Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Check Ups and Check Outs
This afternoon marks the one week post-op eye check up appointment and although the wonderful neuro-opthamologist has decided that the surgery will more than likely need to be repeated tonight, I have decided to check out. Nope, not another surgery for me in 2006. Why? Remember my post about the number 3? Call me superstitious, call me silly, call me anything you want, but this would mean surgery number 3, and I am in no way prepared emotionally or psychiologically for yet another surgery right now. If yet another surgery is needed, I'll deal with the goofy vision until spring break and deal with it then, insh'Allah. Alhamdullilah, I've dealt with much worse and been none the worse for the wear.
Friday, December 22, 2006
Cleaning House
Ok, I took the plunge and switched to the new Blogger a couple of days ago, so I decided to try my hand at gussying up the blog this evening. I've changed the template umpteen times, played with colors and fonts, added and removed links. Pink is not really my color but since I didn't find a purple template that suited my taste, I settled one a layout that I liked. It's time for a change, yet I'm not sure that brown is the best way to go either. Aargh -- if only graphics design were my thing, I'd design myself the cutest looking blog template anyone ever did see, that's what I'd do! In the meantime, I'll be thankful for the freebies that are available and say alhamdullilah that someone else was kind enough to share his creative skills with those of us who have none, LOL!
I am pleased to report that the eye is showing some signs of improvement, alhamdulillah. At least some things have gone back to their singular forms most of the time. Peripheral vision is still terrible because I see double-double most of the time; however, it comes in really handy when there's a box of chocolates sitting in front of me, LOL! Mmmmmmmm........
I am pleased to report that the eye is showing some signs of improvement, alhamdulillah. At least some things have gone back to their singular forms most of the time. Peripheral vision is still terrible because I see double-double most of the time; however, it comes in really handy when there's a box of chocolates sitting in front of me, LOL! Mmmmmmmm........
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Seeing Double
Like a dingbat, I forgot to date the update to the last post, so I have to post again to let you know that I posted it today, December 16. Duh!
I had surgery on my right eye two days ago and am now seeing double, literally. The surgery was supposed to fix a wandering eye problem, but it looks like I will be going back under the knife on the 26th if the problem doesn't fix itself by then. According to the neuro-opthamologist, less than 1% of the patients who have Chiari and have this corrective surgery have a worsening of the double vision and as luck would have it, I never ever do anything the easy way, alhamdulillah. My eye is currently filled with blood and looks disgusting, but I suppose it could be much worse. At least when I look straight ahead I only see two of everything -- when I look to the side I see three, four, five, even six of everything!
And so it goes. . .
I had surgery on my right eye two days ago and am now seeing double, literally. The surgery was supposed to fix a wandering eye problem, but it looks like I will be going back under the knife on the 26th if the problem doesn't fix itself by then. According to the neuro-opthamologist, less than 1% of the patients who have Chiari and have this corrective surgery have a worsening of the double vision and as luck would have it, I never ever do anything the easy way, alhamdulillah. My eye is currently filled with blood and looks disgusting, but I suppose it could be much worse. At least when I look straight ahead I only see two of everything -- when I look to the side I see three, four, five, even six of everything!
And so it goes. . .
Sunday, December 10, 2006
I HATE the Number 3
(I started this post on December 10, got seriously depressed and couldn't finish it until now.)
It's not often that I dislike something strongly enough to say that I genuinely hate it, but I hate the number 3. Bad things seem to come in triads, in triplicates. This week, this month, this year, my life is filled with overwhelming sadness thanks to the number 3, and I'm really struggling. September 9 (9-9) and December 12 (12-12), three months and three days apart, 30 years ago, I lost the two most important women in my young life. My maternal grandmother (age 55) perished in an automobile accident while trying to get home from vacation to be with my mother because my father was critically ill and not expected to live. 3 months and 3 days later, my mother (age 37) died suddenly and unexpectedly. They were buried 3 months and 3 days apart. In 3 months and 3 days, I lost the two most important women in my young life and that loss turned my world upside down in ways from which I have never fully recovered and probably never will. In a few days, I will have spent 30 years of my life without the most important person I ever knew in it.
Whomever coined that silly old adage that time heals all wounds was a liar of the first order! Time does not heal all wounds; it only makes them less visible to others. After 30 years, I still long for my mother. Not a day passes that I don't think of her and wish that she could reap some of the rewards of what I have accomplished in my life. She was my best teacher, for her love and encouragement laid the foundation on which the remainder of my character was built. She taught me manners, morals, and ethics. We had very little money when I was young, but she taught me the importance of sharing what we did have and to be grateful for it, no matter how much or little it was. Now that I am in a much better position financially, I long to share that with her, to have the opportunity to make her life easier, to show her how well I learned the lessons she taught me. I long to share secrets with her, to hold her, to hug her, to cry with her, to laugh with her, to love her, to see her, to hear her. Every day, every single day for the past thirty years, I have wanted my mother. No, time does not heal all wounds, but it does help ease pain into memories. And I have some beautiful memories of my mother. I have seventeen years filled with glorious memories of the most amazing person I have ever had the fortune to know.
My husband knows her because I have shared with him every memory that I hold. He has "seen" her dancing around the living room floor in her emerald green bedroom slippers and has "heard" her sing "Delilah" with Tom Jones at the top of her voice. He has "tasted" her pot roast and knows that with the invention of the roasting bag, bless her heart, she finally learned how to cook. My friends have "met" my mom and know that mine was the house my friend came when she ran away after her own mother told her that she couldn't listen to Elton John's music any more because he dressed like the devil (actually, he dressed like a duck when we saw him in concert but to my friend's mom, they were the same). My mom is the guilty party who got us started listening to Elton John (and Queen, Rod Stewart, Deep Purple, Creedence Clearwater Revival, and several others for that matter!), so she had to explain to my friend's mother how EJ's dress was just for show and that my friend wasn't a bad person for listening to his music and that if she would listen to it with her daughter like she listened to it with me, she might be able to bond better with her daughter. Mother agreed, picked up daughter, and their relationship blossomed. My friends have taken my mother's advice to heart and work to communicate better with their own mothers mostly, I think, because they see how I yearn to have a mother dispensing advice, wanted or not.
I have outlived my mother by ten years so far. She was only 37 when she left this life. For thirty years I have felt the hole that her death left in my life. For thirty years there has been a void in my heart that nothing and nobody could ever fill. Memories of her flit in and out of that void, frequently warming my heart, often bringing tears, always echoing the emptiness there, forever reminding me that once upon a time I knew the most perfect love a human being can ever experience -- the love between a mother and her child.
It's not often that I dislike something strongly enough to say that I genuinely hate it, but I hate the number 3. Bad things seem to come in triads, in triplicates. This week, this month, this year, my life is filled with overwhelming sadness thanks to the number 3, and I'm really struggling. September 9 (9-9) and December 12 (12-12), three months and three days apart, 30 years ago, I lost the two most important women in my young life. My maternal grandmother (age 55) perished in an automobile accident while trying to get home from vacation to be with my mother because my father was critically ill and not expected to live. 3 months and 3 days later, my mother (age 37) died suddenly and unexpectedly. They were buried 3 months and 3 days apart. In 3 months and 3 days, I lost the two most important women in my young life and that loss turned my world upside down in ways from which I have never fully recovered and probably never will. In a few days, I will have spent 30 years of my life without the most important person I ever knew in it.
Whomever coined that silly old adage that time heals all wounds was a liar of the first order! Time does not heal all wounds; it only makes them less visible to others. After 30 years, I still long for my mother. Not a day passes that I don't think of her and wish that she could reap some of the rewards of what I have accomplished in my life. She was my best teacher, for her love and encouragement laid the foundation on which the remainder of my character was built. She taught me manners, morals, and ethics. We had very little money when I was young, but she taught me the importance of sharing what we did have and to be grateful for it, no matter how much or little it was. Now that I am in a much better position financially, I long to share that with her, to have the opportunity to make her life easier, to show her how well I learned the lessons she taught me. I long to share secrets with her, to hold her, to hug her, to cry with her, to laugh with her, to love her, to see her, to hear her. Every day, every single day for the past thirty years, I have wanted my mother. No, time does not heal all wounds, but it does help ease pain into memories. And I have some beautiful memories of my mother. I have seventeen years filled with glorious memories of the most amazing person I have ever had the fortune to know.
My husband knows her because I have shared with him every memory that I hold. He has "seen" her dancing around the living room floor in her emerald green bedroom slippers and has "heard" her sing "Delilah" with Tom Jones at the top of her voice. He has "tasted" her pot roast and knows that with the invention of the roasting bag, bless her heart, she finally learned how to cook. My friends have "met" my mom and know that mine was the house my friend came when she ran away after her own mother told her that she couldn't listen to Elton John's music any more because he dressed like the devil (actually, he dressed like a duck when we saw him in concert but to my friend's mom, they were the same). My mom is the guilty party who got us started listening to Elton John (and Queen, Rod Stewart, Deep Purple, Creedence Clearwater Revival, and several others for that matter!), so she had to explain to my friend's mother how EJ's dress was just for show and that my friend wasn't a bad person for listening to his music and that if she would listen to it with her daughter like she listened to it with me, she might be able to bond better with her daughter. Mother agreed, picked up daughter, and their relationship blossomed. My friends have taken my mother's advice to heart and work to communicate better with their own mothers mostly, I think, because they see how I yearn to have a mother dispensing advice, wanted or not.
I have outlived my mother by ten years so far. She was only 37 when she left this life. For thirty years I have felt the hole that her death left in my life. For thirty years there has been a void in my heart that nothing and nobody could ever fill. Memories of her flit in and out of that void, frequently warming my heart, often bringing tears, always echoing the emptiness there, forever reminding me that once upon a time I knew the most perfect love a human being can ever experience -- the love between a mother and her child.
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