Dear Diary, I Sure Miss My Grandma

Sometimes we never know how profoundly someone has affected our life until they’re gone. This is a diary of the last days of my grandmother, Doris Young.
Thursday, October 25, 2001: Haven’t seen my 76-year-old grandma in a while. Mom said she’s going in for surgery in Kansas City tomorrow to have a cyst removed from her liver. It’s serious, but they say she has the best surgeon, and they don’t expect any problems. She’s healthy as a horse.
Friday, October 26: My sister called to tell me Grandma’s surgery went well. As she talked to me on the phone, her cell phone rang, and it was Mom. Grandma stopped breathing — no one knows why. The worst part is that the respiratory therapist assigned to her thought it was just a defective monitor. By the time he got another and hooked it up, they estimated she hadn’t been breathing for about 15 minutes. Grandma’s in a coma.
Saturday, October 27: Not much change in Grandma’s condition. Doctors are monitoring brainwaves. Parts of her brain are dead, but her heart is strong.
Monday, October 29: The hospital waiting room was filled with family. My aunt took me back to the intensive care unit to see Grandma. It was the first time I’d seen her since last Christmas, because of busy lives and living in different towns. She didn’t look like herself. She looked like a linebacker lying there, big shoulders and swollen everywhere.
After speaking with the doctors, the family made a caravan to a restaurant. We sat at different tables since all they had available were booths, but we were all still one, big “trying-to-be-happy” family. My uncle had the foresight to grab some butter and a loaf of Grandma’s homemade banana-nut bread from her freezer. After we ate, he sliced and served us all a slice of the last thing she had baked.
Tuesday, October 30: Waiting is difficult. They’re talking about starting our good-byes to Grandma. They might turn off the respirator, if her brain shows no activity.
Wednesday, October 31: The test showed a decline in brainwaves since Monday, yet she responded to her children’s voices as the doctors did the test. A good sign, right? Tonight, I stood by Grandma’s bed, stroking her arm. She was much less swollen and looked so much better. Mom talked to her and told her I was there.
Saturday, November 3: Mom called. The catheter used to take the fluid off Grandma’s brain and other organs collapsed. This meant it was only a matter of time. One by one, they took out the tubes and left her with only her respirator.
Sunday, November 4: The family discussed many things: Who would sing at the funeral, what Grandma would wear, what she’d want for her funeral; how proud she was of her grandchildren’s accomplishments. We reminisced and learned many new things about our family. We returned to the hospital to see her, maybe for the last time. All I could hear when I looked at her is her laughter, knowing I won’t hear it again. We won’t get to visit at Christmas and see how huge her hoop earrings are or her enormous, crazy watches she loved so much. She loved to have her nails done in wild shades. We won’t get to eat her famous homemade rolls this holiday season.
Wednesday, November 7: My biggest fan, my Grandma, who told my uncle I was going to be famous someday, went home to be with the Lord today. The family stood and held hands around her bed, prayed and sang “Amazing Grace” as she left us. As much as I love to sing, I found myself unable to.
Saturday, November 10: Grandma’s funeral, or celebration of life, as we prefer to call it, was today. It was amazing to see how many people attended and filed by her casket to pay their respects. She touched many peoples’ lives with her volunteer work and outgoing personality.
I sobbed as I walked by her casket and had to leave the sanctuary to compose myself. I didn’t want her to go.
At the cemetery on that unseasonably warm, sunny winter day, each of the grandkids was given a purple or white balloon. At the signal, we all let them go toward the sky, and laughed and watched until they were out of sight. It kept me from crying and made me think happy thoughts. I think I heard her laughter.
It was the most beautiful celebration I’ve ever seen.

So You've Had a Bad Day

Ever had one of those days? I just had one of those days. Those days never come with a warning, but I guess that's what makes those days, those days.
Here's what made that day "one of those days."
I'd been wanting a new bed, but couldn't find what I wanted that was within our budget. Since my husband has been collecting tools for the past year, he decided to try and build a new headboard and footboard as his Christmas gift to me.
He didn't have time to get it done by Christmas and he also didn't have the router he needed to help complete the project.
Christmas Eve came and he decided to build a model of the bed he had in his mind. He grabbed my daughter before I got home from work and the two of them went to the craft store for supplies.
When I got home, we packed our old Suburban and headed to my mom's in Plattsburg to spend the night.
As I stuffed stockings and did some last minute wrapping, my husband and daughter went to a back room and started their project. A tiny four-poster bed, complete with comforter, pillows and a canopy was born. Other than almost super-gluing his fingers together, it turned out well.
He presented me with his creation and I was so touched by the thought alone, all I could say was, "Aww..."
It was adorable.
One of the obstacles we encountered was the lumberyard's holiday hours. They were closed on the only days we had off work.
We made plans to go the following weekend, making sure to get there before they closed at noon. (We like to sleep in on Saturdays, so we set the alarm clock. Just kidding.) We made the trip to look at wood the next Saturday. We got our estimates and told the clerk we'd be back the next weekend with our truck.
This brings me to "one of those days".
We got the kids ready, and it was cold outside, so I went out to start the Suburban. I didn't notice anything strange, but when I climbed into the seat and closed my door, the rear quarter window on the driver's side shattered all over the street. I couldn't believe it. We're talking a four-foot-long window here, no small beans.
This would definitely put a damper on the day's plan of going to the lumberyard and building our new bed. Not to mention blowing the budget, since I was pretty sure a window of this size wouldn't come cheap.
I began to call for estimates. They were just under the amount of our auto insurance's deductible, at $400 plus. And they couldn't get it done until Monday.
Luckily, my husband is from the KC area and thought of a place we could call there. Turned out, they had the glass we needed, and for only $75. Just one catch -- it wasn't the privacy tinted glass we needed to match the rest of the windows.
Still, with a cost difference like that, we decided it was worth it. After all, it was wintertime, and we could always tint it later. We loaded everyone in the truck for the trip to KC.
Maybe we could still squeeze the bed materials into the budget after all.
I thought that was the end of "one of those days", but this vehicle just won't quit -- giving me trouble, that is. I guess things happen in threes, so I should be good to go from here on out.
We came out of the video store and when we returned to the truck, it wouldn't start. We walked across the parking lot to the mall, thinking we could hit Sears up for one of their famous Die Hard batteries. But oh no, they don't carry those anymore. Wasn't Sears known for its Die Hard batteries?
We hiked back to the truck where five of our kids were waiting. Someone had offered to jump-start the truck according to my son, but he didn't have the keys to start the ignition. After waiting quite a while, we finally had an offer from two nice ladies who didn't mind giving 60 seconds of their day to jump-start us.
We drove straight to the auto parts store, and the clerk tested the battery and said it was fine, but he suspected the alternator was going bad.
The next week I continued to drive the truck back and forth 50 miles every day for work, but I had to hold my tongue just right, wink one eye and hike my left leg at a 45-degree angle to get it to start each time.
Finally, I decided it was time to go buy an alternator. I took it to a garage, but they didn't think it was the alternator. He brought it back to me within an hour or so, and said it was, in fact, the battery. Good, that's cheaper than an alternator and it's all done and overwith.
Not so fast. As I drove home that evening, I exited from the highway to go to the bank and I heard a noise. I turned the radio down, and heard a hissing sound. Oh no, did that tire with the bubble in it just blow out?
I made it the next block to the bank and had to go into the pizza place and call my husband, who wasn't home yet.
I went back to wait in the truck, and he arrived 15 minutes later. We got out the jack and the lug wrench didn't seem to fit. We ran to the friendly neighborhood auto parts store again, and then weren't sure whether we needed metric or standard, so we bought both.
Upon returning to the truck, my husband said, "I'm so stupid, there was a cover on the tire."
Have you ever tried to jack up a Suburban with a long back end? You have to jack it up by the rear axle. It was nice and wet and muddy from all the snow, so this wasn't a fun job.
At last, the tire was changed and we returned both jacks to the auto parts store, grabbed some burgers and went home to watch TV.
So, I shouldn't be due for any more problems for quite some time, I hope. Cross your fingers.

Football Girly-Girl

(Again, one of my former columns, edited slightly)

It's that time of year again-Nebraska football. What, you might ask, am I talking about? Why, the annual spring football scrimmage played every April in Lincoln, of course. I married a Husker fan, which means he (we) must attend.
I am not a sports fan. I'd rather be shopping. Not because I'm a stereotypical female who can't get enough of the mall. I'd just rather be doing anything else besides watching football. Anyone got a toilet to clean? (I'm feeling kinda gutsy, publicly admitting this with my boss's column, which is often sports-related, which was put right above this column. And that I'm not speaking of MU doesn't help matters either.)
Anyway, here's my attempt to write a sports column based on the events of that day. It was just my way of adding to the proud sports tradition of the newspaper in which it was published. Since I kinda like my husband's company, we woke up early to get ready for the spring game. We stopped and got some breakfast for the road. It was a windy, cold, cloudy Saturday morning we hoped would clear by the time we arrived at NU's stadium.
We arrived in Lincoln, but parking is a luxury for the rich. We chose to park free and walk a half-mile to the stadium. Since the wind was so fierce, I decided a seat under the top tier might shelter us a bit from the sharp wind. I was mistaken. I started wishing I'd worn a winter coat as I wrapped a big black tent, I mean rain poncho, around my legs.
"What do you have to say?" my husband asked as halftime neared. "Brrr," was my reply. "We're at a football game, none of those girly complaints," he zinged back.
"Should I scratch myself, prove I'm a man?" I asked.
"That'd be cool," he smiled as halftime began.
We went to the bathroom, but he wouldn't let me go to the men's room. So much for me trying to be less "girly". At least we were able to warm up a little.
As we turned to go back to our seats, we noticed people walking by with wet jackets on. Lo and behold, it was raining. And, we had lost our seats underneath the upper tier. They always say, "Move your feet, lose your seat." Whoever said that must have been at a football game where they stole some poor, cold, had-to-go-to-the-bathroom people's seats under the upper tier.
My husband asked if I wanted to leave and of course, I did. We swam the half-mile back to the car and found a place to eat. It rained all day and night.
I think we were both a little girly that day.
Oh, and Nebraska won the game.

Pale is Pretty

“…I will not obsess about my flaws.” This is the mantra I asked readers to repeat after me in my last column. I don’t know about you, but I’m trying to work on some things, and be content with what God has given me.
After the column ran, I talked to my aunt in Parkville. She said she always worried about her mother, my beloved grandmother, being so vain. Grandma always worried about her hair, making sure it was rolled and set, and that it was just the right color if she was to be seen by absolutely anyone. She always had to have a purse and matching pumps before leaving the house, even if it was only to the store.
Now, after reading that story, my aunt said she didn’t worry so much about Grandma and her vanity (before she passed away), it indicated that she had no other worries and that she cared what she looked like and had a healthy self-image. She added, “Thanks for writing it.”
As for me, I could be using the weights we have set up in the basement, but I always conveniently forget. I wonder if Ms. Brinkley has these same memory problems. Does she have someone to remind her that it’s time to work out, or is she more disciplined than I am, getting up at 6 a.m. to work those muscles?
Currently, I have a fingernail problem. It’s not that chip in the polish or them being different lengths. Oh boy, here goes. The secret’s out. I was dying that pesky little bit of gray hair that shows up in my dark hair, the dye got into the glove, and now I have a stained nail. Hubby said, “Just let it go gray.” Easy for a blond to say.
I tried nail polish remover, soap and water, and even bleach, but it was too late. The next day at work, a friend told me that alcohol or Goop (hand cleaner) would have gotten it out. And I know that Goop gets everything out. I’ve used it to remove ink, chocolate, and tomato stains from clothing a million times. I have some on hand, under the kitchen sink. What was I thinking?
I tried polishing my rarely polished nails with a pale pink, even underneath the nail. It still showed through. Maybe I should try a dark color for the time being. Or maybe I should not worry about it and let it wear off.
I’ve not done a very good job about protecting my skin either. On the first day of our vacation at the beach near my mother-in-law’s home in Florida, I got sunburned. I used a little bit of sunscreen, but I thought that since last year, only my shoulders got burned at first, I would be fine.
I peeled for two weeks.
I returned to work the following week, thinking my burn had turned into a pretty nice tan. I’m sure it would’ve been better had I not been sore and avoiding the outdoors the rest of the trip.
People at work said, “You can’t tell you’ve been to Florida. Where’s your tan?” That’s what I get for worrying about having my dream tan.
Vanity.
I should be happy with the color I get going to auctions, walking around Worlds of Fun, and gardening. Maybe I should cut some trees down around my house so I can get sun while I work in the yard, thus killing the proverbial two birds with one stone—getting exercise AND a tan.
Seriously, most of us have feelings about getting a tan. Some people, like my 13-year-old daughter, think that having porcelain white skin is a curse. She tries to get a tan, but can only stand the sun for about two seconds at a time. She looks beautiful with her light skin and chocolate-drop-brown eyes. She doesn’t know just how lovely a porcelain doll is. She’ll probably be among the few people in this world with very healthy skin.
With all the vain attitudes being thrown at us from every direction, maybe someone should say it’s the “in thing” to be pale, and pale is pretty…and healthy.

Beauty & Self-Esteem

Sometimes I get self-conscious and worry about little things. Surely every woman must be like me, a little vain and worrisome over things no one really cares about.
“If I wear this top, the moles on my arms will show.” “These pants bring out the lumps in my thighs.” “Horrors, my nail polish is chipped and some of my nails are shorter than others.”
I assume that everyone will notice things about me just because I do. If we looked at any woman anywhere, even Christie Brinkley, I would bet she would have moles, zits, a broken nail or chipped polish on occasion, and no one would notice or care. We’re all too busy worrying about our own flaws to worry about anyone else’s bodily dilemmas.
So if this is true, why do we worry? We should just assume that everyone is looking at their own problems and won’t notice our issues. That’s how it should be, right?
Then why do I know women who won’t let their own husbands see them without makeup? What’s the tragedy if your nail polish chips? It means you work hard.
I once worked with a lady who said that she notices right away how a woman’s nail polish looks. It was, to her, a terrible thing if a lady didn’t have a perfect manicure every single day. I was thinking, ‘Maybe if I didn’t have kids, a husband, cats, work, chores, gardening, I would have perfect nails.’
Weight is another thing people spend too much time concentrating on. I don’t just mean overweight people either. I went through a tough time once and at times I could only stand to eat a couple of bites at a sitting. My weight dropped to a mere 99 pounds. I regained my appetite and my weight and am average-size now.
I’ve always been a fairly small person, and I don’t do anything special to lose weight, but people say things like, “You make me sick, you’re so skinny.” Or, “I hate you.” One well-meaning man (not to mention any names, my stepdad knows who he is) asked me “Do you go to the bathroom after you eat and…. (He stuck his finger down his throat)…? Some people are built with a petite frame and others with a bigger one. I never say to an overweight person, “Gosh, you make me sick, you’re so fat.” We should practice a little sensitivity.
A person’s weight should not be of concern to the general public, it’s personal.
I think that if we have a flaw we don’t like, (barring what anyone else might think) we conceal it if we so choose, to please ourselves, and no one else. I complain about little things all the time and my husband tells me no one would even notice that, and not to worry about it. I tell him that it bothers me, I don’t care what anyone else thinks.
I shouldn’t even let things bother me, because it probably means I do have a small worry about what people think. That I might someday gain a little weight or get wrinkles, or gray hair will overtake my dark hair.
Well, I guess I just told on myself and every other human female on the planet. No matter what, we’re always going to worry about our flaws, even if we say we won’t. Or we shouldn’t. But, how about we make it our goal? Now, repeat after me, “I will not obsess about my flaws…”