If He’s Just Going to Die Anyway . . .

My dad had had a series of strokes later in life.  Some of them were so “small” that they went undetected.  The first one I remember had temporarily paralyzed the left side of his jaw.  Not realizing the magnitude of what was happening, we made jokes about it.

Because he was such a quiet man, we commented that his jaw was sliding off his face as he never used it. It eventually returned to his normal appearance.  It wasn’t until later on that we learned his downward jaw had been the result of one of the strokes he had had.

Dad started keeping odd hours.  He’d be awake while the rest of us were asleep and vise-versa.  He was in need of care 24-7 and it became too overwhelming at times.  We were told that the insurance he had would not cover a live-in aide – but they did have a list of nursing homes.  We did our best to avoid it, but it finally got to the point that we needed assistance.  I don’t know how we ended up with the facility that we did.  It was depressing.

He actually had strength left in his hands as he would hang on for dear life to any person who would assist him in walking out to the car or whatever.  We called it “the death grip”.  I would always stop in our tracks and tell him, “If you would like to continue moving, you will have to ease up on your grip because you are hurting me!” 

He’d laugh and his juices would come out and he’d start to drool. It was painful watching him go downhill.

We took my dad to therapy.  He was a favorite patient as he was very cooperative to do everything he was told. Except for one time when my mom took him out of bed and tried walking with him and decided to put him back before someone came in and caught them doing something that they weren’t supposed to do.

Mom would push on one side and race around the bed to pull him.  He laughed while she frantically moved from one side to the other saying, “Someone is coming. I don’t even know if we were suppose to get you out of bed”

Mom had done therapy with him.  They were both quite worn out when an orderly came in and brightly asked, “Are you ready for physical therapy?”

Mom looked at dad and nodded “yes” while he shook his head “No”.

Because the muscles in his mouth weren’t working the way they should, it became difficult to swallow anything.  We started out with thick juices and nectars to a no liquid restriction. He was given wet sponges to suck on in order to quench his thirst.

Each stroke left him paralyzed just a little bit more. He walked with a cane.  His speech became difficult to understand.  So difficult that many didn’t realize he still had the ability to think and still had a sharp mind. 

One time my brother’s family brought to him a vase of flowers.  When he was alone in the room, he removed the flowers and drank the water from the vase.  My sister-in-law was upset.  She said she hadn’t even cleaned the vase all that well, and would have done a better job had she known.  It was dirty water.  He was desperately thirsty though.

He would get out of bed and fall and was restrained and would cry that he was being tied up.  And we would cry with him.  Sometimes we would loosen the bands and then report our deeds to the nurse. 

I really don’t remember how long he’d been there.  But the insurance company gave us a deadline for when they would no longer supply payment for keeping him there. Eleven days before the deadline he had another stroke.  An ambulance took him to the hospital that was near the house of my family.  Someone went to see him every day.

We were able to teach him some finger spelling – which of course came slow.  And if we asked a question that wasn’t a “yes” or “no” question – it became quite a game to figure out the answer.

One time my mom went up to one of the members of the Church to thank him for visiting my dad.  He was taken aback and asked sincerely, “How did you know that?”

“He told me.”

“He told you?”

“Yes.”

“But when I saw him . . . I didn’t know he could . . . How did he tell you?”

Dad loved chocolate milk shakes and hamburgers.  He had been hooked up to a feeding tube.  Daddy had already lost so much weight.  His legs were thin – like arms. He still had tastable desires.

Once my mom asked, “If he’s just going to die anyway, what difference does it make whether we give him a milk shake or not.”

The comment brought on some cold hearted stares, but seeing the sadness in mom’s eyes, they knew she was right.  It was highly probable that he would not be leaving the hospital alive.  And he did get at least two milk shakes out of the deal.

My dad never returned to the nursing home.  He spent his 54^th birthday in the hospital – he was laid to rest a month later. He’d been released from his physical body.  He had endured to the end.  And he hadn’t complained.  How amazing is that?

It was a beautiful day.  The sun was shining.  My brother, Patrick, and I both gave talks. We played a recording of Corey reading his poem (as he was on his mission at the time) and my sister, Kayla sang Amy Grant’s “Father’s Eyes”  It was a really nice tribute.  I miss my dad.  I think of him quite a bit on really awesome days that take place in the fall.

What's for Dinner?

Roland loves to cook.  He enjoys baking.  The kitchen is his domain.  Overall he is a really good cook. I can follow a recipe (usually) but I don’t enjoy cooking.  I do enjoy eating though.  Unfortunately it shows.

          When he was working on commission, Roland cooked dinner all of the time.  It was great!  Especially when he would get a hold of abandoned recipe books and feel inspired to make something different every night.  I didn’t always like what he fixed, but for the most part it was awesome.

          He has since found a job that pays an income that we can actually budget with.  But because he is required to do at least 40 hours a week,  I am now in charge of making the meals.  Roland doesn’t complain exactly, but always asks why I did this or why I didn’t do that or gives me helpful suggestions on how I can improve whatever I have prepared. 

          I don’t know why Roland wants me to prepare every meal.  When I have dinner ready, he is usually very late.  When I don’t have dinner, he is on time and wonders where dinner is. Aside from the turkey sandwiches that I’ve made and the ugly cake that was downed in just seconds, he never likes anything that I make.

          I finally came up with a dish that he raved about.  Well, not raved exactly. But he said he liked it.  I, on the other hand, found it to be somewhat disgusting.

          “Really?” I asked. 

          “yes.  I thought it was pretty good.”

          I can’t win!

          Last week I made ham fried rice.  I had never made it before.  It wasn’t bad.  It tasted much better the next day.

Sisters

          This post is dedicated to my sister, Kayla and our sister-in-law, Sunny.

          Kayla has always been the strong silent type – both physically and spiritually.  She has always had tremendous faith.  She is a survivor.

          When she was younger she could detect the slightest movement of a wrapper being pulled away from a food item (usually something unhealthy like ding dongs or cupcakes or m&ms) She wouldn’t even be in the house, but in the neighborhood.  Unwrap that piece of candy, and she would appear through the door.  But it had to be real.  We could never get her to come simply by crinkling cellophane or foil

          She would say to my mom, “Can I have a piece of gum?” (or whatever)

          Mom, truly forgetting there really was such an item in the house, would come back at her, “I don’t think we have any”

          And Kayla would always know.  “Yes we do.  It is in the third bag pushed against the wall in the cupboard under the microwave”

          Sure enough it would be there.

          Kayla had a problem understanding prepositions.  Written directions would confuse her.  Mom had taken her to a therapist and spent a tremendous amount of time with her going over her homework, trying to help her to understand.

          Kayla had a huge following of friends.  They called and knocked at the door at all hours.  It got to the point where my mom had to physically remove Kayla from our house and environment.  They went to a nearby drive-in to have breakfast and stayed for hours while they studied.

          We used to call her Kaylarella as we would often ask her to fulfill tasks that involved cleaning or serving.  And she enjoyed it.  I looked at it as taking advantage of her naïve willingness.  She looked at it as an opportunity to serve and felt connected. Wow.

Kayla and I are thirteen years apart.  She was the last one of my mom’s four children to receive her driver’s license.  Not so much just because she was the youngest.  It just became a really hard task for her to conquer.  Driving was a worldly thing.  And her mind just wasn’t on the world.  That’s what I liked to believe.  Don’t know that it gave any comfort to her that I thought that way.

She was diligent.  She took at least three different classes – with each she would take the driver’s test at least three times – never passing.  Never earning her driver’s license.  It wasn’t until after I got married to Roland that he took her out and created a new confidence.  She finally had a driver’s license after she turned 27.

Kayla didn’t do a lot of heavy dating as I recall.  And just as with me, Kayla also married late in life – though not quite as late. She just gave birth to her second child, a boy named after my father.  There first was a girl she had named after Bill’s first wife.

Our sister-in-law should start a Blog.  Most everything that falls from her mouth seems so profound and full of wisdom.  I admire her and her sense of being.  She is such a positive person to be around and so full of hope and comfort.  I have always thought that after she joined our family. 

          The older she gets the wiser and more profound her thoughts sound. She’s not a butt-in-ski.  She’ll hold her tongue unless you ask for her advice.  She is such an awesome person. Everyone deserves to have that awesomeness in their lives.  I am so grateful for her – though I don’t always show it.

          Sunny embraces life and has taught her four children to do the same – or has tried to.  None seem as extroverted as she is.

          Sunny always invites enthusiasm and shares her joy with other.  She points out beautiful things to others. Perhaps I have her on a pedestal – but I am NOT the only one.  She really is a great asset to our family.

          I am so grateful for each of my sisters.  I love them both and value the friendships that we have established.

A Healthy Imagination

         

          Jenna has always had a quite a highly active imagination – which is good.  She was able to turn the broken lounge chairs into a slide and used my exercise equipment as her swing.  It kept her entertained.

          Not long ago she told me a story which started:

          “Once upon a time, long ago, in a refrigerator, there lived some fruits and vegetables.  Each thought they should be the ruler of the fridge. . . “

          As the story unfolds it had an apparent Romeo and Juliette theme going.  Only at the end the carrot and the apple run off together leaving the other fruits and vegetables wishing they had been nicer to one another.

          She would act out stories with friends.  If the friend had a younger sib, the two would make the sib an evil dragon, hideous beast or unwanted monster.  Once when Howard’s mother and I were visiting, Jenna and Howard flew into the room chasing Howard’s little brother – irate because they had been playing pirates and needed the brother to walk the plank. (He evidently was NOT cooperating)

          Today she will act out entire episodes using her dolls or stuffed animals or sometimes just spoons or pencils.  This morning it was a monologue spewed from a bear dressed in camouflage – one that Tony had given her for Christmas a couple of years ago.  Jenna, upon seeing that the bear was dressed in the same army camouflage uniform as her brother, exclaimed, “Look what Tony gave me!  It’s a “him doll”, “him” meaning Tony.

          So this morning’s monologue goes something like this: “I am not wearing my coat,” she says in her gruff soldier voice, “and there is something in my boot.  Can you get that out for me?” 

          I looked at her and I looked in the boot to see a candy shaped gloss sticking out.  I pull it out and hand it over.  The bear thanks me and then goes on to describe the glorious artwork of the cool candy shaped container.  I often smile at Jenna’s awesome imagination.

         I found an empty glass in the refrigerator.  I told Jenna about it and she said that she didn’t do it (I believe her as I know she didn’t appreciate the contents) and suggested that maybe it was a “super alien from another planet who came into our house undetected”  - where does she come up with these things? (or vocabulary?)

NOT the Brady Bunch

          Roland has six children – nine if you count the three that were never born – which he often does.  They’ve all been given names – though I doubt we’ll be raising the unborn in the hereafter.

          Biff is the oldest.  He has brown eyes and looks just like his paternal grandfather.  Spitting image – only taller – which is saying a lot as Biff’s biggest hang-up about life seems to have been with his small size.  He really is not that tall compared to your average guy – but he is taller than those on both Roland’s side and his mom’s side.

          Tony seems to get his looks from his mom’s side – though I haven’t really seen it.  The receding hairline is definitely from her side.  Though Tony towers over his mom’s small sized family (small individuals – the family itself is actually quite large in number) he seems to share the same skinny genes that his mom’s side seem to hold.

          Randy is sort of a mixture. Hazel eyes (as well as Tony) all American boy. Freckles. Tallest of the three. Dimples show when he smiles – which is often.

          Vincente – I don’t know if they actually knew the sex at the time or had an ultrasound as his twin brother was a surprise.  I’m thinking if they had known the sex they would have also known that there were two of them.

          Stephen -  Roland had picked out a name for one before his late wife passed.  And when he learned there were two jotted a name down for the other. 

He must have written Stephen’s name in a journal after Vincente

          Francis – Amazon build like her mother – but with facial features from Roland’s side – which I hadn’t noticed.  But then I haven’t yet met Roland’s entire family.

          Pamprin also has the Amazon bone structure and a face like her mom’s.  But she does have dimples like Randy.  And actually her behavior is pretty identical to his also.

          Tracy was only six weeks inside me.  I remember exactly when and where he/she was conceived.  At least one of Roland’s little swimmers wiggled its way up my right fallopian tube before the egg was ready to drop. And that’s where Tracy grew. 

But my tube burst and my belly filled with blood.  We didn’t even know Tracy was in there until an ultrasound was given and we heard his/her heartbeat.  I still cry when I think about it.  Tracy had to be aborted – along with what was left of my tube.  If we would have waited another hour I would be dead, too.

We picked the name Tracy as we have no sex identity.  But I don’t believe Tracy is ours to keep.  I believe the “receiving a body” is more than just a six weeks in the womb.  I believe that Tracy may have gone to another family – or had to wait a while to come to our family.

Jenna is our miracle baby.  Conceived in my early forties and on only one tube.  She looks like both of her parents.  I have seen some expressions that remind me of Francis, but I have also seen some that look like Pamprin.  In her I see a lot of personalities, mostly mine and Randy’s and Tony’s.  Though when she was inside me she was strong like Biff – as we could see her doing calisthenics through the ultrasound.

We have a few pictures of all six kids being silly – well, five of them were.  Jenna was only six months and didn’t demonstrate any behavior other than being happy.  We also have one taken with Roland and his six children – the last time we saw his oldest two girls – the last time when all our boys were together.

Knit VS. Crochet

          Overall I think the knit is a prettier stitch.  I generally like the feel and am impressed with the eye-catching cable.  It just seems more polished to me or something.  But I would rather work with just one hook building one loop at a time than two piercing needles that contain all loops and can easily slip and unravel.

          Seems silly really as knitting has only two basic stitches: knitting and purling, whereas crocheting has a variety of stitches which can become complicated to my simple mind – just from reading the directions that is.  I think I do well with a hands on. Not always.  But if I have a personal coach explaining or showing what I’m doing, I can pick it up a lot quickly than trying to figure it out on my own.

          When I was younger (much younger) my mom crocheted two beautiful coat sweaters.  Mine was yellow and she gave the orange one to my cousin.  I think that yellow sweater was the most beautiful sweater that I have ever owned – well from what I remember.  I don’t remember everything about it.  But I do remember it being warm and sophisticated and wonderful.

          My mom had tried to teach me to crochet when I was younger.  She crocheted all the time.  Made hairpin lace afghans.  Lots of them.  And she made them for all the family members. 

She hadn’t attempted to start me on hairpin lace – a simple chain stitch and single crochet.  I wasn’t good at it.  I didn’t have a passion for learning it.  It was too time consuming – I felt.  I gave it up without really trying.  It wasn’t until after school that I was reintroduced to the world of yarn.

          Somewhere along the way I learned the granny square.  I know I made a pot holder at one point. But I still didn’t turn it into something I needed or had the desire to do all of the time.  But in 1985 I picked it up again.

There was a woman who was pretty much bed ridden.  But she was active with her hands.  She taught me to crochet.  My first project was a popcorn stitch afghan – though she had tried to get me to start with something smaller.  I made a red and white afghan to send to my mother.  With all of the many afghans she made for everybody else, I didn’t believe she had ever made one for herself.

I met another woman who had a passion for knitting and taught me how to knit.  Holding the needles while trying to stitch loops without letting go of the rest that we’re on the needle was quite awkward for me.  I think I may have knitted a scarf?  It wasn’t a very memorable one obviously.  It was my only knitting project until very recently.

Provo Craft introduced a line of looms they call the knifty knitter – and they are.  Projects work up so much faster than the knitting needles ever could (or do) My family and I have made hats and I will be making dishrags eventually.  What an awesome product.

You know what makes me wonder though?  Why is it that all knit patterns require crochet hooks to finish off, but crocheted patterns never ask for a knitting needle?  Could it be that the crochet hook is more powerful?

Triggers and the Mighty Thorn

I have a friend named Heather (actual name) who has this blog  in which she will often ask questions at the end of her posts.  Three of my answers have been so weighed with detail that I answered by email rather than leave a comment on the post, as some of my comments turn out to be larger than the post itself.

 The first question I remember actually sending an email for was when she asked, “What are your triggers?”  At first I couldn’t think of one.  It was ten days before the Christmas tree skirt came out.  There was my trigger.  A horrible memory that I should just get rid of. And yet it’s a busy time of year and replacing the tree skirt is never a priority – and it’s probably petty of me to feel the need to replace it anyway.

Before you can understand the trigger itself, you’ll need some background.

          All too soon after the boys’ mother passed, Roland decided to marry Satan’s sister.  In addition to our three boys and daughter, my husband has two other girls, Francis and Pamprin – whom I wasn’t even allowed to meet until over a year after Roland and I had been married.   

After another two year battle in court, we were finally able to have them for overnight visits – but not every other week.  Roland’s ex did everything in her power to sabotage the visits.  I had so many nicknames for her: the greedy snake, Malificent, Adolf Hitler, the peroxide cow (which in itself is an insult to all cows everywhere) and Satan’s spawn to name a few. 

I sent the following email to Heather:

“The thing that triggers me is the Christmas tree skirt.  The emotions are buried within me when the skirt and tree are put away - but each year we decorate I growl inside. 

“I bought the skirt the same year that Roland's pampered princess spent the holidays with us. It wasn't totally her fault that she was such a brat - her deranged mother catered to her every need - often at the expense of her older sister - whom they both treated like a pack mule.

“I think I actually invited Pamprin to go with me - or rather gave her a choice - she could go with me or stay home with Tony (their absolute favorite brother and probably the only reason they agreed to visitations in the first place) She chose to stay.

So I left the girls with Tony - Jenna included. Jenna was less than a year old.”

“The handyman had come to finish up in the bathroom.  Pamprin was "scared" - called her deranged mother the second I left the house I'm sure.  Maleficent (my nickname for Roland's ex) in turn called the sheriff’s department - who pulled up to our house the same time I did.  I was so mad.  I still get upset about it [whenever I see the skirt].  Maleficent has been a thorn in our side for years.  I have many wicked and unpleasant thoughts because of her interference.  (I think she is bi-polar - for real)”

          Recent news stories about the deranged Josh Powell (one of many stories is found here) triggers up anger to a less-than perfect system – one that failed Charlie and Braden Powell – the same one that awarded custody to Malificent who has robbed the girls of their minds.  She has not attempted to blow up herself or the girls – too greedy.  Needs them so that she has something to leverage with.

I need to get over it – I know.  I should be more compassionate towards her.  She needs professional help.  But it is the girls who suffer the most. 

That is actually another reason why my blog gives a false identity.  Malificent will take me to court if she should ever read my blog and figure it out.  She’s one of those sue happy psychopaths – who often will get her way as the system continues to fail those who are really trying or need protecting. 

I’m not even sure why I have created this post.  It’s not pleasant to read or look at.  It is something that I need to overcome.  Perhaps if I post it for the whole world to see it will provide me some sense of relief.  Some sort of goal that I need to set for myself. Only time will tell.

Waiting for the Laundry to do Itself

A truck will be coming around sometime today to collect used items.  We have TONS of clothes.  On Tuesday I forced Roland to clean out the closet with me – as a large percentage of the clothes was/are his. 

He doesn’t like the way his 20–30 white shirts have yellowed, so we put them in a separate pile to be boiled.  When I went through the hamper to find some more whites, I noticed that the hamper was reaching the overflow stage and figured I should do something about it.

          Normally I wait until Roland leaves before I sort the clothes – not to crowd him out while I am sorting.  It is actually best if everyone has left already and I have the entire house to myself.  Only I have been leaving the house, too.  I have been tending to my mom and sister and have forgotten all about the laundry. 

          Laundry is not even that big of a deal, really.  You sort the clothes. You put them in the machine.  You add soap and turn the machine on.  The machine does most of the work. 

          Then there’s the hanging or dryer.  Hanging does require more work.  But if the sun is out, it makes whites whiter.  It will usually dry a lot quicker than the dryer.  And it is less costly.

          Many people don’t like to fold.  I don’t mind it.  In fact, I think of any household chore, I enjoy folding the most.  You can sit while you are folding.  Make stacks of clothes for each bedroom and the towels separated into three piles of full size, wash cloth and kitchen.

          Then comes the part that I most dread.  Putting the folded clothes away.

          The boys have always done their own laundry, but sometimes fail to remove from the dryer.  And as I didn’t ever know who they belonged to could not put them away any further than the laundry room – although it didn’t take me long to figure it out.  Still I would just put the laundry by their bedroom doors and let each decide for himself where the clothes went.

 I try the same thing with Jenna. All of her drawers are labeled.  She is great at wanting to assist in the kitchen and bathroom. But when it comes to putting clothes, she has got to be one of the laziest people ever.  She will put clean clothes in the hamper just to avoid putting them away – even if it is something she’s had on her body long enough just to try it on.  Come on! 

She doesn’t have any problem when I hand her a stack of folded kitchen towels and ask her to put them away.  How can I motivate my child to want to pick up after herself?  Any suggestions?

Mr. Ruthless

          Everyday school crossing guards put their lives on the line – whether intentional or not. With the guard at Jenna’s school it is intentional.  Oh, sure,  there is more than one crossing guard, but Mr. Ruthless is stationed at the main street populated with cars and drivers with led feet.

          Drivers might not respect Mr. Ruthless, but I think as I parent I would feel honored to have him as Jenna’s crossing guard (if we were near enough to go on foot) but because my usual route is to drop her off behind the school,  my encounters with Mr. Ruthless have been brief.

          Mr. Ruthless is one who will intentionally put his life on the line.  I am floored whenever I see it happen.  And yet I can’t help feeling a sense of pride that he is seriously willing to lay down his life for our children.  He will walk out into the street and stop as he faces the oncoming traffic with a challenge to either slow down or be sent to prison for plowing him down. He also keeps a pad of paper handy to write down the license plates of anyone going over 20 mph.

          I don’t know if he lost somebody personally due to speed.  My guess is he has.  Or else he is a retired police officer who has just seen too much pain cause by drivers who may never slow down.  He is a good man to have on your team – so long as you are working with him.  But cross him and he becomes your deadly opponent – not in a physical way – but with a vengeance that almost makes you wish that you were.

          At the end of each year, the teachers are honored.  The PTA (or PTO) creates an environment to show respect and appreciation.  I don’t think they have a crossing guard day.  And not everybody has a need for the crossing guard.  But how extremely blessed we are to have crossing guards who will keep our children safe – especially the ones like Mr. Ruthless – who even though can swear provocatively as the speeding drivers and raise his fists and occasionally hit the moving cars with his fists or whatever.  It’s obvious that he knows his priorities and is watching out for our children’s welfare. 

Thank you Mr. Ruthless.  And thank you to all who keep our children safe.

Thoughts on wellness (unwellness rather)

          I used to think that a sore throat was the absolute worse.  I would rather have a headache, a backache, nausea, or sinus infection rather than a sore throat.  Or so I thought. A sore throat never made me disoriented.

Have you ever seen the movie Innerspace?  As the story unfolds, we learn that Dennis Quade’s character has agreed to being shrunk and injected into the body of a rabbit.  But due to circumstances beyond his control, he is inserted into Martin Short’s body by mistake.

          In order for him to see what Martin Short is seeing, DQ lands his vessel onto the optical nerve and then clamps on the seeing device tool.  On his initial land, MS experiences irritation.  Something is bugging him just behind the eye.  But then comes the clamp.  MS screams out in pain. 

          I have felt that pain.  It’s really quite excruciating.  Oh, no.  I don’t claim to have a little man inside of my body putting pressure on my eyes – I’m 99% certain that it’s mucus that’s causing the pain.  It hurts so much I feel like crying – only I won’t because that only makes it hurt even more.

          I had gone to the doctor last month as “over-the-counter” wasn’t taking care of it.  The pain was in my left eye and by the time I was able to get into the doctor, the infection had spread into my ear as well.

          I was given an antibiotic with the worse side effects ever.  If I wasn’t on the toilet I was over the toilet questioning whether the drugs were actually in my body long enough to do anything other than make me even sicker.

After a while it appeared that I had been beaten as there were major dark circles under my eye and much redness under my left eye that looked like it may form into a bruise. I usually felt much worse than I looked.

          Dishes and laundry had built up during my stay-in-bed.  Water pressure is the pits.  I can do dishes or laundry.  And I felt so weak and disoriented – I could only do five dishes at a time – if that.  So often I would stand and feel dizzy and unbalanced that very little gets accomplished.

My diet consisted of Jell-O and Yogurt – not consciously – it just seemed to be all I could hold down – if I indeed could hold it down.  Sometimes just the idea of eating something I ordinarily love makes me gag. When God passed out sensitive stomachs and high gag reflexes, Jenna and I were first in line

           

I have worn glasses for half of my life now.  During the two weeks I was sick I did not use them – my vision was distorted either way.  But I have come to the conclusion that I have to wear them ALL the time as I believe it is contributing to my soreness.  Maybe.

I have gone over this post several times – still disoriented.  Still not satisfied with how it sounds.  It’s been over a month.  I have actually seen two doctors since then. 

I was given a complete physical with one.  I was also given a clean bill of health.  The other was an obstetrician – who for the first time in my life was able to explain my unkeen sense of vision.  I have a small case of Keratoconus – which I shouldn’t concern myself with too much.  My brother, Corey, had to have a cornea transplant with his Keratoconus and so did actor Mandy Patinkin.  But at this stage it doesn’t appear that surgery will be needed.  So that’s nice.

          I also have “weird shaped” eyes that won’t allow in the amount of light needed for one to see properly.  Because of their weird shape I can never be qualified for laser surgery – and so even maybe someday if/when I should able to afford it, it can never take place.  I will always have strained vision.

          Fortunately my eyes seem to work the opposite way.  I think I am near sighted in one and far sighted in the other.  So they still seem to work well together.  Except for I’ve had eye pain in my right eye this week.  Grrrr . . .

          But I am grateful to hear that I won’t need a transplant as of now.  And I am grateful for my what vision I do have.

Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde or Sybil

For those readers who may not recognize any of the names in the title, let me introduce you to a very brief history. 

The character of Dr. Jekyll was created before 1931.  He was a lab scientist who used himself as a guinea pig to test a potion which he had created.  I don’t recall what it is the potion was supposed to do, but as a result of his taking the potion, Dr. Jekyll would take on another – much darker – personality that was not the same as the one most people were familiar with.

His alter ego became known as Mr. Hyde.  So even though Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde were theoretically the same person – sharing the same physical identity (or body I guess) the personalities were very different.  Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde is science fiction.

Shirley Ardel Mason (1923 – 1998) was an actual person.  She’d been both physically and mentally abused by her mother.  Shirley had gone to psychiatrist Dr. Cornelia Wilbur in the 1950’s as there were some large pieces of her life that she seemed to miss out on due to black outs. 

It took eleven years for Dr. Wilbur to meet all of the personalities that would take over during Shirley’s blackouts.  It is said that there were sixteen of them.  They all had different names and different characteristics.  Many of the personalities knew of the others, but Shirley was not aware of any until Dr. Wilbur pointed it out to her.

In 1973 Flora Rheta Schreiber wrote a book based upon Shirley’s pshycological studies.  The book introduced the character Sybil Dorsett whose background and therapeutic studies was the same as Shirley’s.  The name had been changed to protect Shirley’s identity.  And in 1976 Sally Field portrayed her in the movie “Sybil”.

There are some who don’t believe in Multiple Personality Disorder (now known as Disassociative Identity Disorder) while others do.  I choose to believe.  I think there are different degrees in which personalities are displayed.  And there are variations of what may trigger these unusual out-of-character traits.

We all have moods and often seem to take on personalities unlike our normal selves due to drugs, alcohol, medicated side effects or lack of medication, aging, changes in our eating habits, health, witnessing or victims of some horrific action.  The list goes on and on.  In many cases the self personality may be controlled or sometimes it may seem quite doubtful that a person may ever return to normal again. 

I remember my mom as a woman who never wanted to take medication – even something as simple as asprin.  She was not one who would ever become drug dependant.  Or so was her wish.  She now has at least seven different prescribed medications that she takes for her diabetis, cholesterol, dementia and some other things.  And when she skips her medication or doesn’t watch what she eats, another personality seems to takes over.

I suppose my mood swings are very different during that time of the month, when my hormones are out of wack, when I go from being Dr. Jekyll to becoming Mrs. Hyde.  A lot of women go through that.  It isn’t refered to as a personality disorder though – and yet there seems to be at least two distinct personalities throughout the month.

I had a sinus infection during the month of December.  I also took meds with a nasty side effect that left me wanting to deal with the sinus infection instead.  I was loopy for much of the month.  I might as well have been in a coma.  Actually, that would have been preferable.

I have seen at least two distinctive personalities with my mom. There appears to be happy drunkard take over when she is not coherent.  And yet she sincerely believes in every detail she relates – like the time she drove downtown to see the forrest – there is no forest downtown – nor is there a dungeon.  But she truly believes in it – or did.  She may have forgotten it now.  I haven’t.

When I visit my mom I am usually with a woman who is a bit disoriented, who often is on a mission to spend her money, and doesn’t believe she has any problems whatsoever.  If she does have a problem, it is because someone else is “against her”. Sometimes she will acknowledge that she takes meds and is aging. But more often than not, I see a much different personality than does my sister-in-law.

When she is with my sister-in-law, my mom seems more put together.  They talk about mom’s desires for becoming independent.  My mom will share memories with my sister-in-law.  There are no memories when I am with her.  She doesn’t remember – or else she’ll be misinformed. Therefore we have painted two entirely different pictures of my mom’s condition. 

But then I suppose the same could be said about me – depending on who you are and how often we visit.  I have mood swings.  I have triggers.  I don’t have blackouts that have made me wonder when a transition may have occurred.  Mood swings are different from multiple personalities.  It’s just often it seems that these moods bring on a personality that is entirely their own.

Today I had the opportunity of taking my 1 ½ year old neice to visit my mom.  My mom loves my niece.  She got on the floor and played with her.  They teased each other.  I saw my mom from a much different perspective than I have seen her for some time actually.  Probably not since my brother’s kids were little.