A Story, True Story Part 1

I'm not sure if I can write this. It's long and involved and long past. But it has been much on my mind, and I think I need to write it, should write it, so I will begin to attempt.

April 1976. Wayne, my husband, was driving from his early morning seminary class, which he taught, to the JR Simplot Company, where he worked. The road cut through a rural area, alongside fields, and was no doubt sparsely traveled in the early morning. But at a certain intersection--two-way stop--a young woman ran the stop sign and crashed into the driver's side of Wayne's car. Because she was driving a large car and traveling fast, and because she did not slow her car, it hit with great force, pushing the part where Wayne was sitting nearly to the center of his car. People who later saw it, a small Datsun station wagon (smaller than you're thinking) wondered how he survived.

Wayne's parents happened to be visiting, and as we sat at the breakfast table, the doorbell rang. It was Mel Priest--I don't remember if he was our bishop at that time or just a friend from our ward. He had come to deliver the news of Wayne's accident. His face told much. I believe he thought Wayne would die. Wayne had been taken by ambulance to the Caldwell hospital. We lived in Caldwell.

I think Goldie, my father-in-law, took me down to the hospital. That makes sense, but I may have driven myself. Anyway, I left my four-month-old baby girl and three-year-old son with Grandma. When I got to the hospital, I was told I could not see my husband, that he would soon be transported by ambulance to St Al's hospital in Boise because of his severe injuries, especially his head injury. He was not conscious, and they seemed to assume that there was no reason to see him since he was unconscious, but I still wanted to see him.

A police officer was there, speaking very sympathetically to the young woman who had run the stop sign and put my husband's life in jeopardy. For a long time they spoke, ignoring me, although I had told him who I was. I had a hard time feeling sorry for her. Her name was Susan Roblyer.

If this narrative sounds ordered and calm, please know that I am calmish now, 40 years later, but at that time I was less than calm, trying to be calm while I was actually frightened beyond my ability to convey in writing. My husband, young, father of six, good man, good looking (not that it matters, except to me) might die, and I could hardly face that possibility. I remember asking my father-in-law if he thought Wayne would die. I don't know what he said. I know I wanted my husband here with us, needed him here with us, with me.

We went home, and I prepared to follow the ambulance to St Al's. This time I took my baby girl, Alyce with me. After all, I was a nursing mother, ill-prepared and not willing to leave her.

Dream

Weird.
Richard, sort of, not exactly Richard, driving the car, someone else, Jeff or someone like him. He's big. I'm passenger, big guy in the back seat.

A dog and then a cat try to get in because of something Richard has. I'm not sure what. They can smell it, and they are strong, very strange looking. The dog has some kind of protuberance sticking out from his head. I think Richard had to kill the dog--somehow--because it used that thing to break the windshield and was in the car, and that was apparently the worst thing that could happen. Ever in this world.

So he kills the dog. Its owners are furious. We have to get away fast, but suddenly there's a cat coming in my window. It is big and strong and very determined. I push and push it as I'm rolling up the window. It falls away as Richard speeds up. I think it died. I'm not sorry.

Our escape takes us to a city, sort of, and we drive around for a while. It looks ugly and unfinished. Enormous cardboard boxes instead of buildings. The city was or became or we said it was Spokane, and we said it was beautiful.

I needed to get back. Where? Don't know. I had Richard drop me off to walk so he could avoid any more animals.

All the while, "Unchained Melody" is stuck in my head. I woke up singing it. And that is not necessarily a good thing.

You know it, "Oh, my love, my darling, I've hungered for your touch, a long lonely time. Time goes by so slowly, and time can do so much. Are you still mine? I need your love. I need your love. God speed your love to me. Lonely rivers flow to the sea, to the sea, to the open arms of the sea. Lonely rivers sigh wait for me, wait for me. I'll be coming home, wait for me." And so on.

I had to put all down here. Maybe now I can get it unstuck from my brain.

Marvel. That is her name.

I asked her how she's doing.
Hanging in there, she said.
That's about all you can do, I said.
Then she said, with a thoughtful chuckle, I'm fine. Just fine.

Her daughter, mother of four young children, is dying of cancer. Brain tumors, two surgeries, many treatments, more tumors growing, nothing more can be done. Nothing. So she is dying. No question of it. Her mother tells me she has learned courage from her daughter, and patience and how to accept what is terrible but inevitable with a cheerful heart and countenance. Her mother has taught me courage, because she has to have courage, too.

And here is what else I have learned over the years. People respond, if hesitantly, I'm fine, because that is easier than having to talk about it again and again. When you have to talk about it, that means you have think about it, go through it all over, and it's painful. I know this. So I think long before I ask that question: how are you?

Probably you already know these things.

What I Have Observed

It seems to me that people of a certain age are trying to look ugly, grungy, dirty. They are accomplishing it.

And because they are accomplishing it, others, who are a bit older and want to be a bit younger, or at least appear that way, are adopting the same grungy look.

To each his own? I suppose. But I might ask why. Is it just because they can?

These are the views of me, an older person.

Let's not argue about it

Winning an argument does not mean you're right. You might be right, but winning the argument does not make it so. Winning only means you won. Maybe you argued better or had a louder voice.

Losing an argument does not mean you're wrong. Or right. It simply means you lost.

So let us not argue. Duh.

These thoughts seemed important to me today, and just now have reminded me that my husband would never ague with me. Not that I wanted to argue a lot. But he would leave the room. Of course, he left the room most of the time whenever I wanted to talk about anything.

That's enough of that. It's the stuff at the top that matters to me today. So don't forget it.

S O S

Hmph! Snowing again today.

Molly got blood out of me. Yay!

It's Bloody, But Not Very

Last Tuesday I put out an S O S--Sick Of Snow--and Glory Be! we've had no snow since. Such power I have.

Except when it comes to blood draws. Like yesterday, two different places, two different people. No blood, no way.

First at my dr's office. I had told them--if fact I have told them a dozen times--please send in the best/phlebotomist, But, no, they sent in Mort. Mort Demers. It's French, he said, the last name. So full of himself, so certain this should be a situation of him up and me down. You know, he knows everything and I know nothing. He told me how good he is at this blood drawing thing. Turns out he couldn't even find the veins, but that didn't stop him from poking a needle in. He was ready to try the back of my hand but couldn't find a vein there either. Of course, it's my fault. I should have drunk more water. Like all night long, I guess

I didn't tell him Mort means death. It's French.

I think now Mort is intimidated by me. Ordinarily that would not please me, but in this case it pleases me a lot.

They sent me to another St Luke's clinic. "They can get your blood." A guarantee.

Shelby, a nice big girl, was a floater there yesterday, and they had not shown her where "the adapters" were. She could see she would have to use a small needle because my veins are small, but small needles require adapters to collect the blood. She looked in every cabinet. No adapters. She called in help, but that person didn't know where the adapters were either. She looked at my arm again. I showed her where Mort had failed to get blood. She said whoever did that should not have stuck a needle in there.

"Who did it?" she asked. "Mort," I said. "Oh, that explains it," she said. Apparently she knows Mort. By the way, I say she's big, but it only means tall. Mort is big, and it means obese.

I left the second St Luke's clinic because--well if you have read about the adapters that could not be found, you know why.

I called my regular clinic, made another appointment for next Monday and told them I wanted Molly, only Molly. (She's a real phlebotomist.) I also said I don't want Mort to come anywhere near me.

Also, just so you know, I lost my debit card in one of those clinics.