The 5 I's

ughhhhh I’ve started this entry 4 times… I’m not sure why I’m struggling so mightily.  I guess mostly because I’m very, VERY good at bringing attention to my kids’ numbskull antics but not so great at reliving that moment when my son looked at me with tears in his eyes and asked, “mom… am I gonna die?”

Spoiler alert: he didn’t die… but many before him have; and, in part, we owe his not dying to the fact our life is completely draped in weird anomalies.

Enough of the cryptic, dancing-around-the-topic stuff… Cal spent 5 days this summer in Children’s Hospital out in Pittsburgh; he suffered from rhabdomyolysis – rapid breakdown of skeletal muscle, after an intense workout, due to inadequate hydration.

Basically… he flipped a bunch of tires one hot, humid afternoon and didn’t drink enough water.  The lab value used to monitor this condition is CPK (creatine phosphokinase), its an enzyme that gets into the blood stream when there’s muscle injury; a normal CPK level is 22-198… Cal’s peaked around 48,000.

Three and a half days into our ordeal we finally got a doctor who was able to fully explain the situation (we had a few who gave us minimal information but none explained it like this one).  This doctor was petite, I mean like… 4’10” under 100 pounds petite; she started with: “I’d never be able to reach the numbers Calvin reached, I just don’t have that much muscle mass; this was only possible because he’s such a muscular kid.”

We guess he was dehydrated going into practice – the boy drinks 30 to 75 gallons of milk daily (not really… it’s probably only 5 or 6) but milk, with all of it’s benefits, does not hydrate.  So, he was dehydrated going in and then didn’t drink during the (numerous) drink breaks throughout practice.  Yah… I could smash him.

The practice was held on Wednesday evening.  Wednesday morning Cal got his every-6-week bee venom shot; he’s allergic to bees – he’s outside a lot – so he gets shots of increasing amounts of bee venom to dampen his allergic reaction.  They alternate sites, right arm then, 6 weeks later, left arm.  Wednesday was leftie.  (I promise this comes into play later… I’m not just rambling).  So, Cal got a shot Wednesday morning and lifted intensely Wednesday evening.

Thursday morning he said his left arm hurt.  I assumed he strained a muscle and suggested ibuprofen and ice (Dan concurred… not that I needed his validation, mind you…).  Thursday evening Cal’s arm was neither better nor worse; still difficult to bend it and it hurt to the touch.

Friday morning he said his left arm HURT and his right arm was starting to ache; he wasn’t able to bend either to any great degree.  Pharmacist-mom gave strict instructions to continue the ibuprofen and icing.  I was in contact with Mike, our school trainer, and he felt we were doing right.  (I’m not sure that I’ve ever experienced 2 men simultaneously agreeing with me… so I had that going for me).

A few times throughout the day on Friday I asked Cal (via text) if it was swollen; “I dunno… I can’t see it.” For those of you new to my family… he has 2 sisters – because I didn’t think it was anything more than a muscle strain I didn’t even try to explain the daunting logistics of “hey [sister], could you look at my arm…”

I got home from work Friday evening, took one look around the house and started into my daily barrage of “what do you 3 DO ALL DAY?”  The girls – true to form – shrugged and went on with their lives; Cal, being Cal,  jumped up, headed to the kitchen and started to dry dishes – only he was doing it with his arms totally straight.  I chuckled and said, “what in the heck are you doin’ ya goon?”  His eyes just about broke my heart, “I can’t bend my arms mom, they just hurt so bad.”

I took one look at his left arm and said, “put on good underwear, I’m taking you to the ER.”  (we had an incident once with bad underwear and a doctor’s appointment…  in that he was not bleeding or unconscious I felt we had the time to avoid embarrassment).

“I don’t think I can change my underwear mom; my arms won’t bend…” He’s 14, I wasn’t doing it.  To this day I don’t know what shape his undies were in… I just thank God all the hospital stuff was waist up.

We checked in to the ER and the doctor diagnosed him pretty quickly.  “Rhabdomyolysis – severe muscle breakdown due to dehydration.  We’ll hang a bag of saline, flush him out and send you guys on your way.”

When Cal and I were alone he asked, “How long is this going to take, momma?” (you see… Fortnite was calling him).  I looked at the IV flow rate and said, “hmmm couple of hours or so.”

he

was

crushed

…5 days later we walked outta Children’s Hospital.

At the ER his CPK levels were off the charts, literally.  There are 2 tests used to monitor CPK levels; one measures up to 14,000 (and is presumably more precise?), the other has no limit.  Our ER only uses the 14,000 test.  After 2 bags of normal saline his values were still reading >14,000.  After 3 1/2 bags Cal finally had to pee.

Over 3 liters of fluid was pumped into his body before he had the urge to pee… my boy was dangerously dehydrated. By 11pm the ER doctor was showing concern; it was decided Cal would have to go to Pittsburgh so that specialists could monitor his kidneys and overall treatment (that amount of fluid is rough on the heart and the amount of waste needing to be flushed put his kidneys in real danger).

At this point Dan (who was home with the girls) and I were scrambling.  Alex had a softball tournament the next day in State College and I was scheduled to work – it was now on Dan to get Alex to her tournament (90 minutes away) and get back to town to open the pharmacy by 9am (Pop… who usually saves our bacon in times of need – wasn’t able to do much being less than 4 weeks out from open heart surgery).  We devised our plan, Dan went to bed and I began a sleepless vigil at my son’s bedside.

At one point, remembering that I told the doctor we hadn’t given Cal anything, I got up, found our doctor and said, “I never mentioned that Cal has been taking 800mg of ibuprofen 3 times daily.”

“WHY? Why would you do that?”

“Uhm… well, we thought it was a muscle strain and he weighs just over 200 pounds…”

“Well, let’s just hope it didn’t do more damage to his kidneys…..” he then shook his head and turned back to his paperwork.

I went back to my boy’s room, dropped into my chair and questioned myself for 7 hours.  I racked my brain trying to recall every thing I ever learned about ibuprofen.  I berated myself for giving this boy ibuprofen when his kidneys were in such a precarious situation. Then I asked myself how I was supposed to know his kidneys were in trouble.  I let the tears fall down my face… wondering if I’d permanently damaged my son.  I’m not only his mom but I’m a pharmacist – DO NO HARM – that’s the pharmacists oath.  What the hell had I done???????

At 5(ish) I couldn’t take it anymore and texted Dan, he messaged back that he was up and moving so I called immediately; I was a mess, “Were we wrong??? yes, obviously knowing what we know now we wouldn’t give him ibuprofen but we didn’t KNOW THIS then…”  My husband, my greatest cheerleader, my rock said, “Screw him… we did what any parent would do in that situation.”

It didn’t give me back those 7 hours I spent blaming myself; but it did stop the blaming… mostly.

I used my sleepless, early morning hours to arrange a drop off so that Dan could meet Alex’s coach enroute to the tournament; thereby saving him the 3 hour round-trip to State College and giving him time to see Cal before we left for Children’s.

The ER doctor was leaving not long after Dan got there.  He walked in and wished us luck.  Dan said, “Should we have done something differently?  I mean, we gave him ibuprofen assuming a muscle strain… what should have been our course of action?”

To the ER doc this question probably seemed benign; to Dan’s wife, who’s been with him for 23 years – it was a full scale assault.  My husband was mad.

To his credit, the doctor – who’d had the same 7 hours to reevaluate his response to me – said, “You did everything right.  As a matter of fact, if he were my kid… we’d STILL be at home pushing ibuprofen and ice.  Score one for mother’s intuition.”

I’ll never be able to describe the weight that lifted from me at that very moment; but I’m also left wondering if he would’ve ever freed me from that burden had Dan not directly confronted him…

After 9 hours of being planted firmly in limbo, the hospital finally scored us an ambulance for the trip to Pittsburgh.  They loaded us up and we headed west.  I’ll start adding some pictures here – let it be known, Cal was not impressed by my desire to photographically journal our adventure.  In my defense, I was trying to keep it lighthearted, I knew he was worried and I couldn’t let him know how worried I was, too.

It always surprises people when they learn Cal is a nervous kid; he’s so confident and things come so easily to him, it seems almost counterintuitive for him to be anxious, but he is.  It was up to me to be the strong one… not something I do well when it involves my kids and illness.

The trip to Children’s is about… 2 hours 15 minutes.  Not too terribly long but for a 14-year old, nervous kid who’s had 4 liters of fluid pumped into him – that’s a long trip with no bathroom.

He was actually in agony by the time we pulled into the ambulance bay at the hospital.  The last 30 minutes of the trip was extremely difficult to watch – the ambulance didn’t have a portable urinal so Cal was on his own.  I was so angry at the EMTs; at one point I literally begged them to pull over but the area wasn’t conducive.  As we pulled into the hospital I could sense relief washing over my boy; I told the ambulance guys, “Be easy, don’t jostle him…”

Whether from my instruction or outta compassion, they got the gurney to the ground as gently as humanly possible; then the driver walked up to the locked entrance and turned to the other guy, “You have any idea what the code is?”

I can SORTA laugh about this now… I mean… it IS typical of the life of an Iseminger.  But at the time, I literally coulda sliced some jugulars.  Cal was actually gritting his teeth at this point because his bladder was so excruciatingly full.

Once we got inside and he used the bathroom, I relaxed a little… we were where we needed to be and I was sure everything would be fine; ok… I’m a worrier by nature – actually some would say I’m a fatalist – so I was far from ‘sure’ everything would be fine but I had some hope…

Truthfully, Cal didn’t LOOK sick.  He didn’t FEEL sick.  It was all just a little surreal.  There we were at a leading pediatric hospital with my 5’8″ son who weighs 204 pounds and he looked and felt fine.  Not one single bit of it made any sense at all.

The admission team (1 doctor, 2 nurses) asked us some questions then asked me to leave the room; due to Cal’s age they are required to ask questions without a parent present.  I paced in the hallway until the doctor came out; he was incredulous, “I have never, in all my years of dealing with this issue, seen it present as your son’s condition has presented with the swelling of his triceps.”

And it was at that very moment that I decided to never again question why my life is such a patchwork of odd, random, weird happenings.  How many times have I heard, “How does this stuff happen to you”?  Usually it’s unbelievable situations that make my life entertaining and create fodder for this blog; this time… it quite possibly saved my son’s life.

Cal’s condition usually presents as tea-colored urine and (because of the ubiquitous level of muscle breakdown) all-over body aches.  Cal’s only symptom was swelling and tenderness of his triceps…

His entire musculature was breaking down and his only symptom was swelling of the triceps…

the doctor was baffled.  I suggested the bee venom shots might have contributed and that’s still being debated; but what I do know is – had this case of rhabdomyolysis presented in the usual course I would’ve never gotten him to the ER as quickly as I did (he would’ve never talked about the color of his urine and all over body aches would’ve not prompted anything more than… “You’re soft.”).  Our weird life, at the very least saved his kidneys and at most… his life.  This doctor echoed the ER doctor’s sentiment, “Your mother’s intuition saved him.”

I’m not convinced – I think anybody watching this kid trying to dry those dishes would’ve acted as I did… but it’s still nice to know that – with all my claims of being the worst mother in the history of mothers – I might actually have some sense of nurturing buried deep in my core…

I can’t say enough about the staff at Children’s Hospital.  We were in the observation unit for the first 2 1/2 days.  Those nurses were exceptional.  We were moved to a regular floor for 2 days and those nurses were wonderful.  We tried not to bother any of them; I can’t imagine their workload and quite frankly we didn’t need to waste their time.  But any time we called them or asked them a question, they took care of us as if it were a pleasure to do so.

Actually, the entire facility is remarkable – they have thought of everything a sick child could want or need… we were lucky to leave quickly and with a positive report – I had the luxury of avoiding what so many parents at that hospital are faced with… I also have the luxury of pushing it out of my mind when I don’t want to think about it….

I’ll never forget Cal looking at me and asking if he was going to die… I don’t know how parents go about the task of telling their child, “yes, you are going to die.”  Our visit was 2 months ago, it didn’t happen, and yet I’m sitting here with labored breathe thinking about it…

Our stay was a roller coaster to say the least.  We expected the CPK levels to drop with every liter of fluid.  Well… that’s not how it works.  First of all – the muscles broke down (due to dehydration combined with an intense training session) which led to waste build-up; apparently that build-up acts as a sponge and further absorbs bodily fluids  thereby intensifying the dehydration and thwarting the body’s ability to excrete the waste.

Then… his kidneys had the overwhelming responsibility of filtering all of that waste.  But, what we didn’t realize: the process isn’t a finite thing –  the CPK continues to enter the bloodstream as long as there is muscle injury (meaning… until it’s repaired); in Cal’s case – it continued for the first 3 days of our stay – so his CPK levels continued to rise…

the problem was… nobody explained this to us until the petite doctor… so his levels were continuing to climb when we were expecting (hoping for)  a decline; with each increase our hearts dropped.  Ironically the numbers started to decline at the same time we had our explanation, I wouldn’t say the knowledge was then moot but I can say, it sure woulda been good information to have days prior.

The roller coaster continued with the mental torment of his escalating blood pressure readings (due to the massive amounts of fluid being pushed into him), the false CPK readings (an 11,000 early on that gave us false hope and a 100,000 later that gave us false dread) and just an inability to fully comprehend what was going on.

Listen, I have a medical background – albeit a limited medical background, but I know some stuff… and yet I felt completely incapable of comprehension.  I can’t imagine how non-medical persons deal with this stuff.  Ever since my mom got sick I’ve wanted to start a foundation that sends a medical-type person with a patient (and family) in these situations; a completely disinterested 3rd party to listen in a non-emotional way and then be able to explain it later, when the patient can fully absorb the information – our experience at Children’s Hospital has furthered that desire.

As a side note, I can say with a high degree of certainty Cal won’t be looking for a career in the medical field; he gagged every time he had to handle the portable urinal (used to measure his output).  “Oh [gag] mom it’s [gag] warm.”

For 5 days we lived in 4 to 6 hour increments – it was 4 hours between blood draws and and another 2 hours for the results.  I didn’t sleep much – worried about Cal, waiting on levels, worried about my family back home, worried about the store and just the level of discomfort that comes with being a non-patient in the hospital…

While I sat watching Cal sleep one night I started googling ‘hydration tips’ and came across the Kendrick Fincher Hydration for Life Foundation kendrickfincher.org/kendrick-fincher-bio 

Kendrick, at the age of 13, lost his life to complications from heat stroke after his first ever football practice (rhabdomyolysis and heat exhaustion are – generally – less severe heat illnesses); Kendrick’s mom, Rhonda, started the foundation in an effort to educate athletes about the importance of hydration.

I immediately drafted an email to Rhonda (who seems to work every hour of the day for the foundation), telling her of our plight.  By mid-morning the next day we were working on piloting a program at my kids’ schools.  Rhonda has been a wealth of information and an amazing cheerleader; I’m sure the program will evolve over time but I’m proud of what we’ve already accomplished.

I don’t hold the coach or school responsible – Coach gave drink breaks, Cal just didn’t drink.  But I do want them to learn from this and I don’t want any parent to go through what we went through (or worse).  With that in mind I contacted our superintendent and athletic director; I told them I’d like for every student athlete to be required to sit through a hydration lecture before taking the field (or court).

I’m proud to say, our first such “clinics” are being held August 15th (I’ll publish this blog afterward so that I can include pictures from the event).  The pharmacy is sponsoring the event and Mike, the trainer, will be teaching our kids how to stay hydrated and stay healthy.  From this point forward a hydration clinic will be held prior to every sport season; I’m sure Mike is thrilled with me…

I never talk to Rhonda about Kendrick – in our many emails and messages I’ve never been able to say anything profound because…  quite honestly, I just don’t know what to say to her.  She’ll read this blog (I’ve been promising it to her for weeks) and still I don’t know what I want to say to her because I don’t know how to put it into words.

How do I express the level of awe I have for this woman who surrounds herself with the very thing that took her son’s life for the sole purpose of saving somebody else’s son or daughter?  Rhonda works tirelessly to spread information about the importance of hydration; making sure Kendrick saves every life he possible can…  Not only does this woman somehow find a way to get out of bed everyday; but she does so with the hope that no mother knows her grief.

Not all heroes wear capes… sometimes they create foundations.

Personally, I’m stuck in this weird place where I find myself trying to reconcile my very different emotions…  One minute I’m so immeasurably grateful that my boy is healthy and vibrant and fully recovered and the next I’m wracked with overwhelming guilt.

Why is my son ok and Rhonda’s isn’t?

I can’t imagine how many times she’s asked the same question… I only wish I had an answer…

In my heart I believe Cal is ok because anything else would’ve crippled me.  I’m able to push this hydration agenda because he’s ok… I couldn’t do what Rhonda does, I’m not that strong; Cal was spared so that we could spread Kendrick’s message…

We were sent home on June 20th; 5 days and 21 liter-bags of  hydration later.  The doctors wanted Cal’s CPK level to drop to 8,000 before discharging him; they actually let us go when he hit 13,000… the degree of downward trend was enough for them.  Dan, the girls and Pop came to get us… I was never so thankful to listen to those girls bicker – all.the.way.home.

When my family pulled into the patient pick-up area Pop was the first one out of the car… most of you know the relationship between Calvin and his grandfather…  There they were, both banged up, Pop – weeks out from heart surgery, Cal – covered in needle holes, clinging to each other as if their lives depended on it… for those two – sometimes I think they do.

And now, because my blog is meant to bring laughter I leave you with this:

We did not have many clothes with us in Pittsburgh.  We were 2+ hours from home, I had no vehicle and even though I had time to zip home before we left our local ER, I was so out of sorts I only grabbed underwear for Cal and a t-shirt for me… that’s an honest to goodness true story.  Do you know how many people come to me for advice because they think I have my life together?  A lot.

…and I packed 1 pair of underwear and a t-shirt…

Anyway, we were able to buy some clothes at the hospital gift shop ($105 for 2 pairs of sweatpants, a t-shirt and a 3-pack of underwear); the only underwear available for women were cotton, white, 2XL panties.  I’m devastated to say — they fit.  I mean they didn’t FIT and I probably won’t wear them on date night but I certainly didn’t need the safety pin I was hoping I’d need….

So, with new clothes on a freshly showered body, I set off for the laundry room to wash the stuff we’d been wearing for 3 days… (ew).  I started the load and went back to hang with Cal for a bit.  The wash cycle was 45 minutes so I started back to the laundry room at about the 35 minute mark.  Once there, I mindlessly watched the tv until a man came in… he was a big, hulking man (not that I was scared; as a matter of fact, he was very pleasant to chat with). He walked right to my front-loading washer and leaned against it.

I had spent the previous 5 minutes or so watching my laundry go ’round with no issue until………

Wait! first allow me to preface this with some information that is a touch personal.  I’m not petite like our doctor, Cal gets his size as much from me as Dan; as a “more-than-petite” woman, my bras don’t come in the cutesy colors with one tiny hook if ya know what I mean… no, these things have construction-grade workings…. small families could use my bra for shelter in a storm…

so Big Burly Guy and I were chatting while he stood in front of my washer and suddenly I noticed my bra smashed against the window of the machine. And I’m not talking, a little part of the strap flashed across on it’s way to the back… I’m talking – the entire cup was pressed against the window as if it were looking to escape.

I know I saw 4 other pieces of laundry in that relative position earlier but when the bra got there… it wasn’t givin’ up the pole position.  Just this massive, unmistakeable bra cup pressed up against the glass.

Big Burly Guy had to wonder what was causing the panic-stricken look on my face… I kept shooting nervous glances at the glass, next to his knee, wide-eyed, wondering how in the heck I was gonna ask him to move aside and then try to subtly retrieve that tent of a garment…

and then…

by the grace of God…

his phone rang and he walked out of the room…..

I talked about the upcoming hydration clinic during a football boosters meeting.   Practice was over so Cal and a few of his teammates were there; afterwards I asked him if he was embarrassed when I talked about it (he’s a freshman and was horribly embarrassed by the situation in general… worrying that everybody would think he was weak).  He shook his head and said, “Nope, we need to talk about it; I don’t want any kid ever going through what I went through… ever.”

Me neither bud… me neither…

Sorry I’ve been off the grid for a while… so far 2018 has been pretty eventful with our annual family trip from Santa, Alex’s Sweet 16, Abby’s Lyme diagnosis, my dad’s open heart surgery, my first wedding acting as the officiant….

yah…. you read that right.

Each of those events warranted blog posts (and they might still pop up…) but particularly that last one deserves further discussion, amirite?

Some background: my family and the groom’s family are bound tightly by many years of friendship.  His grandparents and my parents have been friends since high school and his little sister and Alex are besties; Dan and I blur the generation divide by not only being close friends with the groom’s mom and stepdad but also with him and his brother.  We’re included in all their family functions; I even photoshopped dad and the 5 I’s into a pre-existing family photo as an anniversary gift.

Josh (the groom) and Leah (his bride) are at our house from time to time, mostly out of boredom but also because -for whatever reason – they just enjoy hanging out with us.  We’ve had plenty of fun with those two and we’ve had plenty of serious conversations but I gotta say… never did I ever imagine I’d be pronouncing them husband and wife.

(I added the lower picture because… well.. what the hell is going on with my face??? I swear I’m happy for them!)

Josh texted me about 6 months ago and asked what we had going on that night; that he and Leah needed to talk to me.  Once they got here we did the typical “hi, have a beer” and I asked, “have you made any more wedding decisions?”  Leah looked at Josh and said, “as a matter of fact last night we decided who’s going to do the ceremony…”

“Oh that’s exciting! Who?”

“You!”

“huh?”

“We both decided we want you to do it.”

“huh?”

“We don’t go to church regularly so we don’t feel close to any pastors and we want someone we respect and love and who knows us well; so we decided we aren’t getting married unless you do it.”

“huh?”

This conversation or some semblance of it went on for about 3 months.  I gave these 2 crazy kids so many outs… “if you change your mind I won’t be offended, I promise… this is a really big thing so please think it through.”

I think they started to get irritated with me so I resigned myself to the idea that they wanted me.  ‘Resigned’ has a negative connotation… please don’t take that to mean I wasn’t honored and touched… I used ‘resigned’ because I just didn’t/don’t feel qualified as a human being for such a momentous task.  I mean for criminy sakes Josh doesn’t even trust me with my own fantasy football team (he’s constantly barraging me with suggestions, and they are never worded nicely; “what the hell is going on with your team?  do you even look at it???”), yet he felt comfortable entrusting me with something so magnanimous – just didn’t seem like a good idea to me.

Once I warmed up to the idea (that’s being generous… even now, with it behind me, I still think I wasn’t a great choice…) I set out to see what needed to be done.  I signed on to the Universal Life Church – a common avenue for average Joes who want to perform weddings.  I read everything on their site pertaining to the legality of it all and called the courthouse to make sure being ordained in this manner held up legally.  Nobody could give me a straight answer; the recurring response was – I’m not sure about that… read the law.

And to be fair – the law is pretty clear – I made it confusing.  But I’d heard of other people officiating weddings with the same “credentials” so I let it drop and went about my business; falling back on the website’s claim that it is binding (in their defense they  also encouraged reading of the law)

I won’t keep you in suspense… it’s not legal (in Pennsylvania, that is – most other states allow it) and I found that out on Wednesday… the wedding was Saturday.

The drama was very real for about 5 hours – a call to my attorney, texts to various people, tracking down clergy people – but in the end I found a pastor who agreed to work with me and make everything legal.  Anybody who wonders if or thinks Leah  may have been a bridezilla… think again… this girl was cool as a cucumber.  I had to tell her what I’d discovered (that I wasn’t legal) so that she could tell me what she wanted me to do – I was going to make it right but I needed her input… I told her then said, “I’ll fix it, I promise.” She texted back, “ok”

ok

3 days before her wedding she finds out her “minister” isn’t actually legal and she basically says, ‘I trust you’.  She’s a nut – I’d screwed up everything and she says, “ok.”

So… back to the early stages when I was getting ordained.

After (what I thought was) thoroughly researching the whole mess; I chose the Universal Life Church but put it off for weeks because I just felt overwhelmed by what I imagined to be a labor intensive, very involved process.  Finally, one night in February the pharmacy was particularly slow and I thought I’d start the process and see how far I got.  I logged onto the website, answered some questions:  name, email, state/county and created a password.  I got everything filled in, took a deep breath and thought, here goes nothing… (thinking of the readings and activities I’d undoubtedly face) then hit ‘enter’ – a screen popped up that said, “Congratulations you are an ordained minister!”

No shit… that was it. It was embarrassingly simple for such an awesome responsibility. I took it upon myself to read various books and articles about  officiating weddings but basically you just have to make up a unique password to be called a minister – you can even use the Google suggested password – it literally takes no effort… just some cash.

I got my paperwork in the mail a few days later – I have a parking permit, a media pass – it’s absolutely mind blowing.

I’ll add the script of the ceremony below; you can gather from that how I got my thoughts together and how dedicated I was to the process.  I didn’t read straight from the script so the actual ceremony wasn’t recited verbatim but I think I did a pretty good job of keeping it close.

I got quite a few compliments afterward.  The sound guy asked how many services I’d officiated; I told him this was my first.  He was dumfounded – “I’ve done my fair share of these things and that was one of the best I’ve ever heard.”

The photographers were a husband and wife pair who were celebrating their 11th wedding anniversary; the wife said, “the part about the rings was so spot on and it really hit home with us… thank you, your words were like an anniversary gift to us.”

A co-worker of Josh came up and introduced himself then said, “I can’t imagine a better send off into married life than you just gave them.  It was perfect and really nailed their personalities.”

My cousin Janet and the groom’s grandmother Linda, who was so close to my mom, both told me mom would have been very proud of me… that just about wrecked me.  Janet’s husband hugged me immediately after the ceremony and congratulated me on a job well done – you’d have to know Richie to know how touching that was (he’s a magnificent man, but he’s reserved… his hug was quite honestly the most meaningful compliment I received).

It was hot – I did a tremendous amount of sweating – heat, nerves, menopause… My hair resembled Troy Polamalu’s (or Monica’s in Barbados) and I fumbled my words a little, but I think I did ok – for my first (AND LAST) wedding ceremony.  I am sitting here today, a day later wondering what on Earth those two were thinking when they asked me, but also feeling such love in my heart for them and hoping I lived up to the amazing honor they bestowed upon me…

Here is the transcript of the ceremony – I’ve added comments in blue that will clarify some things.  As I mentioned… I didn’t read directly from this so it doesn’t perfectly represent what I actually said, but it gives you an idea.

---

Good afternoon; we are gathered here today… ok… part of me is here just because I wanted to see if Leah was actually going to go through with this… (Richard brings me $20 as if he’d lost a bet) Richard is my cousin, and Josh’s cousin (different sides) he’s also one of Josh’s best friends – this was well received… got good laughs

Josh and Leah have brought us together this afternoon for an event that is cause for great joy and celebration and they have chosen each of you to be here with them not only to celebrate their union but also to bear witness to the promises they are about to make to each other and subsequently to do your part to hold them to those promises.

Who gives this bride to be married to this man? Her parents and I do

Thank you RJ (nod at RJ and he will go to his seat)

Please be seated

Josh and Leah would you please face each other and join hands

When Josh and Leah asked me to do this I laughed it off… for weeks.  I begged them to ask somebody else… for a thousand reasons.  I can assure you – nobody is more surprised that I’m up here doing this than I am.  But once I resigned myself to the fact they weren’t going to let me off the hook I decided I’d do everything I could to make sure my first and only wedding stays a success.  To that end, I thought about Josh and Leah and I asked myself if I was absolutely sure they were ready for this… now… for Leah, the answer was easy and it wasn’t so much a specific incident.  I’ve known Leah for a long time and the one thing she’s made perfectly clear is her love for Josh.  I can think of so many conversations during which she said, “I don’t remember not wanting to marry Josh.  I just don’t remember a time that I didn’t want to be his wife.”  So, for as long as I’ve known Leah; I’ve known of her commitment to Josh. 

Josh on the other hand… is no less in love with Leah but with him – it was actually an ah-ha moment.  We were sitting at my kitchen table and we were discussing either Josh’s intent to buy the engagement ring or his plan for proposing.  I asked him, “You’ve been dating for a long time… what made you decide to ask her now?”  And he looked me right in the eyes and said, “Karen… for a very long time I wanted to change Leah; to make her into the person that I thought she should be. And at some point, and I’m not sure when it was, but all the sudden I realized I like Leah and I don’t want to change her.  I love her as she is and I want to marry Leah not some version of her I’ve created.” And that’s when I knew Josh was ready to marry the girl he loves. I cried here a little so I literally shouted, “Listen… I’m going thru menopause… there will be some crying from me!”

Josh and Leah asked me to do a reading and they’ve chosen 1 Corinthians 13: 4-8…  In the name of full disclosure I want everybody to know I have no religious background.  I have a deep and profound belief in God but my specific beliefs don’t fit into any specific religion and because of that, I’ve never read the bible nor sought a church.  So when Josh and Leah asked me to do this reading I felt I owed it to them, the devout people here and to the author to find out more about this selection.  My first act was to read 1 Corinthians 13: 4-8 and after doing so I thought to myself that these words shouldn’t be held only to weddings – they should be spoken to all people as a guideline for all relationships. You can imagine my surprise when I learned that the apostle Paul actually did write these words not to a bride and groom, but to the entire people of Corinth.  You see, Paul had learned that these people were vying to be the favorite of God but Paul said, “God has no favorites, he loves abundantly but equally and to feel this love, you simply need to embody that love.”  He then went on to define the love he encouraged.  So, today I urge you to not only hear the words that Paul wrote but to listen to them and understand them and then I challenge you to make them part of your every interaction, not just with your spouse or kids or parents… I challenge you to bring to this world the love it so desperately needs:

Love is patient, love is kind.  It does not envy, it does not boast. It is not proud.  It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.  Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth.  It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.  Love never fails.

what a beautiful description of love and the perfect words to guide us in all our relationships.  Josh and Leah have gone a step further by choosing vows that perfectly capture  their own personal love story

[to the couple] Spend your lives being true to these promises.

Leah, repeat after me:

I, Leah, take you, Joshua, as my forever friend, my faithful partner and my love from this day forward.  In the presence of God, our family and friends, I offer you my solemn vow to be your faithful partner in sickness and in health, in joy and in sorrow, and in life as well as in death.  I promise to love you unconditionally, to honor and respect you, to laugh with you and cry with you, and to cherish you in this life and in the next.

Leah, do you take Joshua to be your lawfully wedded husband? I do

Joshua, repeat after me:

Leah, I Joshua, take you as you are, loving who you are now and who you are yet to become. I promise to listen to you and learn from you, to support you and accept your support in all that life may bring us. I will celebrate your triumphs and mourn your losses as though they are my own.  I will love you and have faith in your love for me, through all our years in this life and in the next.

Joshua, do you take Leah to be your lawfully wedded wife? I do

May I have the rings, please (Wes hands me the rings).  I’ve gotta say… in all the times I’ve imagined Wes giving me a ring – none of you people were there   Wes is Josh’s brother and best man – for years I’ve joked about how attractive he is; I often – publicly – comment about wanting to be his girlfriend.  I wanted to give Wes’ wife a wink but I couldn’t find her – she said she wishes she’d have waved her ring in the air – she’s awesome about taking my unabashed flirting in stride. This brought a great deal of laughter 

Josh and Leah have chosen to exchange rings as a physical reminder of the promises they’ve made to each other.  It is usually at this point that the rings are described as never-ending circles, no beginning, no end… that’s too cliché for this ceremony. Instead, I’m going to offer some advice – and why not?  I mean, I’ve sustained a 21-year only semi-dysfunctional marriage…

Josh and Leah please face me

As I considered all the standard comments about the rings, I knew I wanted to say something different; I just didn’t know what. So, I looked down at my own wedding rings and the first thought that hit me is: I am worthy of a way bigger diamond (I glare at Dan) then it occurred to me that the life of the rings so clearly parallels the life of the marriage.  Look at these rings – they’re shiny and new and they catch your eye with their sparkle. And for a time, you will be enthralled by this new addition.  You’ll find yourself looking down at your ring often and spot shining it frequently, but one day… and everybody’s time table is different – it might be a year, 6 months, maybe only a month – nobody’s timetable is right or wrong; one day the novelty of the rings will wear off.  You’ll forget it’s on your finger and after a period of time something will draw your attention to it and you’ll realize – it’s lost its shine, it’s got a haze about it… it’s picked up dirt from everyday wear and tear.  You wouldn’t dare toss the ring aside… it just needs a little attention.  And the same goes for your marriage.  This isn’t marriage (wave at the “celebration”)  marriage is going to work every day, paying your mortgage, figuring out what to make for dinner, falling asleep on the couch at 8:30… it’s drudgery at its finest.  But just as your ring has a precious metal hiding under the day to day… so does your marriage have a precious love under the everyday life.  Take a minute to make your marriage sparkle… it’s ok to get lost in your everyday but make the promise to wipe away the every day build up every now and again. Promise me you’ll do that. (they both promised)

I don’t feel comfortable blessing these rings I dropped Josh’s ring at this point so I said, “I clearly don’t feel comfortable holding on to them either” then started this part over, because of my lack of religious affiliation – but what I am sure of; what I feel confident in is that every good thing on this earth is a product of God’s love.  Your marriage and these rings are no exception – they are the result of God’s love; wear them with the knowledge that they are a product of the love God shines down on you.

Please face each other

Leah, place this ring on Joshua’s finger as you repeat after me:

With this ring, I thee wed

Joshua, place this ring on Leah’s finger as you repeat after me:

With this ring, I thee wed

Joshua and Leah, in the presence of family and friends you have expressed your love for one another by making promises, declaring your intent and exchanging rings and now I joyfully declare you to be husband and wife.  You may kiss your bride.

It is my heartfelt honor to present to you: Mr. and Mrs. Joshua Garland

 

7 years ago, Cal (6 at the time) came downstairs on January 14th, spread his arms out wide and bellowed, “Happy Calvin Eve everybody!”

At that point there was no denying the boy is mine.

That, my friends, was the birth of the birthday-eve celebration.  For the rest of us, the birthday-eve has continued to be the main event; for Cal… not so much.  He got one more carefree, untainted Calvin Eve to celebrate and then the unthinkable happened…

On Calvin Eve 2012 my dad sat in our living room , with me and Dan at his side, and told the kids that their Lalee was gone; she had passed away earlier in the day.  And just like that, Calvin Eve became a day of sadness…

It’s just a gut-wrenching chapter in the most beautiful, innocent love story ever written…

My mother lived for my kids; they were the first unconditional love she ever knew.  And it was mutual; I would be doing a disservice to their bond if I tried to put it into words.  And when it came time to order her headstone I knew it had to pay homage to that love affair; and to that end, dad and I decided to have a picture of the kids etched into the stone.  It’s perfect.

Incidentally, the delivery of her headstone is quite an interesting side story….

When dad and I ordered the stone we asked to have ‘Lalee’ and ‘Poppa’ inscribed below their names; very few people called my parents Dan and Eileen at that point – they were very simply, Lalee and Poppa.

About a month after we ordered the stone dad stopped by to show me the proof and what immediately struck me was – they are Lalee and Poppa and that’s what needed to standout on that headstone; it was lost in the small print under their names.  Dad handed me the paper, I looked it over and said, “I’d like to change something.”  Dad was not handling any of it well at that point and said, “It’s done.  I don’t feel like discussing it,” and he walked out.

Six weeks later dad called to say the stone was never ordered; he was angry (understandably) and again, not receptive to my request for a change.  “Dad, does this mean we have time to change…”
“Karen, we aren’t changing it.”

About 5 weeks later dad stopped by to chat, “You aren’t going to believe this but as they were loading your mom’s stone onto the freight liner, it broke right down the middle… it’s going to be at least another 6 weeks.”  Dad just shook his head in disbelief, I took a deep breath, steadied myself and said, “Dad, I swear mom is unhappy with her inscription.  I know you don’t like to think about it but her name isn’t right, Lalee needs to be bigger than Grace Eileen…”
“Call them and make it what you want Kar.”

And that is how my mother made sure her headstone was right.

Back to Cal and Lalee…  now, there’s no denying my mom loved her granddaughters.  No granddaughter was cherished more than Alexandra; she was the first and she was the apple of mom’s eye and Abigail… well, that little girl found her calm with mom; it was mom that taught me to embrace Abby’s spunk.

But Cal was different.  He was so in love with his Lalee and she loved him unabashedly.  When he was in kindergarten he bought her an engagement ring from Santa’s Workshop; he was so embarrassed to give it to her but my God you should’ve seen his face light up when she unwrapped that gift Christmas morning and slid that ring on her finger… the ring rests on her finger to this day…

Mom was adamant that the kids were not to see her sick.  Well, she was sick for 104 days and there was no way I could (or would) keep them from her; I promised to honor all of her wishes, but that was one I just couldn’t follow through on.  On her birthday, 6 days before we lost her, the kids asked to see her; she was unable to speak at that point but feverishly shook her head no when I told her the kids wanted to see her.  They came up to her bedroom before I could stop them and the look she gave me will be forever etched in my memory; she was so angry with me.  Mom didn’t look like herself, the meds had caused facial swelling, so Abby stood back, afraid.  Alex walked up to her and gave her a quick hug and told her she loved her.  And then Cal walked up to her…

That little 7-year old boy threw himself into her and hugged her with his entire soul.  She laid her cheek upon his head and the most peaceful, serene look overtook the face that had shown nothing but pain and stress for weeks.  Their love filled the entire room, the entire house… it transcended earthly concepts.

That was the last time my babies saw their Lalee…

And that was the week Calvin Eve ceased to exist.

Today it’s 6 years later and as they say, time has a way of blunting the pain.  Throughout the day there’ve been tears and memories shared but we also decided to give the day back to Cal; Lalee would certainly want that.

Yesterday, Cal had mentioned ice skating – so off we went this afternoon.  I took skates along with absolutely no intention of putting those bastards on my feet; by God I even carried them into the rink – yeah… I made a show of it.  At the last minute I “decided there was too many skaters on the ice for somebody of my limited ability.”  They fell for it.  Suckaaaahhhs.

Then we stopped for some dinner.  Between skating and dinner I asked Cal if he planned to look at my C-section scar tomorrow because, after all, it was having a birthday, too; he said, “uh no, I think I’ll pass… but Abby should have to do it, since she used it last.”

During dinner Cal asked Dan what time he had to leave for work and asked if I planned to swim tomorrow morning; he then informed his sisters that they’d have to get up early – he wants the whole family to gather in a circle and all at once do this growl/grunt/bark thing he does.  I can’t believe that we not only agreed to it, but are kinda looking forward to it.

We stopped at the store for an ice cream cake (back to questioning his parentage… the kid doesn’t like regular cake!?!?!?! I got nothin’).  And then we made one last stop…

This beautiful, beautiful boy asked me earlier in the week, “Mom… on our way to dinner Sunday… can we stop and visit Lalee?”

 

 

Ya know… a good deal of my, ehem… charm comes from the fact I over extend myself.  If I was relaxed and well rested with no obligations, I don’t think I’d be this “charming”.  Why, just the other day Dan and I were chatting about how fucking charming I am:

Dan: I feel bad enough that I can’t help more with the kids… I’m sorry my job isn’t conducive to helping more but I’m doing what I can!

Me: what in the hell makes you think I’d let you do more?  Have you never met me?????  22 years later – you still don’t know I have control issues!  I don’t want you to DO anything, I want you to be a little more tolerant when I’m being a bitch because I’m tired from handling everything…

don’t worry – we’re solid.

My point is this – my personality thrives on too many responsibilities.  I’m at my best when I’m stretched too thin; whether  by choice or by obligation, when I’m overwhelmed – my cynical humor peaks.  I honestly think most of my hair-brained schemes are born out of a need to tell a tale; or at the very least to give my kids plenty to talk about after I’m gone.

The only aspect of my life that falls into the category of  cluster fuck – through no fault of my own, is Buddy.  Buddy, thank you for asking, is our friggin Elf on the Shelf.

For those of you who are lucky enough to not know about this Elf on the Shelf asshole – let me give you a brief synopsis.  Because Carol Aebersold and her daughter Chandra Bell clearly have a hatred for humanity; they thought they’d kill us all slowly by writing a book about an Elf who travels from a child’s home back to the North Pole every night from Thanksgiving(ish) to Christmas.  The Elf, you see, is charged with reporting to Santa information about the child’s behavior.

The Elf naturally enjoys a rousing game of hide and go seek each morning upon his return from the North Pole.

I’m gonna let you in on something here…

there is no such thing as North Pole traveling, hide-and-seeking Elves.

There is, however, a shitload of  people standing around every morning in December saying, “…I was juuuuust drifting off to sleep when I remembered  I had to move that fuckin’ Elf!”

These Elf on the Shelf creators were geniuses – parents love them because they basically police behavior for a month; kids… love the magic.  Not to mention – when they turn that cherubic face up to you expectantly, you can’t very well say, “Mommy has loads of holiday parties to attend in the next 30 days – I plan to be way too drunk, way too often to keep up with that shit.”  No, you gotta go along with it, because childhood naiveté is so rare and precious…..

When Abby asked… nay – begged for an Elf on the Shelf, I said, “No” (childhood naiveté my ass, she’s plotting a coup and she needs to have me in a weakened state, no way was I voluntarily losing sleep for a dumbass Elf).  I knew.  dammit! I KNEW it was trouble – nothing good can come of an every night obligation (trust me – we had trouble conceiving the 1st time… NOTHING is fun every.single.night); Dan however, said, “oh yeah… I’ve heard of these – seems like fun.”

Well… uh… yah… I’m sure it does seem like fun to some asshat who shrugs his shoulders every fucking night and says, “I don’t know where to put him…. I’m just not creative like you are, g’night.”

So (because I’m funnier when I’m miserable) Buddy came home with us.

To the average adult – this means a nightly ritual of moving the Elf from one spot to another…

apparently, I’m not the average adult

All I can think is: I must have done something really shitty in a previous life.

Ignore the fact that I never remember while I’m on the same floor as Buddy, going back downstairs every night is the least of my worries; no… I have to have a daughter who thinks her Elf is also…

her pen pal.

Yep… honest to goodness true story.  Abby writes a note to Buddy almost every night.  Sounds darling, right?

Fuck that

Not only do I have to trudge back downstairs to move his ass but I have to hop on the computer, answer her note (like an Elf would) and then remember all the stuff Buddy has said (“momma a while ago Buddy said ‘Elf’ is his favorite movie but this note says Rudolph is”).

Last year she inadvertently touched Buddy… In this sick Elf world – if the kid touches the Elf, it must go back to Santa permanently (this must be kept in mind at all times when finding a new spot, s’not as easy as it sounds).  On the day of the accidental touch, I had Buddy in a bin that holds our hats and gloves (he was in the midst of a bender – suckin’ down a bottle of syrup) the kids were running late so Abby popped open the lid and reached in for gloves – never seeing Buddy.

oh….

my….

 

 

 

gawwwwwwwd

the sobbing…

I actually emailed her teacher as she walked to the bus, ‘I am so sorry to send Abby to you like this…’  Then I sat down and wrote a 2-page letter from Santa explaining why Buddy could stay (I actually cited Section 75. subsection (c) paragraphs 2-4 of the Elf handbook which states an incidental touching is forgiven under certain circumstances; I then listed the circumstances).

It’s mind-numbing

The other 3 I’s don’t even enjoy my misery – it’s that bad.

It’s so bad in fact, my own  living, breathing Buddy got involved, “Mom, Abby keeps talking about Buddy and the letters she’s going to write to him; I told her I’m pretty sure Buddy isn’t supposed to be writing letters.  I’m not sure if it worked or not, but I’m trying.”

I’ve never loved Calvin Iseminger more than at that very moment….

So on the morning of 1 December I walked into our bedroom and asked Dan for the damned elf (I do 98% of the work, he’s somehow ‘Keeper of Buddy’); he reached into his underwear drawer {this fact is disturbing on a thousand levels}, grabbed Buddy and as he handed him to me, said, “Now don’t start out with a note from Buddy, don’t even get that shit started…”

I have to say – as a lover of self inflicted misery – it did take everything I had in me to not write an “I’m backkkk” note, but… I stood tall; I held firm in my determination to keep this holiday season as simple and stress free as possible.  I do a lot of writing for Christmas – a ‘year in review’ for each kid, a letter to the family and numerous letters of instruction for our mystery Christmas trip – all in poem form.  I’m pretty much maxed out with the writing – no need to instigate Buddy letters…

I perched Buddy on Abby’s catchall locker in the living room and waited…

“Mom!!!! Mom!!!! Buddy’s back!!!!!  And look momma – he’s up high; I was so worried he would be in a spot that Lucy could get to him and chew him up!  He needs to always hide in places Lucy can’t reach, I’ll tell him tonight in my note…..”

 

October 19th brings forth a plethura of emotions… My last-born came into the world on this day so obviously, it’s a day of celebration and love and being thankful for the gift that is Abigail Claudette Iseminger.

the gift that almost wasn’t…. (da da duhhhhhhhhn)

Not long after having Cal, my obstetrician decided to retire.  I couldn’t bear the thought of another person filleting me like a fish and pulling a person out, so Dan and I gave up any thoughts of more babies.  I’d always wanted a large brood and Dan, wise beyond his years, wanted whatever I wanted; but I was adamant that only Dr. Robin would deliver my babies… Months later, during a grocery trip, we ran into Dr. Robin’s nurse, she informed us he had signed on for another year; I looked at Dan and said, “Put down that mixed gardenia and let’s go make a baby!” (side note: Dr. Robin actually retired just 2 months ago – think: Brett Favre)

9 months later (give or take a few days) there I was, all numbed up on the operating table (C-sections are my specialty); and what followed is the reason for the other emotions I feel, most notably – grateful to be alive. (*gulp*)

Throughout my pregnancy with the Abbers I struggled with a weird heart anomaly; I never brought it to the doctor’s attention even though Dan begged me to.  I just remember feeling like my heart was going to jump out of my chest and I got a tremendous throbbing/aching in my lower back.  It happened maybe 15 times and was so random… I always assumed my heart was racing, trying to keep up with the growing evil in my uterus (poor Abs….).  So there I was, all doped up so I couldn’t feel the cutting of my skin and the removing of my innards (this is actually true – Dan’s witnessed it 3 times, they actually put my insides on a table next to me…). I looked at Dan and said, “ugh that weird thing with my heart and lower back is happening….”

Well holy shit buzzers were buzzing and the bleeps that were so rhythmic only seconds before were screaming and demanding action; a nurse shouted, “Get the anesthisioligist!”

Nobody moved

“GET THE ANESTHESIOLOGIST – N.O.W.!” Another nurse took off, knocking over a tray of instruments in the process… basically, not the stuff you wanna hear in my position.  Dan said, “oh my god your heart rate is plummeting, we’ve always thought your heart was racing during these episodes….”  I remember laying there thinking, ‘this is silly, women don’t die in childbirth anymore…’ then I thought, ‘where’s Dr. Quinn?  She could fix this mess…’

Meanwhile, ol’ Dr. Robin was going about his business, calmly – I heard the unmistakable sound of that first cry (the baby, not Dr. Robin).  I looked at Dan and asked, “what is it?” (we’re not cheaters…). He looked at me, white as a sheet and said, “uhhhh I’m a little more worried about you right now than whether we had a boy or a girl…”

Truth be told, he wasn’t so much afraid of losing me as he was afraid I’d leave him alone with those 3 youts…

Long story short – the anesthesiologist came in, shot me up with some epinephrine and here we are 11 years later… (oddly, the episode was NEVER discussed with us.  I still, to this day, wonder what was going on with my heart…).  For the record, after Abby was cut free, Dr. Robin fixed my lady parts so there wouldn’t be any more babies… the heart stuff during the pregnancy convinced Dan 3 was our max (and to this day… I want more).

So, October 19th brings a tsunami of emotions and memories but the day is always a blessing…

Until two thousand and fucking seventeen…………..

I wanted to swim this morning so I prepared my bag last night.  When I got up I knew time was tight because I wanted to stop and get donuts for the birthday girl; I also knew I’d have to stop and get gas on my way home.  So at 4:00am when my alarm sounded I jumped out of bed with a flash… yeah… no that’s bullshit… BUT I did only snooze once.

Washed, brushed, etc. then hopped in the car and was on my way.  I checked the gas gauge and saw that my estimated range was 61 miles, yep… would definitely need gas on the way home.  I’d jump right of 99 on the East Freedom exit and hit the good Sheetz… formulating that intricate plan ate up 36 seconds of my 45 minute drive.  Mostly I spent the drive thinking about my littlest girl and how she makes my life so much more interesting.  From telling me (at age 5) that she couldn’t wait to swear because it makes her ‘feel so alive’ (she sang/shouted that last part); to last night when she wanted to dress as a teacher for professional day at school and to my suggestion of wearing nice pants and a blouse, responded, “I could do that… if I knew what a blouse was.”

Got to the Y and all was as usual.  After my swim I went into the changing room only to remember I didn’t bring any underdillies… (I had a college roommate who’s mother used the word ‘underdillies’ – I’ve loved it ever since).  Ok… no worries… sweatpants and sweatshirt will suffice.  Uh… not so much.  As quoted from my text to Dan, ‘how is it that a thick-ass Under Armour sweatshirt can’t take care of a coupla nipples?’

is that too much information?  should I have skipped that part of my day?

So I walked outta the Y with my hands in the pocket of the sweatshirt, pulling outward, with my shoulders hunched over like I was stealing shit…  Nope, nothin’ to see here… just a braless, old(ish) woman taking a stroll on a chilly… chilly morning.

Got in the car and rehashed that elaborate gas plan of mine and off I went – commando (just so you know… if I could find a way to get clean in the shower while fully dressed… I’d do it – anything less than full coverage is exceptionally uncomfortable for me).

As I was getting onto 99 from the exit – it dawned on me that…. I was on the East Freedom exit… I was driving AWAY from the very place I wanted to go for gas.  No shit – I take that exit at minimum 4 times/week – never in all of the intricate planning did it hit me that all I needed to do was turn left instead of getting on the highway and the gas station was right over the hill.

I literally have people’s lives in my hands at work everyday… let that shit sink in for a minute…

ok… I start thinking about the next exit… how far away is it and does it have a gas station (preferably Sheetz ’cause we have the savings card and credit card)… I look down and my range is no longer a number it’s now just flashing dashes…

shit…. got real

I was a wreck for the 5 or so miles it took to get to the next exit…  I relaxed a little once I was on the exit ramp… I relaxed, that is, right up until I realized I didn’t have my purse on me….

luckily I keep cash in my ash……

those fucking kids

…an ashtray full of pennies with some nickels and dimes thrown in for good measure.  I picked up my phone to let Dan know I wouldn’t be able to get donuts – and it was on 3% – no charger.

So, me and my nipples walked my fist full of $4 in to the guy at the register (I’m half expecting to see every gas pump in every Sheetz outfitted with a ‘cash/coin slot’ by the end of the week, just so nobody ever has to witness something like that ever again). I then pumped my 1.4861 gallons of gas… is it too much to ask for it to have reached 1.5 gallons???  I’m not gonna lie – that .4861 was the most irritating part of the morning.

When I turned the car back on – the flashing dashes continued to blink, the cute little gas pump-shaped light in the corner of my dash… still lit.  I texted Dan and basically said – I’ve got no underwear, no gas, no money and no phone… if I’m not home in 25 come lookin’ for me!

I can’t say I would’ve faulted him had he pretended to not get that message.

Alas… I made it home!  And Dan, in all his wonderfulness, had wrapped Abby’s gifts and gone for donuts – the morning celebration was saved! I told the story of my morning (Alex was disturbed by the lack of material between her and my lady parts) and we celebrated our Abbers (another birthday and not one of those people wanted to look at or celebrate my C-section scar… ingrates).

The rest of my day sailed along pretty nicely – I guess when you pay your dues up front – you get a pass.  We had a late dinner complete with cake and ice cream; our late dinner was due to Cal’s football game – which saw him score his first touchdown ever in “big boy” football!!!  I cried….

Ya know… the girl literally tried to suck the life right outta me, then she overshadowed my birthday by being born 3 days before it, and don’t even get me started on that night when she was 4 and I woke up to her standing over me, hair all wild, staring… I thought, “this is it… this is how I’ll meet my demise…” and yet…

I’ve never been more in love (before they say anything – I’ve been equally in love – twice; but not MORE).  Still, 11 years later, I’m so excited to see her face every morning, I love her spunk, I love her style, I love her audacity, I love the way she’s still small enough to fold into me and the fact she still wants to fold into me, I love her love of cooking and every.single.day I love being her momma.  She’s my mini-me (just the shitty attitude; not so much physically, the girl’s got zero body fat… we’re fairly certain there was a baby switch at the hospital, Satan is down there playing with a chubby, little red-headed girl) and I’m thoroughly and utterly infatuated.

Thank you Dr. Robin… for coming out of retirement – you gave me the rest of my heart……..♥♥     ♥

 

 

21 years ago today, Dan Iseminger asked me to marry him…  I’m pretty sure he’s rethought that shit thousands of times since.  Actually… he was probably rethinking it the day he bought the ring – he walked away from our biggest fight (at that time) – to go to the jewelry store.  And, I’d think he woulda hafta been rethinking it the night before he popped the question – sitting in Red Lobster listening to me bitch about not being engaged yet…

Let’s just say, I haven’t always made that proposal regret-free for him.  Hey now… let’s not dump all the bad times in my lap – he infuses his fair share of asshole into this relationship but….

I probably own the crown.

Listen… marriage isn’t all anniversaries and birthdays and Valentine’s Days.  It’s deciding what’s for dinner every.fucking.night and clogged toilets and having 3 kids that all have activities at the same time in different parts of town.  And drudgery, it’s god damn drudgery.  You ever do those stupid ‘cleanses’ or diets where you eat the same shit for 3 days?  It’s like death… and yet we’re supposed to look at the same person day in and day out for years, DECADES and be totally devoted to their happiness every.fucking.day.  Here’s my advice people – you best marry the pizza of spouses… the celebrations are like pepperoni but basically you’re looking at many years of crust, sauce, cheese…. (it’s honestly the only thing I could consider eating every day…)

I’ll be the first to admit it hasn’t been all diamonds and ball gowns.  We’ve run the gamut, Dan and I, from being totally, completely head-over-heels in love to throwing rings in the trash can (that was me, obviously) to living separately for a week deciding if we could stand the thought of spending the rest of our lives together.  We can run the bulk of this gamut multiple times in a day…

The fact of the matter is – you don’t just marry this guy (or girl… I’ll speak to my situation from here on out, it’s for my own ease – please don’t take exception)… as I was saying, you don’t just marry this guy and his ability to make you smile and feel all warm and gushy… you marry his baggage and his issues and his inadequacies and you hope with all your heart and soul he can tolerate your shit, too.

Full disclosure: I treat myself to monthly counseling sessions.  Probably I’d be more honest by referring to them as bitch sessions.  I go and bitch about all the shit that irritates the hell outta me; quite frankly – it’s the best $25 I spend in a month.  There is something so incredibly cathartic about venting.  For the most part, my counselor understands my needs – she listens – period; sometimes she says, “hey you’re feelings are justified,” sometimes she says, “you have to learn to let things go,” but mostly she listens…  Dan, specifically, seems hugely less irritating after hearing myself bitch about stupid shit; I’m pretty good at talking myself through stuff, and she’s pretty good at letting me do it.

Recently I instituted “date night” into our lives.  The kids are old enough to throw a few Marie Calendar’s pot pies in the oven (for those of you in the know… I’ve still not heard from them after my strongly worded email concerning a much-needed foil ring).  I like that our kids know that we enjoy each other’s company – they certainly know when we aren’t particularly fond of each other… I mean we don’t, you know, throw down or anything in front of them, but we argue and we make up and we date… hopefully that will make them healthy significant others (oh please… rest assured… we’ve managed to fuck ’em up a little bit but, to our credit, we have yet to tap into their “mental health funds” accounts).

Date night is a couple hours of concentrating on each other.  Oh, we mostly talk about the kids, but we do it at our pace, with no eye rolling and “I’ve been cut off 4 times already” complaints.  Sometimes we ask for a table in view of a tv and sometimes we just look at each other.  I have to say, Dan Iseminger says so very much with his eyes… When he looks at me across a table… well, I just hope every woman – at least once in her lifetime – feels that unequivocally cherished and desired; I’m spoiled.

‘Course it’s Dan, it could just be gas…

For garsh sakes, I’m painting an unrealistic picture here… we just gaze into each other’s eyes, ignoring everything around us, pay our bill as we float to our car, then barely make it to our bed before we make passionate love for hours…..

uh… no

The more realistic story is our anniversary dinner.  We’d always hoped to go to Alaska for our 20th anniversary – alas, life had other plans; we could only manage time enough for dinner.  For the record, I did suggest an overnighter at our favorite B&B (I had worked earlier in the day and Dan was on call so we couldn’t go far) but he felt the cost was too high… and it was pricey but – it sure wasn’t 3 weeks in Alaska for christ sake.  Naturally, I assumed his protests about the cost (ON OUR 20TH ANNIVERSARY) meant he had already booked us a room… so I let it drop.  Uhh…. not only did he NOT get us a room but after dinner he drove to the B&B – into the parking lot, through the parking lot, out of the parking lot, home.  What kinda person does that?  I kept thinking, “oh, he’s surprising me…”  Oh he fuckin’ surprised me alright…

Anyway… we did have a nice evening out but it wasn’t all romance… We actually asked to have the tv’s changed to a hockey game.  Nothing says, “Happy 20th Anniversary, My Love” like talking to the side of my face while I’m grimacing at what I’m seeing on the ice… it’s who we are, it’s what we do…  hahaha that asshat got some kind of sausage dinner – I can’t remember much about it but after the server walked away, Dan pointed to his plate and asked, “….remind you of anything?”

“Uh… sure does… reminds me that my next husband will have matured past 8th grade.”

When I mention being married for 20 years and older folks call me a newlywed – it bothers me.  20 fuckin years is a lot of work; it’s a lot of compromise, sacrifice, tolerance, forgiveness, acceptance, tears and it’s something I’m very proud of, even considering our stumbles.  To be fair it has been more laughter and love and contentment and good times…

Because my life is a shit storm of horrific timing… today also marks the 6th anniversary of finding out my mom was not invincible… My mother thought my father was the most attractive man alive and loved him fiercely – to honor her – I choose to dwell on the day my heart was full, not the day it wilted…

I can, without reservation, say, during those all-too-rare times of perfection… I’m hopelessly and completely in love with my husband; during those everydays that take all I have to give just to tread the water of life, I’m just glad cheese pizza is my favorite…

Happy Engagaversary Babe… we’ve made quite a life together… You are my good, my bad… my soul mate and I’m so very glad you bought that ring ♥

 

 

 

 

I am the least professional person I know.  I get to work promptly at 9:02 every.single.day.  How does a person not just start their “getting ready” procedure 2 minutes earlier????  I hate it every day that I get into my car at 9:00am and yet, every day I get into my car at 9am.

Now, the really odd thing is: I often walk to work; on those days I’m usually a couple minutes early.  So, I either get in my car at 9 on the dot or I leave the house on foot at 8:45… where is the happy fucking medium there?

I will say this about that… I don’t how… but almost every day I face some kind of time-draining force.  Whether it’s an ill-timed phone call, a random text, a Facebook comment that absolutely has to be addressed (ok… remember… we’ve already established that I’m highly unprofessional – I don’t always make the wise choice regarding my morning schedule).  It also bears mention that there is some kind of time-warp going on in my closet; not in relation to my attire, dear God I put little to no effort into that mess.

My closet houses a mirror that I use to apply mascara.  It’s the only makeup I wear.  Mascara is on an equal footing with sneakers (see what I did there???) – I am addicted to both.  I want every kind in every color (ok, I just use black or brown mascara – the blue is a thing of the past… but you get my meaning).  Anyway, I step into that damned closet to curl my lashes (shut up, I still do it… and they look snazzy) and swipe on 1 or 70 coats of mascara and the next thing you know… 12 minutes have passed.

There’s a kid in our town who I’m convinced is a time traveler (you don’t wanna know… it’s a long story but there are 3-piece suits and ruffled shirts going on there) and I.AM.CONVINCED. our closet was the portal.

Anyway… I often set out with the best intention of getting to work on time only to be foiled by life (or bad decisions).  Today… was no exception.  I typed this out in a text message to Dan earlier, complete with emojis – I’m pretty sure it was the emojis that really brought it to life, but I’ll try to do it justice here…

7:15am: *thinking* ya know, I haven’t done my hair for work in close to 18 months… since I’m using today as my rest day, I think I’ll start getting ready early and actually take an active interest in my appearance

7:32am: *still talking to myself because my kids are assholes in the morning so I stay away from them*  as soon as the kids leave for the bus, I’ll put Lucy out on her lead then I’ll hop in the shower

7:36am: kids prepare to leave the house, lots of “have a great day”s and “I love you”s from them; I lock the door to send a message.  I stand in the sunroom watching them walk up the alley… my thoughts are now centered on my love of the public school system and school buses

7:39am:  I unlock and open the door to put Lucy on her lead.  She takes off for the kids.  She literally looked like those damn dogs that race – all I was missing was the metal gate… I have never seen a living being run that fast in my life.  I start yelling for her; the kids turn and, remembering how I locked the door, chuckle and keep walking.  I stand there calling her, she continues to run

7:42am: I go in the house for a sweatshirt as I’m still in my pjs and in all honesty – nobody needs to see that mess; I zip up and head out the door in my slippers.  My slippers are ok for say… walking to get the paper, they are not approved for chasing Usain Bolt of the dog world.

7:44am: Lucy pulls up and heads back towards the house {I start to relax}.  Lucy stops in the neighbors’ yard and poops.

7:46am: Lucy, now lighter and feeling less bloated, runs back to the kids who are actually in their seat on the bus; only the closing of the door keeps Lucy off the bus.  Cars are continuing to line up in both directions because, of course we need the biggest fucking audience possible.

7:48am: while Lucy is darting around the traffic I am shouting in a guttural voice, “GET BACK HERE YOU DOUCHEBAG ASSHOLE!”  Still in my slippers, hair a mess, thin t-shirt sans a bra, and a sweatshirt that was an obvious ruse to disguise the fact I was wearing a thin t-shirt without a bra

keepin’ it classy, Karen

7:49am: Lucy finally sprints back to the house and tears around our yard like she’s a bull and I’m waving a red cape…

7:50am: she comes to a dead stop at the door, panting and if I’m not mistaken – smiling and reveling in the great fun she just had

7:51am: Lucy is banished to her cage

7:52am: I find the closest real shoes I can find (I have the smallest feet in the house – it didn’t matter who’s shoes I pilfered) and go for the pooper scooper.  (Incidentally, Abby’s boots didn’t look so great after trudging through ours and our neighbors’ tall, wet grass)

7:54am: search for and scoop the poop

7:58am: stop at Lucy’s cage to call her more names before heading upstairs

8:01am: step into shower at regular time

9:02am: arrive at work

I scheduled a business call for my day off; the guy said he needed 20 uninterrupted minutes of time and I can’t guarantee that when I’m working.  So, at 2:00 Friday our home phone rang and this guy started his spiel right from the beginning…

Now… it should be noted – I’m not overly pleasant or accommodating to salesman when they call while I’m sitting at my desk; dealing with this nonsense on my day off was beyond intolerable.  I was barely grunting responses and I was sighing heavily – but ol’ Shawn there was plugging right along in that I-deserve-a-punch-to-the-throat kinda way that salesman do…

Here’s my take on this situation – if you want to sell me something, just tell me what the fuck you have to offer and how damn much it’s gonna cost me; please… in the name of all that’s holy, PLEASE do NOT make this an interactive venture.  “Karen, if 100 people subscribe to the paper but the internet has 15,000 surfers per hour… which is going to provide you more exposure?”

{silence}

{silence}

“Karen?”

“Oh, I’m sorry – I figured that was rhetorical…”

Because.it.should.be.

Please don’t make me answer obvious fucking questions.

“Karen, everybody has a computer or smart phone, amirite? If you were relocating, how would you start your search for information on that area? Would you write a letter or would you google the town or county?”

{pause}

{uncomfortable pause}

*me rolling my eyes and sighing loudly* “I guess I’d google the area…”

“Yes! you’d google the area….”

His product was not wholly undesirable – which pissed me off even more…  For one… I’d hoped to be able to tell him to shove his advertising up his ass and google that area… but also – it was a decent mode of advertising, it would sell itself; no frickin need for Shawn and his barrage of dumbass (should’ve-been-rhetorical) questions.

Oh… and he kept mentioning the Packers.  This has worked on me in the past so I can’t discount it’s usefulness but… there’s something to be said for being judicious.  “Your Packers annihilate my Bills every time they meet…”

“hmmm, I was in the stands the last time they met, and I walked away unhappy… so, that’s not really true….”

I wasn’t smitten with the seller but my interest was piqued by his product; the phone call continued.  Until we got disconnected that is…

He called right back – “hmmmm we must’ve gotten cut off….” he said (nervously) then continued on with his sales pitch…  we chatted a bit more and he started to get into pricing… disconnect… he called right back.  I said, “whatchu got goin’ on with yer phones there?”

He let out a small sigh of relief, “I didn’t know if you were just disinterested in the product or if there’s something going on with the phones…”

“Trust me… you’d’ve known a long time ago if I had no interest…”

[nervous chuckle] “Ok, this happened to me yesterday so it must be our phones.”

really

your phones were cutting off calls yesterday and today you’re wondering who’s responsible for the dropped calls… Shawn – you’re killin’ me man…

We got back to the pricing – he had a coupla different packages to offer.  The first was basically a link on a page; the second included a video.  He asked if I enjoyed being on camera; basically, was I more inclined to do the video package…

“Uh no, not a chance in hell.  I’m not photogenic to begin with and if the camera adds 10 pounds, it usually appears that I have 5 to 6 cameras on me.”

He chuckled again.  “Well Karen, I’ve seen your picture on your website and…”

disconnect……….

and WHAT?!?!?!??!?!

are you kidding me with that timing?!?!??!?!?!?!

I mean the obvious answer is: he was going to pull out all the salesman stops and compliment me (after all, the video package was more profitable for his company).  Something along the lines of: “You’re very attractive, you need to get that beautiful face out there.  By the way, the Packers are beautiful, too”

OR… was he going to be a decent human being and save me the embarrassment?  “Well Karen, I’ve seen your picture on your website and I think that’s sufficient exposure; how ’bout we concentrate on the link…”

As with the previous lost calls, he called back – but completely skirted the subject.  “Before my phone completely gives up let me just give you my contact information and give you time to mull this over….”

Oh… I’m mulling it over alright – muling over that ridiculous timing.  What did he say???  I’m sure it was complimentary – he’s a salesman for garsh sakes.. but a compliment is a friggin compliment – unscrupulous or not… I’m needy, what can I say.

Dan and I have since decided we’ll never recoup the costs associated with this advertising (even without the video portion).  Shawn called me back Tuesday and I broke the news to him gently; he took it fairly well actually.  The idea is new so I suggested he give me a call in a year when we know how effective this style of advertising proves to be; he said, “Absolutely, thanks for your time…”

By this point in the conversation I was already directing the phone to it’s cradle and switching gears in my mind when I heard, “…. Go Pack!”

ok… I should be writing about my 20th anniversary (29 days ago) and Father’s Day, they kinda slipped by…  what can I say – I’ve been busy (some’in  like 15 softball games, 13 baseball games, 7 basketball games, a few evenings-with-friends, created and planted a garden, disassembled our retaining wall…), then the damn puppy chewed my laptop charging cord, then I didn’t know what the model number is to order a new one, then Dan left the damn charger in our Amazon cart for days…

yah… basically Dan is jealous of my talent and trying to thwart it.

…and for that reason I’m passing right by the anniversary blog and the Father’s Day blog (I’m kidding… they’ll come, I promise… just not tonight).  Instead… tonight, we will revisit the 5 I’s’ day on the river….

I could go on and on about all the fun and frolic but I’d rather talk about MY day…

I think, for this entry, I’ll just use some random quotes…

Uhhhh… it took us over 1/2 hour to drop the truck off at Cooper’s and get back here – the life vests are still in the bag and the paddles aren’t assembled ~Me (Abby rebutted with, “I put on sunscreen”)

You can swim when we get to the end ~ Me (27 times)

Of course she had to swim around my kayak, her damn leash is completely wrapped around me ~ Dan (the jury is still out on whether Lucy jumped or fell into the river… either way – she was not impressed)

Use your left oar to push off, your left oar, left, your LEFT oar, LEFT, LEFT Calvin, YOUR LEFT OAR, LEFT, L.E.F.T., NOT.THAT.SIDE. your LEFT oar, CALVIN!YOUR!LEFT!OAR!, geezus boy LEEEFFFFFTTTTTT ~ me and Dan

Abby, you’re gonna hit the bank, steer away from it, turn, just paddle this way…. I’ll go get her ~Me

How ’bout me just ramming right into Abby to push her away from that bank ~Alex

So what? I cried… I was scared, I was speeding toward the land… ~Abby

Mom and Dad, I love you, thanks for a great childhood ~Abby and Cal every time we encountered “rapids”

Ok, momma ~Alex, when I asked if we could take a selfie (neither of us love to have our picture taken… this was HUGE)

Oh my god Calvin, you can stand up… just step out and pull your kayak off those rocks, why the hell are you panicking?  ~Me

Listen dude, there is fear that keeps you from doing stupid stuff and getting hurt and then there’s fear that keeps you from experiencing life… you have to find the balance ~Me (waxing philosophical after Cal’s near death experience in 2″ deep water)

[groan/grunt] mmmmmmmmohmmmmm ~Me, as I tried to maneuver my kayak from between 2 rocks (I was the hot dog, the rocks were the bun, sideways to the current) when I felt the nose of Cal’s kayak crush my elbow (the same elbow, the exact spot, that is currently experiencing a tendinitis-type issue)

Mom, I sure didn’t feel like kayaking today but I sure am having fun ~Abby

As much as I hate working Saturdays, it’s so nice to be out here on a Thursday; can you imagine how many people are on the river during the weekend? ~Me (finding the positive)

Ain’t nothin’ gonna break-a my stride, nobody’s gonna slow me down, oh no, I got to keep on movin’ ~Alex, Cal and Abby while swimming upstream after I told them we had to head home

Mom, I sure hope I die from old age… or a gun shot ~Abby (she did think on that for a second and concede gun shots are probably painful)

4 hours, lots of yelling, some panic, tons of laughter and a relaxing afternoon floating 3 miles… it was a good day for the 5 I’s

Bonus quote (we drove up to Hollidaysburg for Alex’s doubleheader, it was rained out so we stopped for dinner at Prime Sirloin; Cal and Abby were discussing the self-serve soft ice cream machine and how they would attack it): Come on Abs… I’m about to show you a little trick I like to call ‘using a soup bowl’ ~Cal – my lefty, who was confused by “use your left oar”

 

 

 

 

 

Well, I am officially a triathlete!

That and a buck 65 will get me a cup o’ coffee….

No matter… I feel better for having done it.  I mean, my body hurt and after all the talk of doing this to lose weight – I didn’t lose a single pound but I do, somehow,  feel pretty damn good about it.

Yeah, you read that right – 11 weeks of training and didn’t.lose.a.stinkin.pound.  I love all the people telling me I’ve toned up and gained muscle, “…don’t worry what the scale is saying.”  I get it, I really do but at the end of the day – how does the fucking scale NOT MOVE???????  In those 11 weeks I easily logged over 400 miles running/biking/kayaking – you know how many damned miles that is?

…yeah I don’t either; but I can tell you it was tough and I should’ve lost at least a few pounds.  It’s all I can do not to slug the ‘ignore the scale’ people; and let me tell you – I’d hurt ’em with all these new kayaking muscles I got goin’ on.

So, with my main purpose for doing this thing (weight loss) a complete bust, all I had driving me was my intense love of a challenge.  Well, let me tell you… 11 weeks of riding a 22 year-old bike on a constantly wet trail of cinders pretty much cured me of my challenge-loving ways.  Who are you weirdos in love with biking?

Oddly enough I just met up with a friend I hadn’t seen in years – she’s at Lake Raystown for some biking festival – I have this unyielding urge to stand in the midst of these people and repeatedly scream, in a guttural voice, while dropping to my knees, “WHY? WHY? WHYYYYYY?” (she did post a picture of her doing beer tasting – hell, I’d ride for some beer…)

There are tons of little stories leading up to triathlon day that are fun but not so much so to get more than a mention – the torrential downpours that hit the week prior and continued right up until about 2 hours before the start, my leg injury that made walking difficult for the 4 days prior, the store alarm going off 20 minutes before we were to leave for the tri…

wait, that one does warrant telling.

I had everything organized and was ready to walk out the door when the phone rang.  It was our alarm company telling us motion was detected inside the store – this is never great (especially at 2am when those calls usually come) but it was really a pisser when I was nervous anyway and fretting about getting to the start.  Dan said he’d run down quick and check it out; I told him to text me immediately – it’s sorta worrisome, ya know…  my triathlon anxiety was suddenly overshadowed by my Dan-could-be-going-into-a-bad-situation anxiety – my pacing bordered on furious.  Then… the text…. a single word:

bird

Ya gotta love old buildings.  I suggested a quick fix until we could dump the problem on Tyler [Tyler is billed as our other pharmacist but he’s actually more son, bestie, piece of my heart, etc.]; then I strongly encouraged Dan to get home toot sweet.

We stood in our kitchen talking about the bird for a few minutes when Dan said, “Oh! I know what I was gonna tell you… when I walked outside – before I even knew a bird was the issue at the store – I noticed the whole driver’s side of my car was covered – more than a few birds obviously saw it as a target…” Then he walked outta the room mumbling, “…some kinda Alfred Hitchcock shit goin’ on around here.”

Finally we were off.  I rode with Gary to the registration point while Dan delivered our kayaks to the launch site.  I’m going to say this now and you can mentally flashback to it throughout the story – there is no way, NO WAY,  I could’ve done this without my husband.  He was so incredibly helpful and supportive (well… for the most part, anyway; he did act like a dick around week 7 when I was grumbling but other than that….); he made it as easy as a triathlon can be.

We waited more than an hour for people to find the registration point (we live in BFE – when you enter some parts of Bedford county the skies shower you with laughter and bat the cell phone right out of your hands); this did nothing to quell my nerves.  To my left were very tall, very young people with little-to-no body fat, dressed in matching attire promoting a local physical therapy establishment. To my right was a group of slightly-older-than-me people dressed in head-to-toe LL Bean, tanned, relaxed, talking about this being, “…a warm up for [their] hike later.”  I hoped like hell to find somebody relatively comparable in stature and/or nerves behind me; I turned and looked….

I said to Missy, “Well… this is going to be humiliating when she kicks my ass.”  I pointed to the 75-year old woman unloading her bike.  (she did only the biking portion and started at a different time so I have no idea if she bested me on the bike or not – I’m just gonna assume she did. I feel like a 75-year old does not take part in this type of thing unless s/he is expecting to kick SOMEBODY’S ass).

We finally boarded the bus charged with transporting us to the launch site (which was 3 miles south, allowing us to kayak up the river – landing at the registration point).  We arrived at our kayaks and started the launching process.  Dan had my running and biking gear in the car with him at the launch site so he planned to see us off then hightail it to the registration/transition point (3 miles on water – but 20+ minutes to drive); he looked at our 2 friends who were also competing and said, “well, good luck guys!” turned and started toward the truck…

uhhhhhh… hello?????

He came back laughing, “Sorry babe!  Good luck!” then gave me a quick peck and a pat on the tushie.  The guys doing the launching were enjoying my reaction as I folded into my kayak, “…pat my ass… asshole didn’t even remember I was here…  11 weeks been trainin’ my ass off… walks away after wishing Gary and Mark good luck… fucker…”

“17 IN THE WATER!”

And there I was – starting my triathlon.

The river was angry that day, my friends…

Actually, it helped having the river so high, running so swiftly – took about 12 minutes off my time – but that bitch was COLD.  Hitting the white caps resulted in water up, over and in – in my kayak and in my pants… holy hell, my calves were still numb 2 miles into my run.  The kayak was by far the easiest event for me but I gotta admit – my neck and shoulders were very, VERY happy to see the landing site.

I pushed into the landing site as hard as I could.  The 2 guys waiting to receive me grabbed the handle in front – simultaneously telling me, “get out” and “sit tight we’ve got ya” – thus… the disembarking tweren’t pretty.  I got out, clumsily, and started my way up the ridiculous incline toward the transition area.  As I was lumbering my way up the muddy, rocky, steep AF hill I was shedding my life vest.  There was Dan, chasing after me…

I’m far from fast but I got a jump on him – not sure if he was trying to take a picture of me as I came ashore or if I surprised him with my lithe-like dexterity…. but there he was – chasing behind me shouting, “hand me your life jacket!  let me grab it!  give me your vest!”  Meanwhile, I’m slipping, struggling, disrobing, looking around, “am I allowed??? is that cheating? I should probably do it myself..”

My thoughts on this 30 second snapshot of my life are these:  I fully expected a 75-year old woman to dust me – why was I charging that hill like an American Ninja Warrior?  And why do my husband and I bring attention to ourselves at every opportunity?  I mean, literally NO OTHER voices were heard – yet I was shouting, he was shouting, there was running and chasing and shirking of flotation devices… And lastly what the hell compels me to attempt this shit, time and time again?

At the transition point, I got my dry socks and running shoes on (all the while Dan was fighting with my earphone cord – uh… a little less life vest, a little more earphone, babe) and headed out.  The run was fairly uneventful, although the (female) runner stopping to pee was interesting.  I did ask some onlookers to trip anybody behind me – when Gary passed me a coupla miles later I knew those bastards had let me down.  I finished the run in a respectable (for me) time and began my transition to the red room of pain on wheels…

After donning my helmet and wolfing down a halo (clementine?) I – not so kindly – snatched my armband and phone from Dan, while he was frantically asking “does this even go in here???” (in his defense, the phone is a very tight squeeze into that arm band…. but I was Ninja Warrioring it man… hurry!) While I was eating my halo I looked over at my nearest competition and watched while she pulled some nylon bike shorts over her spandex running shorts.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck

that’s genius! My ass started hurting on March 4th and hasn’t stopped… Early on I nixed the idea of wearing bike shorts for the whole competition, the padding is cumbersome while running.  I tried a triathlon suit (the padding is specially designed to accommodate running) – let’s just say… I hope they run small, couldn’t even get that shit over my thighs.  Never, in all those weeks of riding with a painful ass, did I consider shorts that could be added AFTER the run.  I never thought of bike shorts made of anything other than spandex – which was not happening after kayaking 3 miles and running 5.4.

son

uv

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bitcccccccccccchhhhhhhhhhh

I hopped on that hateful monstrosity called a bike and took off for the most gruelling, unpleasant, difficult event of the triathlon.  Remember my friend who’s biking up at Lake Raystown?  As I was leaving their cabin the other night I looked back and said, “Nice to meet all of you, good luck with your riding!” I continued walking and mumbled, “…you sadistic bastards…”  The bike, like the run, was uneventful.  As I neared the finish line with the event clock coming into view, I saw that I hadn’t met my 75 minute time limit.  I was well ahead of time in each of the first 2 events but I really, REALLY wanted to make the time on the bike.  It was a dissappointment.

But then I saw the 4 faces that make everything right in my world.  Dan (I later discovered) raced around like a maniac collecting our kids (at our house and dad’s) so they could welcome me to the finish line.  Boy……….

that shit’ll kill ya if ya let it.

In that all of my bodily fluids were clinging to my clothes – I didn’t have a tear to shed, but my heart sure swelled with each congratulatory hug.  Alex was first – she just kept saying she was proud of me.  A 15-year old girl hugging her mom in public, showering her with compliments… hits ya right where ya live.  Abby came over for luvins; I’m not sure she grasped it all – I mean she told me she was happy for me and kept staring at me, but it didn’t seem to have quite the impact on her as the others.  Dan gave me a kiss, grabbed my bike and helmet (it was over, I was pretty sure this wasn’t cheating) and handed me a water.  And then Cal came over… he grabbed onto me so tightly… “momma, I’m so proud of you. You have more perseverance than I’ll ever have; you are amazing.”

If I hadn’t been a tenth of a mile away from needing IV fluids, Ida been crying like… well… like me, on most occasions.

We hung out for a bit, waiting for the awards to be handed out (I was hoping 3 or fewer women were registered for the 40 and over recreational class – this is how I’ve won every medal I have); listening for our bib number to be called for door prizes. Gary was 16 and I was 17 (I sent my registration in LONG before Gary… why was his number lower????? my sick sense of competition knows no bounds).  I was standing there drenched in sweat, cold because of the sweat, sore, tired, wondering if my sports bra had actually cut through to the rib cage, listening for my number…

Whoever in the hell was wearing 14, 15, 18 and 19 – kudos to you; ol’ 16 and 17 here got blanked.  The last number was called and I looked over to see a tall, blonde woman gliding toward the tent looking like she’d just walked out of a beauty salon, shirt tucked into her spandex tights with not a lump of any kind to be found and I groused, “welllllll, of course… why not?  winning at life is never enough, she clearly needs a door prize, too.”

The board was finally loaded with our times.  I came in 3rd!!! Even better is – there were 5 entrants!!!!!!!  I out-triathed people!  I was imagining all of the purchases ahead of me – I’d have to completely reinvent my look to best compliment my new hardware…  I would take it off only to shower (unless I could find a water-resistant cover).  My kids were beaming…

Monday morning brought with it the newspaper and the demise of glory…. The official times showed that I had actually placed 4th.  Goodbye bronze, hello participation medal. Yes, yes, yes – I know… be proud of the effort, be proud of finishing, hold my head high for completing this thing 5 minutes faster than my goal time (2:59.26 vs. 3:05)… I get it and I am absolutely content, satisfied, thrilled for all of those things but… it was a blow.

I mean, what’s with you people?  Let a girl lament about not losing weight; let a girl bitch about losing a medal, already, would ya?  It’s ok to dip your toes in self-pity… just pull back before you’re completely submerged.  The best were the incredulous friends, “are they making you GIVE IT BACK?”  Well… no; but… who the fuck wants to keep a medal they didn’t win?  (maybe that almost Miss America or that almost ‘Best Picture’ – they might keep that shit).

The official times showed me missing 3rd place by 9 seconds… 9… friggin seconds.  Damn Dan… If he woulda taken my fucking life vest and helped me out a little….