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Sweaters, Sweatshirts, and Scrunchies

Posted on by Susannah Warner

My husband is really very smart, so what I’m about to say should not be a measure of his intelligence. In fact, he’s the only person I know who skipped High School completely, but has a college degree. Well, actually he did attend two months at Lewiston High School, but due to some unfortunate circumstances, aka poor choices, which included, but were not limited to; fighting, drinking, skipping school, and, as the coup de grace, mistakenly blowing pot smoke in a gym teachers face, he found himself expelled from school. For my readers out-of-state, and outside of the U.S., know that Lewiston can be a rough little city, and as I’ve heard it referred to more than once as the “armpit of New England,” expulsion from a school like Lewiston High is no easy task, especially in 1979, when they actually had smoking sections for kids. Weedgate notwithstanding, my husband tackled some tough courses in college, and even though I am a nurse, I always ask him anatomy questions because I am the sort of person who studies to pass the test, and he is the sort of person who studies to learn. Kinesiology, Pathology, Neurology, he passed with ease, but Fashion 101, umm nope.

“I haven’t seen you wear a scrunchie lately,” he said to me last week. I laughed out loud, thinking he was kidding, then stopped when I realized that he was serious. Now, I actually do have a few velvet scrunchies tucked away, because although dated, they really are very comfortable and don’t tug at my hair, but I have not worn one out in public since 1992. I’m a little surprised that he knows what a scrunchie is in the first place, as I’ve had to educate him on the difference between a sweater and a sweatshirt on more than one occasion. If this seems incredible to you, my reader, consider this conversation between my son and my husband, two manly men, several years ago, and smartly preserved by me in my notes, to be used at a later date; this being the day.

Husband: “So, the difference between a skirt and a dress is the length…”

Son: “No, no, I’m pretty sure that a dress is a shirt and a skirt put together. ”

Husband: “Nooo, I think that a dress is below the knee, and a skirt is above the knee, and a dress zips in the back. ”

Son: “Mom? We’re waiting for your expert opinion…”

After I stopped laughing, and confirmed that the “Son” was correct, I asked them what the difference was between a sweater and a sweatshirt. A lively discussion ensued regarding hoods, zippers, pockets, buttons, pullovers and cardigans at which point my husband insisted that the only difference was that a sweater could be turned inside out (what the….????). This had me laughing even harder until I pushed the merriment too far, and asked if they knew the difference between leggings and tights. The “Son” left the room in disgust, while the “Husband” struggled to explain. “One of them has built-in socks, and the other doesn’t, I’m not sure which one though.”

If this all seems like a putdown, it assuredly is not. I actually find his lack of knowledge on the subject endearing. I know that for my part, his abundance of tools would be incredibly daunting to name, let alone use correctly, and I really have no desire to be educated on drill bits, screwdrivers, types of hammers and power tools. That is his world, and I love that he knows how these things work, and can use them to build a house or fix a faucet. I’m sure if he wanted to laugh, he could have me try to explain the difference between a hacksaw and a miter saw…”Umm, they both cut? But, the hacksaw is used for hacking at things? And probably the miter saw is for detail work? I guess?”

I’m wondering what my husband will think of this, as he is away camping for a few days, and I can’t get his opinion before I post it, as I usually do. But, if he were here, I would ask him if he could tell me what I am currently wearing on the lower half of my body. I’m pretty sure that he would not know that these are called yoga pants and that he would say something that makes me laugh, and quite possibly be used as fodder for future blogs. It’s just ust one of the many, many reasons that I love him.

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East to West “Empty Nest” is the Best

Posted on by Susannah Warner

I love my children. Let me just make that clear right off the bat. I loved it when they were babies and their eyes tracked me wherever I went. I loved it when they learned to walk and wobbled their way across the room, and lurched straight into my arms. I loved it when they were preschoolers and asked “why?” and followed me everywhere, even to the bathroom. I loved it when they were in school and brought their friends home, and I made meals for them, and they all slept over. I loved when they were in High School and I could chat and gossip with their friends, even when my kids were at work, or still sleeping, and I loved going to games, meets and competitions. I even loved crying secretly at their graduations, just as I cried openly the first time they climbed on the school bus. Those days are behind me now, and all I can say is…. “Thank God!!”

My husband and I are empty-nesters! Well, kind of; our adult son still lives at home, while he saves for a home of his own. But, he works a lot, and is often out with his friends, and he helps with the bills, so he feels more like a friendly boarder than our kid. A friendly boarder who just now while I’m typing away, sitting on a swing on our back deck, thoughtfully brought me a slice of pizza and a wad of paper towels to soak up the greasy goodness. Pizza that I did not have to buy, or even think about buying, because he takes care of his own meals. Plus he makes the coffee in the morning, does a lot of the yard work, and he watches Shameless, The Office and Seinfeld with me, so having him here is a pleasure.

This means that my husband and I are free to do whatever we want, when we want. I can’t tell you how fun that is! Maybe it’s because I’ve been at this Mother thing for a long time; almost 27 years actually. And since we watched our granddaughter while her mom was at work for the first four years of her life, we were tied down even after our own kids were adults. We loved that “job,” but now that she is old enough for school, we are officially retired from childcare and have her when we want, like grandparents do.

This newly found freedom has led to many adventures for us already. We’ve started to travel, real travel, which requires a passport and long arduous airplane rides. We go four-wheeling, kayaking, jeeping and walking on a daily basis, and plan adventures for our selves. like zip-lining and skydiving (He’s addicted, me…not so much!). On my days off, four a week for me, because I am a nurse, we go to bed when we want and get up when we want. We can take naps, and our housework is minimal because we have no more mini tornados leaving a trail of destruction. In short, life is good right now; easy, selfish and relatively carefree.

I can see why this might be hard for some people, women in particular I think, because our identities are so wrapped up in our children. We are “Mom,” and that’s how we think of ourselves.  I remember when my son went to kindergarten, those first few times of grocery shopping with out him, I felt so unmoored and anonymous. I had been taking a little one shopping with me for 11 years, actually my whole adult life, and without one or both of my children with me, I felt like a nobody; a nameless woman perusing the aisles. But, I got over that pretty quickly when I realized how fast I could get it done, and I spent far less without cute little faces  imploring me to buy sugary cereals for the prize inside (side note: what happened to the prizes in cereal anyway?).

Suddenly, being a mom was not first and foremost in my life. Being a mother has been my most important job, and the one I’m most proud of. I poured my heart and soul into my children. I spent all my free time with them when the were growing up, and I’m proud to say, for the most part I wouldn’t change a thing about the way I raised them. I remember even in my early 20’s thinking, “I don’t want to regret anything, and I don’t want them to ever wish that I would have spent more time with them.” I’m thankful that I had the wisdom at that young age to live for them, instead of for me, because now that they are adults, I can live for myself without guilt. And because my husband and I invested so much time into them when they were little, now they want to spend time with us, which is great. Except for sometimes, but that’s OK because believe me,  I have no qualms about saying, “your father and I want to be alone.” Woot! Woot!

 

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Betrayed(by this innocent looking feline)!

Posted on by Susannah Warner

E02532A0-2EA7-48AF-BDD8-734E10DFD935.jpegSo, this guy made an appearance today. No, he’s not a stray. He actually lived here for several years before he moved out of our respectable household last summer and in with who I can only assume is a no account tart. The kind of woman who does not buy Friskies, but “Fancy Feast” and probably puts it in a little glass bowl for him, the showoff. I wrongly assumed that this was a summer affair, and that when cool winds blew in the fall, “King Ralph” as we affectionately called him for his regal, and deliberate walk and obvious disdain for the frequent bickering and dramatics that come with having two female cats in the house, would return with his tail between his legs, the blinders having come off by then, and the Fancy Feast money having long since dried up. Alas, I was wrong, apparently she knows how to treat her king, and keep him healthy and well fed, because he seemed to be both when he stopped by for a visit this morning.

He sat hautily on the deck, looking into the livingroom and demanded to be let in, as one does, when one is king. Stopping momentarily for an obligatory pat from his loyal subject, while she exclaimed and fawned over him, he continued on to the food bowl, while his fan traipsed after him, snapping pictures like paparazzi. Finding only Meow Mix, and concluding that nothing had changed, he sauntered back out, completely ignoring the cry of disapointment from the human, and with an annoyed twitch of his tail, he was gone.

He has returned in a similar fashion about six times in the last year and is gone within minutes. There appears to be no love loss; just a quick “booty call”  for old times sake, and then, satisfied that he still has made the right choice, he returns to his new home and his new love, not a trace of wistfulness in his proud departure. If only he was the only feline to leave me, I might be able to bear it. However, some of my readers may remember that this has happened before, and the wound it left was far deeper. This is her story…

Her name was Mary, and she was as gentle as the name implied. She was pretty enough, but her confidence had eroded at an early age, when her four brothers and sisters, including an almost identical calico, had one by one, been plucked from their box, and taken away to new homes by smiling new parents. She thought her day would come, at least that’s what her mother told her, but it never did. The happy faces peering over the box, the sticky hands, smelling of chocolate, attached to little voices exclaiming, “I want that one, Mom” stopped when her last sibling, a precocious gray tiger was chosen. She had not been picked, and so, she stayed in the house where she was born. “At least my mother won’t leave me,” she thought. But, one morning her mother did not return from her hunting trip and she overheard the humans say, “It must have been that fox again.” Alone, in the world, except for the giant, furless humans, she became very fearful and sad, and spent many lonely hours in the picture window, looking at the huge world and feeling very sorry for herself.

The humans, especially the largest female one, spent a lot of time petting her and encouraging to sleep by her feet while she lay prostrate on the couch, reading a book. this was acceptable to Mary, and she grew to like and trust all the humans. The teenage female who always smelled like a horse was kind, and dragged a string for her to play with. The blonde male human, who was actually quite gentle even when his friends were around, would lift her up so that she could reach a fly. Even the largest male, who wore large clompy boots, did not mean any harm, and would often throw her pieces of ham while he was making a sandwich.

So, Mary grew to love her family, even though they had strange fur, and seemed to enjoy getting wet, and ate weird foods. She found she liked being the only feline, and spent hours hunting for them, which she deposited by the door every morning, even though they rarely appreciated her efforts and the large male human, often unceremoniously threw her hard-fought breakfast across the road by its tail. The years passed and so did the other felines that the humans insisted on bringing home. Mary did not care for kittens and refused to let other cats share her domain. Oh, she was smart enough to bide her time, and pretend to like and teach the kittens all that she knew, but really she was plotting their untimely demise. Three cats disappeared during Queen Mary’s reign. Dumb Mikey, the orange ball of fluff, Zipper, the hyper gray tiger and even Noah, as strong and tough as the neighborhood he came from, all disappeared. Mary, the sole survivor, a product of her traumatic childhood, had become “Bloody Mary,” and there seemed to be no end to her reign. Until Sam.

Sam was a scrappy black and white street tough, found by the now teenage blonde male, in the middle of the winter, down by the train tracks. The boy and his friends, wrapped the freezing kitten in his coat and carried her home. They pet her and fed her milk, and then they introduced her to Mary. Imagine Queen Mary’s surprise when this little ragged kitten hissed at her! Taken aback, and as any bully does when stood up to, she retreated. A new queen had arrived.

From that day on Mary was a different cat. She returned to her anxious and low self-esteem roots and was either outside, or when it was cold, sitting in the picture window, no doubt dreaming of her glory days. Sam grew bigger, stronger and tougher had earned herself the nickname, Sammy the Bull, due to her ruthless pursuit of rodents, birds and Mary. She hissed at her when she walked by, and chased her away from the food. Mary grew wan and sad, a shadow of her former self.

One day, the only female human in the house; the teenage one, having long since moved out after having her own litter of one, noticed that Mary did not return home for her treat, as she had every morning for eight years. She was worried, and she and “Boots” and the “blonde boy” looked and looked for her. They went up and down the street, fearing, but not really believing that she had been hit. They wondered if that old fox had gotten her, but no one believed that either, as Mary had outsmarted him twice before, even though it cost her a trip to Dr Wings and very nearly her tail. Her family knew she was smart and savvy even though lately she had not been herself. One day, the female human and Boots went for a walk, and suddenly, with a gasp, she saw her. There was Mary, looking at her from the neighbor’s picture window. Filled with jealousy (she), yet happy that she was alive (both), the humans went to talk to the neighbors. “Yes,” they said, “Xena” had come to their door a few weeks ago, and was a God-send, as their precious calico had recently died, and she was just what the old couple needed for company. Mary (Xena) was nowhere to be found during this exchange but no doubt breathed a sigh of relief when it was decided that she would be happiest there. And she was, although, sitting in the window, watching the female walk by, with a sad face every day was hard, her new life was everything she wanted. She was cherished, and coddled and the queen of her castle.

Two years passed; Sam grew, and when a tiger with double paws and a royal bearing came to live with them, she learned to accept “King Ralph.” They had a tacit understanding. She, that she was the boss. He, that he let her think that she was the boss.  The couple lived in peace and harmony until one day, the blonde boy’s birthday, a little white ball of ego and fur showed up as a present for him. The little kitten hissed at Sam and immediately an agreement was reached, They would share the house, and Ralph, for his part, decided to talk to Mary about how to find another family. Using his royal charms, he sweettalked himself into the arms of another, and the female was devastated to realize that she had been cheated on, again. Of even sadder note, not having seen Xena in the window for a while, she asked Boots to inquire after her at the neighbor’s house, whereupon he brought back the sad news that Xena had died in her sleep the month before, curled up on a bed. The old couple was devasted and so was I.

That is my story of betrayal and loss, and one that I have been reluctant to share, particularly since Sam and Ralph have been spotted together of late, and I fear that she may leave now too. Will I be left again and be forced to see scrappy Sam in another ladies picture window? I hope not, but I will not be bullied into buying Fancy Feast. If Purina isn’t good enough for her, well too bad. At least the King still visits.

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The author, in happier times, reading with Mary
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Sister

Posted on by Susannah Warner

 

When I was 14, I had my first real boyfriend. I was a freshman in High School and he was a sophomore. We talked on the phone every night, a toll call (gasp!), and I wore his class ring, wrapped in string so that it wouldn’t fall off, on my right index finger. We only “went out” for a few months, but he was my first love, and when he broke up with me, and asked for his ring back, I was devastated. I never showed it at school, of course, but I cried at home every night for weeks. I didn’t want to eat, and although my mother knew why, and she said she was sorry about it, she also said that it was “puppy love,” and that I would get it over it. She didn’t mean to be unkind, she just didn’t know how much I was hurting, and as my parents long marriage met its demise a short time later, she really had “bigger fish to fry.” I remember feeling that no one understood, that no one had ever felt this way. But my oldest sister did, and she told me so when she came for a visit a short time later. She was 24 at the time, and well beyond the “puppy love” stage, but she didn’t dismiss my pain, and she didn’t ignore it,  She told me that she knew exactly how I felt, that no matter what anyone said, your first love is one of the strongest you will ever feel, and that although it would be difficult to believe, it would get better eventually. She had such compassion and kindness, that I believed her, as I always had, and she was right, as she always is.

I am the youngest of four girls, my oldest sister is ten years older than me. She was the first sister to hold me when I was a newborn right out of the hospital, and the last sister I texted while writing this, to clarify some facts. I’ve sought her counsel for many, many things over the years, and not just because she works at Princeton, graduated summa cum laude from Wellesley, and is just one of those people who you can never, ever stump no matter the question. She was my “google” way before the real google, and she’s the one we all vie for when we play a rousing family game of trivial pursuit. She’s also the one who promptly answers, when I text doozies like, “should I put quotations around a thought?” (however, please, please do not attribute any editing flaws to her, they are mine alone as I hate to keep asking her silly comma questions!!!), “who won Survivor Africa?”, and “why do the Brits not use ‘the’ before words like, hospital, university, and holiday?”  She knows everything I want to know and so much more, and yet she asks me things too.

After her first child was born, she called me and asked me for some advice. I no longer remember what she asked, but how clearly I remember how that felt. I was a teen mom, and at that time, my daughter was two, and I was struggling with vivid dreams of my High School classmates all jumping into a pool, while I looked on, unprepared and too afraid to take the leap. Even then, I knew that those anxiety dreams were not about swimming; they were about feeling left behind as a young mom making minimum wage while my friends went to college, which felt about as far away as the moon. The fact that my brilliant sister needed parenting advice from me bolstered my then sagging spirit.

Siblings give gifts to each other, without realizing it. These gifts are unbidden and develop over time. They are unwrapped slowly through the years, and last a lifetime. Some give patience, some tolerance, or acceptance and some give jealousy and pain. As the youngest, I received many gifts from my sisters; the one I received from my oldest sister was confidence. My thoughts, opinions and beliefs have always mattered to her, even though I am a generation younger. The age difference doesn’t matter so much now, but when you are 12, and your 22 year-old sibling has conversations with you like you are her intellectual equal, you grow up feeling like your thoughts matter, which is how the seeds of self-assurance are sown. She told me told me I could be the first woman President, or write a book, and because she was so smart I believed her; although I no longer want the former, the latter? Yeah, I kinda do.

A nature and nurture counterpart of sorts, siblings are the closest DNA match possible and have lived through most of the same home experiences. They “get” you in a way no one else can, even your spouse. A lifetime of inside jokes, movie quotes, fond and some not so fond memories are what we as sisters share. My sister and I lived in the same household together for only about eight years, but the gifts she gave me have lasted a lifetime. I’m so grateful for the big sister she is.

 

 

 

 

 

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Look up

Posted on by Susannah Warner

I’d planned on having a cook-out, since it was such a beautiful day, and also hang out another load of laundry. I loaded the washer and turned the stove on to heat water to make pasta salad, then sat down to write. I had barely started, a nagging headache making it all but impossible to think, let alone write, when my husband breezed in, full of sunshine and good cheer. “I think I’ll take the wheeler out, but I’ll be back in time, to kayak with you at sunset,” he said, kissing my forehead.  I barely listened at first, but then looked up, and saw his excited face, along with the blue sky and cotton ball clouds over his shoulder, out the window. “I’ll go,” I said, shutting my laptop and turning off the now almost boiling water. He looked up in surprise, and said, “You want to? Great! I’d love to have you come!” We went into a familiar mode. I got changed into old jeans, anticipating a muddy ride and packed a backpack, which included more ibuprofen for my head. He loaded the truck and secured everything down.

And so, away we went, bumping along in the truck, causing my head to pound now, instead of just ache. Arriving at our drop off, he unloaded while I put the back pack on and started to regret the unfamiliar burst of spontaneity that made me blurt out that I’d come. “Really,” I thought, “I should have just stayed inside and wrote, that way I could lie down if my headache got worse.” Too late now, I gamely hopped on the back of the four-wheeler and we sped off, the wind in my face, my hat almost blowing off my head and tiny bug bullets pelting my cheeks. I smiled, I couldn’t help it. Being outside always makes me happy, but wind in my hair, sun on my back and a little jolt of dopamine always makes me laugh. And then there’s the smell.

Oh, how I love the smell of the Maine woods in June. It smells like hope and it is my very favorite smell. It cannot be bottled and it cannot be synthetically recreated. You have to get out there and experience it to know what I mean. It comes in wafts; sometimes you run into an invisible cloud of it, and then it is gone, only to return minutes later. Inhaling deeply, I realized the pain was gone; nature had cured my achy head, but it did something else too. Somewhere between leaping from rock to rock, listening to the water fall, and throwing my head back to admire the canopy made by the towering trees, I became thankful for looking up from my “work” to see what was waiting for me.

The first half of my life has been governed by rules, should’s and shouldn’ts and things that I have to do. While some of these things, like my job, will be necessary for a long time, that does not mean that I can’t just stop once and awhile and appreciate all that this world has to offer. God wants us to be happy, he loves to see us having fun and enjoying  the earth that he created just for us. I’m sure it makes him sad to see us inside on a beautiful day, following self-imposed rules about cleaning or other chores. These things have to be done, sure. but I think we need to cut ourselves a little slack once in a while and go out and have some fun. I’m planning on doing more and more of that with whatever time on this earth that I have been given. I know that I will never wish I’d spent more time at work, or cleaned my house more when I’m on my deathbed. I plan to make good use of my time here,by enjoying it with those I love. Sometimes you just have to look up, get up and enjoy life. For me, fun is exploring the woods of Maine and it’s also being on the water, which we did right after we were finished exploring.

The river was calm; not a ripple except for the occasional fish jumping, when we put our kayaks in, and paddled upriver. The calmness of the water, reflected how I felt; content, happy and serene, my headache just a memory. We stopped paddling after a while and tied our kayaks together. Leaning back, our oars at our sides, we allowed the current to let us drift back to the boat landing. We didn’t fight the direction, we just enjoyed the ride, the view and each other; and literally sailed off into the sunset.

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To Everything There is a Season

Posted on by Susannah Warner

Mowing the lawn yesterday, I was sad to see that my lilacs have almost gone by. The once vibrant purple now looks ragged and anemic; a forlorn copy of its former splendor like Cinderella, after the clock strikes midnight. The season for them is so short, it hardly seems worth mowing around them, at least that’s what I tell myself the rest of the summer. How quickly I forget how much I look forward to them every Spring; one of the first bouquets of wildflowers to grace my table, perfuming the stale, winter air with wafts of hope and rebirth. But, as quickly as I am reminded that their presence means that Spring has arrived in Maine, with its mud, its blackflys, it’s 40 degree nights and 80 degree days, the lilacs are gone.

My thoughts meandering as I mowed, the by-gone lilacs reminded me of the seasons of my own life. Although I don’t feel old, so many have already come and gone; childhood, teen years, young wife and mother, my own teenagers, and now an (almost) empty nest. Within each season, there were lessons to be learned before moving on. Looking back on each one now, I would never want to return. Each new season heralded a change and growth, but also a nostalgia for the past. Change is hard, but without change, we cannot grow, and without growth, we die. How simple life would be if we had no growing pains but how dull too. I dearly love lilacs, but I would grow tired of seeing them after a while. The smell too, would either cease to be noticed, or the house would be so drenched in it, it would be almost nauseating. As sad as I am to see them go, I’m glad that they were here, even if it now means I’ll have to mow around a giant green bush all summer, the blooms only a pleasant memory.

Sweaty, yet feeling pleasantly accomplished, I pushed the mower back into the garage and went out on the deck to gulp water and admire the fruits of my labor. As I stood in the shade, looking out on our unmowed fields. a splash of purple caught my eye. Lupine! The lilacs are gone, but it’s June in Maine, which means that lupine has arrived. Tall and proud, with pale pinks, vibrant amethyst, and creamy white against a back drop of green waving grasses, lupine is a harbinger of Summer, the premier season to live in Vacationland, at least in my opinion. Lilacs completely forgotten now, my thoughts turned to the joys of summer, then circled back again to the realization that the end of one season means the start of another, different yes, but with its own pleasures and lessons to learn. The Bible says that there is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the sun. I’m thankful for the seasons in my life that have led me to this one. The lupine reminded me that there is beauty in each one if we will only stop and appreciate it.

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 (KJV)

 To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

 A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;

 A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;

 A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

 A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;

 A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;

A time to rend, and a time to sow; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

 A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.

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Fragile

Posted on by Susannah Warner

This morning, while sitting on the deck with my husband contemplating the day, the weekend ahead, the clouds, and the virtues of coffee, I had the urge to tell him something I’ve never said before. Actually, it’s something I’ve never even thought before. “The other night, when I was taking my pills before bed,” I told him out of the blue, “I thought to myself how easy it would be to take all of them at once. I would just never wake up.” He looked at me sharply, because that is not like me at all. I’m not the type of person to have deep existential thoughts about creation, and the universe, and life, and certainly not one to consider ending it. I’m not sure why I had such a strange and unsettling thought, maybe because I was exhausted, and in a moment of weakness, felt sorry for myself. Whatever the reason, the thought was gone as quickly as it came, and I was left wondering why I thought that in the first place.

“We are so fragile,” he said. “we could die so easily, in so many ways.” I thought about that for a minute, then replied, “yeah, people are fragile, but they can also be tough and resilient too, kind of like an egg.” We both sat in silence for a few seconds until he said, “yeah, you can squeeze an egg with all your might, and it won’t break, that’s pretty strong.”  “But,” I said, “one little bump will crack one, it’s really amazing how they are made.”

It’s amazing how we are made too. We were both quiet for a few minutes, and I thought how God created us to be strong and fragile too, like an egg. Neither will ever get broken or cracked if it just sits there, undisturbed, but then neither one is of any use. It is only when an egg is cracked and broken and it’s fragileness is exposed, that it’s goodness can pour out, allowing it to do what it was created for; to feed and to nourish. That smooth, beautiful, now useless shell is discarded and the egg becomes something else entirely, its broken state makes it beneficial to someone else. The smack that cracked the egg no longer seems violent, it is evident that this was necessary to expose its usefulness to others.

A person can take a lot of stress before cracking, some more than others. I used to believe that true strength was the ability to withstand an enormous amount of pressure without cracking, but now I see that real strength means to allow yourself to be molded into something else. Each trauma, drama and stress in life can feel like it is meant to break you, but what if what is revealed through the crack is more beautiful and useful to someone else than a cold, hard shell could ever be? Would it be worth it? Would you willingly allow yourself pain and brokenness if it meant you could feed someone else? I’d like to think I would, but cracking hurts, and I’m not sure that I would ever choose for myself some of the things that God has allowed me to go through. But, just as a cook with a sure and steady hand, cracks an egg to get to the center, so too does God change us into something we would not be if we just sat cold and undisturbed in a carton. The cook does not even consider putting an untouched egg on a plate before it has been cracked, beaten, seasoned and prepared, because that it is useless. My cracks, as painful as they are at the time, are worth it to me, if it means that I will be transformed. I could choose to sit there, whole and tough but what good is that to anyone? I’ve heard God called a Potter before, but I think he is probably a really good Cook too, the kind of cook that doesn’t need a recipe and never burns his cookies.

We sat in a silence for another minute or two, just enjoying each other, and the beauty of the morning, a moment to gather our strength before we got caught up in the whirlwind that is Saturday. The clouds scuttled by, while the breeze blew my hair, the wash on the line, and cooled the last few sips of my coffee. “Well,” I thought to myself, as I broke my reverie, reluctantly uncrossing my legs and getting up from the glider, “time to get crackin’.”

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Fracture

Posted on by Susannah Warner

A bone is strong, but it can break. It can break cleanly or it can splinter. It can buckle  and it can be twisted. Car accidents, falls, sport injuries; many things can cause a bone to break. The effect is the same, pain so severe that it makes you want to throw up. You don’t want to look at, but you do. The site of it makes you feel worse, but confirms that there is a reason for your pain, and solidifies in your mind that you can’t fix this on your own, and that you must go to a hospital, to have a doctor fix it. At that time, whatever personal beliefs you may have for, or against Western medicine are thrown out the window. It’s unlikely that anyone could repair a serious break themselves, except maybe for a little finger fracture. Nothing can be done about that anyway, certainly nothing a little “buddy taping” with duct tape wont fix (yeah, I live in Maine, that’s how we fix things!). Most people don’t care about lack of insurance, or high co-pays if a bone is jutting out of their skin, they’ll figure that out later, and the vast majority will not delay, but go immediately to have it repaired, preferably by a specialist. In most cases, a cast is applied, mainly for protection while it heals on its own, and it will, as strange and wonderful as that is. Sometimes, the break is not clean, and surgery is required. The surgeon applies pins and screws, and the healing process is longer and more painful, but it does heal eventually. But you know what the most amazing thing about all this is? Not the fracture itself, not that you knew where to go to fix it, not that a specialist could assist in the healing process, and not that the bone essentially heals itself. The most amazing thing is that once healed, it is no more or less likely to break again than other areas. It used to be believed that the area was then stronger, but that isn’t true. It is as if it never happened. The initial pain, followed by the long crippling recovery period are eventually all but forgotten, and the whole ordeal is now an anecdote, a party story or a cautionary tale.

It occurred to me, after a trying time, that a marriage can be like a bone. It is a support, it is alive and it is strong. Pound for pound, bone is stronger than cement, just as the union of two people, is strong, but, it can break. Addictions, affairs, and unresolved issues can fracture a marriage. It might be a crack in a small bone, like a finger, that just needs some “buddy tape” and a little TLC to heal. Or, if you are together long enough, chances are there will be a fracture to a larger and more significant bone; an arm, or worse, maybe even to your femur, the strongest bone in the body. This is a bone that you have always depended on to support your weight. You’ve never given it much thought, it’s always there, and gives you no trouble. In fact, it’s never thought of at all. If that happens, mark my words, it will be thought of because it will hurt, you will feel nauseated, and the pain will keep you awake at night, and prevent you from walking during the day. Should you just cut off the limb then, to get rid of the pain? Wouldn’t it be better to have no leg at all then to have to look at how grotesquely deformed it is now? That would be painful, but it would be done and over with, and maybe you could just get a new leg, one that is no longer broken.

Some people do choose that option, and for some it is the right one, but some people choose the arduous, and painful process of healing their marriage. They have identified the break, now they need to know where to go to have someone help them fix it. Maybe a councilor, maybe a pastor, or maybe right to God himself. Either way, a “cast” is applied, or maybe “surgery” is required. It will be difficult, it will be costly, and there will be a long period of recovery. But just as a desperation to fix this situation occurs with a broken bone, so too is the desperation to fix a fractured marriage. It doesn’t matter how much it costs, or how long or takes, as long as each day there is some improvement. There will be set backs, but it’s the trajectory that’s important. After all, the goal is to be made whole and well again, something that is a foregone conclusion, if you are in it for the long haul. To be able to run and jump with no fears of a future break because it as strong as it was before? That is the prize, plus now you have an anecdote, a party story and a cautionary tale to tell, and you also have each other.

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The Pull of Addiction

Posted on by Susannah Warner

She calls your name, and you shiver. You try to ignore her, but without her, life seems meaningless. She whispers in your ear, and you strain to catch what she is saying. Shaking your head to stop the spread, insidious and encompassing, you can’t help but wonder how anyone can live without her. What a dull life others must lead without the pull of something so alluring and exciting.”Stay busy,” you think, “that will help.” But, on your feet or lying in your bed, curled up to stop the onslaught, she finds you; her voice urgent now. She needs you, you need her, her beckon is intoxicating. You think of your family, your friends. They hate her, they say she has taken you away from them, robbed you of your joy. “Don’t listen to them,” she purrs, “I love you, we have so much fun together. You are happy with me, how can something that makes you happy be bad? They don’t understand.” She tugs on the cable surrounding you, ensnaring you. It is a beautiful chain. Golden and glistening with diamonds, you allow yourself to be pulled. “She is so beautiful, beauty is good. She knows me, understands me, she accepts me,” you reason. On your feet now; walking, then running to her, excitement building, your heart pounding. Your loved ones watch you go to her once again, and they keep watching, hoping you will turn around and see that they are still there, right where you left them. But you become smaller and smaller until even eyes sharp and bright with love, can’t see you anymore. And you? You run to her now, the decision made, the die-cast. But she turns before you can reach her, a swirl of beauty, the ecstasy you have chased just out of reach. “Wait,” you say, “you promised that we would be together, you told me you loved me, I left everything for you.” Laughing, she darts out of your grasp, pulling you with her, you can’t keep up and you fall on your knees. She is dragging you now, you are no match for her strength. You try to stand, but she runs faster, the golden thread now a rusty chain, wrapped around your neck, choking you. Too late, you realize that your family was right. Her beauty is hideous, terrible and alive. How did you not see? Why didn’t you listen? Shame falls on you like a black blanket, stifling and paralyzing. You know that it won’t be long now, you have thrown away everything for her, and she will make you another victim. Taking one last furtive glance back, you can see your family, maybe a whole group still, or maybe only one left, standing on a hill, backlit by the setting sun, as steady and unfaltering as an oak, with roots so vast and so deep, they tremble below you now, and jolt you with the truth. You have been deceived, you were wrong, you hate yourself and you want to die, but you keep looking at that beautiful tree as you bump along ensnared by your master, Addiction. Hope gone now, regret is bitter on your tongue and you are ready to accept your fate, because this is what you deserve. But, you become aware of love and forgiveness raining down on you, a sprinkle at first, then a downpour. Clean and refreshed, with some strength returning, you struggle to your feet, causing Addiction to stop for a minute, bewildered. She’s coming back to get you, beautiful once again, whispering to you so sweetly. But, you have seen the truth, you have felt love and she is not love, she is deception. The decision made, the chains around you fall, and you trudge back up the hill, beaten and battered, but feet moving toward your shelter. She still calls you, you are still attached, but it is a thread now, and the velvet cord from your family to your heart strengthens. It has always been there, it will always be there. It is called love and it will never fail. You are still pulled, you will always be pulled, but you know that the love and devotion of others will tug at your heart with a strength that far surpasses the pull of Addiction. You are sheltered now. You are home, you are loved and forgiven, you are where you belong.

1 Corinthians 13:13 NIV

And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.

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What it feels like to be a Nurse

Posted on by Susannah Warner

#1 Most trusted profession? According to Gallup’s annual poll, nurses have ranked highest in honesty and ethical standards for 20 consecutive years. May 6th is National Nurses Day, and this is what it feels like to be a nurse….

~At any given moment at work; your feet hurt, your back or neck hurts, you are probably hungry and thirsty, and you may or may not have had a chance to go to the bathroom since you got there.

~You optimistically bring a lunch everyday but, sometimes don’t have time to eat it.

~You work 3 days a week (unless you feel guilty that everyone is working short-staffed and you pick up an extra shift) but during those three days you see only your co-workers and your bed. Everything and everyone else cease to exist.

~Returning home after a 13+ hour day, you have learned to ignore piles of dishes and laundry, and force yourself to get to bed ASAP, because in a few hours, you will do it all over again.

~Friends and family say to you, “wow, you have a lot of time off!”

~Your first day off after three shifts in a row is a day of catching up on laundry, not sleep.

~You are really good at nodding and smiling, but your nurse friends know the truth. Sometimes, you only have time to exchange glances, but just to know that someone else knows how you feel, makes you feel better.

~Your long hours make you depend on co-workers to switch shifts or come in early for you, so you can rush to your child’s basketball game or concert in your scrubs.

~Saltines and graham crackers? Yes at work. Never, ever at home.

~Someone else’s bowel movements; Cheered, charted, reported and discussed. Weird? Not to us.

~Same with urine, sputum and vomit.

~”Vitamin A” and “code brown,” nonmedical terms that all nusres know; one we love, the other, not so much.

~Walks, talks and pees in the toilet is a wonderful phrase to hear during report.

~Ditto with alert and oriented.

~Speaking of report, giving to, and getting from, the same person a few days in a row can make your whole day.

~”Admission” is a dirty word.

~So is “quiet.”

~Holidays and weekends and nights. Enough said.

~Donuts from Dr’s, chocolates from patients, and cakes for birthdays can cause a stampede in the breakroom.

`When you are off, random medical emergencies in which you must take action, seem to happen frequently around you, although you try to avoid these situations like the plague.

~Regarding the health of your children, you are one of two ways: certain that every headache is brain tumor and every stomachache is appendicitis, or shrug off every complaint with a “you’ll be fine.”

~After seeing you at work, one of your children might have exclaimed, “I wish you were this nice at home!”

~Among your coworkers, you know who is the best at different tasks like a difficult IV start or putting in an NG tube, so you trade tasks or beg them to come along for “moral support.”

~You have uttered the phrase, “I absolutely HAVE to get out on time today because I have to do X, Y and Z.” It doesn’t happen.

~After a ridiculously busy shift, when your spouse says, “how was your day?”, you say “fine” because to even begin to tell a non-medical person everything you did and saw seems exhausting.

~When you do feel like talking, usually when eating, your spouse abruptly ends the conversation with a hand up and a “please!”, when the word diarrhea makes its appearance.

~No subject is off-limits with your co-workers and they know everything about you.

~Wolfing down a meal with another nurse is the perfect time to discuss bodily functions, or lack thereof.

~You think maybe you have seen it all, until the next strange things comes along.

~You learn to accept anything; odd requests from patients, OCD behavior from other nurses, mood swings of physicians, and try to accommodate them all, as they also accept your quirks.

~You live in fear that you will accidentally cause a HIPPA violation.

~Because of HIPPA, your spouse has probably said to you, “xxxx said they saw you at work. Why didn’t you tell me?!?”

 

As a nurse, you have been punched, kicked, sworn and spit at. You have also held hands, cried with, hugged and even kissed strangers. You have been called a bi*%# and an angel in the same day. You have truly loved, and disliked certain patients but have treated both the same way. You have loved and hated your job. You have cried and laughed. You have seen births and deaths. You have seen tragedy and triumph. You have seen people at their worst and their best. You have been at your worst and at your best. Your co-workers are like siblings. You are proud to be a nurse.

Happy Nurses Day.