IT'S HARD TO REMEMBER.....HA! JUST KIDDING!

...I may have already mentioned it, (I did, I know it! I think.),  but it's hard for me to remember things more and more! It's sort of worrying--really. Maybe I've talked about it sort of in jest...but there's nothing much funny to me about it.

I can see your faces right now. "Can she ever discuss anything but remembering or not remembering?!"

How does one know when it's time to be worried about one's memory,  anyway? As I've said before, it seems since I started falling at the first of January, 2016--because of my blood pressure suddenly dropping, they (all those "they's" being doctors),  it's gotten worse. Maybe.

Did it happen when I had the pulmonary embolism last May, was in a coma for 2 days and the hospital for 3 weeks? (I must confess, after the surgery to get my blood regulated and the clots in my leg and hip broken up as much as possible---I cannot say I even hated being there.  Isn't that somewhat terrible?)  Maybe because I wasn't responsible for remembering everything--or anything!?

The nurses---male and female, (all much younger than I)---treated me like a Queen--well, maybe a Duchess, at least. It was quite obvious that  I wasn't, if jewelry, or things I had in the room mattered. I had nothing with me, I had been put to sleep in our local hospital and a PIC line put in to make sure I would not have too constantly stuck with the things that were dripping into me. That meant I could only wear hospital gowns which were not beautiful, but they worked.  The PIC stayed in til the day I got ready to come home, and we didn't get out of the hospital til 9 PM that evening!

As many people as I've heard complain about being at that hospital--they have all been men. I guess that isn't good to say, but I think most men have more, and higher expectations of nurses than I. I can speak for other women, even.

See what I mean bout memory? It's hard enough to stay on a topic long--and the topic was memory! I wandered off the topic and got into how wonderful the nurses were!

I'm very small town. I've hardly been out of my own state, except when the kids lived in Alabama. Never been on an airplane, never really have had many yearnings toward vacations since I've gotten older. It wouldn't have mattered--we mostly do what my husband wants to do, anyway. :)

  Since he retired almost 8 years ago, he's been mostly sitting in his recliner, going to church, and going out a couple of nights a month to play music with some friends.We go to see the kids when there aren't appointments and things that slow all us older people down.

 It's okay. My health hasn't been the best for the past year, and I'm still using a cane for balance when we go out. And I've had Fibromyalgia for over 20 years.

My hubby has looked after me so well this past year, and I do so hate asking anyone to do any things for me, (Even nurses!), but when you can't get up because you've fractured your tailbone, or bruised your ribs, etc., or you may fall...you're fortunate to have someone who is willing to help you, and still love you. I eventually realized that instead of falling again and putting him to more trouble, (and my body through more), to ask if he could help me if I need something right then.

If I post this same thing again tomorrow--don't be alarmed. It's probably to late to help me now! :)

                                    God bless you, bless one another!
                                        

BUT I FELT SAFE

Mama told me everything would be fine--about the water running down toward my little shoes, about Grama being with Jesus now. That Daddy was coming to help all of us. My daddy was a big man of about  6'3 and 235 lbs. His job was painting houses and building things. He was about a foot taller than Mama, and he had dark hair and hazel eyes. He was a good hugger to me!

 Soon he came along on our old car with my brother, and I remember raising up my arms and him scooping me up and squeezing me to his rough cheek..

Then Daddy told my brother to take me on home, and for us to wait there. Everything was a whirl of activity in the days following, visitors, food,  a wake, a funeral in the family cemetery just about 20 yards from Grama's house.  After that day Sister had come running to our house with her snuff brush sticking out of her mouth. After Mama and I walked up there when Daddy got in, and when I found out somehow, that some people you love die, and sometimes they wet the bed when they do. I never forgot that day.

 I felt safe the rest of that day, though. Safe --from the water running toward my feet, safe from very still, silent lady who looked just like my Grama  (yet didn't look at all like her),  from the confusion from the odd glances and hushed voices between Mama and Sister.

And from the water running -- running not just toward my shoes, but also down all our faces.

                                           
                                                           

Sister, Grama, Grandma

                             

                            May God bless us, and may we bless one another.

"REMEMBERING THE DAYS"

James and Malinda 

This is a picture  of my daddy's maternal grandparents. She, Malinda, was the mother of my Grandma Edwards, and he, James, her father I didn't ever know him. I  do remember her a bit, but barely.

What I remember very clearly is the day she died. I was not yet 4-years-old.

My daddy and my oldest brother were down in the swamp behind our little house. Great-grandma and my spinster aunt Lena (Have you heard the word "spinster" recently?) lived about half a mile from us. "Sister", which was Lena's nickname to our family, came running as fast as she could and told us that Grandma was not acting "well". Sister  looked down at me, licked her fingers and tried with sincerity, but futility, to rub my cowlick down yet again.
She shook her head and looked at Mama and asked where Daddy was. Mama replied he was down at the river, cutting down beech trees with Lynn. Mama said she would run and get him, and that we would be up there soon.

 I heard Sister said there was no need to hurry now, but Daddy would need to drive his car when he came.

Soon , we were walking up there, Mama and I---with Daddy in the kitchen at our house, trying to wash  up a bit. I remember Mama holding my hand as we walked, and she talked in the voice she used when things weren't right but she didn't want me to know it. I may have been little, but I guess was what people called an "old soul."

When we got up there in just the minutes, Sister looked at Mama and shook her head slowly. Mama asked if it would be okay if I came in, too. She nodded, but  murmured, "She wet the bed when she went; will you help me get things straight soon? Everyone will be coming when they hear."

(We didn't have phones, running water, or any sort of indoor  plumbing, just like many people out in the country those days.)

"She wet the bed when she went...." kept running through my mind.

Wet the bed?
 Gramma?
But that doesn't happen to grown-ups! Doesn't she know better? Even I don't do that anymore!
And the words "when she went"
Went where?
She was still lying on her high feather bed, fast asleep! I saw her through the doorway.
 Gramma---she was still there!  But, when I looked down.....there was something like water under her high bed. It was moving slowly , moving toward my shoes,  and Mama shooed me out to the porch.

more next time, friends....may you bless and be blessed