I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve taken my father home from the hospital. I somehow got the honor after his numerous heart surgeries. The routine was always the same: I’d wheel Pops and his huge bag of whatever my mother packed out of the hospital to my car, load Pops and his stuff in while lecturing him to watch his stitches. Once, after a triple bypass, the nurse told me Pops had to place “something soft” between the seat belt and his chest. All we had was a teddy bear the heart patients received in rehab (nicknamed “Sir Koffs A Lot”—no idea why), so I drove Pops home with a teddy bear nestled to his chest.
A friend once commented she didn’t know how I did it. It’s easy. I owe him.
I was in a terrible car accident shortly after my 18th birthday. I was a passenger in a car that hit a utility pole. I wasn’t wearing my seat belt and ended up taking out the windshield with my face. My injuries were extensive, especially to my forehead. It was sliced three quarters of the way across and down to the skull. I also had cuts on my chin, a fat lip, chipped tooth and a very bruised face.
I required 300 stitches in my forehead, and I had to wait hours for the bleeding to stop before the surgeon could sew me up. My father had jumped out of bed and made the 15 minute trip to the hospital in eight minutes to be with me. He made my mother stay home after my friend told him how serious my injuries were. He didn’t want her seeing me hurt.
When it was time to start the stitches, Pops refused to leave the exam room. The surgeon was much smaller than my father and didn’t want a fight, so he said Pops could stay with me. And I’m glad he did.
I wouldn’t have made it without him. The shots the nurse gave me to “numb the pain” hurt so badly I insisted she stop and that the surgeon just sew. The surgeon yelled at me for crying. Pops told me to squeeze his hand when it hurt. He told me later he thought I was going to break it.
It was years before my father told me how he almost fainted watching me get stitched up. But I couldn’t tell. I just stayed still, squeezing his hand to block out the excruciating pain while tears silently ran down my face. It took the surgeon two hours to close my gaping head wound.
So, all those times I’ve spent in the hospital with my dad, being annoyed by him, praying he will make it through yet another surgery and then trucking him home are nothing compared to what he did for me.
I haven’t been in a vehicle without a seat belt since then.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Monday, February 1, 2010
I'm the Only One
I’m in the middle of taking a course on diversity and leadership. We’re studying gender, and that’s got me thinking about how gender plays out in my life.
I am the only girl in a family of boys. I don’t just mean my immediate family (2 brothers and me). I mean both sides of my extended family. My paternal grandparents have 10 grandchildren—9 boys and me. My maternal grandparents have six—five boys and, once again, me.
I am five of six on my mother’s side, so the real chance of having female cousins fell to my father’s side, where I am two of 10 in the birth order. My grandparents have five children born several years apart. There are 23 years between my father, the oldest, and his youngest sister. I never really thought about being the only girl until I was 11 and my aunt and uncle were expecting their first baby. I used to get so angry when my aunt would tell people they wanted a boy because we had plenty of them already. Disappointed flooded me when we got the call that yet another boy joined the family.
A year later, I got another chance. My aunt and uncle were having another baby. No way could this be a boy. Disappointed again. I didn’t get my hopes up when another aunt and uncle (when your father is the oldest of five, you have lots of aunts and uncles) announced they were expecting the following year. Glad I didn’t because—you guessed it—another boy. We were up to eight grandchildren at that point.
Five years went by before another grandchild was on the way. I thought this was going to be it. I was 19 and still hoping for another girl in the family. But it was Zachary instead of Christina, and I gave up. I accepted that I was going to be it.
My father’s youngest sister married then, but as the years went by and no kids, we just assumed they didn’t want or couldn’t have them. I got the shock of my life in 2003 when my aunt announced she was pregnant. Could I hope? After all these years and grandchildren—could we finally have another girl? This baby would be magic number 10. Surely the odds would be in favor of a girl.
I was visiting my parents when my aunt and uncle stopped by to visit. “We found out what we’re having,” my aunt said. I knew it by looking at her face and accepted defeat. Sean was born in December 2003, three months after I turned 30. I was destined to be surrounded by boys. Holding the tiny newborn at the hospital, I decided that wasn’t so bad.
When I tell people I’m the only girl on both sides of my family, they laugh and comment about how I must be spoiled. I wasn’t. I was treated the same as the boys, especially in my immediate family. I had to mow the lawn and help my father around our farm just like my brothers. My brothers had to help with meals, dishes and laundry like me. My father taught me how to shoot a gun, throw a punch and even drive a tractor. I never once felt like I couldn’t do anything because I was a girl, and I will be forever grateful to my parents for that.
My special place in our family hit me the last time I saw my Grandma Betty. I went to visit her in the hospital the day before she died to say good-bye. I was sitting next to her bed when her doctor came into the room. “Who is this?” he asked her.
“This is my only granddaughter,” she announced, placing extra emphasis on the word only. “She is special.”
And at that moment, I didn’t mind being the only girl.
I am the only girl in a family of boys. I don’t just mean my immediate family (2 brothers and me). I mean both sides of my extended family. My paternal grandparents have 10 grandchildren—9 boys and me. My maternal grandparents have six—five boys and, once again, me.
I am five of six on my mother’s side, so the real chance of having female cousins fell to my father’s side, where I am two of 10 in the birth order. My grandparents have five children born several years apart. There are 23 years between my father, the oldest, and his youngest sister. I never really thought about being the only girl until I was 11 and my aunt and uncle were expecting their first baby. I used to get so angry when my aunt would tell people they wanted a boy because we had plenty of them already. Disappointed flooded me when we got the call that yet another boy joined the family.
A year later, I got another chance. My aunt and uncle were having another baby. No way could this be a boy. Disappointed again. I didn’t get my hopes up when another aunt and uncle (when your father is the oldest of five, you have lots of aunts and uncles) announced they were expecting the following year. Glad I didn’t because—you guessed it—another boy. We were up to eight grandchildren at that point.
Five years went by before another grandchild was on the way. I thought this was going to be it. I was 19 and still hoping for another girl in the family. But it was Zachary instead of Christina, and I gave up. I accepted that I was going to be it.
My father’s youngest sister married then, but as the years went by and no kids, we just assumed they didn’t want or couldn’t have them. I got the shock of my life in 2003 when my aunt announced she was pregnant. Could I hope? After all these years and grandchildren—could we finally have another girl? This baby would be magic number 10. Surely the odds would be in favor of a girl.
I was visiting my parents when my aunt and uncle stopped by to visit. “We found out what we’re having,” my aunt said. I knew it by looking at her face and accepted defeat. Sean was born in December 2003, three months after I turned 30. I was destined to be surrounded by boys. Holding the tiny newborn at the hospital, I decided that wasn’t so bad.
When I tell people I’m the only girl on both sides of my family, they laugh and comment about how I must be spoiled. I wasn’t. I was treated the same as the boys, especially in my immediate family. I had to mow the lawn and help my father around our farm just like my brothers. My brothers had to help with meals, dishes and laundry like me. My father taught me how to shoot a gun, throw a punch and even drive a tractor. I never once felt like I couldn’t do anything because I was a girl, and I will be forever grateful to my parents for that.
My special place in our family hit me the last time I saw my Grandma Betty. I went to visit her in the hospital the day before she died to say good-bye. I was sitting next to her bed when her doctor came into the room. “Who is this?” he asked her.
“This is my only granddaughter,” she announced, placing extra emphasis on the word only. “She is special.”
And at that moment, I didn’t mind being the only girl.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Skin Deep
I was waiting in line for coffee when I noticed the woman staring at me. Curious, I held her gaze until she shuffled a bit before blurting out, “You have pretty skin.”
There was a time when that compliment was rare, even unheard of. Growing up, if I caught someone staring at me, they would have done so because of my skin tone.
A polite term for what I am is pale. My grandmothers used to call it “alabaster.” The kids I grew up with called me “dead” or “super white” or “like a corpse.” I am so fair that I can see veins underneath my skin. I have never had a tan, and even the fake tan products can’t help me.
Growing up, I wanted nothing more than a tan. I would spend hours outside in the summers between sixth and eighth grades, with my beach towel spread on the lawn and me poured into a bikini in hopes of getting a golden glow. Despite my best efforts, I would end up pink or red if the sunburn were bad. Then, just as quickly, I would fade back to white. I hated the first day back to school, when my classmates were bronze and I was still “like a corpse.”
The worst part of being so fair was the questions. Why was I so white? Didn’t I tan? Why not try a tanning bed? Or makeup? As if I wanted to be so pale.
I finally gave up on the tanning quest after an eighth grade physical. I asked my doctor why I was so pale, and he did a great job of patiently explaining to me about melanin and skin cancer and sunscreen. Terrified of the word cancer after my grandfather’s death from the disease, I immediately started wearing sunscreen whenever I was outside—a habit that continues to this day.
The name calling stopped after I “embraced the pale,” but there was still a part of me that longed for a tan. Bronzed skin seemed so beautiful and healthy. But then I went away to college and met and noticed people like me. Fair skinned, alabaster, pale. I was no longer alone. I started getting compliments instead of taunts.
And now we’ve come full circle. Thanks to Twilight and True Blood, pale skin is “in.” The trait that caused me so much grief growing up is coveted. It may have taken vampires to make it acceptable, but I’ll take it if it means another kid won’t be teased for not having a tan.
As for me, I’m doing fine with the paleness. I still avoid the sun and religiously wear sunscreen. I have few wrinkles or lines, and I still get carded from time to time. Someone told me the other day that “there’s no way you can be 30.” I’m not—I’m 36. I’ll take it.
There was a time when that compliment was rare, even unheard of. Growing up, if I caught someone staring at me, they would have done so because of my skin tone.
A polite term for what I am is pale. My grandmothers used to call it “alabaster.” The kids I grew up with called me “dead” or “super white” or “like a corpse.” I am so fair that I can see veins underneath my skin. I have never had a tan, and even the fake tan products can’t help me.
Growing up, I wanted nothing more than a tan. I would spend hours outside in the summers between sixth and eighth grades, with my beach towel spread on the lawn and me poured into a bikini in hopes of getting a golden glow. Despite my best efforts, I would end up pink or red if the sunburn were bad. Then, just as quickly, I would fade back to white. I hated the first day back to school, when my classmates were bronze and I was still “like a corpse.”
The worst part of being so fair was the questions. Why was I so white? Didn’t I tan? Why not try a tanning bed? Or makeup? As if I wanted to be so pale.
I finally gave up on the tanning quest after an eighth grade physical. I asked my doctor why I was so pale, and he did a great job of patiently explaining to me about melanin and skin cancer and sunscreen. Terrified of the word cancer after my grandfather’s death from the disease, I immediately started wearing sunscreen whenever I was outside—a habit that continues to this day.
The name calling stopped after I “embraced the pale,” but there was still a part of me that longed for a tan. Bronzed skin seemed so beautiful and healthy. But then I went away to college and met and noticed people like me. Fair skinned, alabaster, pale. I was no longer alone. I started getting compliments instead of taunts.
And now we’ve come full circle. Thanks to Twilight and True Blood, pale skin is “in.” The trait that caused me so much grief growing up is coveted. It may have taken vampires to make it acceptable, but I’ll take it if it means another kid won’t be teased for not having a tan.
As for me, I’m doing fine with the paleness. I still avoid the sun and religiously wear sunscreen. I have few wrinkles or lines, and I still get carded from time to time. Someone told me the other day that “there’s no way you can be 30.” I’m not—I’m 36. I’ll take it.
Friday, January 1, 2010
A New Year
A new year brings with it the promise of new beginnings and fresh starts. Many of us have resolutions. We want to lose weight, stop smoking, exercise, read more or a host of other goals too numerous to mention. Today, the first day of 2010, we are brimming with excitement, energy and promise. This will be “the” year.
I have not yet decided exactly what I want to accomplish in 2010. But while I think about what the new year will hold for me, I will also take the time to be grateful for what I have. My wonderful family and friends. A challenging, steady job that allows me to take care of myself while meeting my professional needs. I own my home. There is food on the table and money in the bank. I am in good health, and after years of illness, so are my parents. My two furballs are happy, healthy and bringing joy to my days. I could go on.
Today, the temptation to focus on what to improve is great. But don’t forget about the joys and blessings that already fill your days. Want what you already have—not what you don’t.
I have not yet decided exactly what I want to accomplish in 2010. But while I think about what the new year will hold for me, I will also take the time to be grateful for what I have. My wonderful family and friends. A challenging, steady job that allows me to take care of myself while meeting my professional needs. I own my home. There is food on the table and money in the bank. I am in good health, and after years of illness, so are my parents. My two furballs are happy, healthy and bringing joy to my days. I could go on.
Today, the temptation to focus on what to improve is great. But don’t forget about the joys and blessings that already fill your days. Want what you already have—not what you don’t.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
