The Wheels on the Bus

I’m at that nostalgic point of parental life where I look at other people’s children writhing and crying at restaurants, in churches, on airplanes, and just say, “Aww!” I false-remember like my mother-in-law did, “She was a delightful baby! She never cried!” And, I find that I have fond memories about random things like school buses. 

The other day, I was stuck behind a school bus for a three-mile stretch where it painstakingly stopped and started, ejecting backpacks and children, no less than eight times. In another stage of life I would have spewed curses, flashed fingers, and beat dashboards. 

But, I wasn’t in any particular hurry last Wednesday at 3 pm. I didn’t have that insides-shaking anxiety about having to be there when the kids got home from school. Or over the thought of short-order cooking family dinner. Or about having to be at a Little League board meeting and a PTA event before driving to cheerleading, baseball, basketball, or all three.

No, now I’m free; enjoying a refreshingly free freelance life with physical freedom from most of my children. A life in which I can sit behind a school bus, alone, and reminisce without fear of getting caught. 

I grew up riding a school bus. In the mornings, I’d walk up Woods Road with any number of my three sisters, or none, depending on who was in the same school at the same time, and who, if any, were in my favor on that particular day. I, or we, would pause at Margaret’s house, where she and her brother, or sister, or neither (same deal as above), would skip down their steep driveway. We’d wait for Debbie Atlee to appear in her hip huggers and tube top, then head up to Schaeffer’s for Kit and/or Johnny, again dependent on familial relationships. We cut through the Schaeffer’s backyard to avoid Carol Zeigler, crossed the edge of the Faust’s property, and ended up on the outer edge of the Eble’s yard, waiting for the bus with one or six other kids who chose the upper end of Woods Road over their pre-assigned bus stop.

Because, in those days you could do that. There wasn’t a mother out there who cared if you preferred to walk a block farther so you could clamor for the attention of Bobby Amsler, John Rothrock, or Jimmy Lustri at their bus stop. There was no mother who chided you for singing “Pink, pink, we all turn pink cause Matthew Ramsey stinks.” Or Henry. It ran in the family. 

There was definite bus protocol. The older kids sat in the back, the youngers tried to act cool near the front. The bad boys smoked cigarettes in the rearmost seats and the bus driver rarely bothered to notice. We made fun of Andrea Mumford who “threw fits,” which cruel as it was, probably wasn’t much worse than the upper classmen who sprayed my puffy red hair with a water pistol, laughing as it frizzed, calling me Bozo the Clown. (And, my spouse wonders why I spend the big bucks on keratin treatment at my advanced age. Some scars run deep.)

Every now and then, when we got older, we’d actually choose to walk the 1.9 miles home from the high school, cutting through Oreland Presbyterian Church so we could pass the Maher’s house, filled with kids, one more popular than the next. But mostly, we rode the bus, earning our backseat status as the years flew by.  

So, when my kids went to school, I didn’t suffer any of the school bus angst that many of my peers experienced. I was happy not to have to drive them to school and dismayed to find that parenting norms and gasp, school rules, dictated that a parent had to be at the bus stop at both ends of the day. What, I wondered, did these people think was going to happen?

But, I found a way to turn the bus stop into a social opportunity, and turned the elusive Claire-on-the-corner into the best of friends. Between the two of us, we had seven kids, in seven different grades of school. And while all seven were never on the same bus, we’d wait for the elementary school bus with the kindergarteners and pre-schoolers in tow, so we pretty much dominated the sidewalk. Our fluid parenting style confused outsiders as to which kid belonged to whom. The only sure thing was my daughter because everyone knew Claire only produced boys. For a while, my middle son, Max, truly believed he was Claire’s child. 

I did nothing to set him straight.

One year, the day before Christmas break, Claire sent her son, Zack, onto the bus with a present for the driver. 

“I had no idea!” I exclaimed. “My mother never gave the bus driver a Christmas present!” 

“It’s my husband,” Claire explained. “His reasoning is; if something happens, the driver is going to remember the kid who gave him a gift.”

I laughed, never been one to buy into bad things happening. But, I still felt bad. 

That afternoon as I stood waiting in anticipation for my young ‘uns to hop off the bus, I heard the bus driver say to my Max, “Thank your mom for the gloves!” 

"Okay," he said in his deep kid voice.

So much for remembering which kid gave the gift. Or which mother birthed the kid, for that matter.

The squeal of the bus brakes at Every.Single.Corner last week triggered me back to childhood. I remember jumping off those high, high bus steps and rushing home where my mother would ALWAYS be waiting with open ears and open arms. And while I was never half the mother she was, I can still picture the unfettered joy on my own kids’ faces as they bounded off the bus, prized (and crumpled) artwork in hand, into my half-open arms and closed-off ears.  

The sound of brakes remind me of coming home from hockey practice on the late sports’ bus to my meatloaf, mashed potatoes and string beans warming on a plate in the oven. They also remind me of my grown-up self, crammed into a pint-sized seat, bouncing all the way up Route 17 for yet another apple picking trip. 

But, mostly they remind me of the punch-in-the-gut look of trepidation as my youngest got on the kindergarten bus for the very first time. An image repeated time and time again, by each and every one of my kids, in each and every stage of new life challenges. And, how each and every time, I pretended to be happy about letting them go.  

Sometimes a Dream is Just a Dream

I am a memory hoarder. 

So much so that I have notebook after notebook filled with my life’s details, including New Years’ Eve in Moscow, phony number fun and foibles with Margaret, honeymooning in Montreal, singing karaoke in Manilla, bicycling in France and just about every hope, dream, victory and vice I ever combatted throughout my high school career. 

I have charts recording the fluid that came from the drains in my chest after my double mastectomy, the number of steps I took, and when, and how much it hurt, after each of my joint replacements, and how much I weighed every single week of my adult life. 

I have scraps of paper with profound statements that have changed my life, prize emails saved from the hundreds of thousands my friend Laura and I have exchanged since 1990, lists of names and descriptions of people Patty and I have loved, for a week at a time, on cruise after cruise, and a file cabinet with folders marked Memories, Things to Remember, and since I’ve been a mother, Fun Kid Stuff.

Which is where, when looking for nothing in particular, I found a conversation that took place, in the brand new minivan, between my son, Leo, and his best friend, Koree. It was July, 2005 and they were nine years old. 

Koree: 

Me and Leo are best friends. 

Me: 

Do you think you’ll be friends for your whole life?

Koree: 

Nah. Cause we’re going to go our separate ways. Leo’s going to be a professional baseball player and I’m going to be a professional basketball player. 

Me: 

Well, you can certainly still stay friends!

Koree: 

No. Cause when we split up, he’ll be in Baltimore and I’ll be in Dallas. 

Leo: 

I know. We’ll write each other’s names down so we’ll remember each other. 

Koree: 

But we’ll need a cell phone. 

Leo: 

When Koree’s famous, I’ll go backstage because I’ll be like Barry Bonds and I’ll get in for free. 

When I was nine years old, I had been a published author for two years, having my “Christmas is a time of giving, and I’m so glad that I am living,” second-grade poem printed in the Oreland Sun. For as long as I can remember, all I ever wanted to do was be a writer. 

And write I did. I recorded everything I did and said and heard and witnessed with the hopes of one day twisting and turning those phrases and fragments into the Great American Novel.  And in the meantime, I wrote short stories and poems, and love letters to my friends. I wrote speeches and eulogies, and long-winded yearbook homages. I wrote toasts and tributes, and silly little birthday ditties.

When I was in 11^thgrade, Ms. Scott, said my writing style reminded her of Lillian Hellman, which prompted me to devour every one of the famous author’s plays and memoirs. When I was asked to read one of my pieces aloud at Creative Writing Night, I had to sheepishly admit to a tearful audience, that the story about my dead sister was purely fiction. 

In a journalism class in college, realizing I was about to miss a deadline, I whipped up the story of how we pulled off the old bucket-of-water-perched-precariously-outside-the-detested-resident-assistant’s-dorm-door caper. The feature story was published in the school paper and we were caught, perhaps precipitating our subsequent visit to the Judicial Board. 

I majored in Advertising, with a concentration in copywriting and a minor in Creative Writing. When I graduated, I was an insecure college graduate with no paid writing experience, so spend ten years in related, but unfulfilling fields, working harder on making friends than making a buck. After I got married and moved to New Jersey, I landed a job at the new cable station, CNBC, as an administrative assistant in the marketing department. Had it not been for the faith of my boss-turned-friend, Caroline Vanderlip, to this day, l may never have had made a dime penning my words.

But, my dream never included writing brochures about how to read a stock ticker tape, or ads touting Maria Bartiroma as the first woman to report from the floor of the NYSE. Though I must admit I did have fun writing promo spots for Geraldo Rivera, trembling my way through an interview with Phil Donahue, and dodging the late, great Roger Ailes. 

My career evolved from CNBC to freelance writer, working from home, playground benches or baseball bleachers. I crafted all kinds of copy for all kinds of companies, but still, it wasn’t what I had envisioned back in Mrs. Baker’s second grade classroom.

And, so I wrote my novels. Three of them. One about a bunch of families navigating their way through the 12 year-old travel baseball world. Another about a 30 year-old looking for love in all the wrong places, and the last about four college friends who reunite for a week on a cruise ship. They say always write what you know.

Novels, plural, complete. I did it. 

Except that they’re all three still sitting in my computer, afraid to come out, afraid to face the world, afraid to become a dream come true. 

Back in 2005, Koree and Leo both played baseball, basketball and football. But within a few years, they had each committed fully to their sport of choice. Leo to baseball, Koree to basketball. They never balked, they never wavered; they were all in. They traveled the country playing in national tournaments, showcasing their skills and picturing themselves first in UNC jerseys and then in whatever pro uniform they were paid to wear. They played hard through high school and into college until their pro ball dreams came to an end. 

“Did you ever think of coaching?” I recently asked Koree, who is now in the throes of job hunting. 

“Never!” he exclaimed. “I don’t want anything to do with basketball ever again.”

Leo nodded in solidarity. 

And that hurt my heart.

Not because of the thousands of hours they devoted to the game. Not because of the tens of thousands of dollars we pumped into the sport. Not because of the millions of dollars they wouldn’t make. 

But, because, like their parents before them, they, too, had unfulfilled dreams.  

I thought not just about myself and my unsubmitted novels; I thought about Koree’s father who had big dreams of his own. As a college hoops star, he went up against the likes of Michael Jordan and Kenny Smith, who even gave him a shout out while commentating the NCAA tournament. 

I couldn't help but wonder how different all our lives would be if he, or I, or the both of us, had "made it." What if our DNA had just a little more drive, a little more confidence, a little more talent? 

For one thing, Koree and Leo would never have met. He, or we, would be living in different towns, in bigger houses, running in different circles. Instead, we co-raised five pretty decent athletes, who someday, somewhere, will lead their adults leagues in base hits and buckets. They say they won't, but they'll coach their kids in cheerleading and soccer and softball. 

I picture ourselves, in the not so distant future, gathered for a Hargraves-Voreacos family dinner. There will be a spouse, or five, at the table, a bunch of grandkids in tow. We'll get to talking about the good old days - the coulda, woulda, shouldas. 

Looking around the table, soaking in the love and laughter, we old folk will finally come to terms with our lives. We'll realize that, despite all of our missed shots, we still ended up with a winning season. 

And that is, indeed, a dream come true. 

Another Little Piece of My Heart

“What in the world are you girls blubbering about?” the ever-loving spouse asked as he carried another load of stuff out of the house and into the car that would transport the daughter and her belongings (most of them) to her new apartment in Brooklyn. 

Under the guise of being incapacitated after a double knee replacement, I simply sat at the kitchen table and let things happen around me. I’ve actually gotten pretty good about avoiding the comings and goings of kids. The more removed from the process I am, the better for everyone. 

The daughter moved home last June after living on her own, as an adult, for the last eight years. Granted, four of those years were college, which I’m not sure can count as adulting, but she wasn’t under my roof, eating my food (that I have learned to hide), leaving her long locks in the bathtub drain or overcrowding the already crowded hall closet with rubber boots, unbrellas, Converse sneakers, scarves, shawls and random other outerwear. (Mom, it’s a closet! Get over it.) 

She said she was only going to be home for a month or two. Just until she figured out where she wanted to live. Being gone for eight years is a long, long time. Coming back after eight years is a major adjustment on everyone's part. Except, of course, for the ever-loving father who sees nothing but pure bliss and joy in his children. As long as they're working. Cutting the grass. And reading the newspaper.

When the daughter moved home last year, they were ALL home. The young ‘un had just graduated from college. The middle ‘un was working in Manhattan. And, now she, the old ‘un had reshuffled the mix.  

So, her return to the roost wasn't the cause of my unbalanced equilibrium. She just happened to be the one who tipped the scales. Sheer numbers dictated that the young and vibrant adult children now had the competitive edge over the old and tired adult parents.

Living in a 90-something year-old house with no master bathroom, I've come to the conclusion that no one over the age of 30 should ever have to share a bathroom. And, that once one reaches AARP status, it should be a God-given right to be able to pee at will and take a shower without having to wait for someone else's steam to dissipate.

I believe I’ve done my time. 

I deserve to sit and watch The Bachelorette on my 19-inch screen without having to defend myself. I should be able to savor the crispy, crunchy, overpriced grapes I hide in the refrigerator rather than be faced with empty stems and raisins. I have earned the right to have a kitchen clean for more than two hours. 

I want to send a text without being asked who I’m talking to. I want to be able to feed the family with one single slab of beef. I want the Brita water pitcher to still have water in it when I come in from riding my bike.

I want someone else to feed the beast. Vacuum the dog hair. Pat his head. I want someone else to get the cars inspected. Weed the garden. Bring in the mail. Cook the dinner. Clean the toilet bowls. Kill the cobwebs. Notice the cobwebs.  

“All you have to do is ask, Mom,” they say when I blow.

I respond with a cold stare. Because asking has worked out so well, thus far. 

As often happens in the revolving door of parenting, two months after the daughter moved home, the middle one moved to California. And while I was, in theory, heartbroken, I couldn’t help but smile knowing there’d be one less human in the bathroom. In the kitchen. In the house. Out of the house. In undisclosed locations until the wee hours of the morning. 

And then, the young one went off on a 600-mile walk through Spain, immediately followed by a sleep-away summer job. With the daughter leaving the house for work before 7 every morning, returning a solid 12 hours later, things were really opening up at the homestead.

I was beginning to salivate over the thought of an empty nest. 

But, when thirteen months later, after co-habitating as something somewhere between mother and daughter and jail warden and prisoner, she made her long-awaited move, surprisingly, my reaction was not a fist-pumping "Whoo hoo!" 

Instead, I sat at the kitchen table, throat constricting, as I feigned more interest in the New York Post's bashing of the mayor than in the heaving and hauling of boxes and bags and books behind my back. 

As the dozens and dozens and two more dozens of clothes slip-slided off their hangers, I resisted the urge to suggest a makeshift garment bag made from a garbage bag. I sealed my lips before asking if she had left her attic bedroom half-way presentable. And I kept my mouth shut when I wanted to say, "You really think all those beauty products are going to fit in your tiny bathroom?"

I'm learning. I've been through this before.

"OK, we're off!" the ever-loving father announced. He took a look at my face. And then a look at the daughter's face. He shook his head as we sniffled back our tears.

"Oh no!" he exclaimed and then said the same thing he said when the middle one left for California. "What are you two blubbering about? This is a good move!"

All moves are good moves when you're moving forward. But, no matter how hard we hope and pray that they will find their way, launch their lives and MOVE OUT, when the time comes, these dang kids just can't seem to do it without taking another little piece of our hearts.

Recovery Goals

“I have a wedding in three weeks, what do you think?” I asked the in-hospital physical therapist the day after my double knee replacement. The day that I couldn’t get up without nauseated grimacing. The day I couldn’t lift a toe, let alone a knee, up onto even the lowest of the low stairs in the hallway. 

“Perhaps a bit ambitious, but we’ll see,” she smiled encouragingly. “Every day you’ll see a little more improvement.”

“I’m going,” I said, returning her smile, with a bit of “watch me.” After all, I had proclaimed  in my pre-surgery blog that I’d be dancing with my walker at Kristen and Mike’s wedding. And, I’m not one to make empty promises.

Two days later, I was sent off to Kessler Rehab for a week, where they had me not only climbing stairs but stepping in and out of bathtubs, cars and kitchens. One day, I overheard Jackie, an occupational therapist, say she was going to a wedding on the 19^th. And, because of the  serendipitousness of my eavesdropping, and subsequent barrier-less barging in, I learned she was Kristen’s maid of honor. 

Now, NOTHING could stop me from getting to that wedding.

As anyone who has ever been in rehab of any kind will concur, rehab is easy. You’re safe. You’re monitored. You’re living in an altered reality.  The real work comes when you go home. 

On the eleventh day following my surgery, I was released into the loving arms of my spouse and youngest son. I was petrified. Even though we had practiced in rehab, I had serious doubts that I’d be able to bend my legs enough to swing them into the car (it proved easier than before the surgery), navigate the front porch stairs (piece of cake) or venture up the stairs to my recovery room (did it). 

My ever-loving spouse is as private a person as I am public. Unlike me, he does things out of the goodness of his heart, not for affirmation from the world. He rarely reads my blogs because it’s hard enough for him to have to live through my open-to-all adventures, let alone relive them as I recount them, action-for-action, word-for-word. I try to leave him out of my stories, penning him in as a minor character only when necessary. After all, why waste words of praise that will only fall on blind eyes?

However, I’d be remiss not to give him a shout out for his courage, concern and unconditional love in his recent undertaking of coach and caregiver. A role I’d never in a million years willingly take on. And certainly not with a post-op patient like me. 

I thought I had it good in rehab. But, it was nothing compared to the royal treatment I received at home.  

He took me for walks. He took me for rides in the car. He made me beautiful salads. He doled out pills. He supplied me with endless ice cubes. He pulled those ridiculous compression stockings over my swollen feet in the morning and strapped me into my hideous immobilizing braces at night. And the one time I started whining because I had forgotten my kindle downstairs, he snapped.

“No breakdowns! I’ll get your kindle.”

“But, you just came upstairs,” I sniffled, frustrated at not being able to take care of my own needs.

“I don’t mind,” he said. And he truly didn’t.

But still, I wasn’t going to take advantage. So, every day, I pushed myself a little further and became more and more independent. Before long, the spouse went back to work. Left to my own devices, I found my old self peeking through; picking unidentifiable floating objects out of the dog’s water bowl, braving the stairs multiple times a day, de-crumbing the kitchen counters, driving to physical therapy, bringing in the mail, kicking the walker to the curb, doing laundry and preparing meals.

So, when the wedding day rolled around, three weeks to the day after my surgery, I was revved and ready. 

“We won’t stay late,” the spouse said, always eager to leave a social engagement right when I start hitting my stride.

“Agreed,” I said. 

After all, it was hot as blazes out there. And though I did get special dispensation to ditch the thick, white compression stockings for the day, I still had to wear long, black pants to hide the long, ugly scars that still had remnants of tape and steri-strips dangling from the wounds. I knew I wouldn’t get my much-needed afternoon nap. And, it was a long mass followed by a two-and-a-half hour break before a long reception, far enough away to dabble in Friday night shore traffic. I knew I'd be exhausted half way through my first scallop wrapped in bacon and truly didn’t believe I’d make it to the cutting of the cake. 

Somewhere between First Corinthians and the Holy Gospel, Jackie, the fun-loving therapist and maid of honor, pivoted from her perch at the tail of the bride’s long white veil, and caught my eye, giving me a thumbs up.  

I knew, in that moment, with God as my witness in that cavernous Catholic church, that I was going to exceed my recovery goal.

The reception was perfect. Love and laughter filled the room with heart-felt speeches, family from near and far, and friends who had been through it all with the groom; stealing bases, stealing cars and stealing beers. And everyone in that room knew that Mike had just landed the steal of his career, catching not only a beautiful bride, but a perfect partner for life.

And so, when the music began to blare and the bridal party began slip sliding their way across the dance floor, I knew I was going to do it. 

I looked at my spouse. He looked at me. 

“You sure?” he said. 

I nodded and hobbled to center stage. I don’t remember exactly what songs were playing, but I'm thinking Sweet Caroline, High Hopes or Twist and Shout is what got me out there. I’m not a dancer in the best of shape, let alone with two brand-new knees. But, there was something in the air that made me kick up my cane, find the bride and dance with her on her wedding day.

Another week has passed and I’m doing laps around the neighborhood, carrying my cane merely to ward off rogue pit bulls and small children on scooters. I just finished making sausage and peppers and husking corn on the cob. I vacuumed up dog hair this morning, pulled daughter hair from the bathroom drain, lugged laundry up and down the stairs and wiped watermelon juice from the refrigerator shelves. 

I’m not sleeping well (if at all) at night because of my dang immobilizers (two more weeks!) but I’m getting some really good power naps in my recliner. I ice my knees four times a day, do about 100 heel slides a day and take a plethora of pills ranging from iron to Celebrex. I go to physical therapy three times a week where Brittany cheers me on, buckling my knees back until my eyes bug out and then announces, "You're at 130 degrees!" making the struggle worth the pain. But, I swore off Tylenol last week and just keep bending and stretching and waiting for the day that I wake up and finally say, “I’m SO glad I got my knees replaced!”

In the meantime, I’ll just keep my sights on my recovery goals, modest as they may be. Sleeping when I can. Dancing when I can. And, always remembering that it takes a village. In the meantime, mark my words. I'll be back to raising Cain, without my cane, long before the world is ready. 

A Simple Case of the Kneesles: Rehab Part One

“Just stopping by to ask how your stay at Kessler has been,” the bright and bubbly public, human, customer or some other sort of relations worker asked on my last day at the rehab center. It was hard to keep the multitudes of people swarming my bedside straight. Admittedly, if the name tag didn’t allow the dispensing of pain killers, I was less likely to care who they were. She was not a dispenser. But, she caught me at a good moment.

“I loved it!” I exclaimed. “I would live here forever if I could!”

The bright and bubbly woman paused. 

“Are you messing with me?” she asked.

“I am NOT kidding,” I responded. “This was the best week of my life.” 

OK. That may have been a slight exaggeration. But, not a total one. 

Two-and-a-half weeks ago, I went under the knife. The good doctor fileted my legs from thigh to shin, tore out my old and achy knees and put in new and improved hardware. He closed  me up with thirty staples and four sutures per limb, flipped me onto the “done” gurney and sent me on my way. 

Later that very same day, when the wooziness had worn off and I was safely in my hospital bed, wanting nothing more than to succumb to that blissful anesthesia, Nurse Ratched came in to announce that nap time was over. It was time to get up and walking. 

Imagine that. 

The following day I was doing laps around the nurse’s station with my walker.

And, on the third day, they were ready to discharge me.

“I can’t go home!” I whined. “I can’t do the stairs yet!”

“I’ll take care of you! You can sleep in the living room!” my well-intended, ever-loving spouse proclaimed. 

Visions of my body splayed like a museum piece on display for family, friends and furry dogs infiltrated my psyche and wouldn’t recede.

“I can NOT sleep downstairs,” I declared in a tone so strong the case worker took it to heart and began proceedings to get me to rehab.

I had been to rehab after I had my hip replaced 18 years ago. It was not a happy experience as noted in my past tales. Going in to this thing, I had absolutely no intentions of being incarcerated any longer than I had to. But the thought of those 17 stairs, the rickety bannister and the recovery room that I had created out of my California son’s bedroom (complete with brand new air conditioner and remote-powered recliner) called to me loudly through my fuzzy brain. I was adamant. It was not safe for any of us if I went home. And I wouldn’t go home until I could safely sleep in the recovery room. 

“Listen,” I confessed to one of those people with a name tag who didn’t dispense. “I’m doing this for my spouse, not for me. When I’m unhappy or in pain, I can be pretty unpleasant. But, I promise, I’ll be a model patient at rehab. It’s just not in my nature to be mean to people I don’t know or love.”

And off I went. 

Now, if you’ve never been in the two-new-kneed condition in which I found myself, it may not occur to you that the getting there is almost as scary as the been there. It’s a frightening thing to be carried on a gurney, especially for someone of my girth. But, somehow, these trained professionals are both strong enough and smart enough to move mountains, both physically and emotionally. Thanks to the kindness of the Teaneck Volunteer Ambulance Corps, my friend, Joe Harris, and his perfectly personable assistant, Michael, delivered me in one painless piece to my new vacation home, just two miles down the road from the hospital.

I was deposited, oh so gently, from stretcher to bed in a room divided by a khaki-colored floral curtain just a few minutes before my roommate, a double amputee, was whisked from her window bed and taken back to the hospital for something gone wrong. It was a whirlwind of in and out but I was still too deep into transition to process any of it.

There were new rules at Kessler. I wasn’t permitted to walk to the bathroom alone. I wasn’t allowed to get out of bed without pushing the call button. I had to be transported by wheelchair. I was back in a hospital gown. 

I had to train a whole new flock of people to bring me a constant supply of ice chips, that yes, despite it being 90 degrees outside, I DID want all five blankets and six pillows on my bed and that I would not, could not produce that coveted stool sample as long as they stood guard outside the bathroom door.

And when my roommate was wheeled back in at midnight with the fanfare of a street parade and I laid awake into the wee hours, willing myself not to have to pee, I wondered if I hadn’t made a mistake by not going right home. 

But, when 5 am rolled around and the blood taker came and stabbed my arm and I tore off my nighttime immobilizer braces, trying to un-Velcro the eight-on-each-leg straps as quietly as possible, uncreaked my knees and emptied my throbbing bladder, aide perched outside the door. “Pull the call bell when you’re done!” I knew it was just a matter of getting used to a new routine. And making new friends.

Following my English muffin and bacon breakfast which came hot every morning, I met my first new best friend, Michael, from Occupational Therapy. 

“I’m here to teach you to get dressed,” he said. 

“Joy,” I responded. I barely let my own spouse see me in various stages of undress, let alone a perfect stranger. But, Michael was a professional, staging his act so he didn’t actually see me in any stages of undress. He demonstrated the ins and outs of pulling up pants with a reacher, using an extended shoe horn and even a super cool sock putter-onner. Michael was so good and so congenial that I truly believed he cared about the whole life story that I revealed in my various stages of non-undress. 

At Kessler, the victims have three hours of therapy, scheduled throughout the day in different time increments. Alyssa was my main physical therapist and by the end of our time together she knew 75 percent of my quirks (I always like to keep some close to the vest). Meanwhile, I extracted plenty of personal info about her, her beau, her upcoming nuptials and her family dynamics. Doing chair-to-stands and braving the steps were simple tasks when disguised as buddy bonding.

Christine, my occupational therapist, and I never stopped talking as took me to another floor to practice getting in and out of a fake car, stepping in and out of a bathtub and getting dishes in and out of a cabinet. Through it all, we yakked about the ins and outs of kids' sports and the crazy schedule (believe me, it gets worse, I warned) of her thirteen year-old softball player daughter. Again, we were more like friends than torturer and tortured.

Never one to keep my ears to myself, I heard Jackie, one of the “fun” therapists talking across the room about a wedding she was going to on July 19^th.

“Me too!” I bellowed. “That has been my recovery goal, to make it to a wedding three weeks to the day from my surgery. Hey, maybe it’s the same one!”

“Yeah, maybe,” she said, assuming I was on narcotics.

“Kristen and Mike’s?” I asked, knowing I was on narcotics.

She shrieked. I laughed. She is the maid of honor at the very same wedding. 

“I’m going to be off my walker by then,” I declared.

And, I am.

I had the time of my life at Kessler. I had Emily, the best nurse in the whole wide world. I mean, the whole wide world. Which isn’t to say that Anele wasn't equally as kind and loving, but Emily, I will always hold nearest and dearest to my heart. 

I had great aides like Ivy who never made me feel bad about ringing my bell. And Nick and Rosa. Rosa who yelled at me for throwing my dirty washcloths on the floor as if it were a hotel. Rosa knew what she was dealing with and kept me in line.

And then there was Jack, the MC of the show. He sat at the reception desk and orchestrated the ins and outs of patients and after my roommate went home, I begged him not to let anyone else move in. And, while happenstance kept the other bed empty for four full days, he let me believe it was because I asked.

While it was frustrating not being able to do what I wanted when I wanted, my week in rehab had all the makings of a vacation. In between heel slides and knee bends, I wasn’t cooking, cleaning, doing laundry, going grocery shopping or doing the daily stand-off of refusing to feed the dog before 6 pm. So, when my stay was over and I said goodbye to all my new friends, it was as sad as disembarking from a cruise ship.

I’ve been home a week now and my rehab memories are already beginning to fade. But I'll forever keep in my soul my double amputee roommate who continues to inspire me every single day. I can not moan. I can not cry. I can not complain. 

Because, thanks to the people who motivated me, manipulated me and befriended me, I realize, in the grand scheme of things, my great big personal trauma is nothing more than a simple case of the kneesles.

Some things just kneed to be done

“You’re having BOTH done at once?” I have heard twelve-dozen times since I scheduled my long-overdue double knee replacement. 

“Uh, yeah,” I say, with an uh-duh tenor to my retort. 

I know that if I did them one at a time, it would be another decade before I’d go back to get the second one done. 

It’s not that I’m afraid of surgery. After all, I’ve had three c-sections, one hip replacement, one gall bladder extraction, one hysterectomy, two mastectomies, two reconstruction surgeries, not to mention one ICU-bout with pancreatitis, one cataract surgery, one dental implant, three root canals, one infected bunion, and countless other un-countable conditions.

My friend, Laura, saves emails. She recently forwarded me what may have been the first documentation of my knee issue. I had just returned from an orthopedist who confirmed that I had not one, but two bone-on-bone knees. Ten years ago.

In the decade since, I have done everything possible to avoid the surgery. I dropped enough poundage to ease the pounding pain and have managed to ride my bicycle over 1000 miles a year, walk circles through parks and towns, swim miles of laps, attempt yoga, cheat in spin class and lift weights. Very light weights. And, I have said 10,326 times a year, for a total of 103,260 utterances, “Oh, my aching bones.”

I’ve done physical therapy, gotten shot up with chicken combs, tried expensive topical creams, over the counter pain killers, prescription anti-inflammatories, CBD products (legal ones, of course), and both cheap and expensive bourbons to keep my knees alive.

Last month, in search of the anti-diagnosis I went to yet another new doctor. I explained that I would be spending the summer working on a food truck, standing on my feet for up to 12 hours a day and was wondering if I could get cortisone shots to get me through. 

The good doctor smiled and said, “Tell me more about this food truck.” And, so I launched into all the fun and joy it brings, thinking he had genuine interest in the ups and downs of my food service career. 

He smiled again. 

And then said something on the lines of, “Considering the deteriorating condition of your mind, body and soul, did you ever think it might be prudent to get your knees replaced sooner than later?”

Hmm. Interesting question. 

My friend, Kathy, had her knees (plural) replaced four years ago and it changed her life. About 3 ½ years ago she gave up trying to convince me that it just might change mine as well. 

My spouse used to corner my friends and beg them to persuade me get my knees fixed, knowing I was more likely to listen to them than to him. It wasn’t until I threatened to make him go on a cruise with me that he finally retreated. 

Last year, when visiting my sister, Nancy, in Charleston we took her Prozac pooch, Otis, for a stroll through the neighborhood. Among other exciting topics, I told her how good my knees were feeling. Later, when I did the backwards shuffle to get into the passenger’s seat of her car, manually uncreaking the left knee, dragging the right one in behind it, whooing and sighing until I was in position, she simply looked at me and said, “You’re right. Why would you rush into getting your knees replaced?”

While in Maine, unable to do the annual cliff walk past Homer Winslow's house, unable to tolerate Portland's cobblestoned pavements, unable to navigate a simple trip to Walmart, my friends said, 'enough is enough,' deposited me in a wheelchair and pushed me through the store.

My friend, Grace, who I walk with, and one of the kindest people I know, looks at my limp and my bow-legged in the same direction knees, and wonders with sympathy and confusion, why in the world I would choose to live this way. 

So, no. It had never crossed my mind to get my knees replaced. 

I was born defective. I spent the first nine months of my life in a hard cast that splayed my legs apart to re-socket my dislocated hip. By the time I hit my 40s, that quick fix wasn’t so much of a fix anymore. I was (once again) bone-on-bone in the left hip. Which means, of course, no cartilage and tons of pain. So, I got the hip replaced. 

While in the hospital, I had a nurse who rolled her eyes so blatantly every time I rang the bell that I finally asked her, yes I did, why she chose this particular profession. She laughed and admitted that she hated being a nurse and was in night school, studying to become an accountant. 

I went to rehab for ten days following the surgery. Even my insurance provider knew it wouldn’t be the smartest idea to send me home to five, seven and nine-year-old children and a big barking dog. While in rehab, or perhaps while at the hospital, (culpability denial), I contracted C-Diff. Google it. And multiply it by 100. That’s how pleasant it was. 

Between trips to the bathroom, I did my physical therapy. I was young. Oh, so young. And, was determined that no one 40 years my senior was going to outdo me. I excelled at PT. But, while panting through my ankle pumps and abductor slides, I watched grown men crying real tears as they tried to bend and stretch their brand-new knees.

“Knees are a thousand times worse than hips!” my therapist admitted.

I stored that information in my brain. 

In rehab, I was in a room with five other people. One was a thirty-something woman who had been paralyzed in a skiing accident. One was rehabbing a reconstructed shoulder. And one was a 60 year old woman who, in the prime of her active life, suffered a stroke. She didn’t lose her speech or cognitive functions, but the left side of her body needed a lot of work. When I checked out, Marcia presented me with a fake red rose. 

"Remember," she said with a right-armed hug goodbye. "Hope springs eternal."

On my bulletin board, amidst pictures of Jamal as a baby and as a graduate; Anthony as a baseball player; the girls in the back room of The Post; Patty, Madge and I laughing our fool heads off on a cruise; my favorite birthday card from Margaret; and a tear-off French calendar entry from Emily that translates to “My sister is stronger than I,” that red rose dangles. And, has dangled for 18 years. 

Now, on the cusp of going under the knife once again, I look to that red rose and remember to put it all into perspective. It’s not cancer. It’s not an amputation. It’s not brain surgery. It’s nothing more than getting two more bionic parts implanted into my body. It won’t be pretty, and it won't be pleasant. But I have full intentions of dancing with my walker at Michael and Kristen’s wedding in July and climbing the Rockies with the Chapel Hill gang at Lauren and Rob’s nuptials next fall. 

After all, hope springs eternal.

And if nothing else, I've got high hopes.

pomp, circumstance and m&ms: a throwback

“Are you all excited for Leo’s graduation?” my friends Ann and Gail asked me today at lunch. 

And in typical Betsy fashion I answered in a typically unconventional way.  I went on a long-winded rant about how jaded I am when it comes to graduation ceremonies. After all, I’ve been to fifteen of them between the three kids and their pre-school, kindergarten, elementary, middle school, high school and college graduations. It should have been sixteen but I was blessed with acute pancreatitis and was in the ICU for Leo’s pre-school ceremony. I don’t have a valedictorian like the adorably brilliant Deijah Lee-Carroll and so what if my kid gets to wear Student Ambassador and Honor Roll sashes, I never saw him open a book the entire four years so it makes me wonder if he really earned them or maybe he paid someone, and on and on.

Poor Ann and Gail. They are two of the kindest friends I have and all they did was ask a simple question to which a simple, “yes” would have sufficed. I do this to them all the time and am in constant wonderment of why in the world they continue to open their hearts to a psycho like me. 

I came home from lunch and started a half-hour texting rampage with the daughter who is riddled with anxiety over her upcoming move to New Orleans that we are forcing her to do alone. Not by choice, but by logistics. If I could, I’d be there. I am always there. But, alas, I have to be on a cruise sipping Mai Tais on the Lido deck with my friend Patty while Molly is driving. Alone. To New Orleans. Where she could get lost. Or get a flat tire. Or get held at gunpoint. Or break her ankle. Yes, she said that. 

Which led me to start thinking about packing for my trip. In making my lists I realized I never bought the shoes I absolutely have to have and now it’s too late to mail order and I can’t possibly go to the mall between now and Sunday because I have way too much work to do and it’s the Hearts Tournament in Philadelphia on Saturday and Leo has to go to orientation at Rutgers on Thursday and should I wear white pants to the graduation or will they get dirty on the bleachers and the spouse is going out of town and who will remember to give the dog the Lyme’s disease pills when I’m away and I have to book a flight for Max back to Los Angeles and who’s going to do the grocery shopping when he goes back and my sister is moving to Charleston and where are we going to have Thanksgiving dinner and where is the hidden stash of M&M’s?

M&Ms never lie. When I inhale massive amounts of chocolate without tasting them, without getting a stomach ache, without breathing between gulps, I know it’s time to stop and figure out what’s going on. 

And when I did, that’s when it hit me. 

Tonight is Leo’s graduation. 

And, no I’m not excited for my last kid to graduate from high school. But it has nothing to do with the pomp and circumstance I profess to abhor. 

Actually, I kind of like the ceremonies.

I love seeing the kids. I love their white-toothed smiles. I love when the parents scream “That’s my Baby!” despite being repeatedly told to hold their applause. I even love their stupid balloons they bring to block our view. I love the speeches and the flipping of the tassels and the kids taking pictures with the grandparents who came from Florida even though the Project Graduation buses are beeping their horns the minute it’s over to get going to the overnight party that I love to chaperone. 

I love seeing the future in those graduates’ eyes. I love seeing their hope, their joy, their ambition. I love remembering the shy kindergartners they once were and seeing how they’ve blossomed. And I love thinking about who they’ll be and where they’ll live and what they’ll be doing ten years down the road.  

I love the memories these kids have made. The secrets they have. The friends they cherish. I love the lessons they’ve learned. The heartbreaks they’ve had. The scrapes they’ve escaped. The things we parents will never, ever know.

I’ve loved the slamming of the backdoor as the kids paraded into my house. I’ve loved the pounds of pasta I’ve boiled on the stove. I’ve loved the empty water bottles strewn all over the basement (and yes, I will continue to believe they were never filled with anything but). I’ve loved the hundreds of high school sporting events I’ve watched and the multitudes of PTA and Board of Ed meetings I’ve attended. I’ve loved helping dozens of kids write their college essays and reading them the riot act when they’ve done something they shouldn’t have done (you know who you are).  I’ve loved the commotion, the chaos, the complaining. 

Yes, indeed, just as I once sang along with Billy Joel’s record spinning round and round and round on the turntable in my bedroom, 

“I’ve loved these days.”

And so, my friends, when you asked how I felt about Leo's graduation, I hope you know my lunchtime rant was just for my own protection. 

I’ve had three kids and many, many years to prepare. But now that it’s here, somehow, I’m just not ready. And there's not a thing I can do about it.

So, I’ll snap a picture of my handsome son in his cap and gown, post it on Facebook, swallow another handful of M&Ms and head off to his graduation.

I’ll be the one in the back, wearing the sunglasses to hide my tears.