Get that Needle Away from Me

The Belle was a nurse. Needles were a constant companion in her life. Her only fear of needles was that the incompetent nurse or tech would stab her repeatedly trying to find a viable vein. We used to joke that the only person we could trust was the nurse in our doctor's office. She was a miracle worker when it came to finding a vein for the Belle.

I'm thinking of the Belle today because it seems to be a medical week. A girlfriend had a procedure yesterday. When they use words like "punch" or "puncture," I want to run. She's brave and stuck it out. When they use the word "biopsy," I want to run like the wind.

I had a teensy procedure this morning. When I asked my doctor, "Will it hurt?" She said "Yes, but not much." If the Belle were here, she would've insisted on going with me and that's one more battle we would have endured.

Hangdog never went to the doctor without her at his side. Of course, he could not drive himself. Even if the husband or I took him, she went along.

Their dentist did this really cool thing. He would schedule side-by-side appointments so the Belle and the Captain could get their cleanings and exams at the same time. Isn't is nice when professional people are accommodating?

Our primary care physician (saint-in-training) would often examine them at home or fit them in for a last minute office visit. He also held our hands and guided us through the maze of hospitals, hospice, VA care, assisted living and more.

That little needle headed my way isn't quite the problem it used to be.

Maybe We Are

As you know, we schlepped Hangdog from Indiana to Mississippi for the mother-in-law's funeral and burial. Once we reached our destination, lots of people pitched in to help. But, the traveling part (planes, automobiles and wheelchairs) was left to us.

The husband ran like a lackey. Coffee? He's on it. Don't they have any danishes? He's on it. Pop has to go to the bathroom. He's on it. Again and again and again.

At one point, we left him (in the wheelchair) parked at the appropriate gate. Then, the airline changed the gate. We were trying to steal 10 minutes. A Bloody Mary seemed like a good idea.

My wife-in-law (who had already had her flight diverted) found him in the airport and moved him to the appropriate gate. Then, she called the husband to let him know of the gate change.

In the midst of this, Hangdog said to her, "They are so lucky to be so care free." I won't repeat the conversation but I think the gist of it was annihilating him. (Kindly!) I think she told him that the stress is showing on our faces, our bodies and our lives.

So, we bolted back to take care of Pop. As we're sailing through the airport, the husband said to me, "You know how everyone always says we're saints for all that we've done? Maybe we are."

Not a Saint

Occasionally, I run into someone I haven't seen in a while and they will ask if the oldies are still living with us. When I respond, they almost always say, "You're a saint."

Let me be clear. No, I am not. Not even close.

I try. Some days are better than others. I can be rude and I can be extremely cranky. I fall on my knees a lot and pray for strength, wisdom and guidance. I still fail. My big mouth gets me in trouble. My brain has difficulties distinguishing between battles worth fighting and those that are better to let go. I forget that the last word is not a worthy goal. I conveniently dismiss the fact that the oldies' lives have been changed way more than mine. I get selfish and have little pity parties in my head.

Sometimes my prayers are answered. I enjoy a nice evening on the patio with my mother-in-law. I notice that the father-in-law is getting stronger and walking taller. We share a (non-fried) meal and a few laughs. She plays the piano and I sing along.

Then, we all go to bed and prepare to start over the next day. Sainthood is not in my future.