Nathan and the Alligator Meat

After sipping coffee every morning this week , I've detailed one of the Top Ten Reasons you should vote for my dad for State Representative of Georgia, District #66 on my Facebook page . I don't know if I've made a difference for his campaign. But I've definitely had fun. 

Voters will decide next Tuesday. If dad loses the election, we get him back. If he wins, we'll spend a little more time down town than normal, reminiscing.

Dad served as a State Representative from 1994 - 2002, when redistricting of the lines forced him to run against a fellow representative. He graciously bowed out of the race at that time, and focused his efforts elsewhere.

During his eight years in office, however, we made a few unique memories. My young boys pushed voting buttons on the house floor on occasion and smiled for several photo ops with high ranking officials. 

Pushing buttons on the House floor
 
Posing with Speaker of the House Tom Murphy

Since my first husband died of a brain tumor in 1996, I was adjusting to life as a widowed mom while dad learned to navigate the political mongering that skulks through the capital. A few years into the gig, I asked for help one night, and got much more than I bargained for in return.

My boys and I were on our way to the circus when I realized I'd left my check card at home. Maybe even my wallet. So I called dad, hoping he was still in his capital office.

"Hey, We're on our way to the circus and I left my wallet at home. Any chance you have time for dinner with us?"

"Hmm, " he thought for a moment, "I can't get away right now, but I could try and meet you at The Freight Depot for the evening reception."

I squirmed. Various groups hosted evening receptions for State Representatives while the House was in session. I'd attended a few with dad, but going without him seemed inappropriate.

"Are you sure?" I asked, "I can't just barge in there."

"Just tell them you're with me. It will be fine and I'll try to get there soon."

With no other option for food, I drove to the depot in my cowboy boots and denim skirt and jacket, and tried to walk confidently into the building. No one questioned our attendance when I mentioned my dad's name. So we got plates and looked around.

Only then did I realize the event was hosted by friends of The Okefenokee Swamp, meaning the buffet tables held unusual fare. We passed The Whole Roasted Pigs and avoided a container of frog legs. To be honest, I remember more of what we didn't eat than what we actually put on our plates, except for the fact that Nathan chose a few pieces of what looked like chicken fingers - and they made me nervous. 

We found the only seats available across from two stodgy looking representatives and their wives; the kind who didn't seem very amused by my children's presence. With my stress level rising, I left my boys at their seats so I could find drinks and desert, hoping something would fill our stomachs. 

When I returned, I learned that one of the women had told Nathan he was eating fried alligator meat - not chicken fingers. And this must be what meant through his mind right after:





I didn't thank her for the info, especially when Nathan started complaining about his stomach.

"You've got to eat something, Nathan," I said in near panicked-my-son-will-starve-before-the-night-is-over-hyped-up-mom-mode.

"I can't," he replied with a hint of desperation.

"How about some blueberry desert. Just one bite."

"I don't think so, mom."

Convinced that one nibble would make all the difference, I insisted, "Just one bite. That's all I'm asking. You'll like it. I promise."

My dutiful son did as I asked. He took one bite and then looked as if his eyes might pop out of his head. Knowing trouble was eminent, I whispered, "Swallow, Nathan, swallow."

He stared back in panic.

"Swallow, Nathan," I repeated with as much veiled sternness as I could muster.

He shook his head in sheer desperation.

I tried one last time, "Swal - low, Na- than, swal-low!!" To which he leaned over the table and threw up the blueberry desert and semi-digested fried alligator meat.

He apologized profusely while the stodgy ones looked on disapprovingly. I felt like smudge. But thankfully, the explosion mostly landed within the circumference of the plastic plate. 

We cleared the mess, made it to the circus, and my boys didn't starve that night. 

I guess that's why I'm the one writing the out-of-the-box reasons to vote for my dad. I just never could do the whole proper-political-stay-in-the-box thing. Even when I tried. 

If dad wins, I'll head that way to push the button for at least one vote. But I can promise you, either way, I won't be swallowing any alligator meat - and neither will Nathan.

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Another Trip Down the October Memory Lane

I savored morning coffee yesterday like I always do. But instead of basking in the quiet, I called a friend. Emotions churned and I needed input.

Sam's wife called after I hung up with fresh perspective so I filled her in and caught up on their week. Then, I took a nap. A long nap. The first of several.

I feel better today. More like myself. But only after spending most of yesterday laying around, wondering why I couldn't conquer the heaviness in my soul. 

It's been several years since the month of October has stirred angst. For years after Jason died on November 3, 1996, I relived the month date by date, memory by memory. In time, however, colored leaves signified seasonal change rather than his bittersweet journey to heaven's door.







But memories are messing with me this year. Which makes sense. Before I left the neuro-opthamologist's office at Emory in mid September, a receptionist scheduled me to see their orthoptist (who would measure me for prism lenses) on October 16th, Sam's 21st birthday. I took the appointment for two reason. The next available one was over a week later and I hoped to more easily connect with my son on his momentous day.




It wasn't until I was sitting on my screened in porch a few weeks later, right after the calendar page flipped to the new month, that memories collided and I thought, "Oh no. What have I done."

When Jason was originally diagnosed with a brain stem tumor in 1984, it was deeply embedded so that surgery was never an option and a biopsy never discussed. Radiation and the Hand of God extended his life for over ten years.


But as the end approached, in early fall of '96, Jason chose to try another round of chemotherapy. Since the tumor had grown into the cerebellum at that point, our oncologist recommended a biopsy to better match the chemo with the tumor pathology.

As we discussed scheduling, our doctor encouraged us to go ahead with a planned get away to a mountain cabin in early October. What we didn't expect was when they called to offer a date, the surgery would coincide with Sam's third birthday. 

Back then I didn't think to question the scheduling. So instead of celebrating Sam's day, Jason and I woke early and drove through the dark to Emory for his brain surgery. 




When I realized I'd be driving the same direction to be fitted for prism lenses - on the same date years later - the file opened, the memories spilled over, and they've tired me a little more than in recent years. Adjusting to my new frames and visual changes has probably added to the load. And two days in a hospital this week with Jason's mom who's battling heart failure, most certainly wore me down as well.
 
As I recover and write, I wish I could tell you something amazing happened last week as I sat in my car on the top of the parking deck, overlooking the Emory hospital. I wish I could explain why the dates collided. But no epiphany occurred.

When I left the hospital, however, I drove back to Atlanta and picked up Sam's wife, Courtney. We enjoyed a simple lunch and then stopped at a Publix to purchase 21 helium balloons and a decadent cake... to celebrate Sam. To embrace the day. To live in the now. 




Maybe it was orchestrated to simply remind me of how far we've come. My boys are grown. Our family strong. In spite of a brain tumor, mito disease, and ten years with this formerly single mom. 

And there's still more to come. 

My heart may be heavy for the next week or so as the anniversary approaches. But I'll close with a video link I just watched on FB. I may be way behind on this. You may have seen it months ago. But this grandma reminded me to stay strong, to look forward, and to live to bless others who are still on the journey, trying to figure it out. 

She dances. 

I write.




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And the Girl Has New Glasses


 Before a ceramic mug pressed onto my lips and its warm substance cascaded into my mouth, I put my contacts in and new glasses on. 

It's a new day.

My eyes are still adjusting. No doubt. My brain needs time to process my new progressive, prism lenses. But the left sided pressure in my temple has decreased since my eyes are not constantly fighting to keep a fixed image.

The orthoptist I saw offered hope. First, the double vision is bad enough that I'm a candidate for realignment eye surgery at some point. I'm not sure when, but the idea that something can be done to help in the future is reassuring.

Second, she opted not to prescribe my visual correction and prism needs in one pair of glasses since the lenses would be thick and heavy. So contact lenses correct my near sighted issues while the glasses offer prisms and bifocals. 

I can live with that.

Early on in the appointment she commented that she was surprised my eyes have maintained a single image as well as they have. Since I often have more trouble keeping a long distance image together we were both amazed to realize I require stronger prisms for close up focus.

Basically, my brain and eye muscles have been working way overtime. 

So even though I look more studious than before and might not be recognizable to some, it's new day. The girl has new glasses.

Life can begin again.


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Hope Eternal for the Birthday Girl


When I wake in the morning, I'll sip coffee, curl my overly long locks, dress, and head to The Georgia Aquarium to enjoy free admission on my 45th birthday. 

I can't wait. 

A year ago, I was holed up in my mother's home, recovering from my third major surgery in ten months... an ankle reconstruction. It wasn't a horrible birthday, just a tad dismal.

But if all goes as planned, I'll head down town tomorrow, eat a raspberry tart from a French bakery my daughter-in-law discovered this week, and then live a day of fun. Which might even include buying another pair of cowboy boots. The normal kind. The kind I couldn't bend my ankle into a year ago. 








On top of all that, in less than a week, I meet with a specialist who will measure my eyes for prism lenses. Excited about the potential, I hope to write more once the new lenses calm current eye muscle stress.

Who knows what's next. But this milestone feels unusually significant: 45. It's not a nice round number. But it's a fair mid-life juncture that hurdles me into another era. My kids are grown. My legs stable at the moment. And my heart more accepting of current limits than in previous years.

In all fairness, I'll confess to two recent discoveries that have helped significantly. First, a friend introduced me to the Miracle Ball Method about a month ago. When I use them twice a day, I move with greater ease and less pain. Second, another friend, who suffers with mitochondrial disease, shared how supplements from a company called Reliv increased her stamina and lessened pain. After using the products for eight weeks now, I can attest to the same. I still have limits, but they've expanded and are easier to maneuver in. (More about that another day!)

Between those discoveries and the lenses soon to come, I have renewed hope. And the truth is, hope is the best gift of all for my 45th birthday. 



But while hope for better health invigorates my life on earth, hope eternal trumps it all. So I have to ask: Do you know hope eternal? The whisper of Jesus in your soul?


I hope you do. Because my 45th birthday wouldn't be the same without Jesus anchored in me; the one true hope of glory.

"God has chosen to make known among the Gentiles the glorious riches of this mystery, which is Christ in you, the hope of glory." (Colossians 1: 27)

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