Journal Brent's Back, Pain, Nursery, "eggies"

 

Journal  Brent’s back, pain, Nursery, “eggies”   15 February 2024

 

Brent went this morning for an epidural shot in his lower back.  I waited for him as they took him in.  We were there by 9am and left before 11am, everything being successfully completed.  He was still woozy, but his restless leg problem set in and he was in such agony just sitting still that they walked him out and I met them in the parking lot.  Tonight he won’t be able to take his Clonazepam (which calms the nerves in his legs so he can sleep) because, after the anesthesia used this morning, he would be put into such a deep sleep that he might not be able to breathe—in other words—he might not wake up.  I’m not looking forward to sleeping with him tonight because when his leg muscles spasm, it causes a lot of pain.

     He’s been in his Lazy Boy (an extra large and comfortable) recliner all day.  So far, it’s almost 10pm, he has been free from pain.  I’ve been with him, bringing him electrolyte water and spare snacks.  That’s about all that I can do for him.  I’m so proud of him.  Over the last month, he’s lost about 25 pounds. 

 

                    Stones are amethysts.

      While we’ve been sitting together today, Brent has brought out some of the jewelry that he got from his dad.  Dallan was as avid a collector of fun stuff he found at antique shops.  

    One of the brooches that Brent came home with turns out to be made by a Swedish silversmith.  His name was Aarvo Saarela.  He began making jewelry in his garage with his wife.  His signature initials on the brooch includes the first initial of his wife.  He lived about 48 km from Stockholm—long and cold winters.  Here are the silversmith marks on the back of the brooch.  Brent had a great time deciphering the different symbols.  I like that we know the history of the piece. Close up of the silver marks:    AMS  C (three crowns) S L9  JP

  AMS: Artists' initials:  C: Enkōping  three crowns: Sweden  S: Silver  L9: 1961    JP: ?

                                                        

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THIS IS FROM A LETTER I WROTE Megan Shurtz (a Leader in Nursery in Jupiter, FL Ward). December 2007—BUT NEVER SENT

Dear Megan,

     I have been reviewing the list of children who are in the nursery or will be coming in this year.  I spoke with Brent about the children who will stay in the class after the 1^st of January—he just let me talk—and I remembered the song you sang with your daughter Olivia and a few others who gathered around you.  It was about some “eggies” in a nest.  You were so very intent as you focused on the young people close to you.  You were sitting in a tiny chair, your whole body curved protectively around the nest that your hands made.  The first part of the song your hands cupping one over the other—at the end, when you uncovered the play dough eggs, joy shown out from.

     I was a brilliant, palpable beaming—the same that surrounds our Prophet . . . the same that must also encircle our Lord.

     You spoke later of Olivia's officious care of the play dough that you’d made at home and given to her.  She would get it out and play with it, then carefully put back into its container and away in the refrigerator.  Then, she would open the refrigerator and get the play dough out to use again.

     In my mind’s eye, I saw her face, serious and enthralled at the freedom and responsibility you had given to her.  It was as if I saw her—20 years from now—bowing over her hands, cupped one over the other, holding 3 “eggies” and singing with magic that same nesting song to the wide-eyed young people gathered around her.

     My son Nathan has worried for you.  As he saw you, so uncomfortable and sore, sitting a tiny nursery chair—he kept patting me softly on the arm.

     “Mom, is she OK?  She looks as if se were going to cry.”    

     Decades ago I had a new-born, and was called to be president of a Primary of about 100 children.  I had just finished my Master’s degree and Brent had a year of law school left.

     When my mother found out, she was appalled.  “What can your Bishop be thinking?  He knows what’s going on in your life!”

     During the time I was president of the Primary, I felt the mantel of responsibility and revelation settle lightly upon my shoulders.  For the first time in my life, I was able to learn and remember the name of each Primary member.

     I also learned the power of teaching by doing.  When I told the story of Christ restoring the sight of a blind man, I had a student come up, cover his eyes with his hands, and then I took mu and spread it upon the fingers that hid his eyes.  He leaned over a basin and rinsed his hands—his eyes uncovered now, he could see!

     When we talked about Christ feeding the 5,000, I brought a round, un-sliced loaf of bread and, as I spoke, I moved through the Primary room—tearing off and handling each child a small piece.

     I also learned to find individual time for each child as they entered the room.  I shook each one’s hand and told him or her that I was so glad they had come to Primary.

     What was my Bishop thinking of?  The Lord knew that I needed to learn how to teach my own children.  He knew my situation and allowed me that time of service as an apprentice to the children in that Primary.

     I do not envy your required load.  I would almost embrace you and apologize for the sacrifice asked of you.  I know that there are young boys and girls who need to see you and feel from you how important they are—and learn from you what testimony is.

     I am grateful that I can be a part of the Nursery during your time of leadership.  I see you tenderly holding them as you did those play dough eggs—focused and brilliant and kind.

     Really, really.    Carolyn

 

Journal December 2009 Squash Skins, Pomegranate Seeds, Nathan at College, Back Shot, "ROSE DAUGHTER"

Journal         1 December 2009  11:40pm

                       

Brent told Nathan tonight that if I wasn’t ready for bed – in bed – by the time Nathan was, that Nate was to come and wake Brent up. I finished the evening typing Nate’s speech, with him telling me what to say. I did the dishes by hand since the new dishwasher isn’t here yet, and I ruined the old one by taking a pocket knife to the lower and middle spray arms and enlarging the outlets for the water spray. I did this because bits of food kept getting caught in them, closing the water exit holes, and just swashing dirty (but hot) water all over everything. After that, I wiped off the counters and I mixed my purple lid stuff with some Tang to drink as I took my night meds: Lamictal, Seroquel, Wellbutrin, etc.

I don’t remember the other meds right now (usually I don’t remember them all, ever, because there are too many for my brain to store).

Then I petted each of the bunnies good night, and put some birdseed in their dishes as a treat. I turned off the lights – locked the sliding glass doors – and waited by Nate’s door until he put away his DS PlayStation . . . or something.

Last night I read Nephi’s words:

And if all the things which I saw are not written, the things which I

have written are true.

What a way to end a chapter. I think that I see way too many things and write about all too few of them.

The elders were over for supper on Sunday – Brent had seeded a pomegranate for me, and I put the bowlfull of seeds on the table. Both Elders – Jones and Bowman – took some. When the meal was almost over, Elder Jones looked over at Elder Bowman and asked him where his seeds were – we all looked at Elder Jones and laughed.

“Where were what seeds?”

“Your pomegranate seeds!” he exclaimed, genuinely surprised that Elder Bowman didn’t seem to have any on his plate left from his first serving of pomegranate seeds.

We all looked at Elder Jones.

            “I ate mine,” he answered, “What did you do with yours?” Elder Jones pointed to a tiny pile of flesh-less pomegranate seeds on the edge of his plate. “You mean you can eat these?”

Apparently, Elder Jones had consumed an entire pomegranate just a few days before – delicately, biting the red flesh off of each seed, and then, very inconspicuously, spitting each seed out into the trash.

He seemed to feel relieved that he could just crunch the whole thing down – much quicker, much more satisfying.

I wonder how many things I do that don’t need the caution I handle them with – and which others I should be more careful with.

When I was at BYU, one of my friends, who told the story of her roommate’s first experience with squash – served in the skins. My friend, after having scraped the flesh off of her portion, had – without the roommate noticing – left the table and thrown her squash rind into the garbage can. Her roommate only saw that as the meal was ending that her friend’s plate was devoid of any evidence of the stiff squash skins . . . and so she dutifully disposed of her squash remains – by eating them. As the table was cleared for dessert, my friend asked her roommate what she done with her squash remains? Her roommates responded with the quiet reply that she’d eaten them.

            “Do you like squash skins? my friend asked, astounded.

“Well, no.” came to reply.

“Why did you eat them then?”

Red faced, her roommate explained that she had noticed that everyone else’s plates were completely cleaned of the skins… So she figured that everyone else had also consumed theirs.

The family laughed. My friend, was almost unable to speak by the time she had reached the end of her anecdote – laughing so hard she could hardly breathe. I smile when I think of that moment – and I am sure that my friend’s family may still recount it and laugh, whenever squash is served.

Peeling grapes – spitting out pomegranate seeds – eating squash, skins – eating bananas by splitting them lengthwise into three triangular columns: a miniature version of a long quarter cut of watermelon:  round on the bottom, straight line of speckled seeds along the top line. Megan, who couldn’t do her homework during lunch time at school because she had to let it dry first.

About the last item: Megan’s juice box had squirted when she opened it, and her homework papers got soaked… so she had to let them dry first. Thus, she couldn’t do her homework during lunch as she usually did.

I have become really involved in the subjects that Nathan has been researching for his papers and speeches this semester at Palm Beach State College. In some ways, he reminds me of Megan – probably eight or nine years old. It was her turn to give the Family Home Evening lesson. I asked if I could help, but she assured me that she had everything under control. When the time arrived for her lesson, she stood before the family, and began to string together gospel “stuff”—that was not actually connected. Things like the widow, paying for her bills at the temple, and Jesus smiling at her and Heavenly Father being born at Bethlehem, and everyone had to wash their feet, because they all wore sandals. The 12 apostles walked on the water to come to Jesus –

Brent and I kept trying to steer her into a valid scripture story – but she only had bits and pieces coming to her narrative. After Home Evening, I asked her why she didn’t prepare for the lesson. She wanted to be like me she told me. When I got up to teach or give a talk, or do sharing time in Primary, I never had to prepare. I just stood up and said my stuff.

I admitted to her that there were many times when I was called on at the last minute – but I had been studying for 30 years before that point in time. Primary, Family Home Evening, Sunday School, Sacrament meetings, reading the scriptures and magazines like The Friend and the Ensign. Just standing up and being able to give a talk or a lesson didn’t work like it looked, if there wasn’t anything inside me, there wouldn’t have been anything to tell people who were waiting on the outside.

I helped Nate write up a five minute talk, and I am flooded by ideas, outline organizations, cool facts, and stories – I have a very hard time, keeping myself out of his work while giving of my body-self as a  stenographer, typist, proofreader – and all the way round “Girl Friday”—except that right now it is Tuesday – early Wednesday morning.

On Tuesday 1 December 2009     at 9:30 AM

I got a back shot – two of them actually. One on each side of my spine. The doctor hit the right side exactly on target – the nerve he flooded with whatever-it-is-he-floods-it-with lit fire and swooshed all the way down from the top of the needle near my spine to the end of each of the toes on my right foot. Everything was numbed for quite a few hours. And, when arriving home, refusing to move from my bed on the couch has helped to keep the intended results of the shots active—NO MORE PAIN—it makes a good start for the longevity of the injected medication.

Monday    2 December 2009, Florida 8:50 AM

Nate made me breakfast this morning – scrambled eggs and toast. I added butter honey on the toast, my a.m. pills and a small glass of milk.

I finished the book Rose Daughter, by Robin McKinley – again – and I found that she had made the plot much more complex – except that (since I was paying attention very carefully as I read) it (the plot) – did not flow like it has in her other books. She kept having to stop and explain the history that was driving the action… When it didn’t make the action any clearer or necessary. Evil is tangled and witless—but Good is unable to comprehend what is going on.

The end of the entry.