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Three is an abundance of Legos in the old farmhouse at Shady Acres.  When Eldest Son and Youngest Son were growing up, they spent many happy hours creating things and Youngest Son would even have contests with cousins and friends and things would get very interesting.  Especially if Delaware Grammy (who was “Mom” or “Mama” or “Momma” or even “Mo—OM!!!” then) was called upon to judge such creations and the eager eyes of Youngest Son or a nephew or a friend were watching with bated breath and anxious expressions. Over the years, Certain Man (now Delaware Grampa) and Certain Man’s Wife (now Delaware Grammy) added to the basic collections with smaller collections from land, sea, air and even space and the Legos overflowed their boxes and took up lodging in places never intended for the safe keeping of these diverse building blocks that are so mesmerizing to people regardless of their age and gender.

But I digress.  This was to make the point that there are LOTS of Legos.  There is the big red bucket full and a Tupperware container full, and always, always there were odds and ends around in strange places.  About a month ago, Delaware Grammy got tired of having Legos that were largely inaccessible and mostly uncontainable and extremely frustrating.  It was a real chore to get kids to pick them up if ever they were allowed to have them out, and it often ended up that at least some of them would be smuggled out of sight for someone to pick up “later.”  Of course, this made it difficult for Delaware Grammy to be enthusiastic about getting them out in the first place.  Because of this, the Legos were not getting much play time at all.  And that troubled Delaware Grammy because the grandkids were getting older, Legos are such educational toys and there was a considerable amount of financial investment in them as well.  It just seemed like a waste of something good to keep them stored away.

About the same time that Delaware Grammy got tired of the many containers of Legos, she commenced to clean out her study where most of them were stored.  In the process of cleaning the study, she had to move the Lego boxes around quite a few times and after about the fourth time, she decided to sally forth to the local department store and buy a big storage box for the Legos.  All of them.  Sure enough, in her favorite aisle that offers all sorts of storage bins and boxes, the perfect box was found.  It was an “Under the Bed” box, with wheels and a lid that folded up in the middle so that you could have half a box open at once if you so desired.  It was large enough that the Legos could be rooted through and they would be seen with enough clarity that dumping everything out on the rug could quite possibly become a thing of the past.

Aha!  Delaware Grammy seized upon it with delight and with great maneuverings and “Excuse Me, please,” and adept and fascinating quick moves, managed to tote it to the checkout without disaster.  Payment was made and the box of many qualities came home to the farmhouse at Shady Acres.  Delaware Grammy and Granddaughter Charis fetched all the Legos and dumped them into the container.  Glory be!  It was perfect for the job for which it was acquired.  The many Legos tumbled into the box and there were great exclamations of delight from all concerned.  However, Delaware Grammy found out almost immediately that one of its more unfavorable characteristics was that it was almost an inch too high to fit under a bed.  The only place that she could think of that was easily accessible and wasn’t already occupied was under Our Girl Nettie’s bed, but when she and Granddaughter Charis were storing it, they found that the new box just didn’t slide under with the ease that was hoped for.  Almost.  But not quite.

Delaware Grammy struggled a bit, then said, “I’m going to lift up this end and you can just slide it right under!”  And she did, and even though the bed that Nettie appeared to enjoy a bit more support than it had previously, Delaware Grammy thought that it was probably all for the best, and that having so snug a fit would prevent “just anyone” from dragging them out at any old time without permission.

There came a time, a week or so later, when Granddaughter, Charis had come for the night.  Grandpa was at a Men’s  meeting, and Grammy and Charis had the house to themselves.  Charis was playing with a great pile of Legos and Grammy was cleaning out her study.  There was this huge pile of family photo albums that Delaware Grammy wanted to transport from the study, through the side room, across a bit of kitchen floor, through the dining/family room and into a far corner of the living room.  The task looked indomitable – that is, until Delaware Grammy thought of piling the books onto her trusty, wheeled desk chair and using it to make one trip instead of a five or six.  Oh, boy!  An in house truck!

So, she loaded the big chair down and actually managed to get all 24 the albums on there.  It was a precarious stack but Delaware Grammy decided to make a go for it.  She did think a bit ruefully of Sweet Mama’s gentle admonition that she heard often as a child when such endeavors were attempted.  Often when there was a big load of anything that Delaware Grammy was struggling to move in just one trip, Sweet Mama would say, “That’s a lazy man’s load!” meaning that taking big, unsafe loads was actually trying to get out of work.  This was definitely a “Lazy Man’s Load!”

It was fairly easy going over the flat, worn out carpet in the study.  It was smooth sailing over the alcove and kitchen floor’s linoleum.  It was a bit more difficult over the bumpy carpet in the family room, but when DG got to the living room, the going was really tough.  Plus, there was a little girlie with her box of Legos spread out right in the walkway.

“Charis,” said Delaware Grammy excitedly, “look at Grammy’s truck!”

Charis looked up from her project and briefly acknowledged the unusual mode of transportation.  “Uh-huh!” she said, distracted by her project.

“Charis,” said Delaware Grammy, “Could you move your Legos and the box over so Grammy can push her truck through here to get over to the back corner?”

“Uh-huh,” said Charis, again a bit distractedly.  She made a few swipes at the Legos and tried to get things together.  It was going somewhat slower than Grammy wanted, so she left her position behind the truck and started scraping things together with her big foot.  That worked, a little, but the box was in the way.  The wonderful box that had wheels and lots of storage and was low enough to the ground to go under the bed sat solidly in its place.  Grammy took her foot and tried to move it along with a wide sweep of Legos.

This was a very bad idea, as she was just about to find out.  When her foot hit that box, it was at the end of a wide sweeping motion and Delaware Grammy’s balance was entirely off.  Suddenly, she was struggling to stay upright.  Except there was nowhere to go!  The box was in front of her, the truck was behind her, the post for the stairs was to  her right  and a coffee table was to the left.  She tried in vain to find her footing, dancing in the same spot for a brief instant, even turning towards the post, scrambling for a handhold to steady herself, but all was in vain.

Down she crashed in all her glory, landing squarely on her rear end on the edge of THAT BOX!  One thing she found out really quickly was that that box really was sturdy!  It did not give a single bit.  Didn’t bend, didn’t crack, didn’t break.  It seemed that it did eventually tip sideways and hit her in the back, but that certainly wasn’t the dilemma at the time.

“Grammy, you fell!” Announced a little voice from somewhere in the vicinity.  Delaware Grammy was dimly aware that she was fluttering anxiously about.  “Grammy!  You fell!” She said again, very worriedly.

“Yes, Grammy fell.  Silly old Grammy,” said Delaware Grammy as she floundered about looking for something substantial enough to get a hold of.  She eventually got herself up on her knees and got a firm hold on the bottom step of the stairs and hauled herself up.  Everything seemed to work, nothing appeared broken, but Wowser!!!  Something really hurt in the vicinity of her tail bone.  She recalled hearing something “pop” when she landed, but there was obviously nothing major amiss.

“That must have been the ‘pop’ you hear when you crack your fingers,” she decided and gingerly went about the rest of her evening.  Beloved Granddaughter seemed unscathed by the experience, and the photo albums were put into their designated spot.  And that was mostly the end of it.

Except for the fact that Delaware Grammy has had to be very careful where she sits and how she sits ever since.

“You would think,” she thought this morning as she carefully lowered herself into her favorite chair, that this bruise and bump would be gone by now.”  But it is still very much a consideration when Delaware Grammy is looking for a place to sit.  It is definitely better, and she made it to and from Ohio last weekend without too much pain and spent many happy hours on the road with Delaware Grampa and even more happy times with the Ohio Grandsons, so it is getting better, and one of these days, it will be but a dim memory.

And that is part of the news from Shady Acres, where the wind is blowing the laundry straight out, Beloved Granddaughter has been helping Grandpa plant some garden, and Delaware Grammy is loving this wonderfully sunny day!

It has been an unusual three months for this Delaware Grammy.  I’ve had the flu, an infection in my mastoid sinuses, pink-eye, head cold, bronchitis and now another infection in my sinuses — the front ones this time.

I’ve always prided myself on not getting sick.  “I almost never get sick,” I would say, and sometimes quoted my friend, Louise Schlabach DiGennero who once said to me, “I think God allows Mommies to ‘get just enough’ sick to be merciful.”  That has been something that was pivotal for me as a parent.  When I was slightly miserable and sick, I would remember what Louise said and wonder how much worse the little bodies felt with what I had and a LOT more going on in their little bodies, and it was easier to be patient and understanding and even to clean up after them one. more. time. without losing my cool when I really just wanted them to get well and stay well.

And that is what I’ve wanted for me, too, these last few months.  But I need to face it.  Any attempts to say that I almost never get sick are futile attempts at self deception and downright dishonest.  I could be tried for perjury and would be found guilty.

So my sinuses have been acting up again — to the point where I can neither smell or taste.  There have been lots of attempts to correct this with essential oils as well as Musinex and even a once daily nasal spray.

Nothing appears to be living up to the claims on the sides of the boxes.

Today I took Nettie to an appointment in Lewes and since it is somewhat a tradition, and the hour was getting late, I stopped to get her lunch at Dunkin’ Donut.  They have good sandwiches on croissant rolls, and she decided that she wanted a tuna salad sandwich with a coffee.  Even though I can’t taste, I keep hoping that the next time I will eat something, the spell will be broken and I will be able to again enjoy some food.  I looked at the menu and decided to add a chicken salad sandwich and a small sweet tea.

The gal at the counter served us our lunch in a brown paper bag,  Two sandwiches in the bottom, packaged exactly alike.  Nettie wanted to sit in and eat, so we found ourselves a place beside the wall, and I brought out the first sandwich.  It looked like chicken salad.  I smelled it.  I couldn’t tell.  I took out the other one.  I smelled it.

“What you doin’?” asked Nettie, looking worried.

“I’m smelling this sandwich,” I tell her and have to laugh. “I can’t tell which one is the chicken salad and which is the tuna.”

“Humph!”  She says doubtfully.

“Here,” I say, putting one under her nose.  “What do you think?  Is this tuna or chicken?”

“I ‘on’t know,” she says, sniffing away.  “It might be tuna.  I think I smell fish.  I can’t tell.”

I smelled them both again, and gave her the one that she thought maybe smelled like fish.  We sat at the table in Dunkin’ Donuts and ate our sandwiches.  One bite into hers she thought it might be chicken.  I offered to trade.

“No,” she said.  “I can’t really tell.”

So we both ate our sandwiches, neither of us sure if we had chicken salad or tuna salad.  I kept taking long, deep, smelling breaths from my sandwich, but I never did know what I ate.  We drank our drinks –my sweet tea, and her coffee and she ate her donuts.  I cleaned up the mess, put away the trash and we came on home.  It was all okay.  Two Gals who couldn’t tell what they were eating but both eating it anyway and having a good time doing it.

Yepper!  That’s me and Our Girl Nettie.

Tonight the man that I love most started talking about gardening.  I suggested we walk out and do some planning.  This winter has given me a deep longing to grow vegetables and plant flowers.

We walked out to the sodden patch and talked about asparagus and tomatoes and cucumbers and carrots and butternut squash and red peppers and spinach and lettuce and radishes and onions and red potatoes and yellow squash and lima beans and rhubarb and peas.  We did not mention green beans. (https://maryannyutzy.wordpress.com/2011/08/27/oh-those-green-beans/)  We looked at an empty spot at the end of the garden and he confessed wanting to plant a few blueberries and maybe a red raspberry or two and spoke wistfully of the mulberry bushes of his childhood that brought so many birds to the yard and such angst to his Mom on wash day.

This morning, when we woke up, it was first snowing, then sleeting, then raining.  The little drips of ice hung tremulously off the gate and tree branches.  It was miserable and there were so many accidents on his way to work that he wondered how anyone could be so foolish as to not call at least a two hour delay for the northern counties of our small state.

Sometime today the air changed.  The sun came out. It got warm enough that the chicken house alarm went off.  Certain Man was up in Smyrna.  Deborah was at an appointment then running errands for several hours.  I was sitting in Dr. Wilson’s office, miserable and grumpy.  Certain Man took an early lunch hour, came home to attend to his errant alarm and found that his chicken houses wanted to go into tunnel ventilation.  On the day it was snowing and sleeting and icy enough to cause accidents.  It feels like one of God’s smiles in the middle of what has been a long, dark winter.

Dr. Wilson’s office.  I only went because I am so tired of being sick.  Over a month ago, in the middle of treatment for a UTI, I came down with fever, aches, and vomiting.  No cough.  But I assumed that it had to be a virus because I was on antibiotics.  Wasn’t sure how the flu slipped by the immunization that I had in November, but it seemed like the flu.  (By the way.  If you will forgive me for getting a flu shot, I will forgive you for not.  In the business I am in, when people insist on going out sick, exposing my ladies — and me — in thoughtless ways to germs that I could possibly avoid by an immunization, I’m going to protect them and me in any way that I can. Emphasis my own!)

I’ve taken the flu shot for years and only remember one time that I thought I had the flu.  But a month ago, it sure seemed to me that it was what I had.  It passed, I came to believe that I would some day be whole and gradually got back into the swing of things, blaming my residual weariness and sometimes unwell feelings on the grief and stress and some heavy family issues that neither I, nor the ones involved could do anything about.

A few weeks ago, I realized that there was a pressure on the right side of my head that was persistent and troublesome.  I followed the line of tight muscles and touchy nerves to my shoulder and thought that maybe the problem was a neck issue that I had been ignoring for a while.  It had certainly been aggravated by numerous lengthy phone calls where I cradled my phone while trying to also accomplish household tasks.  So I called my trusty chiropractor and arranged a consult.  What I was feeling was the strangest sensation.  I tried to describe it, tried to chart it, but nothing really explained it.  I couldn’t really call it pain, but it was certainly pressure, sometimes throbbing, sometimes feeling like a “swimmy head,” sometimes almost driving me to distraction.  She ascertained that I had, in fact, a major maladjustment in there , and recommended some home remedies as well as a series of visits to her office.  We enjoy a good relationship, but as much as I like visiting her, my head was getting no better.

Monday a week ago, I sat in her office and said, “Dr. Keener, I’m really not getting any better.  Some days it feels like I am but then the next it is back with a vengeance!”

I didn’t tell her, but that morning I had prayed specifically that God would give me words to describe what I was feeling in ways that would clue someone, somewhere into what was actually wrong.  Most of the time, I was certain it wasn’t neurological.  Deborah had done an evaluation and I had passed everything with flying colors.  But this had to be SOMETHING.  I couldn’t think.  Couldn’t focus.  Didn’t feel like being nice.  I just wanted to wrap my misery around myself and go be somewhere where no one would see me, expect anything of me, or want me to be civil.  My family was more than a little concerned, but I really hate hovering and when I feel that way it is hard for me to know whose advice to take and when.  And so, I was bringing it up again in the office of the professional.

“I wish I could explain this feeling,” I said to her as she looked thoughtful.  “It starts back here and it kinda wraps around my upper cheek across my ear, radiating to the top of my head.”

It was like a light went on.  “Mrs. Yutzy, I think you need to get in touch with your family doctor.  I am almost sure that you have a sinus infection.”

“A sinus infection?  How?  I have no blocked nasal passages, no post nasal drip.  Nothing!”

“It depends on which sinus cavity it is in,” she explained.  “If it is in one of the back ones, you will have exactly the sensation that you are describing.  I believe that the mess in your neck was intensifying it, but to be honest, you haven’t responded nearly as quickly as you normally do, and I believe there is something else going on.  I want you to call your family doctor.  You can tell him what I said, and maybe he will call in a prescription for you.’

So I called Dr. Wilson and we discussed it thoroughly and he agreed with her.  Arrangements were made for a good antibiotic and I was greatly encouraged.  Took my first pill last Monday night and woke the next morning feeling vastly improved. “Could it have worked that fast?” I wondered, but was so happy to feel better.  That lasted about a day, but on Wednesday morning the miserable feeling was back and with it, the (un)favorite side effects of Augmentin.   So now my tummy hurt, I had to keep close calculations on how far I was from the bathroom, nothing tasted good and my head was still a mess.  I decided to go for the long haul.  After all, that was only 36 hours after the first dose, and I was pretty much ready to endure anything if it would clear my head.

Anything???  Little did I know.

Thursday evening, Certain Man was sick, and I went alone to supper at my Sweet Mama’s house to be with my brother, Nelson, and his wife, Rose, my sister, Alma and her husband, Jerrel, and my brother, Mark, Jr. and his wife Polly.  We had a great time together, but when I got home, I felt like I was coming down with something.  Friday I muckst about all day, trying to bring Discover Bank and Quicken Home and Business into a relationship that they both refused to agree to and blamed on the other.  I was extraordinarily cross and impatient.  May have even slammed a thing or two.  Certain Man was amused at how passionately I responded, but I wanted to get things on the way to our accountant and this was altogether unnecessary.  Besides, Certain Man and I had tickets to Wilmington Railroad’s Valentine’s dinner special the next night, and I thought how much more fun it would be if I had a major accomplishment from this somewhat unprofitable week and could attend unto some romance without distraction.  (Oh, why couldn’t these stupid programs co-operate with each other???  And when would these miracle meds kick in and make this pressure go away???  I sat at my desk and held my head and wept.)

Saturday morning I got up and tried to plan my day.  I was clearly not in very good shape for a two hour train ride.  But I wanted to go so badly.  So I took a shower, washed my hair and decided that I would rest as much of the day as I could.  I did just that, running to and fro to the bathroom, feeling so nauseous and even sicker when I thought of the “delicious, intimate meal” I was to enjoy aboard a romantic, two hour train ride.  (Oh, help.  Think of that swaying train!!!)

When I realized that time was truly running out I finally thought, “I wonder if I have a fever?  I’ve been blaming all this on the medication, and on the sinus infection, but maybe I have something more going on.  Maybe I had better check.”  102.1°  I realized that this gal was not going anywhere that evening.  Tickets or no tickets.  Strange.  Certain Man wouldn’t go without me.  Beloved Son in Law and Eldest Daughter took the tickets and didn’t even ask us to watch Love Bug.  I really don’t remember much of the evening (except receiving updates from the two who were enjoying a rather expensive, unexpected Valentine’s gift).

I didn’t sleep well at all on Saturday night.  I wasn’t thinking much about my head at this point, to tell you the truth.  It was just a matter of survival.  Go to the bathroom, get some ginger ale or ice water.  Take something for fever, take antibiotic, get back on chair only to repeat the process all over again.  How in the world did I get the flu again?

Sunday was a repeat of the same.  Middle Daughter was an incredible help during all of this.  She gave showers, dressed and combed Cecilia, answered Nettie’s questions and kept the house in decent order.  Certain Man did whatever he could to help, too, and hovered about anxiously nearby, often choosing the recliner opposite my chair in the family room, sometimes reading to me and always offering to get me a drink or a blanket or a pillow.

By Monday morning, I decided that I was going to try to see the doctor as soon as possible.  It was early, so I went out and wrote everything out to my doctor and put it into the fax machine in a blurry state and hit send.  I went out of my cold study, into the comfort of the fire and waited for the office to call.  About four hours later, I went back into the study, thinking it was strange that I hadn’t heard anything.  My fax sat on the machine, unsent.  A fax report said that there had been no answer.  I sent it again, and still no answer.  I pondered a while if this meant that I wasn’t supposed to call, and decided to do some research on my own.  I decided that I should first of all determine which of my symptoms were the flu and which might be side effects of the medicine and which the sinus infection.

The feeling that there was a sandwich bag filled with pudding lodging somewhere in the right side of my head around and behind my ear — that had to be the sinus infection.  Didn’t seem to be responding much to meds, but it at least provided me with a plausible explanation.

The flu took the fever and aching part.  But then I read that it is accompanied by cough and cold symptoms.  I had none what so ever.  Not even with what the doctors felt certain was a sinus infection.   H-m-m-m-m-m.  Maybe I had better check the side effects of the meds.

Well, hands down, that was the nausea, diarrhea, abdominal discomfort.  But what was this?  Severe adverse reactions:  Fever, body aches, headache, dizziness, — What?   Was that what happened the last time I was on the antibiotics?  What I thought was the flu had actually been an adverse reaction to the medication?  I decided to call my pharmacist.  I asked him if there were any common components between the first med and the second med.  No.  None.

I explained to him what had transpired and he said, “It is quite possible that what you are experiencing is an adverse reaction to the medication.  I strongly advise that you call your primary care physician and discuss this with him.”

Of course, by then it five minutes past twelve noon, and they were out to lunch.  When they finally returned at 1:30 something and I got through to them by 1:45, there were no afternoon appointments.  I had to wait until this morning at 11.  I thought maybe! I was feeling a slight bit better, so I rustled about in my kitchen last night, put my ladies to bed, rejoiced that I didn’t need to take the meds until I saw the doctor, spent over an hour “talking” to a faraway friend and then went to bed.

Through the night, I awoke to the realization that it was snowing and snowing and snowing.  I also realized that the pressure in my head was back to some of the earlier levels and that I was really feeling achy.  But the morning brought the need to get up and moving.  Deborah had worked over night, dealt with a death in the middle of the night, and Daniel had to go to work.  I like to cook his breakfast and be with him in those minutes before he goes.  I am usually doing stuff with my ladies and I was pretty certain I could manage the usual morning household routine.  So when Deborah offered, I said, “No. I’ve got this.”

I got through the routine with some muddling about, and by the time that Nettie was on the bus, I was just about shot!  I got on my chair, opened the curtains wide and sat in the sun.  I was miserable, aching from head to toe, and thinking very dismal thoughts.

“I’ll bet this is really a brain tumor,” I thought.  “This pressure in my head is getting worse because it is steadily growing.  And my tummy hurts so badly, and it really is bloated.  I’ll bet I have ovarian cancer just running wild in there.  And there is that place in my throat where things get caught sometimes.  Maybe I have esophageal cancer like Mama and I know where that goes!  And sometimes this pain from my ear goes down my arm.  My heart has been doing such strange flip flops.  Maybe it is heart trouble or something like that.”  And on and on and on!  Before too many minutes passed I was certain that I had one foot on a banana peel and another in the grave.  I was certain that Dr. Wilson would take one look at me and send me straight to the hospital for admission and serious testing.  Maybe by ambulance.

Of course this sort of thinking doesn’t help anyone, and I did give myself a stiff talking to that involved such things as “This kind of thinking doesn’t lead to any good thing.  For crying out loud (and I was crying again, but not out loud!) have you no confidence in the fact that God has this all under His watchful eye?  And there is adventure here, no matter what the outcome of this is and He will be with you.  Your not helping yourself or anyone else by this, so buck up and STOP IT!”

Easier said than done, of course, but I did make an effort to not think about the possibilities and eventually got myself dressed and into the doctor’s office.  I commiserated with an old friend that was also waiting in his waiting room, and grew more and more uncomfortable as time passed.  The room was full, and I began to realize that I was to be the last patient of the morning.  About an hour after my scheduled appointment they called me back and took vitals and history and the “why was I here today?” business.  As the nurse was preparing to leave the office, I noticed that she hadn’t taken my temp and so I reiterated that I had been running a temp of up to 102.5° over the last three days.  I secretly didn’t think I would have one that morning, thanks to 800 mg of  Ibuprofen some hours earlier, but I really thought they should take the temp of someone who was there that was claiming to be sick.  So she fetched one of those horrible sharp plastic paper thin things and put it under my tongue.

“99.8°,” she announced cheerfully, as she dumped in the trash.  “Dr. Wilson will be in soon,” she said and left me alone.  So I waited again.

And finally he came in.  Dr. Wilson is kind to me.  He respects my judgement and loves Jesus and often hums praise and worship songs under his breath when he is writing prescriptions.  “What’s going on, girl?” he asks me.

I say, “Dr. Wilson, something is just terribly wrong.  I feel so bad!  I just can’t figure out what is going on.”  And I tell him the whole sordid tale and history and he listens thoughtfully.  And then he does his examination.  Looks in my ears, looks up my nose, examines my throat, checks out the lymph nodes in my neck and (ouch!) palpitates the area behind my right ear) listens to my lungs and listens to that heart that is probably on its last leg and then he starts to thump around on my skull.

“Does this hurt?  Does this hurt?  How about this?  Does it hurt as much when I do this as it does when I do this?”  I just can’t figure it out.  He always thumps harder on the areas that hurt the most, so of course, those areas are going to hurt more.

“Yes,” I finally tell him after a series of serious plunks across my skull, “That HURTS, but your wouldn’t have to thump quite so hard!”

He looks amused and then pulls up his chair.  “You are feeling so bad because you are SICK!” he informs me.  “The fever is not an adverse reaction to the medication, you have a fever because you are SICK!  You have an infection in your mastoid sinus behind your ear.  Years ago, there was nothing we could do for it.  Sometimes we would drill holes in people’s skulls to relieve the pressure.”

I know that sounds radical, but to be honest, at that point it seemed like a viable option.  It felt like that would be a relief!  I wisely kept that observation to myself and he went on.

“You are not responding to the meds because they aren’t the right ones for this kind of infection.  It is serious, but thankfully we have medication that does well with it because drilling holes in people’s heads often led to spinal meningitis and people died from that.”  (Cheerful and encouraging man, this Dr. Wilson, today!)  “We’ll get you fixed up and you are going to start feeling better!”

We talked a little longer about dosages and meds and pain management and he wrote my new prescriptions and then we walked down the hall together.  He asked about my family and how everyone was doing.  He especially keeps tabs on our boys because he was their doctor between pediatrician and marriage, and so there is always news to catch him up on.

And then I came home, and decided that since I wasn’t admitted to the hospital, didn’t seem in any imminent danger, I might just as well work at planning the garden, think thoughts of Spring and maybe even hum some praise and worship songs while I got some supper made.  When Certain Man got home, there was those happy moments together that I talked about at the beginning of this blog.  Sweet times of hope and home and happy thoughts of spring coming again to our small farm.

And that is the news from Shady Acres where Certain Man’s Wife is resting and trying to get better.  And the whole family has cheered her on in her endeavors.

There is a penny lying on the floor of the living room.  I pick it up and automatically head for the laundry room.  Over the little bank on top of the washer, my hand pauses, and my heart prays a quick prayer and then I head into Cecilias room to do the next thing.  It has become a beloved ritual.

I read once about a mother who saved pennies which she found unexpectedly and prayed a prayer with every one that her daughter would find a husband.  If I could remember who this was, I could perhaps vouch for its success.  (Actually I’ve heard of more than one mama who has done this.)  I think the end result was that at the wedding reception, a presentation was made of the pennies.  I love this!

I liked it so much that I began my collection.  Every time I found a penny lying around — in the house, in the yard, in a parking lot, on the floor at Wal-mart, I would pick it up, bring it home, pray a prayer over it and drop it into my little round bank.  Sometimes I would have a dilemma.  There were times when two or three or four pennies would accumulate before I would go to drop them in.  I decided that I needed to have a plan.  More than one penny=more than one request.

And so, the basic request that I always prayed would be something like this, “Lord Jesus, please send a guy into Deborah’s life that loves you first and then her next.  May his love for you be so deep and so rich and so full that it is the first thing people notice about him.  May his love for her be just as obvious.”

If there was a second penny, this was the second request as it slipped through the slot.  “Lord Jesus, let this young man be someone that Deborah’s brothers will like.  May they be able, not only to co-exist peacefully, but actually be friends.  And may the rest of us really like him, too” (This is important!)

If there was a third penny, there would be this carnal note:  “And if it’s not asking too much, would you please let him be drop dead handsome?”  (Um-h-m-m-m-m-m!)

Depending on the state of my heart, if there was a fourth one, it would include petitions regarding timing (soon!) or grandchildren (yes!) or whatever was foremost in my mind on a given day.

And so the years passed.  I didn’t always remember, so sometimes the stash didn’t grow much, and then I came to a place where I was increasingly uncomfortable with my prayer.  One by one, I’ve watched her girlfriends find their life mates.  One by one, they’ve gotten married, borne these beautiful children that have spirit and intelligence and God-awareness and personality and so much value that sometimes I squint my eyes and shut my heart against the pain of what my girlie does not have.  That she really, really wants.

A family.  Children to read to and play with and nurture and hold through the long night watches.  Someone who loves Jesus more than anything else in the world and then her and then their babies.  Something to call her own with flesh and blood and fire and spirit.

I’ve watched her take her friends children into her heart.  I’ve watched her love them and nurture friendships with them.  I’ve watched her set boundaries for them when they are with her that only increases their love for her.

But sometimes, she cries.

And I kept praying my prayer, but it seemed so different from what my girlie really needed.  And so, one day, standing in my laundry room, my hand holding yet another stray penny, I gave it up.

“Lord, you know far better than I do what my girlie needs.  You know the desires of her heart, and you have plans for her.  I give this up right now.  I’m not saying that I will never again pray for a husband for her, but it will not be my primary request ever again.”  And I dropped the penny in.  And sent my prayer Heavenward.

Now when I have one penny, I pray something like this:

“Lord Jesus, for my Deborie-girl, I pray, first of all that you would conform her to your image.  That her heart will look like Jesus to the people she meets in her job, on the street, in her friendships and where she goes.  Give her courage and patience and wisdom and strength and vision and purpose and joy on the journey.  Help her to be faithful to you and your calling upon her life, whatever that may be.  May she live life fully, with zest and anticipation.  May she have the sweet, sweet assurance that she is where you want her.  Right now.  And that you will show the way.”

If there are two pennies, I will usually try to pray specific things about ministry:  “You know what you want her to do for the Kingdom.  Make your way clear to her.  Give her desire.  Open doors and close doors according to you will.  May the most important things of life be foremost in her mind.

If their are three pennies, I just might get a bit carnal:  “Lord Jesus, you know where she might be heading off to next.  Let it be a place that she will enjoy to the fullest, and send the right people to share her tent.”

I am not criticizing anyone who prays for a husband for her daughter.  In fact, I’m suspicious that God lays on the hearts of a Mama what He wants them to pray for their children.  I am saying, though, that it needed to stop at this house.  And in the meantime, her little round bank grows heavier.  I’ve taken to throwing an occasional nickel and dime in there and muttering, “Okay, Lord, that is a package deal.  5X over the same prayer.”

And most of the time, I rest easy.

It all started innocently enough.

It was a Monday morning.  The night before was one of those nights that I love.  My Bible Study gals with their husbands and their kids (All of ’em!) had been together in the Gathering place of Laws Mennonite Church for our Christmas supper.  Good food, good company, and a great time made some wonderful memories for this Delaware Grammy, but even with excellent clean-up help, this gal was so very, very tired.

My Sweet Mama had been away for two weeks but came home while we were having our supper.  I was under the impression that she was going to be late, and so, when I came into the house around nine o’clock in the evening, I decided against calling her.  My good sister in law was driving her, and I knew that she was in good hands.  I had checked to make sure that someone was going over to turn up the heat and make sure things were in order, so I thought all was well.

Monday Morning.  There was piles of laundry to do, and I had an appointment in Dover for Nettie.  I needed to take Mama to Denton in the afternoon for an appointment with her primary care physician.  I got my ladies up, gave Cecilia her shower and got her dressed and combed, got breakfast and medications done, packed the lunch, and tried to keep up with the laundry.

This was also the day that our chickens were going out.  We would like it very much if our chickens would never go out on Sunday night for Monday’s processing, but we don’t choose that, so Certain Man was up most of the night, putting up feed lines, raising the drinkers, and making sure that not too much extra damage was done.  He managed to break his glasses somewhere along the way, so when the last house was finally under the control of the catching crew, he decided that he would go to work so that he could stop at his Dover optometrist and get those glasses fixed!  So he was on his way around 9:10.  I drew a deep breath, so tired, so tired.

Around 9:20, the phone rang.  It was my Sweet Mama.

“I thought you would be coming out here this morning,” she said.

“Um, no.  I am coming out this afternoon to take you to the doctor, though.  You have a four o’clock appointment with Dr. Jensen.”

“Oh, well.”  She sounded let down.  “I got home around seven last evening.”

“Really?  Did you hear from anyone?”

“No.  No one.  I thought for sure you would come out this morning.”

“We had our Bible Study supper last night, Mama, and I was so tired when I got home.  I think Beebs is coming out there this morning, but our chickens went out last night, I’m trying to get laundry done this morning, and I need to take Nettie to Dover for an appointment at one.”

“Well, I guess I’ll just go back to Pennsylvania with Rose,” she said.  “Nobody comes, nobody calls, nobody cares.”

That really hurt my feelings.  Being tired probably made me touchy, and she was probably (at least a little bit) joking.  “Mama. I’m so sorry.  I think that Beebs can get what you need and bring it out, and then I will come this afternoon and take you to Dr. Jensen.”

She had been so sick while she was up and Nel and Rose’s house, and I was very anxious for her to get to her PCP.  Two rounds of antibiotics, strong cough medicine and huge doses of rest hadn’t managed to knock out the bug that was bothering her.  She gets incredible care while she is with Nel and Rose, and I know that we don’t cover the bases as well when she is home. Sometimes I feel really, really insecure about that, and this time, secretly, I was suspicious that we could never measure up.

The injured feelings cast a long shadow over my morning, but there was so much to accomplish before heading to Dover.  The doctor’s office had faxed me fourteen pages of things to fill out.  Actually, Nettie was to fill them out, but this is the stuff that ordinary people have trouble with, much less handicapped individuals.

“On a scale of 1 to 10 how would you rate your pain?”   “Is your pain a stabbing pain, an aching pain, or a throbbing pain?”  “Would you say your pain is sharp or dull?”   “Is it constant or intermittent?”  “Is your pain made better or worse by lying down?”  “Is your pain made better or worse by standing?”  “Is your pain made better or worse by sitting?”  “Is your pain made better or worse by daily activity such as getting dressed or household chores?  “Does your pain interfere with— (there was a never ending supply of those questions!).

My head was spinning.  I was trying to answer as questions with answers like I thought Nettie would answer, but the end result was frustrating and time consuming.  Plus, there were all those questions about her general health, social adjustment, medications and mental illness.  I finally carried the questionnaire in to her table and asked her several questions while she signed the necessary papers. And finally we were ready to go.

And then the phone rang.  It was Certain Man.

“Hon, could someone run out to the chicken house and make sure that the catching crew turned off the tunnel fans?  They said they were going to, but I just want to make sure.”

“Well, I’m just about ready to walk out the door to take Nettie to Dover . . . “

“Maybe Rachel could go, then,” he said.  “All you gotta’ do is check to make sure the fan on the front side of the house is off.  I’m sure if they turned off the front one, they also turned off the back side, too.  I just don’t need all this cold air getting pulled into the house and causing trouble.”

“Tell you what, Sweetheart,” I said, “I will go out there in the van and check when I am on my way to Dover.  I can just drive out there and I won’t even need to get out of the van.  I can just look!”

“That will be fine,” he said happily.  And so, that was the plan.

So I got Nettie and her black book.  I got the 14 pages of paperwork and my purse.  I got a tall glass of water and got everything loaded in my trusty mini-van and headed out towards the chicken house.  Whew!  I was tired.  Did I mention I was tired?  That bone deep weariness that feels like it will never get better.  I contemplated my lot in life as I headed off the side drive onto the chicken house lane.

Wait a minute.  Which house did he tell me to check?  House two or house three?  Oh, well.  I guess it didn’t matter.  I would just check them both.  On the front side of house two, all the fans were quiet and unmoving.  I checked the back side of house two and found things the same there.  On back the lane I went and checked the front of house three.  Nothing there, either.

“This is good,” I thought.  “But what if they had somehow inadvertently let the fans on at the back of the house?  I will check there just to be sure, then I can tell Certain Man that everything is totally off.”

Which, of course, it was!

But now I had a dilemma.  The thing is, I’m not the greatest backer in the world.  And I had about a hundred feet to back with chicken houses on one side and sturdy fence on the other.  I decided to cut in between the chicken houses and make the backing part of my departure shorter.  So I turned my wheel while looking out the driver’s side to make sure that I had enough room.  I noticed that there was a very soft place in the ground beside the tunnel fans, and having had a previous experience with getting VERY STUCK in that same place on another occasion, and noting that there were deep ruts from the chicken trucks that I needed to avoid too, I cut a wide berth and was carefully watching out the driver’s window when — KERSHLAM!!!

I jerked my head around in time to see Nettie rock in her seat like she had just had a jarring experience.

“Mare-Ann!” She said reproachfully.  “You really hit that hard!”

“Oh, dear!” I said.  “I guess I did!  What in the world –?”  My heart sank to my shoes as I looked out the window and realized that I had somehow collided with the feed bin at the end of the chicken house.  I put the car in forward and pulled out a bit.  I got out of my side of the car and trudged to the back to see what the damage was.  I couldn’t see anything!  I looked and looked all around the back of the car and there was nothing.

“Whew,” I thought ruefully.  “I would have thought there was some sort of damage for how hard that hit!  I must have gotten away with it this time somehow.”  But then I happened to look on up the side of the van and my delight was short lived.  On the sliding door, just behind the front passenger’s door, there was a nasty, nasty dent.  I betook myself up there and mournfully surveyed the damage.  I tried to open the door.  That was out of the question.  There was a very sharp place on the handle, anyhow, that discouraged too much effort.  What was Certain Man ever going to think?

Time was slipping by, and I had an appointment to make, so I got back into the driver’s seat and began my trek to Dover.

“I had better call Daniel,” I thought.  “Might as well let him know.”  I’m so glad that Certain Man is usually kind and understanding about such things.  There have been times when I’ve been surprised at how nice he is when things like this happen.  Rarely does he fuss at me about such things.  But I still dreaded calling him.  I dialed his number and waited while the phone rang and rang.  He didn’t answer.  That would give me more time to cry, I mean, THINK!

Then the hands free device on my visor announced, “Phone call from A-Daniel.  Answer or ignore?”

“Answer!”

“What’s up?” Asked my good-natured husband.  “I saw you called.”

“Well, hon, you will be glad to know that the fans are all off.  I checked both houses front and back and everything is off.  The bad news is that I did something bad to the van.”

“Hon!  What did you do?”

“I ran into the feed bin.”

“Hon!  How did you do that?”

“I don’t know.  I was just backing around, trying to miss the soft spots when I crashed the side of the van into the feed bin.”

Great was the discussion for some time about what we were going to do and when and how.  It was only a short time until the kids were all coming home for Christmas and we were planning to use the van for family expeditions.  We finally agreed that, since I couldn’t get the door open, that Certain Man would call our faithful body repair shop and see if he could get it in pronto.  We said our “love you’s” and “Good-bye’s” and I waited to hear, “Call terminated” coming from my device.  What I heard instead caught me flatfooted.  It was my husband’s voice, frustrated and a bit cross, coming over the airwaves in a tone that I have almost never heard directed at me.

“I JUST DON’T UNDERSTAND!” Ranted Certain Man.  “WHAT IS SO HARD ABOUT THIS???  YOU JUST LOOK WHERE YOU ARE GOING, LINE THINGS UP AND BACK OUT!!!”

“Uh, Hon,” I said, “I’m still here.  I can hear every word you are saying.”

“Call terminated” chirped my hands free device.  And believe me!  It WAS!  The thing was, I didn’t feel bad about it at all at that point.  I was so upset with myself that I could hardly see straight.  I mean, this is the same van that I hit a deer with last summer that made it need so much repair work.  That was all covered by our insurance, but this?  Um, I think not.

It wasn’t long until Certain Man called back and said that he was going to meet us at the doctor’s office and see for himself what the damage was.  The body shop said that they needed to know what kind of door it was, but that they would work it in and do it as soon as possible, even though it didn’t suit them very well.  And so he met us there, strong armed the door and got it to open and decided that we could live with it until after Christmas.  He didn’t mention the things that had been said in my hearing.  I didn’t either.  I found out later that he never heard me.  But whenever the subject came up, he looked a little sheepish.  He never once said that he didn’t say them.  Like I said, He isn’t inclined to speak unkindly to his addled frau.  He should be allowed to let off some steam now and then.  The LORD KNOWS I deserve it.

There was still the doctor’s appointment to get through.  I handed in my paperwork and decided to arrange other transportation for my Sweet Mama’s appointment in the afternoon.  Niece Carmen agreed to do it.  I called Mama to tell her my troubles and that Carmen was going to take her to her appointment.  I couldn’t help crying.  Mamas are pretty good at detecting what is really wrong, and it wasn’t long until she realized that part of my problem was the hurt feelings from the morning.  Mama was so sorry that I had taken what she had said as truth.

“You weren’t hurt by what I said this morning,” she said with that element of wonder in her voice.

“Well, Mama,” I said, feeling so petty, but also still smarting, “You SAID that nobody called, nobody came, nobody cared!  And that you were going back to Pennsylvania.  Of course I was hurt!”

“Oh, you girls!” she said.  “I’m going to have to stop saying anything.  I say stuff and I mean it kidding, and you take me serious!  I didn’t mean it!”

I managed to tell her that Carmen was taking her to her appointment, that I had messed up the van, and she was fine with all the arrangements.  “Don’t worry about anything,” she said, cheerfully.  “Everything is going to work out okay.  You’ll see.”

Back inside the doctor’s office, we waited and waited.  Then they took Nettie back and did vitals and went over her paperwork.  Then we waited some more and finally the nurse came in and said that the doctor wanted to talk to me privately before seeing Nettie.  And there ensued the strangest conversation I have ever had with a healthcare professional.  The upshot was that he was not going to treat Nettie.  He was certain that he could not help her.  He was uncomfortable with her mental illness, and critical of her former doctor’s treatment.  As we left the consult room, I noticed that he didn’t even turn in the direction of her room.

“Is he not even going to talk to her?” I asked the nurse who was walking with me.

“Well, he CAN, if you want him to,” she said a bit cautiously.  “Shall I ask him to come tell her?”

The adrenalin had been flowing since the feed bin episode, but suddenly all of that was gone and I felt a hundred years old.  I thought about my girl, Nettie, on the other side of that door, and of all the rejection and disappointments of her life, and suddenly, I didn’t want him setting foot in that treatment room.

“No,” I said.  “I will tell her.”  I put my happy face on and went into the room.  “Well, Nettie,” I said, “this is your lucky day!  You don’t have to get any of those long needle shots after all.  The doctor doesn’t think it will really help anyways, so he is recommending that we don’t do it.”

“Does that mean I have to live with this pain the rest of my life,” she asked, sounding a bit non-plussed.

“We need to go back to your pain management specialist,” I said, “and see what he has to say.  Maybe since this doctor feels like this wouldn’t be the best course of treatment for you, Dr. Coveleski will find something else that will work better.  Besides, Nettie!  Just think!  We can go get some shopping done now and we don’t have to worry about those shots.”

She looked a little unconvinced, but before long we were happily on our way for a little retail therapy.  At the mall, she bought a sixty-eight dollar bottle of Red Door perfume and I bought a Chrismassy sweater and both of us came home in a much better frame of mind.

Four weeks later, the van is repaired, looking better than it ever has on the passenger’s side.  Nettie has had a change in her pain meds that seem to be working quite well, and Certain Man and his wife have been living harmoniously and in forgiveness concerning the van mishap.