Liam's Grandma or Maggie in Real Life

When Pigs Fly

I have no idea if I had the swine flu or not.  I think not.  But people are so crazed over this swine flu thing that they think anyone who is sick has it.  And, well, I'm one of those people who is on that hysteria wagon - except when it comes to me and whether or not I had it; I simply worry about everyone else. 

Now, some 10 days since the onset of this thing, I still have vestiges of the cough, the sore throat, the glassy eyes, and the state of confusion.  Scratch the last part of that sentence.  I am ALWAYS in a state of confusion. The illness simply justified it.

I took a photograph of myself about 5 days into it and sent the photo, via text message, to my sister-in-law.  That was the most frightening photo I have seen in a long time.  Of anything.  And my sister-in-law is recovering nicely in a rest home where they promised her that the satanic photo was completely destroyed and an exorcism of the highest caliber was performed on her phone.  And they guaranteed that no one would ever hurt her like that again.  At least that's what my copy of the restraining order said.

That photo was so scary that it had to be only through blind love that my husband, children and grandchild could remain in the same room with me.  Not since I saw the previews of "Throw Momma from the Train" have I been so frightened.  In fact, I never watched that movie for the sheer fact that I couldn't handle seeing the woman who played Momma.  She freaked me right out.  When the previews would come on the television, I'd be all over the couch feeling around the cushions, the pillows, my husband's hair, looking for the remote to get that off the screen.

With that said, you know I won't post that photo here.  In fact, I deleted it right after I sent it to Robin and regretted sending it to her immediately after doing so, and for good reason, as previously stated.  I'm not photogenic as it is and with the flu, accompanied by a 5 pound weight loss off of a 125 pound frame (due to the flu), hair that hadn't been styled (at the time) in 4 days (I showered, ok? But there was no use of hair products for 10 days straight), skin that was pale, lips dry and cracking, and one eye seemingly bigger than the other (can eyes have swollen glands???), well, truly, I was a sight all right. 

And the older I get, the worse I respond to symptoms.  Like the coughing.  The other day I coughed so hard, I peed in my pants a little.  When it happened, I froze while in my "cough-induced doubling over" pose (not to be confused with yoga's Downward Facing Dog) and felt my eyes get as big as dinner plates (even the one with the swollen gland).  Could it be?  Did I?  How bad is it?  As I hobbled, cross-legged to the bathroom and peeled off my pants, it wasn't so bad.  But it took time because I wasn't going to re-dress without a shower.  20 minutes later and as the second wave of coughing descended, I was prepared.  I sat on the couch, cross-legged, my hand between my legs, with pressure applied.  Now is that crazy or what?  But it worked.  Had anyone walked in the door at that moment seeing me bent over, legs entwined like a pretzel, holding my privates, and coughing until my eyes watered, they might think I was performing some type of masochistic sexual maneuver.  Only thing is, I wasn't enjoying it.  Not one bit.  And it was obvious.

What I learned from this experience is that the flu, like so many other things that come and wreak havoc in our lives, serve a purpose.  They humble us.  Because when we're sitting as still as possible, holding our crotch, coughing until tears fall like rain, and a booger the size of New Hampshire has apparently settled itself just inside your right nostril, right where a swipe of the hand won't catch it so you have no idea it's even there because you're too afraid to even look at yourself in the mirror, but the Green Peace guy at the door can't seem to speak proper English through all of his stammering because he is so upset about that booger the size of New Hampshire that, try as he might, he can't take his eyes off of it, kind of like not being able to look away from a bad accident, and you think that the reason he has scampered off is because you vehemently say, "No solicitors, PLEASE.  I'm sicker than a dying dog on it's best day," and you close the door, dust off your hands as if you've had some freaking accomplishment that day because, for crying out loud, you can barely get off the couch let alone answer the door and chastise a Green Peace guy.  And then when you finally decide to go into the bathroom and give yourself that smile of confidence in the mirror as you pass by on your way to the toilet, you stop in mid-gait and realize that something bigger, more powerful and more heinous than any words you could ever say were what scared off that Green Peace guy.  

And, after slinking back to the couch for Round 3 of your coughing seizures, you realize that nothing can be more humbling, more bubble bursting, more self-esteem deflating than a booger the size of New Hampshire.

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma

New York Travels

I attended my high school reunion last Saturday night for a few hours and then went and finished the evening at my neighborhood reunion down the street.  Yes, this is a photo of me singing "Wild Thing" like no one has ever heard before.  And no one, once they've heard my version, ever wants to be able to hear, think or remember ever again.  In fact, I've heard of people being institutionalized for a period after listening to my singing.  Mostly for psychotic episodes that seem to be laced with a pining to ram sharp objects into one ear and out the other.  I guess you could say my singing should come with a warning label attached - kind of like prescription drugs.  "Not recommended for pregnant or nursing mothers as there have been instances where miscarriage occurs or lactating ceases.  If you are over the age of 35, deafness may occur accompanied with a longing to harm or maim anyone blocking your path to the door.  May cause vomiting if ingested audibly for more than 15 seconds.  If diarrhea, fainting, head spinning or hair loss occur, stop listening immediately and contact your doctor."  This particular evening, I saw none of those occurrences, but I think I saw the wait staff giving inoculations at the rear of the bar just prior to my taking the stage.

It seems that life always has bizarre twists and turns to it, but the older I get, the more I believe that some of us steer into strange odysseys all on our own.  Mostly because we welcome variety and partly because, at least for me, the less I worry about what others think of me and the more I care about not suppressing who I am, the better off I am emotionally. That's not to say that in every instance I can let my hair down and be myself.  But I'm learning.

I arrived in New York Friday evening, via Canada, because it's quicker.  It's always interesting conversing with border guards.  I have gotten to a point where I like to "engage" them; especially after the time one guard ransacked my vehicle and picked through my bras, panties and socks like a chimp looking for nits.  You'd think I was built like Pamela Anderson and was hiding a bomb the size of South Africa in each cup the way he went through my lingerie.  Finally, I snatched my Victoria's Secret underwire out of his hands and said, "Enough already.  You saw the self-help book on the back seat, the Bible, and the book about herbal remedies.  Aren't you guys supposed to be trained in profiling?  My mom's sick, I'm praying, and I'm losing my mind.  That's all." He looked stunned and I felt like I was going to pass out -  because I knew that either I had crossed a line and was in big trouble, or he was merely a kindly soul, interested in women's underwear and willing to take pity on me - especially after realizing he hadn't found the Holy Grail of lacy, voluminous brassieres.  Instead, he'd gotten the booby prize (literally) in my hopeful, yet "still-commanding-a-presence," 34B's.  He decided to let me go, but not before recommending a good book to read about grief and dying. 

Just when it felt like I had been swallowed by a black hole and I'd never come out the other side to New York, I made it and was asked by that border guard whether I was bringing anything into the country valued at more than $1,000.  "Just me and my car," I said wearily.  Two days later, as I once again entered Canada on my way back to Michigan, the question was whether I was bringing anything declarable into their country.  "Just this huge pimple here," I said cheerily, pointing to the burgeoning growth between my nose and upper lip - something that began the day of my reunion and sent me into a panic.  I mean, I'm 49 years old.  I can't remember the last time I've had a pimple and now one decides to show it's ugly face on the day of my high school reunion some 32 years later?  High school memories seemingly were back with a vengeance in every way, shape and form.

When the guard continued to stare at his computer screen, never once glancing my way, I continued.  "Honestly, this one deserves a first and middle name," I chuckled and glanced up the highway.  He darted a look back, shook his head, gave me back my passport and said, "All set." 

Druck says to leave these people alone.  He says they get stand-up comedy (or drive-through actually) by thousands of people everyday.  I disagree.  Because I've had my own share of their version of stand-up comedy and so, it's the least I can do for these men and women who occasionally put me through the wringer with their idiotic questions and their own lame jokes.

Was it worth the trip?  Let me say that I vacillated as to whether to go or not up until the last minute.  Mostly because I don't do well in large groups and partly because I don't do well in small groups either.  I'm inherently shy.  If I were born a cat, I'd be feral, always watching from the edge of the woods, looking at the cats sitting in the windows inside their warm cozy homes, well-fed and loved.  I'd sit there, wishing I could summon up the courage to walk up to someone's patio door and see if they'd find me lovely and worthwhile and want to take me in.  But my feralness would take over and I'd fear the rejection more than the possibility of the door opening.  I'd rather stay outside the group and feel just a little cold and a lot lonely than to take a chance and see if someone would let me in.  Because, for me, rejection is more painful than frost-bitten nights at the edge of the woods.

32 years later, I took a chance and stepped inside the warm VFW hall where the reunion took place.  My heart pounded and I did only a little stammering. 

Unfortunately, earlier in the evening I had fallen asleep on the couch and woke up way late, uncertain as to whether it was 6:15 am the next day or 6:15 pm the night of the reunion.  Initially, I thought, "OK.  I slept through that.  No reason to cry over spilt milk."  Then when I realized it was 6:15 pm, I thought, "Too late.  Can't go.  Get some take-out and stay home."  After pacing back and forth for about 30 seconds, I decided to go, causing me to sprint around in a panic.  I was late to the reunion and, on top of that, I hadn't eaten much all day.  When someone walked up to me to say all kinds of nice things and engage me in conversation, I had a plate of food in my hand and my feralness took over.  Feeling faint, I talked for a minute and then said, "I have to sit down and eat before I pass out."  She nodded and I ran off to eat, but I discovered that I could barely swallow my food. I didn't see Margaret again that evening and I still wish I had connected with her.  I wanted to talk about so many things with that woman, and if things had gone differently (not dozing off, making sure I ate properly), I would have enjoyed her company. 

Afterward, I found myself wandering and talking to people and, as the night progressed, I felt better.  I felt calmer.  Because these were all good people.  Some told stories of things we had done together which made me realize that while I have changed over the years, many things about me haven't, and most of those things are quite comical.  

So was it worth it?  Yes.  In every way.  It reminded me that people change, people grow, we tolerate and accept more about ourselves and others.  We take each day for what it is:  a gift.  And we learn to share the gifts we have already attained with others, and learn not to fear rejection of those gifts. We also learn to accept the gifts of others graciously.

I can't wait for the next reunion.  Because next time, I'll set my alarm, will eat like a pig all day prior, and I'll look for my dear friend, Margaret.

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma

High School Reunion

 Leaving tomorrow for my high school reunion.  We're celebrating our 50th birthdays - not an actual "out of high school" milestone.  It'll be one of those whirlwind weekends.  Leaving tomorrow, driving for 7 hours.  Saturday will be spent with my dad during the day and the evening at the reunion.  Later that evening, I will depart there to meet up with neighbor friends to celebrate another reunion.  I'll drive home on Sunday.

I have not seen almost all of these people in over 30 years.  Thankfully, we have reconnected through Facebook.  I'll try to take pics of people, places and good food.  I'll miss Liam, though.  Each day with him has its own predictability flavored with brand new things: Liam running and hiding behind the sheers in the living room, standing perfectly still, hands clasped, waiting for someone to look for him.  If we don't come quickly enough, he'll call out, "Ee-yum (Liam)?"  It's our cue to drop everything and go look for him.  It's a little difficult when you can see him right there and he is watching with an impish grin on his face until we suddenly and amazingly find him. 

Yesterday morning, I made him pancakes for breakfast.  Afterward, as he sat atop the dryer watching Poppy iron himself a shirt for work, I stood and marveled at two of my three favorite men in my life (the third being my son).  When Poppy asked Liam if Grammy had made him pancakes, that beautiful child, eyes fixed on the ironing project, pointed to his little mouth and did a loud and emphatic, "Mmmmmmmmm!!!"  That said it all.  With one little sound. 

I'll enjoy my weekend but will be anxious to get back to my family. 

Until then, my wishes are for each of you to enjoy your own families this weekend.

- Maggie

Liam Dreams, Love and the Song at the End....

"Love is of source unknown yet it grows ever deeper. The living may die of it, by its power the dead live again. Love is not love at its fullest if one who is living is unwilling to die for it, or if it cannot restore to life one who has died. And must love that comes in dream necessarily be unreal? For there is no lack of dream lovers in this world. Only for those whose love must be fulfilled on the pillow, and for whom affection deepens only after retirement from office, is it an entirely corporeal matter." - From the Peony Pavilion

Love blooms - often from the moment we first set eyes on a person. Sometimes, the person is unseen - for 9 months.  And, as those 9 months drag on, we fall more and more in love with the little one we expectantly wait to greet. 

I remember my daughter asking me, "What if he has abnormalities?  What if he is born retarded or without some fingers or arms?"  I responded solemnly and sincerely, "We will love him anyway.  We will take care of him and nurture him and help him to grow in whatever manner we need to." 

I try to take a lesson from that in everyday life as well.  As we go through life, we encounter all kinds of people.  People with physical ailments, mental ailments, and some who are just plain different. We don't know their story.  We don't know why the cashier just can't make eye contact today (the love of her life just left her and to look into anyone's eyes might cause her emotional collapse?), or someone is riding our ass in traffic (rushing to the hospital to be by the side of a loved one?), or the teenager rushes past, knocking your bag of groceries to the ground (his Crone's Disease is acting up again?).  We don't know their stories.  So maybe it's best to just take some time to offer love in these situations.  By not angrily snatching the change from the cashier, by not flipping off the driver, and not yelling after the teenager. 

Believe me, we feel better for it when we let go of the anger and let go of the hate; when we accept life for what it is and realize that we are all in this together.

All for Love:  Copy and paste for a beautiful ending to today's post:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XgDfzvQPDFM