A Hair Raising Story of Passion and Loss.

It's been over six years and I still miss Robert....

In the complicated way of poignant love stories, it all began with Brenda. The children were small, and I was bored. We were in a tight... ridiculously tight... "national security alert" tight...financial situation and I couldn't afford any mistakes. The stress of saving for necessities, let alone frivolity, was taking it's toll. I desperately needed a change. I was frightened, but determined. I saw the ad, in the local Merchandiser, and called the number. I left the children with a neighbor and drove to the address along the main highway leading out of town. It was an old farmhouse, situated next to a trailer park, replacing the cultivated fields or cow barns. I had been told not to knock, just to walk in, and I did. I was greeted by a tall thin woman best described as a red-neck Olive Oil with really bad fashion sense. She gave me exactly what I asked for, and I was home again in less than an hour, exhilarated, and only a few dollars poorer.

Our relationship continued for fourteen years. There were a few really bad times. I'd go home, look in the mirror and cry a river. I'd vow to change. But, I always went back. Her husband joined her in the business for a few years, but the pressure destroyed him. She had young assistants now and then, but they only lasted through a time or two. I never knew what happened to them. I begged, finally convincing Tall One to see her a few times. The price was right, but he had different needs. She moved her "studio" once. For awhile there was fresh paint, and the carpet wasn't stained, but, it always smelled the same, ripe with strong, stale chemicals. She wasn't much for conversation and she rarely smiled. I wondered about her teeth. She'd turn surly if her daughter wandered in. There was a decided lack of maternal instinct. I stayed because I didn't think I had a choice. She knew too much.

And then the day came when she said she was leaving. She could work anywhere, but her husband had to get out. Too much baggage, too many damaging memories. A better climate. I said Goodbye. I was more relieved than I would have imagined. I would have been too weak to end our relationship myself, but I'd been dissatisfied and uninspired for a long time. I thought it would be good to be free.

I had wanted to regroup, weigh my options, start fresh with a new perspective, but, I floundered. Time is relentless and before I knew it, I was desperate. I would let things grow for as long as I could and then I'd take matters into my own hands. But I was unskilled, I didn't have the right "tools", I was afraid I would be humiliated. So I moved from "professional" to "professional". Sometimes paying too much for inferior service. Sometimes leaving with the glimmer of confidence that I'd found a new someone to meet my growing demands, only to be disappointed eventually. There were pretty young blonds with sparkling mirrors and scented candles. There was an old blue rinsed grandma wearing pince nez and too much perfume. I would travel miles to overpriced swanky salons, and walk to dilapidated store fronts along our deteriorating Main street. I was restless. I never stayed at any one place more than a few months.

I was in the midst of a long dry spell. My emotions were out of hand. I was a wreck, and needed badly the fix I had been denied for so long. I stopped on the sidewalk, staring at the homemade cardboard sign in the dirty window and copied down the phone number. That evening I called, and a few days later I walked through Robert's door for the first time.

The tacky furnishings and gaudy decor assaulted my sensibilities. But, I quickly recovered. I'd been in worse places. Brenda's accommodations had been sparse and utilitarian. I stayed, choking back my revulsion in his dusty fake foliage, because he was my last hope. Spinning the sad, sordid tale of his life gone wrong, he worked efficiently. When he handed me some lubricant and a towel and told me finish myself, I knew I had found the answer I'd been searching for. At home the smell of stale tobacco and something I didn't want to think about clung to my clothing, but, the face in the mirror was transformed. It wasn't just his years of experience, or his expertise. Robert was magic, and I was in love.

I'd know right away when it was time to go back. Things wouldn't lay right. There'd be the feeling of loose ends, stray wisps that no one else noticed, but I'd feel keenly. He was always the same. Always sure of his skill. He knew what I needed. He'd always make me finish. But, even as he had renewed the hope in me, he was hopeless, profoundly sad, and, over time I began to sense the underlying sickness.

I missed a rendezvous, I couldn't call to cancel. I left a message apologising and begging for another chance. I never heard again. Shortly thereafter, Robert's handmade sign was replaced by one that read "For Rent". I tried to find him. I left message after message, pleading, until the number was finally disconnected. I still don't know what happened to my dearest, darling, hair stylist.

I have good hair, very forgiving, and it grows out quickly, a blessing and a curse. My daughter recommended Debra, and I've been with her for a few years now. She has a nice shop, two cute dogs, and I'm comfortable there....but, I still miss Robert...

Salsa and DST.

I feel so free! Not only did I finally submit my essay for the kind consideration of the judging panel, but I also sent in a 250 word travel story to a different publication (this, under the duress and unsolicited advice of Tall One). The essay provides a potential $3000. windfall, the paragraph, a trip to Tasmania. If I weren't already retired, I'd start making plans! Fortunately, I handle disappointment well.

The tomatoes are happening, in large quantities. I planted five tomato plants this summer, four different varieties. And they've all survived and thrived. I've cut up a couple for sandwiches and salads. The rest of the ripe ones, I've made into salsa...and canned. I haven't canned anything in 25 years. Preparing and canning dozens of quarts of peaches with three toddlers in the kitchen brought me dangerously close to collapse. And, Tall One became convinced, with minimal shrieking on my part, that even though the produce was truly delicious when home-canned, it wasn't worth the additional price of psycho-therapy.

Yesterday, alone in the kitchen with only Dr. Phil for company, preparing and canning the salsa was more fun than I remembered, and not nearly as difficult. So, now I'm on a roll. I'd like to do some "salsa verde" using green tomatoes, and one other "traditional" salsa recipe. Then I'll use some of the tomatoes (a whole huge bushel) for tomato sauce. All this has the built-in benefit of providing useful and appreciated Christmas gifts. I am the domestic goddess....if no one dies of botulism.

It's starting to get dark earlier. And, I should be thankful for "Daylight Savings Time", but I'm not. I'm actually quite bitter. DST has been obsolete since the invention of electricity, and now that they've lengthened the "switch" from March through November, why bother changing things back... or forward,.... oh, whatever? It's unnecessarily confusing, and nobody, NOBODY, gets up with the sun and goes to bed as it sets. Maybe we should, but we don't. Even our senior citizens get up at 4am, not dawn. The only place in the United States that's light at 4am is, 6 months out of the year, in Alaska. So, why do they have daylight savings time in the parts of Alaska where it's either 24 hours of daylight, or darkness? Or, do they? It's not even a proper reminder for changing the batteries in smoke detectors. The batteries die before the first Saturday in November and aren't even broken in by the second week in March. There's no consistency.

I would prefer my own lighted, climate controlled atmospheric bubble - since regulating the entire world to my preferences seems out of the question - that I could manage according to my whims. This has been a warm, dry summer. Usually, that suits me. However, I would like it to rain, at night, so that I don't have to water any plants, and occasionally all day, torrentially, so that I can sleep-in and read. I want it to be cool in the morning, and there should be a nice breeze in the afternoon when the sun is overhead. Now, that's just summer. I have definite opinions on the other seasons, as well.

Hawaii does not follow daylight savings time. They have a bubble.

I'm in a Descriptive Mood....

Originally written 8/11/08.

I have fifty two years of experience, memories, and life on which to draw interesting entertaining anecdotes, and I'm sitting here staring into space (actually, staring at the desk top, real not virtual) trying to figure out what to write about. And now I've gone and ended a sentence with a preposition. I could delete "about" but I'm past that. Oh, hell....

Life should be like making movies. If you don't like a scene you get another take....or two. Do-overs till you get it right. But then we'd need writers and a director and gaffs and best boys. Traveling with an entourage could get pesky. I do like the idea of a soundtrack. Life should be accompanied by music. Please note my suggestion.

I'm entering an essay contest. Oh, yes, indeedy. It's not as easy as it sounds. It's much more difficult to write to a specific concept than to just ramble grammatically. I have to submit something soon. Time is running out...and so is my patience. It's an essay for god's sake not the Sonnets of Shakespeare. I'm feeling confident, although I know first prize will go to a cancer survivor. And how can you argue with that?

The contest, however it resolves, will be a test of my writing resolve. I'll look for more contests and continue to write with a specific objective. It will be good practice.

I'm reading. I'm reading and I'm thinking about how the words are going down on the paper. Some writers are so descriptive. Maybe all writers are so descriptive. I have to start describing things. Ok, here goes.....

The Desk:

The desk is not my favorite piece of furniture. It never has been. I didn't really like it the day Tall One brought it home. It's nondescript wood veneer with ugly, badly carved drawer pulls. I suppose it's intended to look old, substantial and classic. But, it can't pull it off. It's like a homely child decked out in faux pearls and plastic heels. You smile indulgently, but nobody's fooled into thinking this is Jackie Onassis. The contrast with older/newer/better things in the room doesn't help. The computer compartment on the right, hosts a hinged door that's decorated to mimic the drawers on the left. Bad idea. Above the door, that we keep open all the time for ventilation, is a pull out desk top extension that we've never used. On the left are two drawers, a file cabinet and a desk top extension that we do use, mostly to keep the grandsons out of the valuables when we're foolish enough to try and work while they're awake. The desk top holds, in addition to the 17" flat screen monitor (I had to locate a ruler for the dimensions) and speakers, placed smack dab in the middle, is a picture, to the left, of Tall One and I dancing and smiling at our son's wedding. Behind the picture is the lamp, one of a set of three, that we purchased in a Palm Springs boutique. The shade consists of three panels of translucent vellum that glow a coppery orange when lit. There's a special name for it that I just can't remember. In the far right corner sits a chest of little drawers, picked up in an antique market, that holds things like stamps, check books, paper clips and stapler. It's solidly built of real wood and the back is made of a thin sheet of metal, as are the the insides of the drawers. An old wooden pencil box with a sliding metal lid sits immediately in front of the monitor. And, a tile coaster, rarely used, lays beside. There are two flat, impossible to read calculators in front of the many drawered chest (not sure why we need two on display, I think I'll put one away), and invoices, checks and various miscellaneous papers and notes scattered about. A few pens and sticky-note pads add to the function and chaos.

Ok, now I have to take a break and straighten up.

The Last of the Character Obsessions

Started 7/22/08

For a few days now I've been mulling over my limitations. I do have them. There is no debate. I didn't use to think so. But, experience is cruel, and, the reality is that I have true "breaking points" and legitimate conflicts of interests. In the midst of this emotional self scrutiny, Daughter and Dude revealed that Tall One and I will be grandparents for the third time. This is monumentally good news! Joyful, celebratory news. But a bit of a two-edged sword coming in the middle of my reflections. I've moaned and groaned a bit in "Bogus Journeys" but I'm not quite ready to leave the subject.

In opposition to my "ungiftedness", there are some qualities that stand me in good stead.

I am organized. But, not obsessively. Most of my drawers are categorized, but not compulsively neat, and I have closets and an armoire that need seriously professional work. I can make a comprehensive shopping list, plan a get-together, and accomplish a to-do list with reasonable success. I almost always carry wipes, chap-stick, ibuprofen, and breath mints. I once placated a hyper-active toddler in a grocery store with an entire pack of tic-tacs. It was NOT my finest moment...but, we both lived to fight another day. I carry Kleenex in my car. I can pack for a week long trip in a carry-on.

I am low maintenance. I am not beautiful. Apparently, I am "cute". I remember these notebooks we passed around in Junior High School. We called them "slam books". You would write the name of a classmate at the top of each page, and then exchange the books with friends who would write a comment below the name. Anonymously, of course. Some of the entries were brutal, but invariably the ones below my name would be, "cute and nice". In seventh grade, no one wants to be THAT boring. Now, in my 50's, cute will have to suffice. I really don't want to be gorgeous. That is just too much responsibility. Even beautiful requires too much commitment. "Passable" is non-threatening, and it does afford me the extra time and money I would be spending on make-up and hair products. This helps when packing my carry-on.

I'm just intelligent enough. Without a degree, of course. I made good grades in high school, a hundred years ago. But, then I really didn't take challenging subjects. I followed the "business course", with bookkeeping, typing and Business Math and Business English, just the essentials. I had one year of Bible College. Does any of it apply anymore? Absolutely not. It meant little at the time. But, I read. I stay current. I attend cultural events. And I travel (with only a carry on). I'm not afraid to try new things. And, I'm not afraid to fail. And, these things will keep me viable and relevant.

I am accommodating (my carry-on complies with airline standards). When I know another person's needs or preferences, I am truly happy to oblige. When I say, "it doesn't matter, I don't care", it truly doesn't matter, I really don't care. I don't need to pick the movie, or the place to eat. I don't mind changing my plans to fit into someone else's expectations. I'm flexible.

And, I'm sure I could come up with some other outstanding characteristics, but I'm boring myself. I'm done obsessing.

Random Ramblings....Demented Mind

Ok, let's see, what day is it now? I'm having a serious problem remembering the date. I'm still fairly good on the day of the week. The problem is my cell phone. Have you ever experienced the enigma where you look at your watch and, when you look away, you promptly forget what time it is. So you look again, and the same thing happens? That's what I do with my cell phone and the date. At least I think that's the problem...or dementia.

As I'm sitting here typing, I'm again reminded of my lust for a laptop. I want to be able to write in front of the T.V., or on the deck, or at the little coffee shop in town. Wouldn't that be cool? To take my laptop to the coffee shop, order my latte (with skim milk), and sit at a table in the back and "work". How incredibly artistic does that sound? The only thing better would be on Friday afternoon's, after the lunch crowd (or lunch trickle, it's not a large town) I would get an outside table at one of my two favorite bars, order wine, and "work on my novel". Very Ernest Hemingway! I wouldn't wear a white linen suit or a hat, though. But, still...

Looking out of my window, well, not exactly looking out, but over at my window, I see that some of the ivy we have covering the outside wall is actually growing in through the window frame in two places. I should cut that. But, I'm not going to because it really looks quite nice. I know I'm compromising the structural integrity of the whole building, but, did I mention it looks nice. The ivy stays. I just have to make sure it doesn't try to root on the window sill. That just causes a mess. And the whole house can fall down, but I don't want permanent root tracks on my window sill.

I made chocolate chip cookies yesterday. I really like to bake. I like the whole experience of baking. Measuring, mixing, making the cookies the same size, filling the cupcake papers, kneading the bread, icing the cake. It makes me feel very domestic and maternal. I am domestic and maternal, but there aren't too many daily situations that make you feel that way. Nope, changing diapers doesn't do it. Nor does cleaning the toilets. And, taking care of the litter box is just demeaning!

Ok, I'm puzzled. About a lot of things, actually. But, right now I'm thinking of the term "dog gone", as in, "That is so dog gone funny!", or "I'm so dog gone happy!". If the dog is gone, that's not funny or happy or applicable to anything really. I found out where the term "dog days of summer" derives. The constellation Sirius, with the dog star being in prominent position during the months of June, July, August....blah, blah, blah. But, that doesn't help me with "dog gone". Dog gone it! Larger really likes the term "tough beans". And, when you think about it (or say it out loud) it is funny.

I didn't do any lawn care today. Instead, I washed the laundry room floor, down on my hands and knees, with a scrub brush and a bucket of water. That takes me back. Remember the days before "Swiffer"?

One day, I noticed that there were a lot of small, leafy, branches under our nut tree (I don't know what kind of nuts they are, they aren't edible, they aren't acorns). We hadn't had any storms or strong winds and I was a bit puzzled. The other night when Tall One and I were sitting out on the deck, we got the answer. We watched two squirrels building a nest. They would gnaw off a small branch and then carry it to the designated construction site. Occasionally, they dropped one.

And, I don't think I told you about the daring duckling rescue. One evening, at the beginning of summer, or end of spring, I noticed a family in our yard. Our yard isn't along the road, you have to walk back our driveway a short distance. They did not look familiar, like visiting family or near neighbors. The father (I'm assuming he was the father, he was the man with a woman and a small child) was standing on the fringe of our property, pointing excitedly into the drainage field. I went out on the deck to tell them to leave - not really, I wanted to see what was going on. There, marching across the grass and heading into the new development was a mommy duck followed by her dozen little, fluffy, baby ducks. They were so cute - and loud! What a ruckus. Everyone peeping and little webbed legs pumping to keep up. Mom was quacking out a cadence to rival the best coxswain. And, then I saw it - she was waddling directly over the storm grate! And, don't those cute, fluffy fellows follow right along. And - you know this is coming - one of them fell in!
I didn't know ducks could wail, but this little guy was shrieking his lungs out. And, Mommy was fairly frantic. And, the other little ducklings were all, like, running around bumping into each other and Mom, and I was, like, "Tall One, ducks, grate, hurry!", and running across the field. (The family-in-our-yard was no help, long gone. I don't know who they were or from where they came or to where they went.) Tall One and I tried to find something to put through the very small openings of the metal grate that baby duck could use as a ramp, but nothing from the construction sites was working. Tall One was on his way back to the house to see what he could find, when maternal instinct took over and I LIFTED THE GRATE!. I am very strong. Tall One came back and we removed the grate completely and put a board into the drain and baby duck waddled free. What a reunion! Legs churning, useless wing buds straight out to each side, peeping double-time he joined his brothers and sisters and, I'm assuming much relieved and grateful, Mom, who had watched our efforts not too far off. I think she waved her thanks, as they resumed their march to find water suitable for swimming. Or a McDonald's.

And, now I don't remember why I needed to know the date....

Where Was (Am) I?

I'm waiting for the boys to finish napping. The house is hot, not unbearable, but uncomfortable. We still haven't turned on the air conditioning. Last Sunday, Tall One suggested it. I knew he would...now I'm just being stubborn, not-so-silent martyrdom. I'm working on an essay for a contest. Now, I'm having grave concerns that my talent is limited. All right, it is limited, but sometimes I can convince myself of brief moments of true genius. I'm either being realistic, or I'm in the throes of peri-menopause. I have awful cramps (pity, please), I'm losing gallons of body fluids (and yet I'm bloated - shake your head with me), but the very, very worst symptom is the thick, foggy, mental state. I had lunch with a new friend, I don't know her that well or for very long. I started a story and forgot the point, I couldn't remember any names of any of the people we were trying to discuss...... (ended 6/3)

And, here it is, over a month later, and I'm just now getting back to this post. I'll get up in another minute to fold some wash, and who knows, it could be next year till I try and work on this again...
But, no, it's only a few HOURS later. Obviously, the boys have gotten up from their naps...IN JUNE. They are now ready to graduate from college (joke...). And I have no idea where I was going with any of this...

I'm tired of menstruating. Seriously. I'm 51 years old, I was finished birthing at 25. It's time. BUT...what happens then? Probably worse than what I'm dealing with NOW, because, really, it hasn't been as bad as it could be. I'm not dealing with night sweats, I don't have severe mood swings, and my periods are still fairly predictable, shorter, and no more painful than they ever were, except for the perpetual fog. That is really annoying. Really, really, annoying. But it's only really, really annoying for three or four days a month. (No man in the world would put up with even THAT.) The rest of the time it's just really annoying, or annoying. Sometimes, for a few hours at a time, I can think clearly. When that happens, I drink a glass or two of wine. That get's me back to annoying.

So, to what do I have to look forward? Weight gain? Hair loss? Brittle bones? Skeletal deformity? Dry skin? Loss of sex drive (Tall One's rolling his eyes right now, he thinks that's already happened.)? Just shoot me?

I'll gain a shit load of money saved on feminine hygiene products. Isn't that a racket, ladies? I didn't pay too much attention to the specific prices of products before the "budget" - which I am acing, I'll have you know. I bought what I needed, stocked up when I had coupons. At this stage of life, I'm not too sure that I want to "stock up". Any month now I could be selling the surplus on eBay. And....this stuff ain't cheap! I'm thinking of reviving the "rag". Literally, ripping up the bed sheets! Reusing! Shouldn't Al Gore be pushing an environmental angle? Wouldn't THAT be the study? (Oh, don't get me started on "Studies" - another day, another day...)

My handbag will be lighter. Won't have to carry the "pouch of products". I wonder if I'll still need panty liners? I hope I won't still get cramps. It's my understanding from some of the reading I've done, that some women get cramps like clockwork even without bleeding. That would be my luck!

My body is changing. My waist is definitely thicker. But, this just puts it more in proportion to my hips. You know that phenomenon where you try on pants that fit over your hips and you have room to carry a draft horse in your waist band? I still gravitate toward pants with drawstrings, but stock sizes are fitting better. I don't have to wash my hair as frequently as I did when I was younger. But, I still do. And, I have gray. But, I'm ok with it. My skin bugs me, it's loose and cellulite ridden, but, I'm not doing it on purpose.

So, really, I guess it's mostly the muffled, forgetful, unfocused state that I'm railing against. And, I don't know if that will get better or worse for lack of hormones. Stay tuned.

Not Sick Enough...

Began on 7/1
I'm a little ashamed of my lack of consistency in posting to my blogs. I haven't been doing much writing at all. Well, I'm resolving to do better. Lucky, lucky reader...
It's been over three weeks and my poison is a faint, shiny, reddish "scarring"....all over my body! I'm confident it will be physically invisible at some future time....the emotional scars may NEVER fade. I still itch. It's generally manageable during the day when I'm preoccupied, but I wake up at night clawing at my arms and legs. Nana recommended Gold Bond lotion, and that does help initially. I bathe in it, frequently. The only thing that keeps me from drinking it (besides the warning label) is the strong slightly rancid menthol smell. Now that I'm feeling better, I'm back at the yard work, but I'm really paranoid. Vague, green, leafy, weeds make me cringe. There's poison lurking in disguise. I was mowing and weeding over the weekend and I'm like a "complete-scardy-girly wuss"....and I'm rarely intimidated, hardly ever frightened. Every day that I wake up oozing-running-soreless is a day of thanksgiving. I didn't realize how truly miserable and sick I was until I started to feel better. I actually think, now, looking back, that I was walking delirious.

The larger grandson was quite ill last week, running a fever of 105+. Surfer Dude called me at 2am to come stay with Baby while he and Daughter took Larger to the E.R. This is NOT a call you ever want to receive! Ever. I can not emphasize this enough. By the time I got to their home (approximately 32 seconds after hanging up the phone), Larger was at least coherent. I sat with him a few minutes while he told me that he was going to see the doctor and taking his mobile cranes (construction equipment, not birds) along. I said a silent prayer of thanks for children's Tylenol. At 6:30am I got the all-clear call! Larger was coming home. E.R. Doctor didn't know what was causing his fever....but, if it didn't go away Daughter and Dude were encouraged to schedule an appointment with the pediatrician, Dr. Over-react. I seem to remember the medical profession being a lot more confident and decisive when I was a kid.

Do any other 50 year olds remember going to the doctor as a kid (or having a doctor make a house call!)? They would look you over, tell your mom what was wrong, and write a prescription for penicillin. In 48 hours, you were better, but still not allowed outside. Simple, straight-forward, awe-inspiring, complete confidence. This sort of blind faith in the all-knowing healer continued to my early twenties. I remember my first brush with disillusionment. This was the beginning days of multi-physician practices. You never knew who you were going to see.

I was twenty one, newly married, and feeling really sick the majority of the time. I was missing work. Some days I was nauseated, some headachey, some fatigued, and then there were the combination days involving any and all of these symptoms. I was not yet pregnant. I went to the doctor, wondering if the birth control pill I was on could be causing any of this. Of course not. Silly me. So I went through an entire battery of allergy testing. Not a single positive reaction. They gave me ALL of the skin tests at one time (they usually broke them into two or more sessions) because the first batches showed NOTHING. They then gave me a shot under the skin of my forearm. This, apparently, was to indicate an allergic reaction to myself. I know, I couldn't get anyone to explain it to me in more detail. But, this did produce a HUGE reaction. I had a hive the size of Rhode Island (and about the general shape) around the injection site. So onto allergy shots...I still don't know what THAT was supposed to accomplish. I only received one or two, because, by then I WAS pregnant (and very disillusioned)...and feeling exactly the same way I felt when I consulted the doctor...only worse, much, much worse. (Later, much later, five years later when I had finished with pregnancies, child births, and nursings, I was consulting with my Ob/Gyn about taking Progestin for irregular periods. I mentioned my "problem" with birth control pills and he immediately reassured me that it was indeed the Estrogen in the birth control pills that caused my "allergy" symptoms!)

Next, there was the mystery breast infection. Actually, it wasn't a mystery at all. I was nursing our second child, my breast was bright red with an obviously plugged duct, I was in pain, running a fever of 102 degrees and very, very sick. Classic breast infection. Did I mention I was nursing a baby? Breast tenderness (read: excruciating pain)? Fever? Oh, and this was my SECOND breast infection...Knew the first one WELL! But, the doctor (different from Dr. Allergy) just wasn't so sure....
"Maybe we should do some blood tests?"
"UHHHH, when will we get the results? -gasp-"
"Day or two, Monday for sure."
"-pant-gasp-groan- I really can't wait that long. Can we begin antibiotics for a breast infection?"
Very annoyed,"I suppose if you insist, I'll give you a prescription for just enough pills till I get the test results, then we'll go from there."
If I would have had the strength to be annoyed... -finger-, "Fine."
Do I really have to tell you that the blood work was normal, and the infection cleared considerably in the two days it took to get the results. I then received the prescription for the remainder of my 10 day course of antibiotics...from the receptionist.

Next, the horrible incident of the scalded four year old. My In-laws took the three kids out for a fast food lunch. Older Son wanted hot chocolate. Sure, give the child anything he wants. And remember, these people were dealing with a five year old, a four year old and a two and a half year old. Things got out of hand quickly, and Older Son spilled the hot chocolate into his lap. Immediate blistering, sonic screaming, panicked grandparents!!! No cell phones in those days, gang, I got a call from the high school clerk working the counter. THAT is really not a call you ever want to get!! I was barefoot, painting the living room, and, thank God, Tall One was at home (it must have been a Monday, market was closed, long story for another time). We went and picked up Older Son and took him immediately to the mega-doctor practice and they did see us right away (it may have been the horrendous screaming...mine). The doctor took one look at O.S., shook his head and sighed, "Oh, this is bad, this is really bad..." I resumed screaming. We filled out the child abuse forms, talked with an additional nurse and a psychologist while O.S. was being treated, and left with antibiotic cream, bandages, and directions for changing them. We were to schedule an appointment with our Pediatrician within two days.

I don't know if I have EVER felt this bad. Incompetent, unworthy, neglectful, irresponsible, just generally without any ability to properly care for a house plant let alone a CHILD! The Doctor had been nothing but doom and gloom, predicting permanent scarring, the nurses and psychologist were cold and/or rude. We received at least three full lectures on proper parental supervision. These people weren't subtle or tactful. And, my son was in pain, poor little guy, and he never even got to eat his fast-food treat! I made the appointment with our Pediatrician for Wednesday. Until then, I dutifully changed bandages and cared for the children in my very best, but obviously inadequate, way.

Wednesday appointment with the Pediatrician. I carried O.S. into the exam room with my head hung low in abject misery. I had no idea what I was in for, but I deserved it. Dr. I-love-kids came in, greeted me warmly and told my son he was going to take off the bandages and look at his boo-boo. The man was actually smiling at me. Didn't he know what kind of person I was? He unwrapped the gauze and still talking pleasantly to my son said words that I had never hoped to hear, "This doesn't look so bad!" I immediately started to cry, hysterically.

Dr. I-love-kids couldn't have been kinder. He assured me there would be no scarring. I was taking excellent care of O.S. The abuse forms were standard. The rest sounded like major overkill, and at the very least should have been handled a little more delicately, but you can't fault authority for trying to look after a child's welfare. Everything was fine. "See you in a week to check on O.S.'s progress. You're a good mother, just look at this beautiful boy! Would you like another tissue?" (me thinking, "No thank you, Doctor, how about a Valium?")

We never went back to the Mega-practice. Not to this day. Not for emergencies or weekend on-calls. Never. Three strikes and you're out!

Now, my General Practitioner is a dinosaur. I've been going to him since he bought the practice from Dr. Older-than-dirt over twenty years ago. He's more of a personal friend than a physician. He's all by himself. He treats mostly old farmers and their wives or people from the trailer park without insurance. He has weird hours (takes an hour and a half for lunch, and works every evening till he's finished), the same nurses, and, until just a couple of years ago when he moved to new improved facilities, the oldest physician's office in the country with the equipment to match. He's in his mid-fiftys, but you swear he's the same guy that made house calls when you were five, prescribed penicillin, and really believed he knew how to make you better. He does. And, I trust him.