Scars

I love asking people about their scars—their physical scars. I find it a good way to discover insights into their personalities and get a sense of their childhoods.

My scar stories

Like most kids I have one on my knee. It’s not from a single incident, but from repeatedly falling on a section of sidewalk uprooted by an old maple. I loved that section of sidewalk when I was a child. If you hooked your foot in it just right, fell, and then caught yourself before he were horizontal, it felt like flying. I loved that feeling. I just wasn’t very good at making the necessary calculations for success. Mostly I just took the risk and fell. I like this scar because it implies that I’m willing to take risks. And it’s also a reminder that the scars of even painful failures fade away.

As a teenager I leaped onto the top of a short wooden post. I felt like an owl landing on a branch, so I did it again and ended up with large bruises on my thighs. The incident was worthy of a scar, but I didn’t acquire one.

I have a scar on my arm that is also self-inflicted. I fought with my friend, Christine, in sewing class in 6th grade. She grabbed my scissors and I grabbed them back. She dug her nails into my arm to make me let go of my grasp. She won that fight. To get back at her, I kept picking the scab off my laceration and pointing out to her how she hurt me. I’m sure she no longer remembers the incident. I, however, have a scar. This scar reminds me that when trying to hurt others, sometimes you just hurt yourself.

I have one scar only my mother can see. When I was a toddler I fell out of the truck onto the sidewalk. I screamed and bled and probably threw a tantrum. Mom had to call her father to come help her with me. She didn’t take me to the doctor and felt tremendous guilt over that. So when she looks at my forehead she sees a scar. I remember being able to see it at one time, but I haven’t been able to locate it for years now. All that’s left is a feeling that I should always have bangs.

Scars of others

HabMoo has a scar to prove that he, too, was willing to take risks or that he was once dumb as a rock. As a child playing with a bow and arrows, he and a friend painted a target on a cardboard box. Then he crawled inside while his friend took aim. Hopefully he learned the importance of taking cover behind something stronger than the projectile coming your way. Evidence, however, shows he could use a second lesson.

A former partner had a scar where a German Shepherd tried to eat her head. It was a good metaphor about the parenting she experienced.

My mother has pencil lead in the middle of her palm given to her by a boy in school. I was also attacked with a pencil, but I dug all the graphite out. Consequently I can’t remember the name of my attacker. But I think it was a boy in my math class.

She also put her finger under the foot of a sewing machine and sent the needle through her finger. But somehow she escaped without a scar and only the memory of scaring her own mother.

Scars are part of our personal stories and prove that we can survive hurts. But I’m not ready to have jewelry made to commemorate it.

Do you have any good scars and stories to share?

Spouse’s deployment: what to look forward to

Whenever HabMoo has left for a deployment or months of training, I try to think of things to do I’d pass up if he was home. He’s only gone for three weeks for AT (annual training) but it’s not too early to plan for the year-long deployment next year.

Games

He sort of monopolizes the gaming systems we have. That’s OK, since before I met him I was playing Sims with a dogged determination to play it until it became fun. Then he introduced me to some good games. Like Rock Band. I always think I’ll play Rock Band with my friends when he’s gone. I don’t know why I always forget that he takes that with him when he goes. So no Rock Band during his AT. But he’s probably leaving enough pieces behind next spring that I can play. Friends: Can you come up with an awesome band name for us?

Food

Liver, beets, tuna fish, white sauces, here I come! If I think about it and don’t get into a rut of food we normally eat together.

Movies

Bette Davis will be playing next week. I’m thinking it’s time to watch all the Godfather movies again, too. And maybe catch up with those movies from the 40s and 70s I never saw. Maybe I’ll do a Robert Duvall festival.

Shopping

I’m not much of a shopper, unless I’m in a book store. But I do enjoy telling HabMoo that he should buy me something and then telling him what. So during his last training, I got the artwork pictured at right. It reminded me of the animated emoticon he’d frequently use when we IM’d during his last deployment. It was of a smiley face tipping it’s cowboy hat. Plus it just makes me smile.

I’ll have to give him a list of flowers I like and don’t like. He tends to confuse various types. I’m not a big fan of spending money on something like flowers which die and have to be thrown in the compost, but occasionally they are appropriate. Since my views on when to send flowers is rather capricious, I just tell him when. Some women get them every week or so during a deployment and that’s too much waste of money. I’d rather save up and get a pair of pink leather gloves.

Travel

During the last deployment I went to Argentina and that was a great distraction. I think next year I’ll visit a friend in Vancouver. Anyone want to invite me anyplace else? I’m always up for Yellowstone. I’d love to go to the Calgary Stampede.

Pets

Three cats isn’t too many is it? I’ll be very susceptible to mewling kittens in my sister’s barn. I’ll want to rescue one and bring it home. I am sure of this. I am sure that having a new kitten would fill some of my time. I’m sure that the currents boys will not be happy. I am sure that I’ll regret it at times. But I bet I bring one home anyway. Sorry, HabMoo. But it’s better than bringing home a new boyfriend.

Lucky me

Today I had lunch with a dear friend I don’t often see. She remarked that “everyone’s life is hard and I told her that mine felt pretty easy these days.  I reflected on this observation on the way home and realized that I have regained some of the optimism extruded from my soul during my last years at the institution where I worked.

I’m so excited by the lack of stress and repeated frustrations in my life. I feel like I should throw a welcome home party for my brighter side. I’m having to become acquainted with it.

But life truly is easy even with Mom’s dementia. I have to care for her, but I’ve gotten over the guilt of not having her move in with me and I haven’t had to put her in a nursing home. I believe she’s getting good care in assisted living. And she’s a delight to be around. She’s funny and agreeable, just slow moving and hard to clearly communicate with. She has not lost her core personality.

I have enough money. I don’t need a lot to be able to say that and I think that attitude is a blessing straight from my parents. I don’t need a lot to keep me nourished physically or emotionally or spiritually. I feel blessed that HabMoo is willing to take on the bulk of the bread-winning without rancor. I’m lucky that I have an education and skill that I can charge people to access. I can enjoy flexibility and open space in my schedule. And I find scrimping and saving to be a rewarding challenge if its not an impossible task.

My husband will be deployed this time next year, but again I feel optimistic. He’s not likely to fire a weapon unless he’s allowed on a shooting range. Our marriage is strong enough that I don’t have to worry about a year’s time being more stress than it can handle. We’ve been through it once and it sucks and it’s survivable.

I feel strong today and lucky. This makes for a rather boring blog post, but I want to be able to revisit this feeling when, as is part of the human psyche, I trip into frustration or despair and judge my life against others who seem to have it better. If I ever again get to the point where I feel like I can’t summon up any enthusiasm and I’m embarrassed by the personality people introduced to me see, then I can come back to this post and remember that this bright, optimistic and confident self is also a part of me. It’s resilient enough to return to my consciousness if given the chance.

Army vs. Peace Corps deployment from the SO’s viewpoint

Today I was wondering why I’m already so focused on HabMoo’s deployment which is several months away. I suddenly recalled preparing for D’s Peace Corps service and how that was significantly different. But why and how?

Background: D is an old boyfriend I met shortly before he left for the Ivory Coast. While there, he had to be evacuated because of civil unrest. He lived with me for a few months and then left for Jamaica. HabMoo is my husband and we married after he was deployed, but a day or two before he left for Iraq. (He spent several months of deployment in the U.S. being trained and bored.)

Length of service

Even though the Peace Corps term is two years and the Army National Guard’s is now officially only one year, the Army deployment feels longer. When D was in the Ivory Coast and Jamaica I had the option of visiting him. I don’t have the option of flying to Kuwait and getting a tour of all the historic sites and national wonders. I never planned to go to the Ivory Coast, but I did have that option. And I did take the opportunity to visit D in Jamaica. The distance in terms of miles and time seemed less because I could influence it.

Plus I have the knowledge that the MN Army National Guard Red Bulls had the longest tour during WWII and so far in Iraq (22 months of active duty, 16 in Iraq) And those soldiers who had their deployments extended just when they thought they were coming home. I also remember how many months HabMoo was in the states seemingly just waiting to go to Iraq when the countdown would actually begin. So my trust in the announced length of deployment is very low.

Historic precedence

I haven’t seen any movies or heard any songs about the Peace Corps or their loved ones left at home. I have seen lots of war movies and have listened to my own family’s stories, so my expectations are that deployments truly suck for those left at home. If I let my imagination wander, it wanders to some pretty unpleasant stories and images.

When hostilities break out in a host country, Peace Corps volunteers are evacuated. Soldiers are sent the into the fray.

The image of the soldier and the nurse in Times Square is iconic, but reveals the relief of a war ending. I don’t expect the wars we’re in now to really end so I don’t envision HabMoo coming home when the war is over. I expect him to come home when the Army decides his unit can come home. I know that his family will be excited, but I don’t expect a parade or community celebration and relief.

When Peace Corps volunteers comes home, they bring lots of stories that everyone wants to hear. When soldiers come home everyone is curious, but cautious and not so sure they want to hear the stories.

Preparations

Preparing for D’s departure was emotional and involved gift-giving, getting his new address, buying phone cards, and making sure he left one of his t-shirts behind. The date was set even if we didn’t know exactly where he’d be working. The Ivory Coast was harder to prepare for since the country had less infrastructure, but when he left we weren’t as close and I liked the thought of learning more about him through letters. Jamaica was easier; I knew I could get phone calls and regular mail.

D was super excited about his Peace Corp preparations and didn’t hide that. I could share some of that excitement. HabMoo also displays some restrained excitement a, but even though this time he’s preparing for a fairly secure location in Kuwait, he’s still preparing for war. There’s excitement, but it’s in a different key. He’s making purchases just like D did, and planning what to pack. They both prepared for a mission, for service, and I could feel proud of each of them for that.  But preparing for poverty and cultural shock differs from preparing to carry a weapon with you to meals.

The organization

The Peace Corps does a good job of preparing loved ones and letting them know what to expect before, during, and after the volunteer stint is over. And it’s even possible for the volunteer to quit. The Army is trying to prepare families, but they still pretty much suck at it. The Peace Corps has more experience and functions in the U.S. as a single organization. The U.S. Armed Services has multiple branches and there are a multitude of poorly organized websites with information and resources. This serves to frustrate this family member more than it supports her.

If the Peace Corps says the volunteer will be at this location and this is how you can reach him in an emergency, then that’s what I’ll believe. If the Army tells me that, I’ll be thrilled that they shared concrete details and then I’ll wonder how long this information will be accurate. This is particularly true when the soldier has leave or a departure date. I trust dates when I have confirmation that my soldier is on a plane and not before. War is hell on one’s ability to schedule. I can’t help but wonder if he’ll be leaving in January or November instead of April or May.

Conclusion

Peace Corps isn’t war. It’s just a long-term separation which might change the volunteer, but will most likely be a positive experience. It’s hard and lonely and routines are trashed.

War is messy and unorganized and worrisome. It’s a much harder long-term separation which will certainly change the soldier. It might be a positive change, as I think HabMoo’s was from his time in Iraq, or it might not be. I worried about D coming home and being obnoxiously wanting to tell me how things were done in his host country and how privileged my life is. I worry about HabMoo coming home crazy.

Please note: I don’t mean crazy as in having PSTD. I worry about what being cooped up and bored day after day does to his psyche, not to mention the tone of his communications with me. I’m hoping he has a few important decisions to make while he’s there so he doesn’t have to re-learn the skill when he returns. Last time he came home with the trick of picking up a pencil with his upper lip. I hope he’s able to channel his creativity and energy as well this time around.

I hope I learn to be flexible and resilient.

A day with Mom

I didn’t really spend the day with Mom; it was more like 4 hours, but it felt like a day. I left the house late so didn’t pick her any flowers. I feel some guilt for that. Mom can’t read easily because of her macular degeneration. And she can’t watch TV or listen to the radio because she can’t figure out the controls. So she wanders about and she looks at things.

She loves flowers so they capture her attention. Both my sister and I try to bring her a bouquet when we visit. Mom doesn’t touch them so they are always without water and dropping petals when I visit. I feel bad for the cleaning crew who have to vacuum and dust up all the dropped pollen and petals and leaves. I gave her a hanging basket she can see from her window, but which she never waters. The maintenance staff isn’t supposed to water it either, but they do. (Thanks guys!) And when I visit I take her outside to deadhead flowers in the central court area.

Today I had to get there in time to pick up her nurse’s report and get her to the eye doctor. I hate the visit because it’s freezing in the waiting room, and the visits are always long because they involve eye scans and waiting for her eyes to dilate. But mostly it’s because they give her a shot in the eye. This is one thing Mom remembers, but she thinks she’s only had three or four shots instead of closer to a dozen. She forgets that the drops sting. She forgets that she always gets cold even with her sweater on. She does not forget that they always tell her “good job” which she thinks is something you should only tell a dog. She’s very polite about it, however, and the assistants seem to enjoy her.

On my way to Mom’s, I took a call from her doctor’s office. On Thursday (today is Tues.) she’d had a doctor’s visit because she had gained five pounds in two days. Being only around 90 pounds, this was a significant weight gain and could have meant a heart or lung problem. Apparently the lung x-ray showed some fluid so an antibiotic was prescribed. The nurse wouldn’t talk to me initially and wanted me to call her back once I got to Mom and she could ask for Mom’s permission to talk to me.

I returned the nurse’s call and finally recalled that the office has a copy of my power of attorney and one of their own documents giving them permission to speak to me. It’s always hit or miss if the bank or a doctor will speak to me about Mom or not. I still can’t convince Social Security to do it. Some places need both a power of attorney and a medical power of attorney and they want them as separate documents.

I wish I had inherited Mom’s lung strength. She has had pneumonia several times and never shows any symptoms like coughing or sleeping or even feeling worn out. I mentioned this to her and she told me that when she had it on the train she had felt terrible. She hasn’t ridden a train since WWII and she didn’t have pneumonia then so I don’t know what she was remembering. When I ask her about it she tells me, “I don’t know. I wasn’t there.”

Her memory issues make it hard for doctors. She can’t recall if she felt dizzy yesterday or not. Or if her eye sight has improved or gotten worse. Luckily she will complain to me of some things so I have an idea and the staff at her assisted living let me know about any complaints she has.. But she complains to me of things that aren’t true. For example, she has told me about several instances of bowel incontinence but the staff have never found any evidence of this and I can’t imagine she’s sneaking her dirty underwear out of the facility.

After her shot in the eye and lunch at McDonald’s, we stopped at the grocery store to pick up her prescription. It was $160. I didn’t pay it. I have a call in to the doctor to see if she can prescribe something less expensive. I am worrying about this. Maybe I should have just paid for it so Mom could begin treatment. But the doctor wasn’t in a rush to prescribe it and Mom has no discomfort. So maybe it can wait. But since I didn’t pick it up, I wonder if my sister be able to afford to buy it for Mom tomorrow and let me pay her back with a check from Mom’s account? Will that $160 put Mom in that odd “doughnut hole” otherwise know as the Medicare Part D coverage gap? The health care reform should have taken care of that issue, so maybe I don’t have to worry about that any longer. I don’t want to spend her money too fast because once she runs out, she’ll have to move into the nursing home. Hopefully I’ll get a call from the clinic before they close (half an hour from now.)

Luckily Mom doesn’t feel any of this stress. Today she asked again if I had seen my father. I reminded her that he died over 10 years ago. She shook her head up and down as she remembered. “I shouldn’t be so put out with him then,” she replied. She displays no grief, just the same amount of sorrow that I have when I tell her that I miss him, too.

I love it that she still take delight in natural things. We talked about size of the clouds as we drove back to her assisted living location, which she calls “the home.” We also talked about how the flag she saw outside one of the office buildings was not the same flag that flies outside her window. She’s very precious and I hope I do well by her.

Cowboy boots: Why I need a dozen pair

Daddy believed that those of us who inherited his flat feet would find greater support and comfort wearing boots. He was right. There used to be photos of him in shorts and cowboy boots. I think they are all missing now or have had his image inked out. I’m not sure which is more embarrassing, a father in black socks and sandals wearing shorts or a father in cowboy boots and shorts.

While camping I’ve given up on my hiking shoes and switched to cowboy boots. They aren’t great in the mud, but my feet feel better after an hour of hiking than they do in other footwear.

Plus boots are fashionable, right? When I was in third grade and girls were allowed to wear pants to school I asked the principal for permission to wear my boots to school. It was a pretty brave thing to do if I do say so myself. He granted permission and Theresa and I got to wear our boots. But I promised the principal that we wouldn’t wear them with skirts. Now I wear them with skirts all the time.

Maybe I’m not a cowboy’s wife with handmade boots and I’m not from Texas like the girls in the photo below, but I still deserve a few more pairs. It’s really my best avenue for self expression, I think. They are part of my history and are yet so classic.

I wish I had had a wedding with bridesmaids in boots. I had considered getting white ones for my wedding, but finally decided they didn’t go with the dress.

I’ve put an old pair to use as planters and I have a second pair ready for the same use next year. So it’s time to make the replacement. I mean I’m a responsible cowboy boot owner. I wear them for years and years and then recycle. I’m deserving.

What do you guys think? Which of these should I buy?

• Old Gringo

• Dan Post (on sale now!)

• Dan Post 2

• Lucchese 1

I bought my first paif of Lucchese boots this year and they have been the most comfortable I’ve ever owned.

• Luchesse 2

I have a pair of turquoise lizard skinned boots. But my previous pair of lizards are now planters.

• Lucchese 3

• Lucches 4

I’ve never even seen a black and white pair before.

• Lucches 5

I probably need a new red Western shirt to go with these.

• Lucchese 6

• Lucchese 7