Fizz was a cute little sidekick from the UK that appeared on Colin’s (fodrambler) blog many years ago. Fizz even had his own Facebook account! Sadly, for reasons unknown, Colin stopped blogging. With his permission to use the photos he posted, I created the following tags. I really miss those guys.
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I had a little chickie and he wouldn’t lay an egg so I poured hot water up and down his leg. Oh, the little chickie laughed and the little chickie prayed and the little chickie laid a hard boiled egg!
The scariest part about the pain shooting from my butt all the way down my leg was the long, bumpy ride to the hospital. Hubby wanted to drive me, but my pea brain thought I’d get quicker and better service if I was taken by ambulance.
Twenty long, agonizing minutes later, we arrived at the ER.
And there they were. My loving, compassionate angels of mercy waiting to cover me with warm, fuzzy blankets and whisk me away to a happy, sunshiny room and pump me full of painkillers. No waiting for my number to be called. No crying and begging and pleading for help.
And there’s my room. My sad, cold and lonely little room where I was wheeled on a bed of nails and left writhing in pain to freeze to death.
Where are my people? My angels of mercy? My warm blankets? My painkillers?
The only comfort in my cold and lonely prison cell was my husband’s reassuring voice, his warm hands and big soulful eyes.
Finally, like Mary Poppins, a nurse sweeps into my room asking questions, filling out forms, talking and laughing and convincing me he can magically make the pain disappear.
Then poof! He was gone! No I’ll be back in a minute to fluff your pillow, to hold your hand, or to bring a magic potion for your pain. Not even a kiss good-bye.
It’s my fault. Maybe I should have cried and moaned and groaned instead of laughing and cracking jokes. I even told him about the time I got sprayed by a baby skunk. I’m crazy that way. I try too hard comforting others and pretending I’m okay when I’m not okay. Don’t cry. Don’t moan and groan. Don’t let anyone know how much it hurts. They don’t care anyway.
So there I lay, writhing silently in pain wishing someone would just cut off my head and be done with it!
My husband tired to be patient and understanding with the ER doctors and nurses, but he couldn’t take it anymore, especially when they were all sitting at the nurses station having a grand time doing nothing. He’s a big man. A Navy man. He knows how to fight. He knows how to intimidate. He knows how to get the job done!
I don’t know what he did or said and I don’t care, but within seconds it seemed that every nurse in the ER was in my room, their faces bearing the look of death. Moments later an absent-minded X-ray technician rushed in, hurriedly got me out of bed then flew out the door and down the hall leaving me limping a mile behind. Suddenly, as if remembering to pick up his kids from school, he stops, spins around and says, “Oh! Do you need a wheelchair?”
And my brain screamed: Are you kidding me? I needed a wheelchair when you broke my back jerking me off the bed! But that’s okay. I’m fine. I just came to the ER because I was bored and had nothing else to do. Keep going. I’ll catch up . . . eventually.
As if torturing me with the first set of pictures wasn’t enough for him, he rushed back into my room for more!
Only this time it worse. Much worse! Wheeling his X-ray machine beside my bed, the technician told me to lift my rear then he shoved a board under me. That’s when I died and went to Hell! That’s when ferocious demons ripped my flesh apart and began eating me alive. That’s when I cried. No. That’s when I bawled like a baby! When I squealed like a slaughtered pig! When I screamed like a burning witch!
I almost felt sorry for the technician as he hurried frantically to get the pictures he needed. He was a nice guy doing the best he could and trying to inflict as little pain as possible. And I was an angry, hurting old woman doing the best I could to keep from knocking his teeth out!
Then, like a hit and run driver, everyone left my tortured, mangled body writhing on my prickly bed of thorns to slowly bleed to death.
Another hour crawled by before a nurse came back into my room. That Mary Poppins nurse. The one smiling as big as Texas the moment I arrived and crossed his heart and hoped to die that he’d make the pain disappear. So you can imagine my disappointment when he gave me a little lonely pill in a little plastic cup saying, “Chew it up. It’ll work faster.”
I chewed it up and swallowed the bitter potion and waited for the miracle to happen. It never did.
From another room I heard a man’s pitiful moans for help. All he got in return was an exasperated, “Take a deep breath!”
The X-ray technician returned and as if telling me I’d just won the lottery he blurted excitedly, “No broken bones!”
A few minutes later, Mary Poppins came back in and jammed a needle the size of a drinking straw in my hip. It’ll ease the pain, he said. He lied!
Finally, feeling like I’d spent six months in Hell, I was released with more pain than when I arrived.
Down the hall I limped arm in am with my husband. No wheelchair. No help for the pain. No hope for the future. No promise that the sun will ever shine for me again.
But wait! Hell’s fury wasn’t finished with me yet. Moments after my husband helped me in a nearby chair before leaving to get the car, an amazon woman wearing a frighteningly unfriendly scowl told me to get up because someone else needed to sit there!
Back home at last, even the strongest pain relievers the doctor could prescribe didn’t touch the pain. My stubborn, ruptured disc refused to be comforted. So for two long months I had to ride it out wondering if I would ever stop hurting. But I did.
What I learned that day in the ER:
If you’re not having a heart attack or bleeding to death, take the car
If you’re in pain, suck it up
If you’re in a hurry, stay home
If you want special treatment, go to the spa
If you want amusement, go to Disneyland. It’s cheaper!
I should be painting the bathroom. I should be cleaning the kitchen, and sweeping and mopping our new vinyl floors. I should be folding the laundry piled in the laundry basket. Instead, I’m sitting here at the computer goofing off.
And that’s okay cause I don’t have to punch a time clock. I don’t have to please a boss. I don’t even have to get dressed if I don’t want to. I’m retired. I’m my own boss. Even hubby’s boss. Okay, that’s stretching it a bit.
Twenty years ago, I never gave retirement a second thought and hardly dreamed it would sneak up on me so fast. But here I am. Retired eleven years, now. How time flies when you’re having fun.
Of course, I don’t just lay around all day doing nothing. I like staying busy. I like being spontaneous. I like driving my husband nuts re-arranging furniture and organizing closets and kitchen cabinets and putting things away and forgetting where I put them. But we have all the time in the world to look for them. It’s just a little inconvenient. And annoying.
Anyway, I can honestly say I like retirement. I’m so happy to finally be free to do as I please when I please and not feel guilty. I’ve earned this gold star and I like it!
It probably began when the doctor yanked me from my mother’s womb and slapped my scrawny bare butt. Or maybe when my dad dropped me on my head. Come to think of it, first grade was no skip in the woods, either.
It doesn’t really matter when or why it all began. What does matter is how terribly it has affected my entire life.
I mean, why did I have to sit in that stupid circle of kids every day? Wasn’t it bad enough sitting at my desk feeling lonely and afraid? And why did I have to read out loud? Why did I feel like I had two heads and a big fat wart on my nose? Why? Why? Why?
Public work wasn’t much better, either. Paranoia, like a playground bully made me feel suspicious, angry and hostile. I’d tell myself to calm down that it only feels like I’m under attack. But my addled brain wouldn’t buy it. No matter how hard I reasoned with myself, the pain was real. The anxiety was real. The panic was real. The I’m gonna quit and never come back was real.
Years, and years, and years I tried and failed at being normal. So I started pretending. I pretended that I wasn’t angry when I wanted to punch someone in the face. I pretended that I didn’t hurt when I was hemorrhaging inside. I pretended to be happy when I wanted to bawl my eyes out. Why? Because no one would like me if they really knew me. And because being vulnerable was like having a death wish.
Pretending worked until it didn’t anymore. Until that last straw that broke the camel’s back. Until all those inner demons had no place else to go but out.
Thankfully, God was there and saved me from the near fatal wreckage. Don’t ask me how He did it. He just did. We all experience God in different ways. I just know that I called on Him and He was there and changed my life forever.
It’s been a long, painful journey of learning and trusting and relying on God to fix me. Sometimes it’s a mountain top experience, sometimes it’s like crawling naked through a brier patch. But, when I let go of the reigns and hand them over to Him, He gives me strength. He gives me hope. He gives me peace. He helps me stay on track. I can’t do life without Him.
This is what God has and continues teaching me:
I’m not perfect
I can’t fix everything
I can’t always be in control
I can’t please everyone
I don’t have to like everyone
I have a God-given right to defend myself
I stopped allowing people to manipulate and use me
It’s okay to be me
God loves me just the way I am but encourages me to be more like Him
Humble yourselves, therefore, under God’s mighty hand, that he may lift you up in due time. Cast all your anxiety on Him because He cares for you ~ 1 Peter 6,7