Midnight Visitor

This is who we heard outside on the back porch Friday night. He was polishing off the cat food that we left outside for Jack and Jill, our very sweet neighborhood cats. He's almost the size of an Australian Sheepdog--huge! This guy lives up in the fronds of the palm tree about 15 feet from the back porch. Sam saw him scurrying up into his nest just as the sun was coming up one morning. "He's like Dracula, flying back to his castle before he is killed by the sun."
Methinks our friend has a good thing going.

"I used to think I had some very wise things to say." Geraldine had been telling me about her work with inner city, substance-abusing, pregnant minority women. One had six children by five different men. She kept getting pregnant because she was hooking, trying to make enough money to get drugs. If she didn't have drugs she'd have to deal with the abuse in her childhood, which haunted her day and night with posttraumatic symptoms. There was no money for help, no way out of her neighbhorhood, no way to manage. Only despair, pregnant women in all directions, johns on the streets, and two-timing lovers who either beat them, sponged off them and molested their kids. She was only trying to survive.

Geraldine didn't grow up in anything remotely related to the way her therapy clients had. It was hard to even understand the logic of why they did what they did. She couldn't imagine why they kept getting pregnant, used drugs so much, and never left the ghetto. But when she finally grasped that they were trapped and didn't have a vision of anything different except what they were caught in, she was speechless. They were doing the best they knew how and her wisdom was irrelevant.

It reminds me of being a camp counselor. Having breakfast with seven giggling nine year-olds at a log table in the camp dining room, I watched something that was logical but that left me surprised. We were having hard boiled eggs, cereal, pancakes, and fruit salad. One little girl tried to cut into her egg with her fork, only to have it flip off her plate and onto the floor. It had bounced across the wooden floor that looked like it had been mopped with a bucket of mud. "Yuck!" "Ick!" "Gross!" little girls squealed, peering over the edge of the table at the egg, that had come to rest against the main support post in the dining room.
The little freckled egg owner matter of factly got down from the table, walked over to the egg and carried it back to the table.
"Yick! What are you going to do with it?" one little girl gasped.
"Watch," she said. "This is easy."
Taking the egg in one hand, she filled her glass halfway with milk. In went the egg and she swirled it around inside the glass. Using her fork, she spiked the egg and brought it out of the glass onto her plate. "See?" She looked around at the admiring girls. "Now it's clean."
Her little friends were delighted. One started to "wash" her English muffin in her milk.
I was fifteen years old and I was speechless. The girl's logic was great, and what I knew about going over to the sink, washing the egg and coming back again, seemed awkward and unnecessary.
"I don't think you should do that," I started to say in a commanding way. The little girls ignored me and went on with their breakfast, swilling breakfast sausages and pancake bits in their glasses of milk. I poured a new glass of milk to replace the egg wash glass and sat down, silent. What I knew didn't make sensse right there, just then.
I used to think I had some very wise things to say, too.

Geraldine and I talked for several minutes about how the women's logic made sense, given their context. Although they looked like down and out addicts, there were some good qualities and clear logic that wouldn't typically be visible to outsiders. They were generous with one another, sharing cigarettes, watching each other's babies, "watching the back" of each other. One girl gave a diaper to another woman who didn't have anything for her baby. It was clear that she had taken this woman under her wing and was trying to watch out for her. The context and meaning was just very, very different from anything Geraldine or I would know.

There are some things we can't weigh in on, shouldn't weigh in on. And there are some situations in which we can ask questions, introduce new ideas, respectfully explore. But always from a position of not knowing. There is too much in the lives of others that comes from a place that is unlike our own experience, that when we assert that something they do, feel, or think should be the way we do, feel, or think about it, then is when we have overstepped our bounds. We are interpretive bullies who would be better off being quiet.

When I was a teenager and struggling internally about what to do with my musical future, people used to tell me that if I just did X, Y, and Z, then I would have success, happiness, and a bright future. But they had no idea of my context and how impossible any of their suggestions would be for me to attempt. So, much of their wisdom was useless to me. In later years, as a client in therapy, the therapist began to tell me what I should do, how I should feel, and what choices would be best for me. Then she told me how I really felt and what my inner needs were. I was speechless, because she had reduced me and my context down to a story line that she could understand but that had no relevance to me. She wasn't interested in my framework. I never went back.

I love the comment that Job (in the Bible) said after God swooped down and put him in the hot seat. "I thought I knew, but now I put my hand over my mouth." He realized that he had been rash and that his wisdom didn't shed much light on God's actions or God's ways. After another chapter of questions, he said, "Now I detest myself and repent in dust and ashes." You can't be more repentant than that.

Most of us would do well to put our hand over our mouth and listen rather than blurt out "wisdom" that makes sense to us but not to others. Being tentative and speaking from a not-knowing stance can open doors for communication that don't come from asserting our own beliefs in foreign places.

Life of Riley

This is my furry little "baby," Otis. You've seen him here before. He's been a real joy to have around. He's either calm like this, or else tearing through the house with his tail in a playful S-curve and his hair up on his back.

Otis is a bit neurotic. Which fits, because I probably am, too. Like owner, like pet, right? Anyhow, we have tried everything to get him to drink out of a dish on the floor like a normal cat does. Nothing doing. I bought a special cat water fountain. He did pretty well with it for a short time and then "Blech!" and that was the end of it. He won't touch it. So then we went through weeks of him begging water from the tap in the sink, licking the water off the shower walls after we got out, and (ick) even drinking out of the toilet. I finally got this little blue Pyrex bowl and put it in the sink. If we dribble water in it, he drinks out of it. Otis will wake me up in the morning asking for water in the sink. I know this is what he wants because as soon as my feet are on the floor he makes a beeline for the sink and looks expectantly at me. If you click on the picture above, you will see that the water is dribbling on his head, not even going into the bowl. Yup. That's how he likes it. He goes through the morning with a wet head and doesn't seem to think much about it. It must not penetrate into his little tiny, rodent-like brain that he doesn't need to do that.

This little guy loves to play, even though he looks pretty daft and low energy in this picture. Coming out of the bathroom in the morning, I'll gasp as this grey blur races straight at me, then veers off and dashes into the bedroom and under the bed. If a cat could laugh, he would be howling. When we lived in Washington, Sam used to chase him up and down the stairs in the duplex where we lived. Sam would shout, hoot, and call out, "I'm going to get you!" and laugh maniacally, stomping up the stairs after Otis. It wasn't until we were ready to move that I learned that the tenent on the other side of the duplex thought Sam was chasing me up and down the stairs. "I'm going to get you!"

Indeed.

Otis is a snuggler, especially during cold weather. Here, he is snuggling into my flannel sheeted bed and pillows. Make no mistake: this is his bed. I'm merely allowed to sleep there, if it doesn't crowd him. If I accidentally push or kick him during the night, we hear a little protest: Fhrrrrrh! It's impossible to get him to move over or sleep in a different spot than what he chooses for himself (which is in some non-negotiable place like between my knees or against my stomach). Roll him over and he will lie on his back and look up helplessly and confusedly at you. But he won't get up or move over. Methinks he's a bit spoiled...

A fat, sleepy cat in a patch of sun. He is the picture of contentment. I'm really grateful for this little guy who makes my life so pleasant. What a delight.

Excursion

Mother and I went on an excursion a couple weeks ago. I've just gotten some of the pictures developed and thought you may enjoy some of the spring flowers we saw.

Leaving town, we drove past this gorgeous hillside of color. I think it is a member of the ice plant family but I don't know the name of it. This grows in profusion around Southern California, probably because it doesn't require much water and it loves the sun. The flowers are typically this vivid pink or a brilliant red color. It is so shocking to see it that you can't help but stop and look. (Click on this and any of the pictures to see an enlarged version).

We drove up to Running Springs, California, home of the famed "Daffodils." I write this in quotes because although these flowers grow anywhere, going "up to the daffodils" means going to this specific spot on Fredalba Road. You can park in the parking lot at St. Catherine's and walk the about a quarter of a mile onto the private hillside of several residents.

As you may know, last year there were fires all over Southern California. Quite a few houses burned to the ground. The fire trucks weren't able to even get in to the fires for the larger part of a day and night because of heavy fog, smoke, and uncontrolled fires. I wondered if I'd find anything up there. But there stood the little house that the originator of the Daffodils used to live in. She died some years ago, I think, and other people keep up the hillside as best as they can.



The fires came right up to the back of the property. In fact, the heat must have been so bad that well over half of the bulbs were cooked in the ground. I can't think of another explanation for why there were so few daffodils there.


Still, the fires didn't kill off everything. This jaunty little cluster of Grape Hyacinths didn't seem too bothered by the fire. You can see all the charred trees behind them.

This private little heaven was born out of a widow's grief. A woman lost her husband and as a way to keep herself occupied and coping with her sadness, began to plant flower bulbs. She started out with 100 and ended up planting over 100,000 over the course of several years. Usually there are hundreds of thousands of flowers covering the hillside. This year was a bit different. Many lay cooked in the ground.

The founder of this place created a series of meandering paths back and forth across the hillside. Every so often you'll come to a little flat area with a bird bath and benches to sit on. All around these are barrels with hyacinths, tulips, and other beautiful spring flowers.

You can smell these hyacinths before you see them. One lady said, "I love the smell of these out here, but in the house they make me nauseated." I agree.

There are quite a variety of daffodils on this hillside. Midway through the walk there is a display that identifies all the various types of flowers. I like these dark-faced beauties very much. They are a lovely contrast to some of the more pale and delicate daffodils on the hill.

I love this picture. I think I may blow it up and frame it.

Mother loved the flowers, even though there weren't as many as there used to be up there. We were probably a week early. As you can see in the background, the flowers haven't all bloomed yet. (That's St. Catherine's in the background).

I was delighted to snap this photo of her with such a big smile on her face. I think I just said a Laurel and Hardism and she cracked up.

This was our trip. It was beautiful weather, a gorgeous sky, and cool air. Mother was happy, I was lighthearted, and it was delightful to be able to enjoy the spring together this year. I hope you have enjoyed being part of our very happy day.

The Sky is Green...

Found here

Every now and then however, there seems to be a student who wants recognition or notoriety. They will do anything to get it: disagree with the teacher, make outrageous assertions, jump up in class and wave their arms or flop over the desk, cry--whatever it is, it is large and obvious. Or they work to create a student pecking order that places them front and center. Let me be clear about what I think of this: it's obnoxious.

Me: "It's important that we as therapists do our own emotional work because we can only take our clients where we ourselves have dared to go." (The sky is blue.)

She: "I disagree. It's ludicrous to think that I have to be raped to work with people who are raped, to be the victim of violence to counsel victims. I just think that... (The sky is green)." She goes on for about 10 minutes with questionable logic, arguing against something that she thought I said but that I didn't. It goes on so long that the other students begin squirming. I am stuck between trying to encourage her to express herself and to be sure I understand what she is saying, and to shut her down because of what she is trying to do in the class.
Me: "I think you and I are talking about related things but that are different, fundamentally. I'm speaking of the internal process of learning how to be vulnerable, aware. Bowen says that we can only help our clients become differentiated as much as we ourselves are--"
She: "I think that is short-sighted because life is fluid...(the sky IS green)." A long story ensued about her chance meeting with a man on a plane who is now her best friend.
Me: "Help me understand how your story ties in to your ideas about life being fluid and that it is not necessary to understand the internal process--"
She: "Oh yeah. I'm just saying that...(the sky is green)."
Me: "I understand your point and we have different views of this. I'd like to move on."
She: "I will prove to you (that the sky is green) by the end of this class because (the sky is green)."
Me: "Thank you. Liz, you were about to make a comment..."
Liz: "Thank you for noticing that I wanted to talk, Dr. B. I think that perhaps what we're talking about here is the difference between looking at (the sky versus the clouds in the sky)."
Me: "Thank you for pointing that out. I'd like to move on to discuss (what you think of clouds)."
She: "Well, (clouds are not what you think they are.)"

And off we go.
I wonder how Jesus would have dealt with this dynamic. He would be able to say the perfect thing that could take the conversation deeper and redirect the speaker to face the issues that drive them to behave this way in the first place. Meanwhile, I struggle along as I try to affirm, block, redirect, and acknowledge. I hope that my students benefit this quarter as we begin new classes.

The Worst Enemy

I have become increasingly convinced that it is not external issues that create the greatest amount of stress and pain in our lives. It is the little voice in our heads that goes on and on, reminding us of our failings, threatens us with worse case scenarios, rehashes old hurts, and sabotages the holding of pleasure in our lives.

Have you ever talked to someone in whose presence your concerns felt respected but greatly diminished? Then as soon as you left that person, your own thoughts pulled you right back to your fears and panic? It actually happens all the time--most of us do this on some issue, with some individual.

This became clear to me last week as I took my mother to the doctor. She had been seeing a young, disheveled MD who never seemed to have read her chart and for whom she had to wait a minimum of one hour in the exam room. Oh--did I mention that Mother was seeing him for hypertension? Needless to say, when he finally did appear, her blood pressure would be soaring and she would be livid. So after nothing about his demeanor or helpfulness changed, I transferred Mother to a smaller community physician's office to see an older doctor who specializes in hypertension. He was delightful. His comments were directed toward Mother, not me, which was how it should be. He took time and heard her discuss her health concerns, my father's recent death, and her feelings of despondency. This doctor could not have been more gentle and kind. He patiently and calmly explained that sometimes people with hypertension need two or three medications in small doses rather than one medication at high dose because each medication has different physiological effects. Mother nodded with enthusiasm, even though on the way to his office she had fumed about having to take more than one pill per day. He discussed her Advanced Health Directive with her and told her to take time to speak frankly with me about what she would like me to do if she collapses at home or has a heart attack in a public place, etc. He helped her get the proper lines signed to make it a legal document. I was delighted.

We went back to her apartment and I filled up her weekly pill dispenser with the exact doses of the three pills she is to be taking. Mother was happy and relieved to have such a fine, patient, and personable physician and seemed contented with life and her circumstances.

This morning she woke up with a full head of steam. She can't get her blood pressure machine to work properly, she doesn't want to sit for 10 minutes before taking her blood pressure ("It feels like punishment to have to sit still for that long!"), and she doesn't want to have to take "all these pills." "I just don't think it's worth it to go on," she lamented. "When I have to deal with all of this, I just wished I could drop dead."

I couldn't believe my hearing. She had just had a wonderful weekend--two concerts that had thrilled her, all day Saturday with us, Thursday cooking and shopping with me, and several meetings Friday. Now she despairs of life.

I believe there is a voice in Mother's head that suggests that she can't survive without my father doing everything for her; that any pain she experiences is a harbinger of imminent demise; and that the worst possible outcome will be realized about whatever issue she is concerned over. Mother has long suffered from anxiety. She has all the symptoms of Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD). We intuitively knew Mother was high strung and jittery, when we were children. It was what made it so much fun to tease her by telling her preposterous stories about ourselves, or to suggest that perhaps one of us girls was pregnant or was in trouble with the law. Mother would all but go into orbit whilst we tried hard not to laugh. Even after we assured her that there was no truth to our assertions, she remained so physiologically aroused that she couldn't calm down. She would fuss and fume for some time about our comments. We found this to be highly entertaining.

I now understand that this is not a fun mental process to have. If Mother ever does take her own life--and I've been concerned in the past that she might--it will probably be because her anxiety and depression have overwhelmed her. When we become worked up about something, our bodies have an immediate stress response. We may feel that flash of adrenalin and be unable to stop the shaky feeling, much as a person would have who had a near miss of an accident on the freeway. When that happens, you have to pull off the road to get yourself back under control: the jitters continue, the rapid breathing, and shock doesn't go away for some minutes.

Our bodies have similar responses when we become concerned about intangible fears: what if the stock market crashes again? What if I fail my test today? What if my husband breaks his neck? The stress hormones flash through our bodies and we respond accordingly. This is because our bodies don't know the difference between being threatened at gunpoint by a slavering lunatic, and recalling a devastating emotional insult by someone at work. We get worked into a tizzy and react to those around us accordingly.

I used to have a roommate whose panic was always surprising to me. When we had a major earthquake at night, we'd all three race out of our beds and stand in our

doorways for protection. Penny would begin to gasp and turn ashen. Even after the shaking had stopped and we had gone back to our beds, she would be pacing about, visibly trembling and very upset. I later found out that she had mitral valve prolapse, which often causes panic responses that don't have very rapid resolution. It was a physiological issue that initiated the panic. Then the voice in her head made her ruminate on the experience until she was sure she was doomed to die. It was very interesting to observe back then. She also had an anxiety disorder: Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.

So as I sit and wait for Mother in the dentist's office this morning, I wonder what story her head will tell her later today about having to have a crown replaced after extensive drilling, and numbing of her jaw. Will it make her blood pressure go sky high again? Will this make her despair of life once again, because she is so frightened that she has become overwhelmed?

Writing this down is actually a way for me to avoid becoming panicked about her panic--of putting to rest the voice in my head that says I'm not doing enough for her, am not a good enough daughter, can't prevent her from harming herself, can't make her happy all the time.

We are our own worst enemies sometimes.

Health Update

Some weeks ago I wrote a post about how much I wanted to change my health and weight status. This is a report about that. (I assure you that I don't weigh 120, as the person shown above weighs!)

I lost 10 lbs. It was wonderful to be able to fit into some clothes that I haven't worn for awhile. I even looked good in a pale teal two-piece dress that Sam doesn't like on me. This time, he did like it. It was clear that I had lost weight and my appearance was much improved.

I've gained back every single pound.

How does this happen? I have real trouble with two things: sugar, and emotional eating. I can't pass up a dessert for anything. Especially chocolate chip cookies or chocolate. There have been days in the past when I could sniff disdainfully at anything sweet, but those days were precious few. I think I've become addicted to sugar because I eat an inordinate amount of it. It's a set up for getting diabetes and tooth decay. Since the latter is associated with heart problems, I need to be more watchful because of the family history of heart disease.

Then there's emotional eating. It is more about carelessness and bad habits that now have emotional meaning attached. As happy as I am with Sam and with my job, I have been extremely frustrated with other issues. I know this about myself: the more frustrated I am, the more I eat. It is an "enoughness" issue. I feel deprived, or that I should be entitled to have some special meal or menu item (again, usually a dessert). The "better" I am, the more I deserve. There are many issues that are external to me that can be blamed for my eating, but the bottom line is that I do it and I allow it. But,

I hate going to the gym--the inconvenience of going over there

I hate counting calories

I hate it when people constantly talk about how many calories and fat grams are in food items.

I dislike wearing skimpy or revealing athletic clothes--which although they may not be intended to be skimpy or revealing, are that way on my body because they allow others to see much more about my figure than I want them to.

I hate the mindlessness of walking on a treadmill, riding a stationary bike, using all those weight machines.

I hate even more, being overweight and unhealthy.

At 49 years of age, I am not going to become healthy and more attractive by accident.

Tomorrow my friend and I are starting out on a new joint venture. We can't coordinate our schedules and we are successful doing different kinds of health-related activities. We both like to walk, so we will try to walk together once per week. Other than that, we will do different things to make our health improve while relying on each other for encouragement to become more healthy. For me, it will involve several activities and rules for myself about food. I will report in on the first of every month until I have met my health goals for myself. I have 50 lbs to lose and my blood pressure needs to come down significantly. I don't like hearing my heart pound in my ears at night or being out of breath when I walk up one flight of stairs at work. It all has to change.

Perhaps watching that 84 year-old conductor yesterday evening was also helpful. I will not look like that or feel as good as he does if I stay on this course. In fact, if something doesn't change I probably won't be alive. Now there's a sobering thought!

I would like to be like Hulda Crooks, a longtime resident of our town and personal hero of mine. She used to eat very much like I did and as a result, had terrible health. She changed her diet significantly and began climbing mountains. At age 67 she climbed Mt. Whitney, 14,495 feet--the highest peak in the continental United States. She ended up climbing it 23 times, in addition to climbing Mt. Fuji when she was 91 years old. She used to run up Mt. San Gorgonio --an awful climb-- to prepare for climbing Mt. Whitney. In fact, there is a peak in the high Sierras named after her.

Hulda came to speak to my church youth group a few weeks before I took 30 kids up Whitney. She was 94 at the time and full of energy. The kids were spellbound by her stories. She didn't climb mountains anymore, but she buzzed around town on a bike until she was 98. She finally died in her sleep at age 101. We lost a real treasure when she slipped away.

I would like to be like Hulda Crooks. It won't happen by accident. When I was in my 20s and 30s I climbed Mt. Baldy, Mt. San Bernardino, Mt. San Jacinto, Whitney, Half Dome, Baldy Notch. I want to be up in the mountains again. That is where I feel most alive.

Olga and I are getting started this morning by having a good long walk together. Then I am on my own this week, trying once again to get my eating under control. Life is too precious to feel dragged down physically and emotionally because of the limitations of my health. I hope to report real change to you by next month.

Nobody saw it

Found here

Yesterday evening I went to an evensong concert. It was a reunion concert of a group that existed back in the 1970s. The conductor was 84 years old and quite a commanding and much beloved figure. The singing was fantastic in that old wooden floored church with tremendous acoustics. They started out with an eight-part choral piece that went up to a high C in it: "Glorious Everlasting." The Mormon Tablernacle Choir has recorded this and it gives me chills whenever I hear it.

At some point, two violinists stepped to the front to play an obligato along with the choir. It was a piece called "The Snow" by Elgar. It seemed to wander, but had beautiful harmony. Thereafter, one violinist rejoined the choir and one went back to sit against the stage wall behind the grand piano with one of the pianists. Most people could only see their heads above the piano. I could see their legs. I'm not sure what drew my gaze to their legs, but I began to notice something: the violinist leaned her leg into the man's knee and he rubbed his knee back and forth on her leg. Both had on stage smiles that could be seen up above the piano while this was going on below the line of visibility under the grand piano.

This went on for some time during a rather long choral piece. Occasionally they'd look at one another and smile. They'd lean into each other and grin. They probably didn't think anyone could see them. Why this was of interest to me was that both the violinist and the pianist were married--just not to each other. I also remember the violinist from 30 years ago as part of an orchestra I was a soloist with. She had been flirtatious with the men back then. Maybe the pianist was someone she had had a relationship with back in college and now that they were at an alumni event, they had reverted back to previous behavior. I found it all quite intriguing.

When I got home last night, I found myself wondering what those two were doing. Did they sneak off somewhere together? Had they only been flirting and teasing? Were they merely good buddies who truly love one another in a brother-sister kind of way? Would they do the same thing by playing "kneesies" if their spouses were present or if they realized that someone else could see what they were doing?

There are little things we do every day that belies what is inside of us: what we are made of and what our beliefs are. It comes leaking out from time to time and someone is bound to see. We just think that we can control what people think about us and we don't realize that who we are leaks out in the most interesting ways.

What will your actions and words say about you today?

Faux Pas

"Mr. Jonas, it's time to get out of bed and walk in the hall."
She was a perky little 17-year old nursing student: very young, very bright, and very pretty. Mr. Jonas didn't seem to realize she was speaking to him.
"Hey, Mr. Jonas!" one of the other men in the ward called. "Get up and start walking now." The three other male patients in the room looked his way with big smiles across their faces.
Cindi was used to these kinds of looks and leers. She was so pretty that the old men in the hospital couldn't refrain from commenting, or glancing at her admiringly.
You couldn't tell that anything was wrong with Mr. Jonas just by looking at him.
Cindi pulled the curtain around his bed. "Maybe I should check your dressing before you come with me," she said, trying to sound as old and authoritarian as she could. Pulling up his gown, she looked at the dressing over his newly acquired penile implant. She was mortified, but too cheerful and fast-moving to let him know.
"Good!" she said, leaning over his bed, inspecting the dressing. "Now, let's get going." She grinned at her patient, who seemed a bit withdrawn.
He ambled up out of bed and linked arms with her. As they left the room, the teasing voices of the other men could be heard. "Way to go, Mr. Jonas!" "Hey, Mr. Jonas, nice job!"

Cindi was his student nurse for two days. She made sure he was well fed, his sheets were changed, and he was bathed. She also walked up and down the hall with him whenever she ran out of things to do. He was always very cordial but awkwardly so. Not much of a conversationalist. Mr. Jonas just seemed to be trying to say and do the things she requested. She noticed that his roomates ribbed him constantly and that he didn't say anything back to them. It was a bit odd, but she felt sure it was because of her age and looks.

After she checked his bandage for the last time, she explained that she wouldn't be back the next day. It was her last day in that particular hospital unit and she was going to be moving to a new practice site. He wished her well and she said goodbye.

That day during post-conference, Mrs. Beltz asked if anyone wanted to discuss their patient's condition and the treatments that had been required. No one spoke up.
"Cindi," she said, "Why don't you share your patient's history and condition with us?"
"Ok." Cindi began. "Mr. Jonas is a 67 year-old man status post penile implant. He is--"
"What did you say his name was?" Mrs. Beltz asked.
"Mr. Jonas."
Mrs. Beltz closed her eyes momentarily as if in pain. "And did you call him Mr. Jonas for both days you took care of him?"
"Well, yes. I always call patients Mr., Mrs., and Miss." Cindi paused. "Why do you ask?"
"His name is Mr. Smith. He has a Jonas penile prosthesis."
Cindi looked confused.
Mrs. Beltz spelled it out: "His name is not Mr. Jonas."
That explained everything. Cindi was so embarrassed that she couldn't bring herself to go back and apologize to her patient. But it did explain why the other men were so interested in everything she did for him.
Sometimes the best we can do isn't quite good enough.
Poor Mr. Jonas...

Those of you who know us realize that these fake teeth played a part in our first meeting. Landing in the Midwest from California, Sam got off the plane with these "Bubba" teeth in his mouth because even though he had seen pictures of me, he was concerned that I wouldn't turn out to be someone that he was interested in, or that was interested in him. So to lighten the mood, he wore these. It would either make or break us, he thought.

I never saw the teeth--just his eyes. I even kissed him --a little peck--and still missed the fact that he had these teeth in. I had a vague realization that he had more of an overbite than I remembered seeing in his picture, but quickly dismissed it. "He's such a nice man." Sam was beaming at me and oddly quiet. When finally, I heard him slurping as he hugged me to him, trying to keep the teeth from falling out, I leaned away from him and got the full picture. He was cracking up, trying to keep from laughing outright. He hauled them out of his mouth and the first words he said were, "Thank God --you're gorgeous!!"

He looked significantly better without these teeth. They distort his entire face because they're so large and change the structure of his mouth so much. Which is why they're so hilarious. I cannot not laugh when I see him in these.

Sam's appearance could have been really shocking to me. Except that I had a pair on my desk at home that I had come close to wearing to the airport. Can you imagine what kind of first meeting that would have been?

In any event, Sam still thinks I'm gorgous (now I'm the one saying, Thank God!) and he still makes me laugh. I still only see his eyes, even though the rest of him is nice to look at, too.
It has been an interesting and wonderful journey, these five years we have been married. My heart is resting in your hands and I would marry you again, Honey.

Happy Anniversary!