I am a Toy

I am just a toy, someone’s form of amusement. What toy? I’m a marionette. Pull my strings, and I will smile, or frown, or laugh, or cry. I may dance, hide, sit down, or fly. Someone else controls my every move, my every emotion, my every action. And it’s not always the same person at the controls. I’m a community-property toy. Today it may be my husband, tomorrow my mother, and the next day, my step-daughter could be holding the strings. I must be great entertainment!

Oh, I make plans. I try to carry out those plans, but I’m only a toy on whom others place limitations. A puppeteer shows up and throws a wrench into my plans, twists my strings, turns me upside down. I’m at the mercy of the almighty puppeteer’s will.

I’d like to cut these strings and control my own life. But, I’m just a toy. I don’t have scissors. I have no power. I have no influence. I’m forever waiting for someone to pick up my strings and move me in a certain direction. If only someone could breathe real life into this marionette like the Blue Fairy did for Pinocchio. But fairies only exist in dreams, and wishes only come true in fairy tales.

The Sunday Scribblings prompt was “toys” in hopes we could all use something light this week. Unfortunately, the prompt didn’t work out light for me, but it felt good to get this off my chest.

My Saturday

Today has been a busy day. I started by taking some time for myself. I got my hair highlighted, and I haven't done that in a while. I like the way my hair looks with some blonde highlights, and I'm pleased.

Next, we visited my husband's uncle at M. D. Anderson Cancer Center in Houston. He has had cancer for two years, and none of the chemotherapy or other treatments have worked... until now. It's nothing short of miraculous! He had a very unique surgery, the first of its kind here in the US, although they have done it in Europe. I won't go into details because it would be more graphic than I care to share. Basically, they took all of his organs out and inspected each one, piece by piece, cutting off anything suspicious, no matter how small. After everything was back in place, they lowered his body temperature to 46 degrees and used a 110 degree chemo solution to wash him internally for almost two hours. He was in the OR for 10 hours total. Needless to say, the first week after the procedure was harsh, but he is now cancer free! And he was so lively and talkative today. He looks like the picture of health. We are grateful.

Hubby and I also went to Bayou Place and had dinner at the Hard Rock Cafe and took in a movie at the Angelica Theater. We saw the movie No Country for Old People. It was quite interesting. Check it out!

Before we came home, we stopped to see the grand-twins. They are about 7 weeks old now and still at the Woman's Hospital of Texas. They were born at 25 weeks' gestation weighing only 1 lb. and 1 lb. 5 oz. They are both over two pounds now, and improving each day! We're so thankful for that.

Now we're home, and I feel pretty good. I feel like I did something productive as well as something enjoyable. How often do we get to say that? God, thank you for such a great day!

Hospital (Sunday Scribblings)

“What? The hospital? Why? What happened?”

My heart is racing. My mind is frantic. Here I am at a stupid football game, and something’s happened to daddy. Angela isn’t even here with me! She’s at a dance clinic. I can’t concentrate. I tell myself not to get too upset in front of David as I grab him from the after-game huddle and tell him we have to leave… NOW!

I race to the high school to pick up Angela. Oh, hurry up! Just go get her! Time seems to tick by slowly as we wait for her to come out of the gym. She wants to know what’s up. If I only knew!

On to the hospital. I’m sure everything is going to be okay. At least, I think so. How many messages did mom leave before she finally reached me? Was it four? And how many from Lisa (my sister)? And didn’t Mom say she sent the neighbor to the field to find me? I thought I saw her here. I wondered why she was at a little league football game since her kids are grown, but I guess she didn’t see me. Who would’ve thought she was there to get me? I wonder if Lisa is on her way to the hospital, too.

I’m struggling not to cry as I speed to the hospital. The more upset I am, the more scared the kids will be. Mom didn’t say what was actually wrong with daddy, after all. (And yes, I still call him daddy most of the time, not dad, and I probably always will, no matter how old I am.)

I finally arrive and park, and I notice how hot and sunny it is as we walk to the emergency entrance. My heart is still pounding. I have no idea what to expect. The hospital is a stark contrast to afternoon outside: cold and sterile.

My first question is, “Did Daddy wake up?” The answer is no. “Why not?” We really don’t know yet, they tell me. He collapsed after he came home from a CPR class he was taking with some friends. How ironic. He had actually had them show them how to do the Heimlich maneuver on him. Maybe it interfered with his breathing or his heart. His stomach is also bleeding. I sit trembling, waiting for the doctors to come out and tell me he is going to be okay. Daddy’s friends try to comfort me, but I’m inconsolable.

“We can’t do anything for him here,” the Asian doctor states in a heavy accent dripping with insincerity. I hate him! Of course, if he knew what he was doing, he could help my dad. Life-Flight is going to take him down to the Medical Center, and they will make him well. They’ll figure it out. If the doctors in Houston’s Medical Center downtown (world-renowned for heart, cancer, and other life-saving treatments) can’t fix him, then no one can.

We watch the bright red helicopter take off into the lonely, blue sky. They’ll be at the other hospital before we are.

The kids go stay with their dad while Lisa, Mom, and I hurry downtown. The entrance of this hospital looks like that of a classy, chic hotel rather than a place where people are ill. Fancy marble floors, elegant sitting areas, even entertainment in the lobby, not to mention actual restaurants, rather than just a typical cafeteria. Not that I care about food right now.

Up fourteen flights on the elevator we go. Daddy is in a room by himself, connected to bleeping machines, one that breathes for him, one to measure his heart rate, blood pressure, temperature, oxygen levels, and who knows what else. There is a bag draining his stomach of fluids I am sure shouldn’t be there. If it were anyone but him, I wouldn’t be able to tolerate the sight. The vision of him lying there helpless is so unlike what I know to be true of my father. I kiss his cheek, hold his hand, and wait. They have already performed numerous tests, but it’s going to be a long night.

Day two of this nightmare. “Why won’t Daddy wake up?” The question remains the same. The doctor takes us (family) to a small conference room. A white laminated table dominates the room. There are six metal chairs. We sit. The doctor puts some x-rays on the wall and flicks on a light. This is daddy’s brain. A subdural hematoma has occurred, probably happening so fast he felt nothing. That’s no comfort. The blood has compressed the brain tissue. He’s not breathing on his own and his heart is not beating on his own. There is no brain activity. Blah, blah, quality of life, blah, blah, nothing we can do, blah, blah, decision to make.

I hold daddy’s cold hand that has held mine so often in times of need. I love him so much. It’s time. Slower, the beeping gets slower until there is more time in between each one. “No, daddy! “Don’t go!” For a moment, there is the slightest increase in the beeping. Then, it stops. “NO!”

It wasn’t time, Daddy. At least, not according to me. We weren’t ready for this. I don’t know how to live without you as part of my life. The twins are only 8. How will they ever understand this? How will they grow up without their Papaw? Who will I turn to for solace, advice, an ear to listen? Something is wrong in the world. Has it completely stopped turning?

The hospital chapel is warm. It should be soothing. It should be a place for quiet reflection. It’s not. It’s empty, like me. I say a prayer for you, daddy, but mostly, I pray for us.

Thankful Thursday

Sometimes stress really gets us down. It feels as if nothing is going right, and it seems as if no one cares. The good news is that someone does care! That "one" is the Almighty, our Creator, God, the Alpha and Omega, the Lamb, Jesus Christ, the Holy Spirit, our Heavenly Father, the Great I AM. In the midst of all the chaos of our lives, going to work, kids going back to school, homework, practices, lessons, duties, committments...

Then... "Be still, and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth." Psalm 46:10

Take a moment. Be still. Close your eyes. Rest. Listen.

We are blessed. Truly blessed. Our homes, families, churches, schools, neighborhoods, friends, necessities, responsibilities, luxuries, privileges, and freedoms are all gifts from our God who wants us to be happy, who wants a relationship with us, who deserves to be served with a giver's heart. No matter how hectic life gets, we still have so many gifts to be thankful for. Let's give thanks to Him.

Rooted

The recent massacre in Virginia and the shooting literally in my backyard at Johnson Space Center today have impacted my view of roots. Being rooted to something or someone should make one feel safe and peaceful. On the other hand, maybe people nowadays don't have strong roots, whether they be family ties, religious connections, or social roots, and perhaps this is a major cause of the violence in our society.

Sometimes there are people who long to have roots and a sense of belonging, so they gravitate to gangs, cults, or other people who give them a false sense of having roots. Additionally, there are those people who have roots they choose to ignore or people who perceive that they have no roots. Perhaps they assume the role of an outcast. This, too, can breed violence.

Do people who are rooted in their value system commit such heinous acts as the ones I have witnessed this week? Apparently, some do.

On a different note, my personal definition of being rooted means to be grounded and at peace. To have a place to call home. To be firm in my beliefs. To feel a contentedness knowing that I have family, friends, religion, and social obligations. To be somewhere for such a period of time that it feels permanent. To feel a conviction deep in my soul that guides my decision-making.

I have been uprooted through no choice of my own before - a situation where all I believed in, all I felt firm about, and all I relied on was completely pulled out from under me. Two situations, actually. When my first husband left me with two small children was the first time I felt rootless. Luckily, my whole life wasn't uprooted, but a good majority of it was. Thankfully, I still had some family, a few friends, and my faith to see me through. But much of what I felt rooted in was taken from me.

The second situation was when my father passed away unexpectedly two years ago. I felt completely alone. He had been my grounding force for my entire life, and I feel less rooted in life in general since he is gone. He was almost as much a rock to me as God is. Notice I said "almost."

A third situation was a choice, but it nonetheless uprooted me. When I remarried two years ago, I gave up my home, geographical closeness to my family, the job, the schools, the church, the friends, and the social support that I had developed. Adjustment has been difficult, but I feel like I am finally starting to develop new roots.

I guess that is one good thing about roots... they regenerate. Roots can take hold again even after the plant has seemingly been destroyed. And we can all bloom where we are planted.

Above picture courtesy of http://www.photoready.co.uk/texture/river-exposed-tree-roots.html