Christmas Reflections 2018

'Twas one week before the week

and all through the house

not a creature was stirring, not even a backyard deer or mouse 

And Pa in his skivvies and Ma visioning Sherpa cozies

were just waking up from a long night's nap

And all of a sudden there arose such a CHatter

it was time to arise, for many a matter 

When what to our wandering thoughts we recall

memories of the year, eager to share with y'all
and we realize how true the insightful saying is

The years goes by fast, but each day seems long

Jeff walks, on water?

2018 started out smoothly. Literally. Lake Springfield turned into the icy smooth world of Ana and Elsa's Frozen. Temps successively lowered just right, for the right number of days, to enjoy our first-ever iced-over Lake Springfield skating pond. We could have safely skated for miles. Instead, we skipped rocks creating sonic gongs that eerily reverberated in the depths below.

February 26th, a week prior to Jeff’s departure for a spring break Bolivia missions trip, in the home office Diane spun a half circle; and, like she was on ice but not, fell kerplunk and broke her dominant wrist. Within days she solo and basically one-handed journeyed 3-1/2 hours up north, to accompany Nana in her car for 5-1/2 more hours, to attend an already-planned youngest Grand's birthday party. She would not miss the "everything-princess" party for a broken wrist, or for the world. The next 8 months were spent visiting doctors, physical therapists, the chiropractor, and performing flexibility exercises. She has blogged enough about that challenging life experience, and is ready to carefully slide on as it continues to heal.

Jeff’s annual missions trip was filled with treasured re-connections. He loves Bolivia, and his heart is with all of the people he has known there for over a decade. And this year included visits to cool places like Salar de Uyuni, Potosi,  y Sucre. Students experienced the deep joy that comes from giving and living an adventurous life.

Son Nathan’s promotion scores a grade A++. It is a blessing with many increases. Prior to his new AAA job, paid vacation, sick, and holiday time were dreamy Santa wishes. Working from home as an insurance adjuster works well for him. Nathan sadly lost a "family" member, sweet boxer-mix Jersey, but soon gained a new pooch… weimaraner-mix Koda.

Diane's wrist felt mobile enough by June to co-host, with her sister-in-luv and our mega-helpful daughters, a first-ever family reunion in Libertyville, Illinois. Temperatures tied records for sweltering heat; but does that matter when indoor, air conditioned, alternate Plan B is available for the rare opportunity to eat and converse with so many beloved family members?

On the heels of the reunion was Nana/DeDe Camp. Two of the "littles" bravely journeyed away from the familiarity of home, Mom, Dad and little sister to travel afar with JJ and DeDe on a 9-hour-long summer "sleigh ride." They re-experienced our adventurous camp setting in Springfield for the ideal balance of time: Too few days for all of us to still long for their return, yet enough days to wear us out with fishing, swimming, super-duper bubble baths, and just plain playing. Then, we drove them back up to St. Louis for educator-and-field-trip-extraordinaire Nana Camp.

Mid-July we flew to sunny Florida. Snow-like sand, waves, Vitamin Sea, fine foods, and jazz music were just what this year's wish-list requested. Nothing can beat 5k walks on the booming beach and many chats with our dear friends in restaurant settings.

The loss of our beloved Greatest Generation family member, 92-year-old Spunky Aunt Ketra, became a celebration of her life. Jeff’s Mom was able to attend the funeral, plus three extra generations, to learn more about a giving woman's love of life. Our Grands enjoyed hotel swimming and observing aunts, uncles, and silver-haired treasures. Middle little was particularly curious about heritage relationships.

Thanksgiving in our home, with 14+ of the Fulks clan, gave opportunity to re-connect and laugh and cook with family, including a fine chef from Europe, knowledgeable scuba divers from the West Coast, and gifted renovators from the good old Midwest. And, we became better acquainted with Grandpup Koda. The littles will meet Koda at Christmas time, but might keep their distance since she is almost the size of a reindeer-in-training.

Jeff continues on faculty at Evangel University, runs most every morning at the nearby lake, loves watching sports of all kinds, and is ready for winter to come and go. Diane's part-time position in the Housing Office keeps married and older students affordably sheltered. We try to stay a predictable step ahead of unpredictable students, but who knows the unusual or outrageous that will present itself next!

Icons like Fiery John McCain and Steady George H.W. Bush will be missed. Diane's Dad and "41" were members of the Greatest Generation (both born in 1924). Instead of sky-sleighing like St. Nick, brave young pilots during WWII H.W. (Navy) and Dad (Air Force) served our country and/or fellow persons. They grasped a higher call which is something, in one way or another, all of us can strive to do.

Some in our peer group are beginning to talk Medicare, semi-retirement, Social Security benefits, and Hallmark Christmas movie-binging. Surely we are too young for any of that, but I guess not! One of us plans a daring visit to Springfield's busy Social Security Office soon.

Diane is morphing into a semi-homebody. Rather than 5 or 6 trips to littles' country, she managed only two 2018 trips up north. Her heart is always with our far-away Grands. So, November and early DeDe-cember included 12-Days-of-Christmas outlet mall and thrift store adventures. One never knows what unusual, seasonal, or comical finds will be at the thrift store. The Grands will be here soon...

So now, time draws near

One thrifted Elf Elf sweater to don

Paired with mega-sparkly and bell-clad Elf Elf slippers
(That were swiped, playing a white elephant game, from a friend's son)

One customized and snow-like white Frozen Lego Winter Wonderland
Hypnotic twinkle light walks, and, weather-permitting, S$$$C after church Sunday morn

And, of course, the reason for the season, Baby Jesus in a manger

On Christmas we celebrate... it wasn't fake news... He really was born

Holiday moments can be magical

So, to all... who live far off or somewhere in between
Merry Christmas and loving sentiments to all
Wishing you a more than blessed 2019

July 2018 Family Reunion

&

(Posted to this writing after-the-fact) Family Christmas photo 2018

This Elf Elf chimes:
A "magical" Christmas, indeed!

My Reaction to More Than the Hearings

Blasey-Ford's testimony shows how alcohol destroyed more than her peace of mind. It may have trumped the ultimate trajectory of her career, now a Professor of Psychology. In a dove-tailed way, my story backs up her testimony's legitimacy. It shows the potential grip that denial can have on reality.

Maybe I should feel more nonchalant or blasé about it (pronounced "blasay," where the ending "e" has a long "ā" sound); but I hate alcohol. It is not just the taste and smell that I hate. Specifically, I hate what it can do to a person, and to the person(s) with whom the drunk comes into contact. 

Drunk-shaming is not my goal, because the underlying issue that creates the real disconnect isn't alcohol... but rather blinding denial that disengages logic. Denial justifies, and the pattern of over-drinking continues, motivated by a deep-seated and stuffed fear or worry, on steroids. For example, a shameful secret or deep insecurities. It is the reason why a PG-17 rating is given to this blog (meaning those who wish to stay in denial mode but read on might learn more than preferred about the topic).

Drinking one beer with dinner or pizza is a different matter. Instead, it is the teens, the 20-somethings, the frustrated bored, the distinguished but stressed professionals. The ones who drink with the deliberate intent to get buzzed, and go beyond. To the point of blackout. Where they are set free to let their inhibitions run wild... and not remember (and legitimately deny because from their perspective, experience, and reality nothing happened). Like pleasant sedation into a pain-free world during a wisdom tooth extraction. Or, like the unsophisticated drinking episodes that some children witness in their households: Hostile take-overs or alien possessions.

Over-drinkers don't remember the pent-up anger, insecurities, or sexual inhibitions unleashed during their stumbling stupors or inebriated tirades, at times on innocent sober victims. Victims who will never forget. The phrase, "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" is inaccurate: The ugly that happens while black-out drunk did happen, and is often glossed over with habitual trumpery.

1960's sweet and pudgy Town Drunk Otis knew his weakness and where he belonged... he locked himself up when he was soused, and most in Andy's Mayberry knew it. And too, Genesis 9 Noah wasn't disturbing others inebriated (DOI) or harassing his family. Noah was where he belonged...  after over-sampling his vineyard, he slept in his own tent. Sadly, Son Ham turned the incident into an inappropriate show-and-tell.

Prudent discretion is a protective aspect of relationship, family life, and togetherness. Denial to preserve the family bond is legitimate. But when blinding alcoholism is involved, denial for the sake of the drinker's reputation avoids more than just the truth; it denies emotions of family members (the innocent victims) that get stuffed and do not vanish. If there is no closure within the family unit itself, genuineness and connection evaporate.

Events that happened decades ago should no longer matter, right? Unfortunately, much like after intense military service, delayed irrational responses to stimuli, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, as well as trust issues, can set in. Even the Bible in Leviticus 26:36 appears to acknowledge PTSD: "...You will live in such fear that the sound of a leaf driven by the wind will send you fleeing."

My parents have both passed, so now denial for their sake is toxic. It opposes being genuine, whole, and "knowing thyself." It also denies a key decade during which my identity should have formed. This adult-child-of-an-alcoholic knows dysfunction, and I have seen why people can and do cover-up. Many nights as a child our entire household was disrupted when Distinguished Jekyll transformed to Angry Hyde; feeling afraid and unsafe, because protection and any form of nurture evaporated. Our pseudo 1960's "Father Knows Best" household was turned inside out. During those uncertain middle-of-the night hours, my parents displayed just how polarized they were.

The world felt eerily unpredictable. The sober ones fully experienced it, meaning Mom and her six young children. But stubbornly self-reliant Mom was distracted, with a capital D (babies and basic necessities like laundry, dealing with cloth diapers, cooking, and errands kept her overwhelmed--to survive, cleaning ranked at the very bottom of the to-do list, as an optional). Two prime reasons why the enormous pink elephant (or deeply unsettling situation) in the room was overlooked, for over a decade: 1) To protect Dad's all-consuming and distinguished career; and, 2) something I have grasped in the last few years, Mom's fierce need for independence from her Mother. Dad's career is a logical argument, because he was the responsible sole breadwinner for a family of eight; and, he had no father-figure for back-up financial help or strength. In other words, the world felt eerily unpredictable for Dad, as well.

In hindsight, I am realizing the question now more painful than ever to face is why no related close mother-figure was permitted to step in from time-to-time to help fill the nurture-void, not even during mom's 1962 gallbladder surgery (in "olden" days, a four-week recovery time was the norm). Instead, a nearby oober mom, whose children were friends with my older two siblings, took the older three (or maybe four) of us six orphans in, during the daytime, for a day or two. I was the annoying younger "third-wheel" or tag-along. The foreign home had a dark and narrow "Harry Potter" staircase that led to the second floor and its amazing laundry chute, for sliding clothes and towels from the second floor way down to the basement's laundry area. Too many towels, and possibly toilet paper balls, were pushed down that chute by an exploring first-grader.

The indelibly stored-in-the-brain's-hippocampus (memory-banks) decade-of-chaos happened. I cannot remember any of the specific dates, but some of the more intense incidents and feelings will never vanish. Middle-of-the-night eruptions, that sometimes lasted on-and-off for hours, really did occur in our home. As a young observer with no control over the situation, it was rattling. The most difficult factor was the sporadic unpredictability of it all. Will inebriated Dad wake up, again? Will Mom be here in the morning, or forced to leave? And, there was no discussion after the incidents. Six of the direct witnesses or victims still survive, with unsung memories, and our perspectives are each unique.

In late 1972-73, after a decade of Mom stubbornly believing she could successfully tame Jekyll/Hyde, my parents (within a year of each other) finally turned to Jesus to save their marriage. Alcoholic dysfunction and their strained marital history became water under the bridge. No need to disrupt the cart or expose "Noah's" past. With no cues needed whatsoever, aged 13 to 23, we all knew our roles. After viewing a Baptist horror film that literally scared the "hell" out of me, naturally at age 17 I accepted Jesus. I wanted no part of being left behind or going to a place like hell. During that same time frame, the other siblings found Jesus in ways that I still long to learn.

Our newly-saved family seamlessly pivoted from alcoholic dysfunction to sober dysfunction. Studies indicate that an ingredient in many long-term healthy marriages is light-hearted teasing... to laugh at our own and each other's idiosyncrasies. We all have them! With my parents, hurt feelings could occur at any moment, for the littlest and most unpredictable reasons.

In other words, our parents' marital dance was awkward, like 24/7 walking on eggshells. Even 45 years ago, there was no doubt who the tempered denial activist would be... the middle child. In 1973, during the last, more lengthy, and greater distance apart of their three separations, I was the senior-high middle-sib who begged for asylum, and lived 5 months with a discrete bestie. Hers was the "real McCoy" family that modeled what stable could be.

Living with my bestie was during the same time-frame of the invitation from another high school acquaintance to view A Thief in the Night... the horror film mentioned above (in hindsight, secretly set up by Mom during my parent's long-distance separation). I confess, overwhelming fear was the selfish motivation for accepting Jesus into my life. Fear issues overpowered carefree rebellion and blatant sin during vulnerable teen years. Asking genuine forgiveness for sin was delayed, for about 25 years! It was actually during insecure mid-life that I faced, head-on, issues that were blocked from view because of fear. With blinded eyes finally opening, I fell to my knees and faced elusive denial, over and over and over again.

The seriousness of that decade and its lasting affects were denied, in subtle ways, with no organized meeting whatsoever for direct closure. It was treated like the chaos... Never.Ever.Occurred. Mom individually offered a typical ACOA book to us, but I brushed my copy off as unnecessary (plain and simple denial); otherwise, in Dad's mind traumatic incidents never did occur. He was numbed or soused during the most intense moments. Since compact recording devices were few in the mid-1960s, and cell phones to record videos were as imaginary as a Dick Tracey Facetime-like watch; in Dad's judicious mind, and others who deny, the horrible aspects of inebriated activities like door banging, sexual tensions, and chaos were over-exaggerated.

When a tree falls in the forest, and its landing is not heard, did the tree really make a sound? and did the ground really shake? To prove that the ground really did shake, I had the middle-school inspiration to secretly record from my upstairs bedroom, using a tech-y jam-box (a gift from my parents, that Mom maybe hoped I would use for that purpose... but never verbalized?) onto cassette the sounds that sporadically filled our night-time home. If Dad could be convinced to listen to the playback, he would understand and stop drinking. Brilliant! The next day's playback was muffled and faint, but still haunting. It scared the pubescent zits out of me. My fingers quickly fumbled to erase the evidence, as well as any potential visits into my bedroom from imagined boogeymen.

In our childhood home, "Noah" did not hide in his tent. Like a freight train plowing through in the middle of the night, we were emotionally lacerated, especially the younger three. Dysfunction and denial, plus a lack of timely nurturing, created lasting emotional weaknesses. I hear cries from my parents' graves: "We were caring parents with good intentions, and we did so many things right. But now we finally get it. Denial is the worst thing ever!"

Being quietly tucked or situated in the birth order's invisible middle (like an undercover mole), I was at the vulnerable point of impact, old enough to remember yet young enough to not understand. Located right where a whole egg normally hits the bowl's cracking rim. The place where fissure occurs, denial is unjustifiable, and impact goes beyond repair. Sometimes yesterday's lunch is a forgotten memory, but impacting events from childhood are forever stuck in my mind. Those who might have helped soften the blow, Mom and two older siblings, were distracted. Being "untrained," and the Least.Likely.Nurturer.Ever, I regret not being there emotionally for the younger siblings; but the thought never occurred to me.

Because of yet another low blow to our already challenged family... 62-year-young Mom's 1990 sudden and unexpected death in a car wreck... scrambling took place and mysteries were left unanswered. While in its shell, an egg cannot be scrambled, no matter how vigorously it is shaken. But once the shell is cracked or broken and its contents are released, yolk and white become vulnerable. At that time the unprepared ages of her adult children, the 6 left-behind siblings, ranged from 29 to 39. Age-wise, we were adults, but most of us were stuck in a time warp.

It was like the memory of Mom too quickly vanished off the face of the planet, because Widower Dad was a fine catch and soon entered the dating world. Within 15 months he re-married, reluctantly squeezing Mom out of his essence to accommodate for a blended scenario (which, for older children, isn't easy-peesy-Brady-Bunch-ever-after). Any hope for delayed closure was lost with Mom's tragic and premature death. Life is stuck or stunted in reverberating ways.

Like a fractured wrist that heals a bit off, off enough to negatively impact handling overhand turns and overhead lifts, maneuvering in this world is not the same. Items can be dangerously dropped, and some movements create joint pain. And, too, for the innocent victims of a person's "harmless" drunken spree (or sprees), and for those who should be kindred but for one viable reason or another are not because of seductively distinguished and "saintly" denial, maneuvering in this unpredictable world is a bit off... with issues that create pain. Specifically, communication and trust/advocate issues that, to be frank, probably would have developed even if raised in the most perfect of homes (a revelation, post-mid-life. Many of my disassociated thoughts have already been shared in a plethora of blogs).

After writing through the wilderness, taking the longest route ever, and circling Jericho seven times, I am the one surrendering. Studying a stomach's navel is senseless, and totally figuring out our complicated past is, as well. I first-hand get how denial works and feel empathy for Blasey-Ford. I believe the incident happened the way she shared it, because I first-hand witnessed my father's black-outs, as well as the how and why of follow-up denial. Black-out allows a normally responsible and intelligent person to perform uncharacteristic acts; acts they are rarely required to own up to.

Hope for closure led Ford to bravely "come-out" in front of the world; to knowingly face ridicule and threats. For the sake of others, she decided it was worth the risk... no pain, no gain. Like a physical wound, emotional memories rarely magically disappear without proper closure, and so she tried. Ford is one of the braver people I know; because like Clinton's Lewinsky and Thomas' Hill, Ford now day-to-day faces a scary world that knows the deep and dark Kavanaugh part of her.

Ford is prettier than presented at the hearings. Maybe downplaying her appearance is a strategic form of protection? Her essence, and even those large, over-sized spectacles re-kindle memories of treasures lost as a result of family dysfunction and denial: Face-to-face interactions with my long-lost and still estranged younger sister. And also a younger brother.

... You see, we don't know how to interact, and we're afraid.

A 45-year relationship with Jesus Christ in e-ssence is now based more on love and trust rather than fear and rules. He gives reasons each day to trust and love larger. That safe relationship is why I live, learn, and continue to naively yearn for the remote possibility of connecting with all five siblings.

A middle-schooler's innocent hope 50 years ago was for that simple cassette recording of night-time happenings to heal Dad's addiction. The supernatural provided for Dad's physical sobriety, and we have come full-circle. Heritage bravery is needed, and the supernatural is again implored. We are no longer spring chickens. Time is tick - tick - ticking for follow-through closure... six siblings need to connect. Like Dad, we have honed the art of denial and still champion it. For reasons too complicated to explain, connection frightens the zits out of a few of us.

Sisters are different flowers grown in the same garden

DO Steal My Thunder: Remembering

I'll pay you a dollar if you go on the Lazy River... I said to one of my Grands while we were at a nearby pool together. 

The deluxe, indoor city pool had bells and whistles, like a tall spiral slide and a lap pool lane with a gentle current called "Lazy River." On-and-off during our 2-hour swim I tried to bribe our almost 5-year-old to experience the Lazy River, but received the same unwavering answer: No. He was too short for the slide, so it seemed like an activity he would love. Perplexed, I persisted. We will stand right next to you the whole time, on either side of you.

Just a few days later the reason for his insistent No's came to light. In Colorado, just the month before, our boy was excited to go on a water park ride with the exact same name, "Lazy River." People floated the narrow and slow current on individual-sized circular inner tubes. His little booty slipped down and into the center of his tube, trapping him more than momentarily, with the water level almost to his mouth and nose. He couldn't push his body back up, and that helpless feeling naturally terrified him enough to remember. 

After Lazy River, our Grand would claim
"There is no spoon," or Mermaid

A pre-kindergartner's lesson from that scary event: Since boys are not fish and rescue mermaids are just pretend, DO steal my thunder. It doesn't matter how much fun Lazy River is, it is called Lazy River. Even though the ride has no inner tubes. Still, no way. 

Poor little guy! I tried to bribe him into what he remembered as an unsafe position, to potentially put him back into a flashback situation fighting for his life, (call it deja-vu or PTSD-in-the-line-of-emotional-fire fear... it was real). He learned to not trust any Lazy River. If, on the other hand, his lesson was to never trust adults or swimming, that would be called neurotic. So, eventually he will be fine. Less than one month was way too soon for him to climb back up on the saddle. His respect for water will hopefully remain, but the fear will subside.

To remember is to learn from, especially after major life events, and eventually move on. A still-fresh trauma remains vivid in my memory. It was a super stupid in-home fall, on February 26th, causing a wrist fracture, with a less than satisfactory healing, leaving some everyday wrist motions uncomfortable and tight (i.e., the essential wrist pivot needed to comfortably chop vegetables or slice foods, wiping surfaces, and a variety of other tasks). In other words, it's a good thing chef-ing and window washing are not my day jobs.

During the first few weeks and months, like our little Grand's fear but in a daily way, it was basic maneuvering that felt unsafe. Falling again felt like a very real possibility. Moving through each day, sitting and taking the steps, all felt unsteady and scary. It is easy to feel that way, because the accident was random. It didn't happen while performing a fun or dare-devil stunt; just living, simply and soberly. Turning and simultaneously lowering to sit, into one of our home office chairs; over-shooting the chair because of a defective slipper's toe stub; with a backwards down, down, down trajectory and thud to the ground. The heart pounds wildly and, Oh, no, my hips! Thankfully, the booty's shock absorbers heroically managed the jolt. But one look at a disfigured right hand, and there was no doubt. Despite feeling only minor pain, a trip to Urgent Care was needed.

The fall brought some learning lessons: To turn or pivot first and then sit more intentionally (no pirouette spins at this age); to throw away toe-tip-compromised slippers (even though they were most comfortable); to notice when I feel a bit light-headed because of dehydration or eating fresh mushrooms (they affect balance); to not take for granted my never-injured arm (accomplishing tasks never imagined, like dressing one-handed, and other challenges that non-dominant, rock-star "Lefty" rarely before faced); to slow down, even when late for work or rushed; and, to enjoy every day. No.Lingering.Neuroticism...

Well, maybe just a little neuroticism, especially after almost falling again the other day. It was work-related, inspecting an unfamiliar older rental house. Backing up and forgetting a solo upward step (a crazy place for just one step, but that is part of the unusual quaint-factor of older houses). I was jolted off-balance into the beginnings of a backwards trajectory to down, down. The heart pounds wildly with fear, but somehow I managed to catch balance and not repeat a tumble like February's. It brought scary flashbacks, deja-vu, and self-scolding: Be.More.Careful!!! (Not very specific self-talk, but I knew what I meant and desperately meant it.)

And then, thinking ahead. If global warming holds off, slippery winter is on the horizon... Many of the falls that occur happen during snowy, icy winter. To live, and to love, and to love living, is to risk facing hazards and fear... to (potentially) figuratively fly! Accidents or scary experiences will, unfortunately, happen. If that is the case, healthy lessons can be learned from those events, remembering, and then moving on. 

To move on, mountains of Gilmore Girls-like chatty words combine into sentences, and then paragraphs, within blogs, and are published out into the blogosphere, that inspire others to fly. For example: Aren't daisies a most friendly flower? (You've Got Mail), and thunder rumblings are overwhelming and captivating!

Faith, & Luggage, & Wrists, & Family Reunions

A couple of months ago, I promised that an update would be forthcoming on my wrist and a recent family reunion. The update begins with the story behind this picture of various suitcase experiences flying to & from Florida... and how it relates to faith, and wrist healing, and family things...

On our recent Allegiant flight, my husband and I attempted to save money by sharing a suitcase. Unfortunately, it weighed 50 lbs. so we were charged an extra $50... in other words, nada savings (we thought 50 lbs. was the approved weight, but it was 40 lbs. 😞 ). For our return flight, with perseverance plus the help of our hotel's busy bell hop (and his accurate luggage scale for pre-airport weighing) we strategically moved weighty items and 3 shoes into my backpack (not 3 pairs of shoes, but 3 shoes... the only item left behind was suntan lotion). We hit 40 lbs., on the nose, and managed to save $50 🙂 and I was even able to cram my stuffed-to-the-gills backpack under the airplane's seat.

Luggage, the sequel: When we arrived to Florida after a non-stop flight, our 10-lbs. overweight shared suitcase (that we paid an extra $50 to transport) never came down the turnstile. After talking with the luggage handler, who said he unloaded every suitcase, plus a lengthy chat with an Allegiant representative, who assured us she would contact other airports for our suitcase, dejected and bummed, we returned to the turnstile area to head outside to catch our shuttle. 

I spotted... not randomly because it would have been hard to see had I not been inconspicuously eyeing every nook and every passersby red suitcase. Faith, and sheer desperation compel you to do things like that (because on-the-spot, fitting-my-body beachwear and exercise-grade gym shoes are close to impossible to find) ...in the far corner of a half-football-field-sized room what looked like a recognizable and (from that faraway distance) tiny red suitcase that was not there earlier. Neatly parked upright and alone, with not a soul nearby, close to the same location where we talked with the luggage handler. We bee-lined towards it, hoping and believing, and before airport security snatched it thinking it was unclaimed or contained an explosive. "Bingo!" but we prefer to call it faith... and even a miracle that we even spotted it.

The Florida sun's vitamin D was good for my right wrist, broken during a stupid fall on February 26, 2018. My dermatologist asked if I was drunk or sober (I never drink, but the tumble did have an inebriated flavor). The wrist healed a bit off and continues to be tight as it still mends. It can take a year or more for inflammation to fully subside. Faith keeps me applying essential oils Valor, ("chiropractic-in-a-bottle" says my cousin), and stretching the fingers to decrease tightness, and intentionally bending at the wrist to keep the soft tissue flexible. Grip strength has improved enough to right-handed squeeze and lift a half gallon carton of bone-strengthening Silk almond milk, to pour onto morning cereal. As I observe and use the wrist and flex the fingers daily, I naively believe it will eventually heal... better and stronger than ever.

And, Florida was a perfect get-away after co-organizing a family reunion (thanks, Nancy R.). It takes faith. Believing that 6 siblings will jump on board together to attend. Like herding cats, because vacations were long-ago set... or daily issues and midnight shifts interfere ... or healing is in-progress... or finances are tight to afford traveling far distances... or, one weary and tightly-scheduled (because of work requirements) 14-hour-DC road-trip attender, with 4-year-old in-tow, arrives on time for food but nail-biting later than expected.

And also, faith believes that weather will cooperate for the outdoor event. But when Chicago area temperatures are predicted to hit 96 degrees, and with humidity factored in it could feel like 107 degrees, having a nearby just-in-case indoor back-up plan for the last-minute change-of-venue was wise. That fortuitous venue, Heritage Church, saved the day for the first-ever Larson family reunion to be fun rather than melting. 

Our East Coast cousin was able to fly in to join us. Her dear Dad, our uncle because of marriage to Mom's sister, over a half-century ago (in 1962), took a heritage photo, using his then-fancy camera's timer feature. Twenty relatives, aged 1 to 65, uniformly yet in squirmy fashion tightly gathered around my parents' living room sofa for that ancient photo shoot. Our "techy" uncle manually focused the lens of the camera set on a tripod, and then faster-than-a-jackrabbit hurriedly slipped behind our sofa to join the back row of smiling men. At impressionable age 7, I was old (or odd) enough to admire my uncle's multi-tasking feat.

A picture is worth a thousand words; and, Mom and Dad and Uncle Dick would be pleased. For 2018, our brother teamed up with our talented professional photographer nephew. They were faster-than-jackrabbits. Thanks for the memories, my dear and diverse family. Memories of mingling and picnic eats; one classy Southern Belle aunt; a 4-year-old budding American Ninja Warrior; laughter and conversation playing indoor Foosball and intellectual Settlers of Catan; children's outdoor tree climbing and squirt gun fights; just hanging together on a record-hot and stifling June 30 day. And in faith (like finding our misplaced luggage, or the complete healing of my wrist) two removed sisters... though miles, memories, emotions, and mental rhythms -apart, will one day reunite to temporarily inhabit the same room, and after 25 long years converse. Mood.

Heritage photo 2018 is captured, naturally, like 1962's timed picture. Meaning faith was involved, to have everyone at least somewhat facing the camera's way. A few were looking places other than the camera's flashing red dot... cooperative, but engaged otherwise. Especially those on the right side of the group distracted by two (5'8" and 6'5") white-attired jackrabbit photographers hustling to their respective smiling places on the left side's back row. Timed pictures do allow for treasured character (and squirmy characters), during a split second moment in time, to be pleasantly and forever captured, together. Again.

2018's "He is risen." It is way more fun to gather for a planned reunion than a funeral.

Photo-op strategically coerced, post-eating & pre-outdoor play. No "hangry" or red & sweaty faces! Indeed.

1962

PT #9: Lose It, Then Use It

One perk of temporarily losing the use of wrist function is to appreciate the brilliance of the One who originally created the wrist (Psalm 139:14). The Craftsman. To observe the intricacy of every wrist movement involved in basic tasks, now dissected and more intentionally performed.

Like assembling favorite scrambled eggs. Does anyone really need a symphony of instruments playing Beethoven's 5th when breakfast preparation in itself is a masterful medley? plus a full-fledged workout of the healing wrist and hand?...

The beginning step requires hand strength plus a tricky wrist-swivel to lyrically dice a portion of red pepper into small squares; observe the slight wrists-bend for a two-handed egg crack; the curved and circular slo-mo (because of healing) but striving for "fast-twitch" wrist-rotate to whip together the egg's whites and yolks, like the circular motion of an orchestra conductor's wand; then, a firm fingertips-grip squeezes the bowl's side to prepare for the lift and forearm swivel-tilt to pour; the seasoned mixture hits a nutrient-infused, pre-heated iron skillet; its sizzle is nothing short of remarkable and music to the ears!

Mark the performance or accomplishment of the culinary moment. Enjoy savory eggs, and write the unscrambled lyrics.

The Fwrist fractured collage

In 6 weeks, IF there is anything to write about, wrist- or reunion- wise... I am in wait-and-see mode.

The Doc: Remarkable? Or Not?

A girl watches Cinderella, or Ever After, or Beauty and the Beast all her life. She lives it; eats it; breathes it; works hard; believes it. Her life will be amazing and turn out happily ever after. And then it does. Remarkable.

Prince Harry + Rachel Meghan Markle = Re-Markle-Ble. Fairy tale princess; tiara; prince; doing good things for others.

And then there are moments to mark, remark, and move on from. Things don't turn out as expected. A dream job is offered to someone else. A marriage ends. Or a variety of other not-so-happily-todays, anyway. One might literally hobble or experience daily pains or impairments in the body. Or have a stiff and gimpy wrist, and the doctor points out a surprise, but it is not a hoped-for surprise.

To work hard and literally pray to hear the words "I'm surprised" from the doctor; specifically from my bone doctor regarding my healing wrist, was the hope. Amazingly, Dr. Volgas actually spoke those very words, about my progress strength-wise and the forward and back bend of the hand at the wrist. But then with a grim expression he added the footnote: "Let's look at the x-rays to show you another aspect I am surprised about."

The re-markle-ble did not happen for my wrist (Fwrist). The slightly tipped and slipped wrist bone's one hope is surgery and a metal disk. But it cannot promise a better outcome. Especially when a patient has metal intolerances to consider. I remember these same discouragements after cancer's diagnosis. But here I am, 12 years later, in some ways stronger than ever.

Progress at the physical therapist will eventually hit a wall and fall short. Plan for re-markle-ble; face reality and move on; and somewhere around the corner there still might be a dreamy or bionic remarkable. The different and unexpected.

I prefer to hold to this intricate promise for my wrist and for my family's reunion after 25 long years: All things work together for good... (Romans 8:28).

PT #7: WOW It's a Halo

Since this wrist-fracture experience began and following the cast's removal, after visit #1 to the physical therapist, my initial three goals were to clap, achieve the yoga prayer pose, and extend my arms in front opened-palm. The clap has returned, and the prayer pose angle has changed from 45 to 60 degrees... Yesterday, Therapist Jill was enthusiastic about the substantial improvement. The most expressive she has been during a session.

I documented goal #3 in three consecutive Sundays of pictures, showing my opened-palm pose. Call me sentimental or superstitious, but the mere thought of permanently losing that relaxed and treasured palm pose creates emotional pain. It is a low-blow, because at the end of Sunday services after Pastor John speaks, in a Presbyterian way (I was kindred-raised), he gives a benediction that as a child I became familiar with: "May the Lord bless you and keep you. May the Lord's face shine upon you and show you His favor and give you peace..."

For years I have eagerly extended both arms for that benediction. Every time it produced goose-bumps; even now, despite supination-impaired Fwrist. Mother's Day Sunday we were too busy for a photo of my progress, fixing a special meal. Later that evening I checked Fwrist's progress on goal #3, discouraged that it looked about the same as the previous week. I actually hadn't noticed that Fwrist was still goal #3 impaired, because the morning's female speaker did not lead a closing benediction. I wasn't reminded of the continued arm-fail. Thursday's visit to the bone doctor might end up being this week's confirmation that Fwrist is still off.

On a positive note, yesterday Physical Therapist Jill prescribed an interesting new exercise. She calls it The Halo. I try to learn from Jill the key, including "what does this one do?" for many of the home exercises she prescribes. Specifically, what to notice to have proper pose. This one needs no other key than to provide much-needed hope. WOW [a reflection of MOM]--it's a halo. A visual reminder that someone's watching over me and our family reunion, occurring after 25 long years.

Ankle (Cankle); Wrist (Fwrist): The Re-name

Definition of cankle [online] informal: A wide or thick ankle that appears indistinguishable from the area between the knee and ankle (lower calf).

Definition of fwrist [yours-truly] informal, frist, not fritz: A wide or thick wrist that appears indistinguishable from the area between the elbow and wrist (lower forearm).

Fwrist accurately describes my new wrist. It is a stranger. It looks different, and bracelets that were loose are still tight. Being able to identify the difference, with a re-name, is the beginning of reunion and true acceptance. Imagine Frankenstein's sewn wrist that has little definition, except mine was not sewn but re-set.

Unlike hapless Humpty Dumpty, Fwrist was able to be put back together again, but it healed with a slight outward pronation, and when I hold eating utensils, a supination. My husband was in the Emergency Room when the skilled doctor re-set my wrist, creating Fwrist. The doctor sternly ordered: "No pictures or videos during the procedure."

The doctor couldn't keep Jeff from having that moment forever and permanently branded into one of his memory banks. I was in a medicated state or realm, but according to Jeff, it resembled Elastigirl's reach--the way my hand appeared to stretch all the way to the ceiling and then boomeranged (or was skillfully guided) back into place. The procedure took less than a minute. I moaned, but because of happy drugs, remember nothing. However, the after-effects still remain. 

An arm cast can forever change a person's way of doing things. Uninjured Lefty had to become stronger, and can impressively shower and dress, straight-iron hair, put on tie gym shoes fast, and crack an egg, all one-handed. Injured Righty healed a bit off, so now there is Fwrist. The full effect is still in-process as inflammation subsides.

Fwrist is an estranged family member who returns, changed. Like siblings whose inner-workings are similar. Formed inside of the same mother's womb for 9 months and thoughtfully named; raised in the same home; yet, somewhere along the line one sibling was broken and stretched emotionally and physically, more than could ever be photographed or imagined. A protective barrier reforms. It is like the sibling should be re-named.

To one degree or another, we all experience brokenness; and for many, the result is change and hopefully resilience. Maybe I should be re-named, too. Like Green Gables' Anne-with-an-e... Diane-minus-the-e, plus-a-tail-end-a has a distinctive and complex ring to it. Enjoy the math, Jeff.

PT #6: Silly Meets Sublime

Finally, after uncomfortable wrist-bending and wrist-turning exercises, Therapist Matt pulls out an occupational product that does not look occupational at all. It is yellow-ish; the largest pile of Silly Putty I have ever seen; the amount of which could attempt to fill an average-sized beach pail. The other day Therapist Jill said that one of her patients learned, by experimenting, that it actually is like real Silly Putty: "It bounced to the ceiling."

My unspoken, burning question was, "How many snotty-fingered hands have massaged that putty"?

I was first instructed to press the pile of putty to flatten it as best I could. The purpose was to distract me from the discomfort of bending my wrist, by having fun. I am not that easily distracted, so it was not fun, at first.

Then, Matt tried an alternative form of fun. He formed the putty back into a bucket-like shape, separated it into two equal and somewhat flat halves, like preparing an oval-shaped, thick-bread sub sandwich. He grabbed a small container labeled, "Treasure Hunt." As a kid I was always a sucker for Easter egg or treasure hunts. Matt placed five regular-sized marbles onto one slice of the "sandwich" and then pressed together the two putty-sandwich slices. "Now, use your right hand to find the five hidden marbles."

It was slow-going, and after a minute or so Matt added, "You can use your right hand's fingers, too."

I knew it would be like TV's "Survivor" competition, where five balls are hidden in a large sand pit, the searcher finds four of them, and the last one takes forever to find. "Pull thinner strips with your fingers" Matt said.

After pulling oodles of strips (good finger-strengthening exercises), the very last portion of the putty hid the fifth marble. The shape created from the search was sublime enough to require two photos of the masterpiece, also known as an artsy form of Psychology's Rorschach ink blot test. What is it?

Reminds me of a forever long, twisty road we drove in Puerto Rico

I see... an intriguing obstacle course ahead

co-planning my family's 25-year reunion

PT #5: No Pearl Harbor Fighter Planes Please

Sunday 1, Sunday 2, Sunday 3
Not a striking difference, but each Sunday the pose is smoother
Wood block Wristy still doesn't give in easily

Sitting waiting with two others early Monday morning for heat treatment, before seeing our physical therapists, young skater-mom shows me her black arm hairs saying she thinks they are ugly for summer. It is just like some of my arm hairs that suddenly turned black. She is the mom who fractured her wrist ice skating. Before the fall our arm hairs used to be light-colored. Extra blood flow and healing properties directed to our arms must have done that. So, our pairs of arms don't match like they used to, in more ways that one, and it shows with the arrival of short-sleeved weather.

Physical Therapist Jill says that miscommunication in the body sends unnecessary inflammation to my already-healed wrist. Wristy still remembers the major trauma she experienced 2-1/2 months ago. I want to give her a break, but know that uncomfortable wrist exercises and movements are needed. The motions still send the inflammation, like frightening fight-or-flight responses or destructive fighter planes sent to Pearl Harbor. The body's healing system is complex.

At this stage of the game, Jill says I don't want inflammation. She removes it by massaging the fluids up the arm. Then the block of wood that is Wristy might be persuaded to bend a little further.

No desire to explain why this relates to co-hosting June's family reunion. After 2-1/2 decades, "inflammation" makes information complex.

PT #4: May the 4th Be With You Meets the Wonder

Physical Therapist Jill again emphasized that therapy and their prescribed exercises will not fix Righty's outer wrist issue. The bone healed slightly slipped, and therapy can't change that. Her words "will not fix" contain the power to bring me down.

So now begins the wonder. It is a web of too many thoughts. Twelve years ago I experienced it after hearing the doctor's poignant word "Virulent": "I wonder, I wonder..." will I survive surgery? how will chemo affect my body? will cancer return? will I make it to the 5-year mark?

Wonder thoughts are natural. And some of them even enter into the courageous category: "I wonder, I wonder..." what will my funeral be like? Not because of my wrist, but 12 years ago, before cancer surgery, I mentally spent about 30 minutes visiting my imagined funeral. At first it terrified me, but then I became more comfortable. Just briefly visiting terror and then moving on gave me courage to face the wonder. I am a survivor.

Before working with Physical Therapists Jill or Matt, a technician always leads me to heat therapy that lasts 20 minutes. My hand is put into a large and contained, sand-filled barrel or vat. I slip Righty into the vat's sealed sleeve, it is turned on, and a wind tunnel of heated sand transports me to a Star Wars scene with one sweet and round BB-8 droid spinning effortlessly over the sand. Or, I visit sunny Florida with seagulls and crashing beach waves.

Sitting next to me yesterday was a young Mom trying to visit Florida. I interrupted her beach time asking questions about her wrist fracture. It all began with the Winter Olympics; her two young children wanted to ice skate; Mom skated too; Mom helped daughter to not fall; Mom instead ended up falling on the ice. A plate and screws adhered her painfully shattered wrist back together. The doctors gave her the wonder word: Arthritis.

I can't help but wonder, and even more so, I can't help but feel conformed to the full-of-Wonder One. He transports me to the realm of faith, and humility, and trust, and wonder. I am not entitled to full healing, but Righty is placed into His very capable hands for a sequel that is not limited by a stubborn slipped arm bone.

May the Force be with you, and may He be with Righty... and with planning for my family's first reunion in more than 25 years. Wish it was on the beach!

PT Visit #3 & "Sister-Wrister"

Physical Therapist Matt massaged my lower arm and noted a small bruise below my elbow, "Did my massage the last time cause that bruise?"

"No," I replied. "My self-massages did it. My arm felt so tight, I must have rubbed too hard."

He was impressed and pleased with the reduction of inflammation in my injured wrist area, so he modified and created a revised exercise routine to follow.

A few hours later, at 6:30 p.m., we took a later than normal lake walk. We approached Walker Karen, an avid lake regular, like ourselves. She is probably 5 years my junior, has a charming southern accent, usually walks solo and chatting on a cell phone and waves to us, and is a librarian at a nearby elementary school. We've passed her innumerable times at the lake, but over the winter saw her very few times because early sunset made her walking times different than ours.

As we approached each other, something stuck out that was different. Like the attention-attracting flash of a K-mart blue-light special, our eyes honed to an object covering her left hand. A cast. Rather than our cordial and brief, "Hello, beautiful evening," we had to stop and share war stories. I've seen other people with wrist casts, but seeing hers was different because I feel kindred to Karen. We've navigated literal "water-over-the-bridge" times together at our lake.

"What happened to your wrist?" we asked, pointing to Karen's cast. "Diane's injury is a few weeks ahead of yours... her cast was taken off 2 weeks ago."

Accident stories with show-&-tell lasted at least 5 minutes. Her simple yet painful fall forward was going up unforgiving steps at work; my complicated and painless fall backward was an at-home slipper-stub, rotating and way over-shooting a chair’s seat onto a carpeted floor. Her fall was a week ago and required surgery; I was able to opt out of surgery. She has a plate and screws in her wrist; I am still deciding whether surgery is needed for that. It is her non-dominant hand that was injured; mine is the dominant hand. She has needed for pain strong, mouth-drying medication; I chose to take Ibuprofen only twice, early on, mainly hoping it would help reduce inflammation (but it didn't).

The haunting if-only regrets and choices made just before our falls re-play over and over in our minds; and, we have similar future unknowns.

"I noticed your wrist motions" Karen said, "Your hand is moving well."

Something about injuring a wrist hones eyes to the intricate wrist gestures of others. Like an actor's fine wrist movements on TV. The way their arm lays, with their wrist gently hanging over, say, a split-rail farm fence. Or how their fingers delicately bend as they talk. It is fascinating, because I cannot perform those motions as easily but notice them like never before and hope they eventually return like new.

Finding kindred-spirit "sister-wrister" created a new bond. We are walkers, still walking with similar injuries, and still facing recovery time ahead. Our empathetic parting words were: "Next time, we'll show-&-tell our progress. Take care."

For my family's reunion, after 25 long years, is it possible for bonds to begin to re-kindle? Our war stories are different, yet there are similarities. We can briefly show-&-tell, because we are kindred. Is there any need to ever delve deeper into the past?

Working Lefty Harder... & Smarter

Many times over the years it would have been interesting to know what (28-years departed) Mom would do in this or that situation. Even if I had known, I still may not have followed her lead because our personalities are so different; but nevertheless, it would have been nice to know.

All of the positive mental attitude in the world and thinking isn't going to tell recuperating Righty to hold a broom perfectly (for that matter, at all) to sweep the back porch or to perform correct hair-washing techniques. Not yet, anyway, since the bone slipped ever so slightly when it healed. Like a shopping cart's one wheel aimed even slightly to the right, it takes extra work to steer the cart. For grass sweeping over the weekend, my entire right arm had to ungracefully adapt, straightened and way too complex and awkward to explain in words. I will never again take for granted the wrist's intricate and amazing mechanics.

When performing basic rehab exercises, asking good-hand Lefty what she would do has proven helpful. Over the weekend, closely observing Lefty's skills became a guiding "true." Specifically, squeezing a fist-sized rectangular-shaped piece of foam. It sounds simple, but I am learning that both focus and proper technique are keys to progress. Even the slightest grip difference, specifically proper fingertip-pressing, means that even though I do the exercise at least 10 thousand times a day (exaggeration intended), it is unknowingly performed only half-way if done wrong. Fortunately I started doing it right, and from yesterday to today, Righty's "back-bend" changed from a 10-degree to a 30-degree wrist angle.

Comparing (left) 4/22's pic to (right) 4/29's pic, with no noticeable difference; however...
It was markedly harder to achieve Righty's pose on 4/22, and her fingers would not straighten
I am ever-comparing Lefty to Righty

Maybe "smarter" will also work for planning a 25-year family reunion in June. My smarter starts with mega-prayer.

Therapy Visit #2: A Thumbs Down

For visit #2, Physical Therapist Jill was fully booked, so Matt worked on my wrist and hand. I decided that sometimes two perspectives can be better than one. After heat treatment and spreading lotion on my arm and hand, he paid special attention to my thumb and particularly the webbing between the thumb and index finger. "This is soooo tight" he commented.

"Yes," I replied, "For some reason the cast really bothered my thumb."

With the second cast, I whined to my doctor about my thumb. I was persistent enough that he cooperatively cut the cast material narrower between the thumb and finger, the thumb's webbing. He did it reluctantly, because it took extra time and meticulous work.

Mom's 1959 Easter brimmed-hat
Not as wide as Melania's April 2018 brim

Some of the exercises Matt and Jill have prescribed require proper thumb and index finger form. One deformed index finger, one tight and calloused thumb because of the cast, plus narrower than normal webbing are causing exercise issues. I compared Righty's webbing with Lefty's when I arrived home. There is a noticeable difference, and I suspect one of many reasons why.

It is confession time... I sucked my fingers, big time. Not only that, the unusual and creative form used was like no other child's on the planet. Now, it is finally coming back to bite. Visualize two pipe cleaners twisted into one; that is how I overlapped and crammed a then-pliable index finger and a thumb into my mouth. At the same time. And most of the time. To self-soothe (there were issues), probably 'til I was 40! Childhood is aiming a well-timed nudge or horse-buck at me.

Wrist exercises done at the ballpark?
Of course!

Milestone or marker #1: Last night at the Springfield Cardinals game I clapped; gingerly. Many times. And the clapping sounds were faint and heard by no one else, but I did it.Take away an endearing expression or skill, and when it returns, the feeling is unimaginable (surprise, joy, even soothing).

....and, take away for 25 years a sibling that is still living, and an impossible reunion seeming even remotely possible ...

Therapy Visit #1: No Pain, No Gain

Before visiting a physical/occupational therapist, the yoga prayer pose was impossible. Also, I couldn't clap and I couldn't extend my right arm fully open-handed. Oddly, and sadly, they are all arm actions that remind me of church worship. So, I deeply yearn to be able to do them... that is the goal.

On therapy visit #1, two things threw me for a loop: 1) Sticker shock at the cost of the visit, and 2) Therapist Jill said that, pessimistically, only 50-70 % mobility will return.

Those percentages got me down. My hope was shattered. After an evening visit with family, my departing words to them were: "Have faith for me, because I sure don't feel it yet."

After two good sleeps, I have determined that 50-70% are also fighting words. I want better than a C-to-D course grade for Righty. And, I am willing to work for it. I was given homework, consisting of two sheets showing 7 exercises to practice at home, 4 to 6 workouts a day. Check, I will do them at least 6 times a day.

To make workouts more beneficial and organized (always), I have done a few key things:

• Divided a day into 6 manageable time-slots, also called a workout schedule: 6:00, 9:00, 12:00, 3:00, 6:00, 9:00... do-able. 
• Cut up the two exercise sheets into seven smaller-square sheets, to flip over after finishing each exercise, helping to keep track during home sessions, and for portability to do exercises on-the-go.
• Use lotion, mild heat, massage the hand gently, and drink water.
• With one of the exercises, 15 reps are hard to keep track of, so I found a small holder for 15 toothpicks (15 reps). After each rep, a toothpick is shifted to the other pile. When I hit 15 reps, why not do a few extra? 
• The last exercise is the yoga prayer pose. I set up a tabletop mirror to observe important arm posture, to do it correctly. Meaning I don't let Lefty do more than her fair share of the pose. It is hard. It hurts. That wrist bend feels like I am attempting to bend in half an unforgiving block of wood. Soft tissue can turn tight, and Righty will not cooperate. Thus far, the pose has insignificant progress.

In a quirky way, all of the "bite-sized" sheets create markers that make a session feel rewarding. I can't depend on what I see to feel benefits, because measurable progress hasn't come. Gain requires trained (expensive) guidance plus five free things: Patience, faith, grit, time... and pain.

A square sheet of the prayer pose & one trusty mirror

And, during all of this, it reminds me to pray for the upcoming June family reunion. Push through the uncomfortable; in other words, pushing through the pain.

The Proof of the Pudding is in the Eating

The proof of the pudding is in the eating...meaning that you can only judge the quality of something after you have tried, used, or experienced it.

You're a cook... prepare a tasty meal for 5
You believe your pre-injury, non-elastic-waisted pants still fit... put them on
Your wrist has full mobility... extend your arms, flipped over
You love someone... each person's definition or expression differs, whatever it is... do it

Last night and this morning, intentionally trying to use Righty to wash my hair, squeeze lotion out of a bottle, apply stick deodorant, and eat right-handed with a spoon provided full opportunity for her to give feedback. She wasn't shy. I was reminded that she is still stiff and tight. I expected her to perform better, because she is getting stronger. Today in church I tried to extend my arms in front of me, flipped over. I learned that tomorrow's first occupational therapy session is really needed, especially since I wanted to but could not do a right-handed forehead-palm.

Cast removal day

9 days later, looking better, but
the picture below says it all...

Lefty was ready and willing to compensate, but Righty needs to be utilized.

Not being gutsy enough to face pain, I will never gain full range of motion.








Similarly, co-hosting and attending a 28-year entire family reunion, to possibly interact with some I have not seen in years, is a different type of occupational therapy. In a way, steady Lefty will be there to help, but emotional Righty ultimately needs to be the functioning one.

Arms flipped-over and extended
 reveals crooked Righty and how tight Wristy still is
(Pre-injury, button-closure pants are a bit snug, but they do fit!!!!)

Wristy is Tighty & Still Healing

Having my wrist cast removed after 6 long weeks made for a very happy day. No clunky half-pound weight to carry around. However, with freedom comes challenges, including Righty looks like a prosthetic hand and sometimes like a toddler’s chubby wrist and hand. A stranger. Not mine. Prosthy has swelling and is stiff and doesn’t work well; she is weak and awkward. And her skin is raw, vulnerable, and ever flaking and peeling. The day the cast came off it looked like there was a thick and shiny layer of dried Elmer's glue spread over the lower hand and wrist, begging to be peeled off or exfoliated, but ever so cautiously. Because the skin underneath was still raw. Like a bad sunburn.

Every day, to increase hand and grip strength, I stretch my arm and hand and then squeeze a ball. It is painful to do. But it is worth it because I am then able to utilize Righty more, to pick up my water thermos and drink from it. Woot, woot! Or hold a utensil to eat with Righty, but not very well or comfortably. The fingers pretty much work, but Wristy is still tight and creaky, like the "Wizard of Oz" Tin Woodsman.

Each morning when I awake around 5:30, Righty has returned back to a stiff state. It feels like all of the improvement from the previous day has vanished. It is again a tight and foreign, fake hand. A few minutes of work and stretching bring oils and life back into Righty and Wristy. Early morning weather has been unusually chilly enough to walk and briefly expose my wrist to refrigerator-like cool. I then warm it in a glove. I alternate and briefly expose it again to the chill, etc. trying to reduce the swelling faster (I'm a dreamer). It is actually supposed to be 3 months before the swelling is completely down.

Keyboarding is the thing that is not going well, because Wristy’s pivoting or twisting motion has not yet returned, but optimistically it will. I am praying, a lot; because I type, a lot. The doctor said the bone slipped ever so slightly when it was healing, and that could hinder motion. It is the doctor's job prognosis-wise to share the worst-case-scenario and scare the wits out of their patients. But my bone doctor also said that, hopefully, use and therapy will help its flexibility to return properly, without surgery to insert a small plate (and wear yet another cast). Everybody is different, so results are unpredictable. For a time, Lefty will still need to cover computer typing, pretty much solo; she's been a trooper.

It is not the lighting, nor is it an illusion
Different skin tone & swollen...
It's not hard to spot Prosthy 

And so it is with close or family relationships that have been in an uncomfortable and fixed cast-like state. Flexible turns to tight. Awkward. Raw. Vulnerable. Sometimes even unpredictable enough to feel scary.

Prosthy immediately after cast removal
Not dried Elmer's glue; just skin ready to flake

You is "Me" & "Getting to Know"... Us

An early-morning, disjointed convo between me and my husband:  ME: I have 40 hits on my recent blog, one being my post onto Facebook, and one is you. HUBBY: And one is me. ME: In the count that I just communicated, you is “me.”

Thinking movie-land... you is "me", and all the world really is a stage. In the broader sense, there are movies that remind me of family life, and of my siblings...

It's a Wonderful Life--that movie's you-is-"me" overall tension-filled drama represents my parents. Dad was driven, dramatic, frustrated, lanky George Bailey; and Mom was sweet yet strategically-stubborn Mary (Mom was actually quietly-stubborn, personified).

Their 6 offspring cannot be represented by just one movie, like "Cheaper By The [1/2] Dozen;" but, "Little Women" could somewhat represent the 4 daughters (we fit the 4 birth order roles; however, we always tended to be in-cohesive, except for the few photo ops below). Instead, like different personalities, we siblings have forged our own unique and varied movie lines...

Overboard, a flipped yet starry love story (a re-make could never replace resourceful Goldie)
Chariots of Fire, quiet persistence, exemplified
The Post, timely literary exposure OR, Woman in Gold, indirectly seeking to reclaim family treasure
Forrest Gump, a loyal, kind, brave soul--and a forever tribute to chocolate!
Breakfast at Tiffany's, internal identity struggles
Secrets of the Divine Ya Ya Sisterhood, laughter, friendship, and complicated identities

Norma Rae can't be left out. That movie's grit represents an "extended" sibling

-------------------------------------

The larger-than-life stars in my family include...

Goldie Hawn
Ron Howard
Brady Bunch's Maureen McCormick (author... she's the one in the bunch who wrote about it)
Jerry Seinfeld or David Letterman
Princess Diana
Tina Fey or Amy Poehler

6 budding stars (the extra, tiara-ed one, represents Norma Rae)

The original Pumpkin Patch Kids

Each holding treasured items that were passed between us

Easter baskets, but no bonnets graced the sisters' heads

It's a Wonderful Life -- The 70s... Donna Reed... errr Larson... posed with us 

Our cousin bravely joined 5 of us for this pic

"ancy" 'N waving to you... at our niece's wedding

"ancy" 'N formal, thinking of you... at our nephew's wedding