1) My husband's grandmother passed away (she was very old, and sick ... but still ... )
2) I went blind and was on house arrest (and then regained sight, miraculously! Praise Jesus!)
3) My father impaled himself with a yard instrument and suffered life-threatening injuries (and is still recuperating, but expected to make a complete recovery).
But first, pleasantries and salutations: You may be bored of reading the following statement, but I assure you that while the words may seem stale and tired (much the way I feel right now), the sentiments are not. On that note: thank you, friends and family, for being so incredible. The prayers, thoughts, and babysitting assistance ... holding it together without your help would be next-to-impossible.
Regarding the father: My dad is now home from the hospital. We were fortunate to be able to celebrate my mom's birthday at my parents' house, with a last-minute Giant-brand cake ("Terrible!") and jokes about Cialis and four-hour erections, while my dad puffed into this hospital-issued plastic device that looked not-unlike a bong. You know, normal family time.
My dad asked me to select a card for my mom when I went to pick up her cake. Since he'd been all busy schlepping around tubes and struggling to breathe and not die for the past week, I felt like he had a proper excuse for not taking on the task himself (and I did not even charge him extra for my time or gas for my car, because I am selfless like that.)
The grocery store greeting card selection was sorely lacking. Seriously, who writes these cards? Or perhaps the true question might be, who buys these cards? All the cards either had goopy poems that made my eyes itch or some sort of scraggly animal accompanied by not-so-funny bodily-function humor. Neither seemed appropriate.
I ended up choosing a card for my dad to give my mom that "sang" Marvin Gaye's "Let's Get It On" when opened, which reduced me to tears, even after the tenth time. Actually - scratch that - ESPECIALLY after the tenth time. My laughter tends to reverberate and I think it may have scared the cats away. Sadie (the agoraphobic feline) is probably still hiding under the wet towels in the linen closet, covering her ears with her paws.
And now, Dad, a word. In the future, if you want your own private TV for Superbowl viewing, I feel like there are easier ways to obtain that goal. I am more than a little worried what you may do to yourself during March Madness to secure some non-Lifetime Channel-interrupted sports viewing. As a preemptive strike to any sort of monkey shines, why don't you just put it on your calendar to come over to our place? You can have the non-sticky chair and I'll order enchiladas! With olives!
Oh - and for Father's Day - instead of the traditional ultra-deluxe set of golf balls and a tie with Jerry Garcia's illustrations of clouds silk-screened on it, Scott and I are going in on a gardening service. Given what you managed to do to yourself with a seemingly innocuous yard tool, we do not even want to imagine what sort of chaos you could inflict if you got your hands on a bag of mulch and some rose shears. You might lose your spleen trying to harvest that American Beauty flower, and nobody wants to see that.
As per usual, after periods of stress and challenge, I always take a moment to re-examine my own life and ask The Big Questions.
Just last night, I took a deep breath, looked around my house, at my family and found myself pondering the following: Can anyone tell me why there is a can of chili sitting on the couch in the living room?
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