This last posting is going to be the most difficult for me to write because it's going to be about his battle with cancer. It's also going to be a bit longer, I think, than all the rest. I apologize in advance, both for the length and the emotions.
I'm actually writing this at 4:21 pm on the 29th, because I don't think I'd be able to do it after midnight. Again, my apologies.
In January of 1990, my dad and I started talking about going to Fan Fair in Nashville in June. It's the annual party for country music lovers. Back then, they held it at the state fairgrounds, and it was definitely an interesting event. You had booths that were usually set up by fan clubs, sometimes the record label, and they ran the gamut from simple booths with information and items for sale, all the way up to elaborate booths like the recording booth for Trisha Yearwood or the front porch set-up for Randy Travis. The artists would usually spend an hour or so at some point of the multiple day event at their booth, signing autographs and posing for pictures. Depending on the artist, the line could be really short or one that snaked through the building and then wrapping around outside it, like Garth Brooks' line did. The bigger artists got bigger areas, to handle larger crowds. On top of the exhibit areas, the different labels did mini shows, showcasing both established and new artists. It was definitely an event to go to and we definitely wanted to go. We never made it.
While planning the trip, I'd bought tickets to two concerts in the area. One was a show at the Knickerbocker arena in March, Ricky Van Shelton and Randy Travis, and the other show was k.d. lang at Proctors. Her show was beyond belief. We sat in the side balcony nearest the stage. The seats were plush and we had great views. The cool thing was, her voice was so large that she didn't really need the mics. And she talked to the audience. It was something not to be missed and my father loved it.
The show in Albany was different. My dad was having some pain issues. He'd always had problems with ulcers and he thought they were acting up again. Food wasn't a great experience and he was having issues with sitting for too long on hard surfaces. We had seats on the bleachers, to the side of the stage and he was moving a lot, trying to get comfortable. Ricky Van Shelton had to cancel his section of the show due to laryngitis, but Randy Travis did a longer show and more than made up for it. My dad enjoyed the show but he was glad to get off the hard bleacher and into the padded seat of my car.
The next month was hard for him. He kept eating less food and was losing weight. Now my dad, unlike me, was never fat. He might have had a slight stomach but he really couldn't afford to lose weight. It just didn't look good on him to lose it. So we finally convinced him to go see the doctor, who sent him for some tests. They found a mass on an x-ray and he went for a colonoscopy. I remember the date he got the results very well. It was Friday, April 13, 1990. Good Friday.
The results were he had colon cancer and they said he needed immediate surgery. So he went in for surgery shortly after Easter. They ended up doing a colostomy but they told us they couldn't remove the tumor because it was too invasive. It had spread beyond the walls of the colon and they weren't quite sure exactly how far it had spread. Their course of action was radiation.
For the next 2 months, he had these interesting drawings on his butt cheeks. It was the target areas for the radiation and they drew them with Sharpies, so they didn't wash off easily. Not that it would really be a big deal with my dad. He used to joke with us that it wasn't time for his once a year bath so he didn't know why they made such a fuss over them markings.
For 2 months, I watched my dad eat small bites of food and walk away. I watched him shift constantly as he sat and watched tv or read a book. He spent more time in the basement on his cb radio. Our trip to Nashville was 'postponed til next year' when he knew he'd feel better. And each weekend, he went to the AAA office across the street from SCCC to do his shifts as emergency dispatcher. I think the job kept him grounded, giving him something 'normal' to look forward to.
I moved out in June to my own apartment in Schenectady. It wasn't far from where I worked at GE and it was a huge place and relatively cheap. I found out why in the winter but all summer it was great. My dad helped me move, using his car to help me bring down some of my smaller items. He liked it, said it wasn't bad for a first real apartment of my own.
In July, I spent the night at home one night and it was one of those hot, muggy nights. I had the blinds open and was watching the lightning around 2 am, when I heard some sounds in the dining room. I thought it was the dog so I got up and went out there. It wasn't the dog; it was my dad. He was sitting at the table, head in his hands, crying from the pain. My dad never cried from pain. He'd complain about it like a baby, make a lot of noise, but crying just wasn't something he did. So this really shook me up. I didn't want him to know I'd seen it so I quietly went back into the living room and left him alone.
I spent most of that summer making sure my dad got to see all the country concerts that came to town. George Strait, Willie Nelson, Marty Stuart... anyone who came to town that my dad liked, he got to see. I remember that one of the concerts he really wanted to see was Reba but it was at the same time that he was possibly going to be in the hospital for surgery. He told me to sneak him out to see her. "Bring me in a wheelchair, bring me on a gurney, but I'm seeing Reba in concert."
During her concert, she did several costume changes and at one point, she came out in this red sequined gown and Dad told me to take a picture. Then she turned around, revealing this really deep plunging back and he hit my arm, saying "You better make sure you get a shot of that." I did.
While looking at her merchandise, Dad saw this tshirt with a picture of her fully on the front. I ended up buying two, one for him and one for me. He told me on the way home that he wanted to be buried in that shirt. I joked with him that I'd make a shirt with a picture of mom on it and he said "I've lived with her for nearly 40 years. I want to be buried with Reba near my heart. Your mom won't mind, since I'll be gone.
On November 8, I went home for dinner. Dad wasn't feeling well. He sat out at the table for a while but he went to his room to get into bed around 9. I went in with him for a while and we talked about his pain. He thought it was because he'd forgotten to take his stool softener that day so we joked about what to do to get it going. I told him I'd go buy a bottle of prune juice if he thought that would help. He said that it would pass. At some point, he got tired so I left and went to my place.
Now, my mom had called me every morning since I'd moved out, just to make sure I was awake. I may have groused about it a bit but I did kinda use her call as a backup alarm. On the 9th, she never called. I was at work, making copies, when a friend and co-worker came and told me my mom was on the phone and that it was an emergency. It was about 11:20 a.m. and all I could think was, my mom thinks the cat bringing up a fur ball is an emergency, so I told my friend to tell her I'd be there in a second and finished carrying the copies to my desk.
It wasn't a fur ball but God, I wish it had been. "Teri, your dad is in the ER at St. Clare's hospital. It doesn't look good. You'd better get here fast." I was in shock. I remember friends getting me there and me sitting there waiting to go in and see him. When I did, he looked grey. He'd been brought in at 3 that morning, when the tumor had finally erupted. They couldn't find a bp when he'd been brought in, even though he walked into the ER under his own power. They were so sure he wasn't going to make it, they didn't find him a bed until nearly 16 hours later.
For the next 3 weeks, it was an emotional roller coaster. He did ok. He had to have 2 surgeries in one day. The tumor was gone. He had a major infection from when it burst. He was moved into ICU. He was moved into a room on the surgical floor. Back to ICU. I remember my mom arguing with one doctor because this man was telling her that sometimes, we have to know when the fight is over and that the surgeon didn't want to do surgery. That was on the phone. By the time she got there, they were prepping him for surgery and the surgeon said he didn't know if he could save him but he DID know how he'd feel if my dad died and he'd done NOTHING.
One funny memory from that time period: My dad was in the ICU and they were having problems with his blood pressure being too low. So I told the nurse, "Want to see it go up? Watch this." I then showed my dad the pictures of Reba in her red dress from the concert earlier that summer. Sure enough, up went his pressure. I was tempted to give her the picture, to show him whenever they wanted it up a bit but I didn't.
Thanksgiving 1990, my younger sister decided to do dinner, to give my mom a break. My mom had been diagnosed with colon cancer herself in late August/early September and was going to have surgery in December. Beth thought she'd help out by doing dinner. Of course, we all joked with my dad that we might end up in the ER right near him in the ICU, since it was Beth's first attempt. Somehow, we all survived.
On Wednesday, November 28th, I saw my father alive for the last time. I went to see him once I got out of work. We talked for a bit about the doctors thoughts that he might come home on Monday. We joked about football. When I noticed him getting tired, I told him I was going to leave and that I'd see him on Friday, since I had to work late the next night. He said, "Pop in. If I'm awake, we'll talk. If not, well, at least you got to see me sleeping." But I told him I'd rather see him sleeping in his own bed and I'd come see him on Friday. "Okay kiddo, you do what you have to do." His last words to me as I left the room was, "Hey kiddo. You know I love you, right? See you tomorrow."
The next night, I finished work and went home. A friend called me and asked for a ride home so I picked her up. Once I got home, I was relaxing in my favorite chair and half dozing when the phone rang. It was my sister, letting me know that mom had been called to the hospital. Dad wasn't doing well and they wanted her there. They'd let us know if we should get there. I was worried but figured if it was serious, Mom would have let us all know.
At 12:45 a.m., my phone rang. "Get to the hospital. Dad's dying. Mom's there. Go." I ran out of the house with slippers on my feet and no coat. I ran 5 red lights on my way there. As I got there and was racing into the hospital, Dick came out and told me he was on his way to get my aunt, that my dad had just died. I missed seeing him alive by less than 2 minutes.
My dad was a mixture of weird ethics, outright lies, and love that you didn't always recognize as love when it was happening. He loved country music, bluegrass, and rock. He could bullshit his way through almost any situation, especially when he wasn't knowledgeable about something. He loved to read and his favorites were westerns, sci-fi/fantasy, and romances. He knew just enough about religion to make him dangerous when the roving missionaries stopped to try and get us to convert to their religion. Most of all, he was my dad and I loved him. Still do.
Oh and yes, he did wear Reba's shirt under his suit. My shirt, actually, because I couldn't find his until the day AFTER he was buried. Dad definitely won again.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Memories of my dad, part 5
So many different memories have come up because of this series. Today, I'm going to talk about 2 in particular. One a bit difficult, the other funny. Both are visions of how my dad saw life at times.
In 1984, I was sent to prison for up to 3 years. I was arrested in Vermont and spent 3 months there before being brought back to Plattsburgh, NY, for trial. Before it went to a trial, I'd accepted a plea bargain and was sentenced to 1 1/2 to 3 years. Not as bad as some I knew but bad for me, who'd heard nothing but how scary Bedford Hills prison was. I spent a couple of months in Plattsburgh's county jail. It had 4 cells for women at that time, with one room that was for the 'matron' to use for her comfort. Occasionally, they would use that room for a prisoner but not too often because it had no bars on the windows. After a fight with another female, I was moved into that room. After being there for 2 weeks and the situation was obviously not getting better between the other female and myself, they moved me to Franklin county, near the Canadian border. It was a trip of at least 4 hours in order for my parents to come visit me.
My parents made that trip once per month the whole time I was there. Our visits were always nice and the entire staff got to know my parents well. They'd just made their trip to see me for Christmas, a few days prior, when I was brought to the Sheriff's office. He told me that what he was doing was against the rules but out of respect for my parents, he wanted me to call them and let them know that I would be going to the prison before the end of the year. He did this because my dad had mentioned the possibility of coming up between Christmas and New Year's to visit me again and the sheriff didn't want them making the trip for nothing.
The whole time I was at Bedford Hills, slightly more than 2 1/2 years, my parents visited me once per month, bringing me the 35 lbs of food we were allowed, books enough to keep me busy for a week, and leaving me some cash to spend at the prison canteen every other week. The visits were usually about 3 hours long, full of laughter and family news, keeping me up to date about my nephew's growth. I never thought about how hard those visits must have been for them, just glad that they came, even during the winter.
In 1997, I got out after doing my full 3 year sentence. Within a month, my dad and I went down to visit two of the friends I'd made while there. I'd promised both of them that I'd come back to visit and I was not about to break my word to them, like so many others had done. We got there, bearing gifts and leaving money on their books. Dad and I had a great time, and both of my friends were surprised to see me there. When that first visit was over, I had a hard time walking back to the car. I was crying because it was so hard emotionally for me, knowing I was leaving and had to leave them there. We got in the car and my dad let me cry for a few minutes before putting the car in gear and driving off.
We made a pitstop a few miles away, so I could get myself together. He looked out at the view and said, without looking at me, "Now you know how difficult it's been for me this last few years. I had to walk away with a smile on my face, knowing I was leaving my baby in that hell hole. Kiddo, if you ever get the bright idea to do something like that again, think about this minute and don't. Because there's no way I can go through that again."
In early 1989, I got an interview at Dannemora prison in Clinton County, NY. Yep, the men's max facility. I'd taken a state exam and was high enough on the list to get the interview. I didn't want to drive up by myself so I asked my dad to come with me. He brought a book to read while I was in the interview and off we went. The interview went well, even though I knew I wouldn't get the job, and soon we were on our way.
I wanted my dad to see the place I'd been living in when I'd been arrested in Vermont. It was a wonderful place, a huge old barn that had been converted, and out on a dirt road past a covered bridge, about 30 minutes from Burlington. Now, I hadn't been there in 4 years and so my directions were a bit off but we finally did get there. He thought it was a lovely location, so quiet and definitely rural. And then we decided to head home.
Now, like so many men, my dad was positive he didn't need directions and we didn't even have a map with us. He said he'd follow his nose and we'd make it home without a problem. Except we didn't. We meandered and went from one road to another, never thinking much about which direction we were going. Until I looked at my watch and saw it was nearly 3 and I knew mom was expecting us home for dinner. So I finally asked him to stop and ask for directions or at least to buy a map. After listening to me whine (and yes, I did a good job at it.), he finally stopped at this little country store and bought a map. When I asked him for it, he said "Don't worry, I got directions from the owner. We go this way for this many miles and then we'll hit this route which runs south and will lead us eventually to the Thruway in NY." Not being too worried, I was okay and sat back to watch the scenery.
After driving a few miles, I noticed a sign that said "Welcome to Vermont." I turned and looked at my dad, who grinned a bit sheepishly back. "Yeah, I kinda got us lost. We were nearly through New Hampshire and heading into Maine." We laughed like loons and then I told him it was okay. At least we were still in the U.S. and not in Canada.
We finally made it home around 7 that evening. Mom was worried and upset and definitely not laughing when we told her the story of what had happened. But until my dad died in 1990, our private joke was "At least we're not in Canada."
In 1984, I was sent to prison for up to 3 years. I was arrested in Vermont and spent 3 months there before being brought back to Plattsburgh, NY, for trial. Before it went to a trial, I'd accepted a plea bargain and was sentenced to 1 1/2 to 3 years. Not as bad as some I knew but bad for me, who'd heard nothing but how scary Bedford Hills prison was. I spent a couple of months in Plattsburgh's county jail. It had 4 cells for women at that time, with one room that was for the 'matron' to use for her comfort. Occasionally, they would use that room for a prisoner but not too often because it had no bars on the windows. After a fight with another female, I was moved into that room. After being there for 2 weeks and the situation was obviously not getting better between the other female and myself, they moved me to Franklin county, near the Canadian border. It was a trip of at least 4 hours in order for my parents to come visit me.
My parents made that trip once per month the whole time I was there. Our visits were always nice and the entire staff got to know my parents well. They'd just made their trip to see me for Christmas, a few days prior, when I was brought to the Sheriff's office. He told me that what he was doing was against the rules but out of respect for my parents, he wanted me to call them and let them know that I would be going to the prison before the end of the year. He did this because my dad had mentioned the possibility of coming up between Christmas and New Year's to visit me again and the sheriff didn't want them making the trip for nothing.
The whole time I was at Bedford Hills, slightly more than 2 1/2 years, my parents visited me once per month, bringing me the 35 lbs of food we were allowed, books enough to keep me busy for a week, and leaving me some cash to spend at the prison canteen every other week. The visits were usually about 3 hours long, full of laughter and family news, keeping me up to date about my nephew's growth. I never thought about how hard those visits must have been for them, just glad that they came, even during the winter.
In 1997, I got out after doing my full 3 year sentence. Within a month, my dad and I went down to visit two of the friends I'd made while there. I'd promised both of them that I'd come back to visit and I was not about to break my word to them, like so many others had done. We got there, bearing gifts and leaving money on their books. Dad and I had a great time, and both of my friends were surprised to see me there. When that first visit was over, I had a hard time walking back to the car. I was crying because it was so hard emotionally for me, knowing I was leaving and had to leave them there. We got in the car and my dad let me cry for a few minutes before putting the car in gear and driving off.
We made a pitstop a few miles away, so I could get myself together. He looked out at the view and said, without looking at me, "Now you know how difficult it's been for me this last few years. I had to walk away with a smile on my face, knowing I was leaving my baby in that hell hole. Kiddo, if you ever get the bright idea to do something like that again, think about this minute and don't. Because there's no way I can go through that again."
In early 1989, I got an interview at Dannemora prison in Clinton County, NY. Yep, the men's max facility. I'd taken a state exam and was high enough on the list to get the interview. I didn't want to drive up by myself so I asked my dad to come with me. He brought a book to read while I was in the interview and off we went. The interview went well, even though I knew I wouldn't get the job, and soon we were on our way.
I wanted my dad to see the place I'd been living in when I'd been arrested in Vermont. It was a wonderful place, a huge old barn that had been converted, and out on a dirt road past a covered bridge, about 30 minutes from Burlington. Now, I hadn't been there in 4 years and so my directions were a bit off but we finally did get there. He thought it was a lovely location, so quiet and definitely rural. And then we decided to head home.
Now, like so many men, my dad was positive he didn't need directions and we didn't even have a map with us. He said he'd follow his nose and we'd make it home without a problem. Except we didn't. We meandered and went from one road to another, never thinking much about which direction we were going. Until I looked at my watch and saw it was nearly 3 and I knew mom was expecting us home for dinner. So I finally asked him to stop and ask for directions or at least to buy a map. After listening to me whine (and yes, I did a good job at it.), he finally stopped at this little country store and bought a map. When I asked him for it, he said "Don't worry, I got directions from the owner. We go this way for this many miles and then we'll hit this route which runs south and will lead us eventually to the Thruway in NY." Not being too worried, I was okay and sat back to watch the scenery.
After driving a few miles, I noticed a sign that said "Welcome to Vermont." I turned and looked at my dad, who grinned a bit sheepishly back. "Yeah, I kinda got us lost. We were nearly through New Hampshire and heading into Maine." We laughed like loons and then I told him it was okay. At least we were still in the U.S. and not in Canada.
We finally made it home around 7 that evening. Mom was worried and upset and definitely not laughing when we told her the story of what had happened. But until my dad died in 1990, our private joke was "At least we're not in Canada."
Monday, November 28, 2011
Memories of my dad, part 4
This post is going to be more snippets than actual stories. I wish I had the pictures I'd taken of my father over the years. They said so much more than my words can say. But moving so often and then going to prison and leaving my things behind means that things get lost, so most of my pictures are in my head.
My dad had this way about him. He loved to laugh but he could get angry fast. He didn't have the normal ethics that most people have and that made some of his actions questionable at times. He worked several jobs to keep our family with a place to live and food to eat. I know that a lot of the jobs he mentioned were stories but it was part of his mystique and you had to pick out what was real and what wasn't.
He worked as a bus driver in Schenectady for a while. That I know is true because my mom told me about some of his adventures, like bringing a cab down the hill into Schenectady and having it go sideways, and him being able to bring it to a near perfect parallel park-type stop. She said he came home and was laughing, but he definitely needed to take a shower. I also know he worked at the local cab company in Schenectady and he loved it.
He finally got a full time job with NY as a lock operator. I can remember him coming home after working 3-11 and bringing home Mike's giant subs and a Neba for my mom. I can still taste both of those so clearly. I wish I could find someone who'd worked at one of the stores so maybe I could find out where they'd gotten their sub bread, cause it was so darn good.
The year I was supposed to start kindergarten, my family found a home in Mariaville. It was still under construction but they worked out the financing and bought it. I remember seeing it the first time, with no grass but tons of clay mud, and boards leading to the front door. The downstairs had sawhorses and we put a board across one of them and turned it into a teeter-totter. The house had a flat roof then and a creek that ran through the back yard near the back boundary. There were trees lining the creek and one of them just happened to have huge thorns on it.
When we moved out there, we had a siamese cat named Ookie. She wasn't really an outdoor cat but she managed to get out one day. My mom was worried but my dad wasn't. "It's a long drop and she's not dumb enough to jump off that porch, Edie," he told her. Ookie proved him wrong. She got out there, something spooked her, and off she jumped....only to climb right up that thorny tree! My mom kept at him to get her down but he said she'd come down when she was good and ready. Later that evening, dad got tired of listening to my mom so he got out the ladder to reach the cat. Only, like most cats, she just kept climbing higher. He ended up getting her but not until he had some really long scratches from that tree's thorns. Not to mention the ones he got from Ookie when he finally got her.
There was a night when my dad was cleaning out his VW bus, right outside our downstairs door. It was a double-paned, thermal sliding door and he had it open so all he had to do was jump down and into the house as he cleaned. Well, my mom went down to get some milk for the morning, saw the door open, didn't know that dad was in the bus, and closed it. As she started up the stairs, she heard a crash. My dad, not knowing the door was closed, had jumped off and gone right through the door! He turned around, went back through it, and then yelled about who the hell had closed it. She started yelling back until she saw the blood. I think he needed 8 stitches to close the gash on his head.
I wasn't there when my nephew was born. I was sitting in Schenectady County Jail. My mom wrote a note and had my dad drop it off at the jail. It told me all the details. My dad was overjoyed to be a granddad. My favorite picture that I'd taken was one of him asleep, stretched out on the couch. Sleeping right on top of him, with my dad's arm wrapped around him, was my nephew. The cutest part was Jim's fingers one one hand had been twirling my dad's hair as he fell asleep and when I snapped the picture, they were still in my dad's hair, with the other hand in his favorite sleeping position, two middle fingers in his mouth, like he was holding a bowling ball.
When I got home from prison, we took a trip to the Catskill Game farm with my nephew and his mom. They had one of those sets of stocks and you could pick a sign to put underneath that described why you were in them. I used one that said 'musical snorer' for him and snapped the picture. I didn't notice until I got them developed that his hands were one up and one down, both with the middle finger extended! Only my dad.
He lived life to the fullest and had few regrets. I miss him every day and this time of the year, I always seem to miss him more intensely.
My dad had this way about him. He loved to laugh but he could get angry fast. He didn't have the normal ethics that most people have and that made some of his actions questionable at times. He worked several jobs to keep our family with a place to live and food to eat. I know that a lot of the jobs he mentioned were stories but it was part of his mystique and you had to pick out what was real and what wasn't.
He worked as a bus driver in Schenectady for a while. That I know is true because my mom told me about some of his adventures, like bringing a cab down the hill into Schenectady and having it go sideways, and him being able to bring it to a near perfect parallel park-type stop. She said he came home and was laughing, but he definitely needed to take a shower. I also know he worked at the local cab company in Schenectady and he loved it.
He finally got a full time job with NY as a lock operator. I can remember him coming home after working 3-11 and bringing home Mike's giant subs and a Neba for my mom. I can still taste both of those so clearly. I wish I could find someone who'd worked at one of the stores so maybe I could find out where they'd gotten their sub bread, cause it was so darn good.
The year I was supposed to start kindergarten, my family found a home in Mariaville. It was still under construction but they worked out the financing and bought it. I remember seeing it the first time, with no grass but tons of clay mud, and boards leading to the front door. The downstairs had sawhorses and we put a board across one of them and turned it into a teeter-totter. The house had a flat roof then and a creek that ran through the back yard near the back boundary. There were trees lining the creek and one of them just happened to have huge thorns on it.
When we moved out there, we had a siamese cat named Ookie. She wasn't really an outdoor cat but she managed to get out one day. My mom was worried but my dad wasn't. "It's a long drop and she's not dumb enough to jump off that porch, Edie," he told her. Ookie proved him wrong. She got out there, something spooked her, and off she jumped....only to climb right up that thorny tree! My mom kept at him to get her down but he said she'd come down when she was good and ready. Later that evening, dad got tired of listening to my mom so he got out the ladder to reach the cat. Only, like most cats, she just kept climbing higher. He ended up getting her but not until he had some really long scratches from that tree's thorns. Not to mention the ones he got from Ookie when he finally got her.
There was a night when my dad was cleaning out his VW bus, right outside our downstairs door. It was a double-paned, thermal sliding door and he had it open so all he had to do was jump down and into the house as he cleaned. Well, my mom went down to get some milk for the morning, saw the door open, didn't know that dad was in the bus, and closed it. As she started up the stairs, she heard a crash. My dad, not knowing the door was closed, had jumped off and gone right through the door! He turned around, went back through it, and then yelled about who the hell had closed it. She started yelling back until she saw the blood. I think he needed 8 stitches to close the gash on his head.
I wasn't there when my nephew was born. I was sitting in Schenectady County Jail. My mom wrote a note and had my dad drop it off at the jail. It told me all the details. My dad was overjoyed to be a granddad. My favorite picture that I'd taken was one of him asleep, stretched out on the couch. Sleeping right on top of him, with my dad's arm wrapped around him, was my nephew. The cutest part was Jim's fingers one one hand had been twirling my dad's hair as he fell asleep and when I snapped the picture, they were still in my dad's hair, with the other hand in his favorite sleeping position, two middle fingers in his mouth, like he was holding a bowling ball.
When I got home from prison, we took a trip to the Catskill Game farm with my nephew and his mom. They had one of those sets of stocks and you could pick a sign to put underneath that described why you were in them. I used one that said 'musical snorer' for him and snapped the picture. I didn't notice until I got them developed that his hands were one up and one down, both with the middle finger extended! Only my dad.
He lived life to the fullest and had few regrets. I miss him every day and this time of the year, I always seem to miss him more intensely.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Memories of my dad, part 3
Here's a picture of my dad. It was taken just a few years before he died, at a cousin's wedding. I think it catches his humorous side.In August of 1988, I decided I needed a fun day. I called in to my job and let them know I wouldn't be in and then my dad and I took a trip up to Lake George. We went to the Great Escape and had a blast. I was 26, my dad was 66, and we acted like two teenagers. I can't remember when I'd had more fun.
We just decided to enjoy ourselves as much as we could, and boy, did we. I don't think there was a ride there that we didn't go on, and we went on the Steamin' Demon roller coaster several times. I think that was one of their newest rides at the time and my dad loved it. The park wasn't that full and what we did was get off and get right back in line. One time, there was this boy about 10 waiting in line in front of us. He looked at the two of us and then said, "Hey mister. You're standing in line to keep her happy, right? You're not going on the ride, are ya? You're too old. You'll have a heart attack or something." I thought my dad was going to piss his pants, he laughed so hard.
Now, there was one ride my dad really loved, even more than the roller coaster. I'm not sure it's still there because I don't know the name of it. I tried looking at their website but without pictures, it's hard to tell. It was this ride that started out horizontal. You fit one person to a pod, two if you were talking kids, and the pods kinda looked like silver slides or something. It started out going round and round, like a merry go round. Then, it started to lift up a bit and your pod would fly out a bit so you were even with the whole ride. It lifted up even more, until you were nearly vertical, so at the top you were upside down for a few seconds. No belts because the ride was going fast enough to keep you in place. Then it started to drop down again and then the ride was over. My dad absolutely loved it. He told me he could ride it forever, even fall asleep in it. I have to admit, after working up the courage to ride it, I loved it, too.
At the end of the day, we had some pictures taken as keepsakes. We'd eaten some of the usual fair-type food, bought cotton candy to take home to my nephew, and even had a huge ice-cream cone each. I think my dad ate his faster than I ate mine. But the bottom line was, it was a day that we acted like kids, blew off some steam, and just forgot that we were supposed to be adults. Everyone should have a day like that with their dad. It should be a requirement.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Memories of my dad, part 2
Black Friday was yesterday. Sales galore, stores opening up at midnight or earlier, crowds that want that special present at bargain basement prices... Then you read the news and hear about the use of pepper spray, both to calm a crowd and to blind a group so someone could get an xbox. Or you read about the people who get trampled when the crowd rushes to get inside exactly when the doors open. Or you read about the shootings, inside stores and out in parking lots. Or, or, or, or... So many stories that show the negatives of being so focused on getting something for less than the normal price. Instead of that, I'm going to focus on a Black Friday story that brings back some laughter for me.
In 1987, I'd gotten out of prison and hadn't replaced my license yet so my dad had to drive me to and from work. He said he didn't mind because it got him out of the house for an hour or so twice a day. Being retired wasn't all that it's cracked up to be for some. While he loved being able to read or sleep, he didn't appreciate being there for mom to be able to ask him for help. In any case, we used the time to talk about everything under the sun and I'm forever grateful for that time because it helped me get both to know my dad better and to get closer to him.
So, in 1987, I was working at GE through Manpower temps. One of the programs that Manpower offered was training on various software, to help you build or improve your skills. But since I worked 5 days a week during their open hours, I couldn't take advantage of that training. However, I found out that they were going to be open on Black Friday and I set up the time to do some training. Dad didn't mind so away we went, early that morning.
I flew through 3 different packages. It was all computerized for you to work at your own pace and I guess I kinda went faster than they thought I should. By 11, I was done for the day. Called my dad and he came to pick me up. "Hey, kiddo. How about we head to the mall and see what's on sale?" I thought he was kidding and pointed out that it was Black Friday but he wasn't kidding and off to Mohawk Mall we went.
The mall parking lot was packed. I hadn't seen so many cars since we went to Disney World in FL during their first 6 months of being open. Being Dad, he drove up one lane, down the next and slid right into a first slot parking spot. I mean, he literally did just one lane, turned, and got to that first slot spot just as the other car was driving out. Into the mall we went, wandering together through some of the stores, going into Walden Books, watching the puppies at Ark Pets. Watching the spot where Santa would appear the next day was fun because they were still putting it together. We ate at Friendly's, grabbed an egg nog shake at McDonald's and left around 3. It was a magical day.
Now, we could have driven through the parking lot a dozen times and never found a spot, like I did the next year. Or we could have let the crowds push us out of the mall a lot earlier than when we left. But we didn't. We enjoyed our walk, we talked while we walked about what to get other members of the family, and we indulged in some old-fashioned people watching. When we got home, there was things to deal with but for that 3+ hours, it was just nothing but enjoyment.
In 1987, I'd gotten out of prison and hadn't replaced my license yet so my dad had to drive me to and from work. He said he didn't mind because it got him out of the house for an hour or so twice a day. Being retired wasn't all that it's cracked up to be for some. While he loved being able to read or sleep, he didn't appreciate being there for mom to be able to ask him for help. In any case, we used the time to talk about everything under the sun and I'm forever grateful for that time because it helped me get both to know my dad better and to get closer to him.
So, in 1987, I was working at GE through Manpower temps. One of the programs that Manpower offered was training on various software, to help you build or improve your skills. But since I worked 5 days a week during their open hours, I couldn't take advantage of that training. However, I found out that they were going to be open on Black Friday and I set up the time to do some training. Dad didn't mind so away we went, early that morning.
I flew through 3 different packages. It was all computerized for you to work at your own pace and I guess I kinda went faster than they thought I should. By 11, I was done for the day. Called my dad and he came to pick me up. "Hey, kiddo. How about we head to the mall and see what's on sale?" I thought he was kidding and pointed out that it was Black Friday but he wasn't kidding and off to Mohawk Mall we went.
The mall parking lot was packed. I hadn't seen so many cars since we went to Disney World in FL during their first 6 months of being open. Being Dad, he drove up one lane, down the next and slid right into a first slot parking spot. I mean, he literally did just one lane, turned, and got to that first slot spot just as the other car was driving out. Into the mall we went, wandering together through some of the stores, going into Walden Books, watching the puppies at Ark Pets. Watching the spot where Santa would appear the next day was fun because they were still putting it together. We ate at Friendly's, grabbed an egg nog shake at McDonald's and left around 3. It was a magical day.
Now, we could have driven through the parking lot a dozen times and never found a spot, like I did the next year. Or we could have let the crowds push us out of the mall a lot earlier than when we left. But we didn't. We enjoyed our walk, we talked while we walked about what to get other members of the family, and we indulged in some old-fashioned people watching. When we got home, there was things to deal with but for that 3+ hours, it was just nothing but enjoyment.
Friday, November 25, 2011
Memories of my dad, part 1
21 years ago next week, my father died. It was early in the morning and I, after driving through 5 red lights, managed to get to the hospital just minutes after he died. After 21 years, I still feel lost at time without him and I thought maybe, if I talked about some of my memories of him, I might finally stop feeling quite so lost. So, for the next 6 days, I'm going to post every day. And each post will bring out another bunch of memories.
Since Thanksgiving was yesterday, that's where I'll start. It wasn't his favorite holiday. He just didn't like turkey. He'd eat it and he loved so many of the other goodies on the table but he really didn't like turkey. I remember him telling me once, why can't we just have a good steak or a really nice roast? But he did love the turkey soup my mom would make from the remains. So I think, for all his grousing, he put up with it just so he could get the soup a day or two later.
My dad was someone who loved life. He didn't do a lot of extra things with his family; there was always something else to use the money for. But as a child, we used to go camping in Vermont every summer. We'd head out with the coolers packed and sleeping bags until we got to Coolidge Park. We tried to always get the same lean-to, the last one on the road, called Poplar. A bit farther up the road, near the top of the hill, there was a small playground. I remember that right near the lean-to, there was one tree that curved downward before growing tall. I used to go to that tree and read because you could sit there easily in that curve.
So, imagine it, 4 girls, mom, dad, Dick, all in this one lean-to. Big old fireplace about 3 feet in front of it where we cooked everything. No garbage left over because they did have wildlife there, including the occasional bear. The coolers went to the back of the lean-to and were always locked before we went to bed. The rest rooms were down this one trail, probably not that far away but I remember it feeling like it was miles and miles.
Now, my dad was always a heavy sleeper. It took everything to wake him up. And my mom, well, she was a worrier. She'd hear a noise or smell something and then she'd try to wake up my dad to go 'check it out.' Not that it worked that well because first you had to wake him up and then you had to deal with the fact that he just didn't have the same keen sense of smell my mom had. But this one camping trip, that ability to sleep deep really played into the fears of sleeping basically in the wild.
We heard my mom first, trying to wake up dad. "Jimmy, I hear a noise in the back. Go check it out." Nothing. And from behind the lean-to, we could hear something trying to get into the stuff, rustling the bags, hitting the sides of the coolers. "C'mon Jimmy, get up." My dad grunted, the thing behind the lean-to grunted and we all tried to go deeper into the sleeping bags. I remember thinking I could feel this animal's breathing, even though the lean-to was built pretty sturdily of logs and whatever between the logs they'd used to keep out the rain. After listening to this go on for a while, Dick finally got up and went around back. By then, the animal was gone. Our stuff in the bags was somewhat strewn across the grass, and you could see a few claw marks in the cooler but nothing that really let us know what it was. My dad got up in the morning, had no recollection of my mom trying to wake him up, and was surprised to see the claw marks. It was one of the greatest camping trips we ever took. It was also one of the last ones we took, if I remember right. But it's something I'll never forget.
I wanted to add a picture but I have none. Pictures from Coolidge state park in Vermont can be found here: http://www.vtstateparks.com/htm/photo_coolidge.htm There's a picture of a lean-to in that album. Enjoy!
Since Thanksgiving was yesterday, that's where I'll start. It wasn't his favorite holiday. He just didn't like turkey. He'd eat it and he loved so many of the other goodies on the table but he really didn't like turkey. I remember him telling me once, why can't we just have a good steak or a really nice roast? But he did love the turkey soup my mom would make from the remains. So I think, for all his grousing, he put up with it just so he could get the soup a day or two later.
My dad was someone who loved life. He didn't do a lot of extra things with his family; there was always something else to use the money for. But as a child, we used to go camping in Vermont every summer. We'd head out with the coolers packed and sleeping bags until we got to Coolidge Park. We tried to always get the same lean-to, the last one on the road, called Poplar. A bit farther up the road, near the top of the hill, there was a small playground. I remember that right near the lean-to, there was one tree that curved downward before growing tall. I used to go to that tree and read because you could sit there easily in that curve.
So, imagine it, 4 girls, mom, dad, Dick, all in this one lean-to. Big old fireplace about 3 feet in front of it where we cooked everything. No garbage left over because they did have wildlife there, including the occasional bear. The coolers went to the back of the lean-to and were always locked before we went to bed. The rest rooms were down this one trail, probably not that far away but I remember it feeling like it was miles and miles.
Now, my dad was always a heavy sleeper. It took everything to wake him up. And my mom, well, she was a worrier. She'd hear a noise or smell something and then she'd try to wake up my dad to go 'check it out.' Not that it worked that well because first you had to wake him up and then you had to deal with the fact that he just didn't have the same keen sense of smell my mom had. But this one camping trip, that ability to sleep deep really played into the fears of sleeping basically in the wild.
We heard my mom first, trying to wake up dad. "Jimmy, I hear a noise in the back. Go check it out." Nothing. And from behind the lean-to, we could hear something trying to get into the stuff, rustling the bags, hitting the sides of the coolers. "C'mon Jimmy, get up." My dad grunted, the thing behind the lean-to grunted and we all tried to go deeper into the sleeping bags. I remember thinking I could feel this animal's breathing, even though the lean-to was built pretty sturdily of logs and whatever between the logs they'd used to keep out the rain. After listening to this go on for a while, Dick finally got up and went around back. By then, the animal was gone. Our stuff in the bags was somewhat strewn across the grass, and you could see a few claw marks in the cooler but nothing that really let us know what it was. My dad got up in the morning, had no recollection of my mom trying to wake him up, and was surprised to see the claw marks. It was one of the greatest camping trips we ever took. It was also one of the last ones we took, if I remember right. But it's something I'll never forget.
I wanted to add a picture but I have none. Pictures from Coolidge state park in Vermont can be found here: http://www.vtstateparks.com/htm/photo_coolidge.htm There's a picture of a lean-to in that album. Enjoy!
Monday, November 14, 2011
Events at Penn State
As a survivor of child molestation, I had to wait a few days before I could post on this. My emotions are high but more than that, I wanted to make sure my emotions were true. Now that I feel they are, I can post.
The recent events at Penn State had an interesting effect on me. I wasn't angry with Joe Paterno's actions, like so many survivors have been saying they are angry. I didn't go back and relive my past because of this. I do that often enough without any provocation. No, I was angry with the grad assistant who witnessed the event. I want to grab him by the shoulders and scream at him, "Why didn't you stop it? Why didn't you save that boy when it was happening? Why did you just back away, call your father, and then RUN home? Why?" That young man had every chance to stop that rape and he didn't. He didn't call the police. He didn't run for help. He didn't yell out and make Sandusky stop what he was doing. He just left. And for that, he helped damage someone for the rest of his life.
I can almost excuse Joe Paterno's lack of action because of the era he grew up in. Stupid excuse but the truth is, he's a product of his generation in many ways. I don't believe it was because of his love for the football program, as so many are saying. Men his age don't talk about sexual activities, especially rape of a young boy. Boys can't be raped, in their minds. So it had to be something else, something less than it was.
I can't excuse the higher ups because they had the ability to call and ask for an investigation by social services or the police and they didn't. Maybe it was to keep their jobs, maybe it was because it didn't sound that bad when they heard it. Whatever it was, it was sexual in nature and should have been reported and they knew they were supposed to report it and they didn't. No excuses accepted.
But I can't excuse the lack of action by Mike McQueary. He's young enough to know what sexual molestation is and what he should have done. He knows right from wrong and he ran. Let him live with the shame of knowing he could have changed this child's life and he didn't. May it eat him up inside. May it cost him his job. He did nothing right and everything wrong. And for that, I can't excuse him and I can't forgive him.
The recent events at Penn State had an interesting effect on me. I wasn't angry with Joe Paterno's actions, like so many survivors have been saying they are angry. I didn't go back and relive my past because of this. I do that often enough without any provocation. No, I was angry with the grad assistant who witnessed the event. I want to grab him by the shoulders and scream at him, "Why didn't you stop it? Why didn't you save that boy when it was happening? Why did you just back away, call your father, and then RUN home? Why?" That young man had every chance to stop that rape and he didn't. He didn't call the police. He didn't run for help. He didn't yell out and make Sandusky stop what he was doing. He just left. And for that, he helped damage someone for the rest of his life.
I can almost excuse Joe Paterno's lack of action because of the era he grew up in. Stupid excuse but the truth is, he's a product of his generation in many ways. I don't believe it was because of his love for the football program, as so many are saying. Men his age don't talk about sexual activities, especially rape of a young boy. Boys can't be raped, in their minds. So it had to be something else, something less than it was.
I can't excuse the higher ups because they had the ability to call and ask for an investigation by social services or the police and they didn't. Maybe it was to keep their jobs, maybe it was because it didn't sound that bad when they heard it. Whatever it was, it was sexual in nature and should have been reported and they knew they were supposed to report it and they didn't. No excuses accepted.
But I can't excuse the lack of action by Mike McQueary. He's young enough to know what sexual molestation is and what he should have done. He knows right from wrong and he ran. Let him live with the shame of knowing he could have changed this child's life and he didn't. May it eat him up inside. May it cost him his job. He did nothing right and everything wrong. And for that, I can't excuse him and I can't forgive him.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Religion and me; a distant relationship
For the past few years, I've been quite unhappy with religion and I have to say, I usually have problems with those who call themselves religious people. Why? Because it's all about religion to them, everything in life is because of God and nothing happens to them because they wanted it and worked for it. Or if they did, it's because God gave them the strength to keep fighting and working for it. Sorry, but God just isn't that powerful. If God was, then why wouldn't God save kids with cancer? They're not put here on Earth just to be God's pawns in a game with the devil, are they?
So I've been trying to figure out where I really stand about the Bible and whether it's God's word, as most Christian religions say. And while my thoughts are still evolving, I've come up with what I feel is logical reasoning about it all.
Way back in time, before the Bible was put down in written form, man needed guidance. Rules to live by, some might say. And so man began with the basics. Don't kill, don't steal, don't be envious. But there are always those who need to question authority. You know the type, the ones who look at you and say "Who died and left you in charge?" So man used God. The concept of God isn't unusual, after all. Every age has had their own idea of God or Gods. Even the oldest religions out there have some form of a Deity. "Let's let God be that authority. How are you going to complain about God?" And so began the idea for the Bible.
If you look at virtually every age of man, they have the same basic set of stories. The flood, the rules, the talks with their Deity in one way or another. But if you look at it even more basically, it's like parents who tell their kids to behave or else the monster under the bed will get them. You know there's no real monster but it definitely serves to keep little kids from getting into trouble, at least for a time. Until they realize that no monster is going to sneak out and take them away. Do I really think that God spoke to anyone via a burning bush? Nope, but it sure sounds good. Do YOU really think that our time period is so in control that we don't need God to talk to us? Nope but when was the last time we heard about God speaking to someone who didn't turn out to either use God's supposed talks in a way to directly benefit from it or else the person turned out to be a bit on the mental side? I won't buy it that God feels no need to try and get us all back on the right path when God spoke so often way back in the time period of the Bible's creation.
Ok, so we get all the punishment stories in the early (Old Testament) book. And then, they thought, we have to give them something to look forward to, something really wonderful. So along comes Jesus. Now, I'm strange. I believe that Jesus did live on Earth and that he was an incredible man. I even believe that he might be the son of God. The stories are wonderfully full of lessons for all of us to learn. The overwhelming lesson is love. Love for your neighbors, compassion and love for your enemies. His life as we know it was full of teaching people lessons that help them help others. It wasn't all "Don't do this and don't do that." It was full of how to be a better, bigger person by helping others, not hindering them. Don't hate someone else. Be the shining example of love. If you don't get that from those stories, then you're blind. The ones he admonished the most were the ones who cheated others, were hypocrites. He spent most of his time with the ones no one wanted to be with. Those were the ones he sought out. And yet, those lessons are the very lessons that most religious people bypass. And funnily enough, the ones who Jesus chose to walk and learn the most from him were the people who he felt were just average everyday people.
Did those followers learn? Some did. And the ones who learned the most, never wrote letters to others telling them how to live and what to expect. Because the ones who did that are the ones who kept alive what they'd listened to all their lives: the stories that make up the Old Testament. Even they didn't always get the lessons that Jesus taught. Because sometimes, what you've heard all your life outweighs what you learned for 3 short years. Take a look at the New Testament after the Gospels. All the letters and such. Weigh them against what Jesus taught and you'll see the greater influence is from the Old Testament, not Christ. Even Revelations, which sounds like one heck of a drug-induced dream, is filled with the punishments from the Old Testament. Not much love and compassion in Revelations.
So, my beliefs don't totally rely on what the Bible says. I try not to judge others, because I sure don't want them judging me. I pretty much live and let live, unless it's something that you can see is harmful to another human being. I turn the other cheek most of the time, until I feel that turning my cheek is just letting the other person continue to abuse me, and then I'm going to defend myself, usually with words. I've tried to help others as best I can, when I can. I work hard to try and better myself when I've really failed and I know I've failed even at that at times. I believe in the messages of the Bible stories but not that they are to be taken literally. I believe that the Bible was meant to be a guideline but not the end all, be all of our lives. I think God is greater than we think and much less vengeful as so many religions make God out to be. I don't think God hates anyone. I think it takes man to bring hate into it.
My bottom line: Religion is supposed to lift you up, to help you become a better human being. It's not meant to push you into fear or hate, like it has done now for ages. We can do better. We must.
So I've been trying to figure out where I really stand about the Bible and whether it's God's word, as most Christian religions say. And while my thoughts are still evolving, I've come up with what I feel is logical reasoning about it all.
Way back in time, before the Bible was put down in written form, man needed guidance. Rules to live by, some might say. And so man began with the basics. Don't kill, don't steal, don't be envious. But there are always those who need to question authority. You know the type, the ones who look at you and say "Who died and left you in charge?" So man used God. The concept of God isn't unusual, after all. Every age has had their own idea of God or Gods. Even the oldest religions out there have some form of a Deity. "Let's let God be that authority. How are you going to complain about God?" And so began the idea for the Bible.
If you look at virtually every age of man, they have the same basic set of stories. The flood, the rules, the talks with their Deity in one way or another. But if you look at it even more basically, it's like parents who tell their kids to behave or else the monster under the bed will get them. You know there's no real monster but it definitely serves to keep little kids from getting into trouble, at least for a time. Until they realize that no monster is going to sneak out and take them away. Do I really think that God spoke to anyone via a burning bush? Nope, but it sure sounds good. Do YOU really think that our time period is so in control that we don't need God to talk to us? Nope but when was the last time we heard about God speaking to someone who didn't turn out to either use God's supposed talks in a way to directly benefit from it or else the person turned out to be a bit on the mental side? I won't buy it that God feels no need to try and get us all back on the right path when God spoke so often way back in the time period of the Bible's creation.
Ok, so we get all the punishment stories in the early (Old Testament) book. And then, they thought, we have to give them something to look forward to, something really wonderful. So along comes Jesus. Now, I'm strange. I believe that Jesus did live on Earth and that he was an incredible man. I even believe that he might be the son of God. The stories are wonderfully full of lessons for all of us to learn. The overwhelming lesson is love. Love for your neighbors, compassion and love for your enemies. His life as we know it was full of teaching people lessons that help them help others. It wasn't all "Don't do this and don't do that." It was full of how to be a better, bigger person by helping others, not hindering them. Don't hate someone else. Be the shining example of love. If you don't get that from those stories, then you're blind. The ones he admonished the most were the ones who cheated others, were hypocrites. He spent most of his time with the ones no one wanted to be with. Those were the ones he sought out. And yet, those lessons are the very lessons that most religious people bypass. And funnily enough, the ones who Jesus chose to walk and learn the most from him were the people who he felt were just average everyday people.
Did those followers learn? Some did. And the ones who learned the most, never wrote letters to others telling them how to live and what to expect. Because the ones who did that are the ones who kept alive what they'd listened to all their lives: the stories that make up the Old Testament. Even they didn't always get the lessons that Jesus taught. Because sometimes, what you've heard all your life outweighs what you learned for 3 short years. Take a look at the New Testament after the Gospels. All the letters and such. Weigh them against what Jesus taught and you'll see the greater influence is from the Old Testament, not Christ. Even Revelations, which sounds like one heck of a drug-induced dream, is filled with the punishments from the Old Testament. Not much love and compassion in Revelations.
So, my beliefs don't totally rely on what the Bible says. I try not to judge others, because I sure don't want them judging me. I pretty much live and let live, unless it's something that you can see is harmful to another human being. I turn the other cheek most of the time, until I feel that turning my cheek is just letting the other person continue to abuse me, and then I'm going to defend myself, usually with words. I've tried to help others as best I can, when I can. I work hard to try and better myself when I've really failed and I know I've failed even at that at times. I believe in the messages of the Bible stories but not that they are to be taken literally. I believe that the Bible was meant to be a guideline but not the end all, be all of our lives. I think God is greater than we think and much less vengeful as so many religions make God out to be. I don't think God hates anyone. I think it takes man to bring hate into it.
My bottom line: Religion is supposed to lift you up, to help you become a better human being. It's not meant to push you into fear or hate, like it has done now for ages. We can do better. We must.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Antibiotics and being sick
My sister went to the doctor's office today as an emergency visit. She's got one heck of a cold but because she has had problems with both bronchitis and pneumonia in the past, things like this seem to get worse fast. Her coughing is the major concern right now. She begins to cough and can't stop. To the listener, it's horrible. She sounds like she's ready to throw up or like she can't seem to catch her breath between coughs. On top of that, she can't sleep well. She's fine sitting up in the front room on the couch but when she reclines back in her room, she starts coughing within minutes.
So, like I said, she went to the doctor's office. They're having her get a chest x-ray tomorrow to see if it is pneumonia. In the meantime, they put her on an antibiotic and a cough medicine with codeine. She came home and relaxed a bit. I think she may have gotten to doze for about an hour. She took the cough medicine and it worked...for about 20 minutes, tops. It's now 4 in the morning and she's finally dozing again. We'll see how long that lasts.
The one thing I wish is that doctors would verify first if the cause of the illness is something that an antibiotic will help. In so many cases, they prescribe one when they know it won't do a thing and all that ends up happening is filling the body up with antibiotics to the point they won't work even when they should. Resistance, y'know?
In the meantime, I'll keep doing what I'm doing, using a bit more tissues for my nose and coughing from time to time. Because I just don't want to get to the point where the one thing that might really help me out can't do its job because I've built up a resistance to it from overuse. A little bit of common sense goes a long way when it comes to being ill.
So, like I said, she went to the doctor's office. They're having her get a chest x-ray tomorrow to see if it is pneumonia. In the meantime, they put her on an antibiotic and a cough medicine with codeine. She came home and relaxed a bit. I think she may have gotten to doze for about an hour. She took the cough medicine and it worked...for about 20 minutes, tops. It's now 4 in the morning and she's finally dozing again. We'll see how long that lasts.
The one thing I wish is that doctors would verify first if the cause of the illness is something that an antibiotic will help. In so many cases, they prescribe one when they know it won't do a thing and all that ends up happening is filling the body up with antibiotics to the point they won't work even when they should. Resistance, y'know?
In the meantime, I'll keep doing what I'm doing, using a bit more tissues for my nose and coughing from time to time. Because I just don't want to get to the point where the one thing that might really help me out can't do its job because I've built up a resistance to it from overuse. A little bit of common sense goes a long way when it comes to being ill.
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