gigs that kick into high gear at this time of the year, but a dissertation with a hot due date popped up in my editing gig, and a deadline in one of my other editing jobs and an unexpected day spent car shopping with Boy#3 kept me plenty busy. 

(My contribution to car shopping mostly consists of phrases along the line of "Oh, I love that color!" and "Do you think a tuba will fit in the trunk?" Husband carved a few hours away from the W-2s and 1099s to help with the decision-making and negotiation, which was a huge relief. Perfect illustration of playing to parental strengths.)

Anyway, because none of this seemed worth blogging I'm delighted to announce that I experienced a medical issue and I'm back today to overshare my personal information with the internet. Here's the back story:

Thursday, as Three and I were wandering around in the Siberian wastelands that were Big City car lots (holy cow, it was cold and windy, alternating with windy and cold) I noticed that I had a little... something on the inside of my upper lip. Not a sore, but a sore spot. It was nothing I couldn't deal with though, and LOOK! PUSH-BUTTON STARTER! was occupying my mental space. 

The next day, Friday, the sore was sorer and I looked as if the upper right quadrant of my lip-al area had been Botoxed. (Me to Husband: Does this look swollen? Husband, peering through his progressive trifocals: Uh, maybe?" Obviously I could get some serious work done before he would notice.)

But then came Saturday. Saturday I was the spittin' image of Mr. Burns up there, except with a slightly better haircut. I've had no time for cut-and-colors, and things are getting out of hand, but the area between my nose and mouth? The inability to make my lips meet? That's accurate. 

Fortunately, everything's up-to-date in Small Town, and we now have an urgent care center. That center was the inspiration for today's post title.

Small Town peeps, this place is the bomb. No appointment necessary, wait time Saturday morning of maybe five minutes, and the loveliest nurse-practitioner ever. The assistant taking my history did give me a moment of pause when I explained I had a problem with my lip and she asked which lip, as if it could have been the normal-sized one rather than the one that looked as if it had been inflated with an air mattress pump. 

When the nurse-practitioner came in we chatted for a few minutes (she was so nice!) and I flipped back the air mattress lip to show her the spot. 

"Oh, I see it!" she said with delight. "Okay, we're going to need to treat that. All of us have bacteria on our skin and somehow that bacteria got into your bloodstream there and is causing an infection. We don't want it to turn into cellulitis, and you certainly don't want that going to your eyes or your brain."
And how might that bacteria have gotten into my blood stream?

"It could have been anything--a scratch from a popcorn hull, something crunchy you were eating, an insect bite..."

Oh. My. Gosh. An insect bite? In my mouth? A spider might have crawled into my open mouth as I slept to have a lip nip? Well, we're just going to lock that thought away in the nightmare vault and assume it was the popcorn. 

Anyway, a prescription for antibiotics later, I am well on the way to recovery. By yesterday only one church friend looked at me strangely and said "Are you feeling okay? You look a little off kilter." Today I was able to Blistex both lips without incident. 

So, what's going on in your world?

Excellent!