Sunday, July 29, 2012

Epidurals and saving grace

                I know, dear readers, it has been a few weeks since I’ve posted anything.  And for that I am truly apologetic.  Not apologetic enough to have posted anything; mind you, but apologetic nonetheless.  I have been working very hard serving Veterans and could use that as my excuse, but I believe we are close enough for me to admit, I’ve just been tired, y’all; as tired as parachute pants.  As tired as a double-shift ending quickie mart manager who suddenly remembers that they have to go to the 24 hour Wal-Mart to buy Huggies for their grandbaby whose trifling mama can’t be bothered to stop partying to go get.  Not that I’m specifying anyone I know; it’s just a general description.

                Work has been tiring. Some people have likened manaing people to herding cats.  I describe it as more akin to herding birthday balloons; the ones that have been haphazardly and unwillingly inflated by Daddy and Uncle Herschel as opposed to, say, Scary Freaky Clown Guy with his efficient tank of helium and death.  They float lazily along, skittering hither and yon from some ever-present breeze that stems from the slow exhale of apathy.  Of course, you understand, this is absolutely not descriptive of my staff.  No, sir.  Those in my office are the very picture of efficiency and zeal.  Some even read this blog.  Hi Katherine.

                The tiredness has been compounded by the hourly briefing s from my father about his post-surgery condition.  As I may have shared, he recently underwent minor outpatient surgery.  He had a cyst on his…well, let’s just say lower back and leave it at that.  Anyhoo, his lower back “sprung a leak” from the description he gave and he had to return to the hospital for a follow-up procedure where he informed all and sundry in the operating room that their parents were in fact never married.  I really can’t blame him for his outburst although I denied any knowledge of the name of his caretaker or his connection to me when asked.

 It seems that they were forced to give him 4, count them, 4 epidurals before he “felt no pain”.  Of course, he couldn’t walk for about 6 hours after the procedure.  Too bad they couldn’t have given him an epidural in his mouth.  I can assure you if it was (1) medically possible and (2) remotely legal, they would have.  Taking your doctor a hand-crocheted afghan doesn’t really remove the sting of a large red-head questioning the moral fiber of one’s mother whilst you are waiting to remove a growth from the nether regions of said red-head who comes complete with anger issues, questionable hygiene and the inability to be knocked out without using rhinoceros tranquilizers from the zoo, y’all.  Those poor clinicians.

Well, at least they’re all getting a matching scarves to go with their afghans because that’s a typical gift pairing according to my father.  He tried to blame his behavior on the epidural, but he might as well have blamed it on the bossa nova for all the good it did him when I found out about the incident.  Never in the history of man has an eyebrow arched in such a judgmental fashion.  I may have sprained something.      

He has been living with me, as you know, for right at 10 months and we are still trying to get used to each other’s peculiarities.  He is supposed to be trying to lose weight and understand that I am not his maid or even a home health aide, although from the activities that take up most of my free time, it seems that I am something akin to a nanny who cooks.  Like Mary Poppins without the magic umbrella or the wherewithal to sing while cleaning. 
 I am trying to get used to having someone in my house for all 24 of the blessed hours in a given day.  He is never not here.  He does not leave the yard on his own.  I guess I should be happy he goes to the bathroom unattended.  If ever he requires assistance in that realm, we are either calling in an agency or getting some adult diapers.  I love my Daddy and will honor him like the Bible says, but unless you can show me a verse that specifically states “Thou shalt assist your parents in their daily ablutions” you can count me out.

This morning, as every Sunday morning, we have coffee and share the newspaper prior to me going to church.  He only attends when the pain of sitting on a pew in the Presbyterian Church is outweighed by the need for pancakes and sausage.  The pain is a mixture of physical and liturgical; him being a semi-devout Southern Baptist.  His devotion is directly related to the amount of casseroles and frequency of dinners on the ground.  I’m kidding, of course.  He attended church on a semi-regular basis throughout my childhood.  He was one of those Christmas/Easter/my Mother needed to prove he actually existed kind of church-goers.  Oh, and weddings, too. 

I myself was a faithful church attendee from birth through my junior year in college.  Then I fled from the constraints of religion as I was an art major and trying to find myself; an excuse more convenient than true.  I stayed away from church throughout graduate school and it’s no coincidence that the most, dumbest and life-altering mistakes I made were during this time.  I won’t bore, or titillate, you with the details.  Suffice it to say my testimony is a bit spicier than I would have liked, believe me.  I used to wish I had a more exciting life story.  Now that my autobiography reads like an Afterschool Special with parental warnings and includes certain experiences that would necessitate a revival of Oprah's talk show and a heated discussion/prayer intervention by Mike Huckabee and Sarah Palin, I would much rather have had the mundane “saved in 4th grade, taught Vacation Bible School, trying not to feel/appear holier than thou” backstory.  Be careful what you wish for, indeed.

The great thing about being a Christian later in life is that I can truly see the redemption God granted me.  I have a career that I love; that gives me the success I enjoy despite my lack of planning and ridiculous paths I chose.  God can take even the crookedest path and find you a new route if you let Him.  Rand McNally has nothing on Jesus when it comes to navigation.  Looks like I’m trying to have church before church this morning.  Can I get an Amen?

I’m not sure how I started talking about my Daddy’s surgery and ended up talking about salvation but that’s just how it goes sometimes.  You know a conversation with me is all about the digressions more than the topic, unless the topic is music trivia, leadership, interview skills, Miss America or people who get on my nerves.  I never said I was fully evolved.

One reason I haven’t finished the sequel to A Gone Pecan is that I am also working on my memoirs (is it called memoirs even if you’re not famous and may not even be interesting?).  I will publish excerpts as I complete them or as soon as I am comfortable sharing them.  All of the statute of limitations have expired, I think and I only share to help whomever it can help and at this point I don’t know how or even who that would be, but I feel…no, make that believe that all the things that have happened in my life have to have been for a reason other than to teach me a lesson.  Sometimes the lesson was learned quickly and sometimes it’s taken a while, but a lesson has always been learned.  Maybe. 

I don’t know about you, but I’m just glad that God doesn’t have a last nerve.  If He did I would have been on it, do you hear me?  Now I know that deserves an Amen.  You Baptists sitting on the back row need to give one up.  That’s all I’m saying.

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