Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Friday, November 14, 2008
PICKLED TONSILS, ANYONE?
Countless times I have thought I would die because my ears and throat hurt so bad. Countless times I have thought that I just wanted to cut my aching head off because it hurt so bad. Now I have learned, through my own experience, that cutting was not the painless option.
Yesterday I had my tonsillectomy. The prep nurse (she's kind of like a prep cook, but different), Cindy, by name, first asked if I'd had surgery before. I told her I've had three C-sections.
"In which decade?"
Did I look as hurt as I felt? "THIS decade! My last one was in September." How old do you think I am anyway? The questions remained unanswered and stood there, awkwardly, between us.
I started filling out the paperwork. There was one point on the paper I had to sign that got my attention--whatever tissue, organ, etc. that was removed of me would no longer be my property and would be sent to pathology. Ever since I began fantasizing about cutting off hurtful parts of my body, I thought it would be rather swell to then have that part, in my room. It's always been hard for me to throw anything away. Thanks to me, Ammon's umbilical cord can still be found (unless it's all decomposed or was eaten by a mouse) in the wall between the shower and the storeroom over home.
So I nonchalantly asked Cindy, "So, are there a lot of people who want to save their tissue or body part that is removed?"
Cindy was experienced (she looked like the 80's were her birthing decade) and she took preventative measures before another nutty patient asked to keep her tonsils: "We just have to send everything to pathology."
It was one thing for Cindy to think I was old. Quite another to have her think I was crazy. "Oh, I just thought it was funny that that point even has to be on the paperwork."
"You'd be surprised." Cindy answered.
No, not too surprised. I had thought it would be neat to keep my appendix too, but that darn pathology beat me to it. When you really think about it, though, tonsils probably wouldn't hold up too well. Unless they were pickled. Hmm. That might make a tempting addition to my Ladies' Holiday Brunch. Pickled tonsils, anyone?
Don't worry. I didn't get to keep them. I only get to keep the painful sensation that my tongue has been cut off and a fuzzy sock was stuck in my throat to stop the bleeding. That and my HUGE pain pills that are next to impossible to swallow. The depressing news is that my worst day is supposed to be a week after surgery. ow.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Daddy informed me that he was "agin it" and that " change is the enemy." Cor explained that the US Postal Service will no longer deal in mailsacks.
Why does that make me sad? Maybe because ever since I can remember someone in my family has been "taking the mailsack down" every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday (the three days the mail is delivered in Starr Valley). We had two mailsacks and the mail deliverer would just switch the sacks, exchanging our sack with outgoing mail for our sack full of incoming mail.
I remember Daddy sewing some mailsacks on the sewing machine. That was the first time I'd ever seen him sew, and I didn't know he knew how. The sacks were off white and canvas and said "Mark Dahl" in bold black letters. Later, when I was a teenager, Thelma decorated our mailsacks--one with a frog and the other with a flower. They still said Mark Dahl.
When I was a preschooler, I'd go down to the end of the lane, put the sack on its hook, and run until I was out of sight of the road. I was afraid of kidnappers, and figured I was safe once they couldn't see me from the road. Later, I'd take the mailsack and put it on its hook while I waited for the school bus to come. When I could drive, I would drop the mailsack off at the post at the end of the lane. I never was a good enough driver to get close enough to just reach out the window and hang the sack on its hook. I always had to get out.
Having a mailsack was a hassle. Even on days that we didn't need to mail anything, we had to take the mailsack down. If we didn't get the mailsack down in time, it messed everything up. The Post Office wouldn't have a sack to put our mail in for the next delivery day unless we drove the six miles to Deeth and dropped the mailsack off at the Post Office. At least once, I picked the outgoing mailsack up before the mail had come. I learned that I had to check inside the sack and see if the newspaper, The Elko Daily Free Press, was inside. If it was there, I could bring the mail home. If not, I had to wait for the mail.
From the time I left home for college until I returned home to be a schoolteacher, I sent a weekly letter home. Mama sent a weekly letter to me, telling all about their week (Daddy usually wrote a short note in pencil on the bottom of her typed letter). My brothers who were home would write--some (Tabor) more faithfully than the others (who shall remain unnamed). From Provo and London and Poland and Mexico, I loved thinking of my family taking the mailsack down with their letters in it. I loved thinking of them getting the mail and walking it up the lane. Whenever the mail came, Daddy would come in from his shop. He'd take the sack and empty it out on the kitchen table while everybody watched. Because I knew of the excitement we'd experience when Marianne and Thelma wrote home, I knew my family was excited to get a letter from me. I pictured Daddy opening it with his pocket knife and Mama reading it aloud. After we'd perused the mail, somebody would fold up the canvas mailsack and put it on top of the dryer in the storeroom until the next delivery day. There's something quaint and uniting about emptying out the mailsack on the kitchen table as a family.
Because having a mailsack was a hassle, I didn't use one when I moved back to Starr Valley after I was married. We have an impersonal mailbox that doesn't care if we check in with it before the mail comes. Now my parents do too, and I'm going to miss their mailsack.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Marcos was blessed in Church on November 2, 2008. It was such a happy day for us. Almost all of our family was with us (minus the Davises and Edgar's dad). Edgar's mom and Osvaldo's family came to Church.
Edgar blessed Marcos in Spanish and I asked Elder Moreno (a missionary serving in our ward from Mexico City) to write down what he remembered of the blessing. He wrote the whole thing out, bless his heart.
My dad and three brothers and Bishop/Brother-in-law Robert, and Jeff all stood in the circle. (By the way Jeff, Hannah, Maisy, & Laurel stayed with us Saturday night. Among a lot of things, Hannah helped me set up this blog.)