Reality Crash . . .

It's been awhile since I've posted on this blog, and I've neglected the other blogs as well. I blame it on a busy life, and my inability to avoid committing to too many projects at one time.

Today's blog is the ending of one life and the beginning of another. My husband, Jim, loves cycling with a passion. Every "Tour de France" or "Tour de 'something'" has him avidly watching the screen after a TIVO, and getting on his bike with gusto afterward. He tries to ride almost every day, and sometimes he grosses 50 to 80 (or even 100) miles on a Saturday, and then goes after it all over again on Sunday.

July 28th. I'm at home writing when the call comes in. It's my daughter, who wants to know if I've heard about her Dad. "No," I said, and punched a few more letters in while she relayed a quick string of words I wasn't sure I comprehended. Something about "Dad," and "crashing the bike," and "being flown to the hospital." I hung up the phone and realized I didn't have the slightest idea what she'd just told me.

3:30 PM: My husband's cycling friend Kenny calls to tell me that my husband was medivac'd to Ventura County Hospital. I'd already pulled on clothes, and prepared to leave the house with my son. "He's okay," was what I'd been told. That's all I clung to. After going to the wrong hospital, and finally finding the right one, I rounded the curtain in the ER and he looked anything but "okay." His face was scrapped horribly, and his head was encased in a full neck brace.

Every five minutes or so, he'd look at me very confused and ask the same question. "Where am I? What happened?" I'd patiently explain, over and over again, that he'd crashed on his bike, that he had a major concussion and had trauma to his head, and that he was in the Ventura County Medical Center (VCMC). His eyes remained confused. He'd tell me he was sorry. Sorry he crashed his bike. Sorry he couldn't remember. I felt so bad for my son, Sean. Fifteen years old, going on 16 in a few months, and watching his dad suffer and go through such confusion.

July 29th:  Jim was moved to the Intensive Care Unit (ICU) a few hours later. They did tons of tests on him, including an MRI of his brain, some vascular studies and an echocardiogram. The neurosurgeon showed me his MRI, and where the left vertebral artery seemed to have suffered trauma, as well as the small blood clots in the left parietal side of his brain and the frontal portion. Six clots, all small, but in different areas. The doctor said he thought perhaps the trauma to the artery caused a 'shower' of clots in the brain. Regardless, the effect was like that of having mini-strokes.

Jim's speech was garbled and his words were slurred. His right side of the body was weaker and it was more difficult for him to grasp objects with his right hand. I thanked the maker of Bell Helmets that day. If it weren't for their design, and superior fit on his head, he wouldn't be with me today. That much I know. 

 August 1st (Jim's B-Day):  We sneak in a helium balloon only to find out he's being moved to 2 West, a regular medical floor. That is cause for a little celebration. He's graduated to a regular floor. Kira makes him Banana bread for his birthday cake, and we give him our gift: Football tickets to the San Diego Chargers/ Dallas Cowboys game. A REAL game. I found myself wondering if he'd be able to make it.

August 4th (Sunday): After dinner and a shower, Jim and I went outside to look at the sunset. He recognized "Two Trees," but wasn't sure why he recognized them. While we sat there, the kids arrived with Paris, and as soon as Paris sniffed and saw who was ahead of her, she ran like mad to try to get to her human! I think there was tongue in that kiss! :)

August 6th (Tuesday): Jim has received phone-calls from Andy, Mike, Kenny and many others. The phonecalls really help him. They jog his memory, and get his brain cells firing. The bruise on his arm has turned the lovely shades of yellow and purple.

On December 13th, 2012 I turned 50 . . .

I haven't written on this blog for a while now. So many things to do, assignments to complete, kids and husband to take care of and yeah, my day job with the military. But on December 16th, at 4AM in the morning, I'm sleepless in Ventura and trying to stay sane so I've found my blog here to write a few notes.

My daughter Kira turned 19 on the 21st of August. I can't believe this is the last of her teenage years. She's done so much since high school graduation. Kira has thrown herself into Asian Studies, and taken on a mostly full time job at "Massage Place." She's feeling happy and self secure in her trade knowledge combined with a knowledge of what more she wants to do in the future. Acupuncture maybe, and other oriental treatments. There's a school in Santa Cruz that she wants to go to, and so she's preparing to move at the end of summer 2013.

To backtrack a little, my husband Jim turned 50 on August 1st, and his was a lovely birthday. I promised him that for a year I'd be a Dallas fan (yeah, right) and I took him to a preseason game between Dallas and the Chargers in San Diego. I'd never seen the man so happy!

Sean turned 15 on the 12th of November (same day as Joey, my nephew). He wanted a quiet celebration with just family and so we went for greek food at The Greek by the Harbor. His girlfriend Hanna came with us and it was a relaxing and wonderful time.

Not long after that, our whole family made the trip to the East Coast to see friends and family. I returned exhausted. Flying across the country is tiring and it was tough on Air Tran (The World's Most Uncomfortable Flight).

I was looking forward to turning 50. Sure, it's just another day. A meaningless milestone we set for ourselves, but it felt good nonetheless. And my family was all around me which made it much better.

Home again, home again, jiggety-jig...

I first heard this bit of nursery rhyme on the 1982 Sci-Fi movie "Blade Runner" with Harrison Ford, and Darryl Hannah, believe it or not.  The words are probably the sum statement of my travels to and fro...whatever a "fro" is.

Just after noontime, the Lufthansa plane I'd spent 12 intimate hours inside  (high-five I got an aisle seat this time) pulled in to LAX.  I had the incredible luxury of finally being able to turn on my Blackberry and text my husband that I was there.  What a gargantuan freedom!!  I hadn't been able to use the cell phone the entire time I was in Germany and in Afghanistan/Kuwait.  Jim and I hadn't figured out how to turn on the International calling program, and weren't quite sure about the cost.  I wasn't even sure I could use my program in Afghanistan. "Roshan" is the service there, and I don't think they've been officially introduced to AT&T.

Our plane taxied what I was sure the entire span of the city of Los Angeles, and finally arrived at a designated parking space. Once the polite little "ding" of the plane hit the air waves, officially signaling that passengers could unbuckle and get up out of their seats (always reminds me of the Kentucky Derby), the fight for survival was on.  I was pushed down the aisle (I was already standing up, trying to let my fellow seat mates out to get their carry on's) and struck in the head with several luggage bags in wild attempts for people to hurry and get their carry-on bags out of the overheads so they could wait 10 minutes before they could disembark the plane.

After de-planing, I made it through a wide network of corridors, and airport alleyways, that sent me on a journey to finally arrive at a counter and have my passport stamped.  On this excursion, exactly two people bumped me out of the way with nary an "excuse me" (Yep, 'nary' is a word. Use it in your next scrabble game for points), and while waiting at baggage claim I was jostled, pushed, nudged, budged, riffled, ruffled, and trompled...(OK... you caught me...trompled is not a word, but it should be.  It fits better than trampled and sounds right), and I think (at least one person) even groped me for a second.  But that could have just been wishful thinking.

The pandemonium that ensues in Baggage Claim gives a person real insight into the dark side of humanity, especially at the International baggage claim where 'culture' has very little foothold.  Many people from many countries, few commonalities, and each individual highly concerned with their own personal agenda.  Very little concern for others. It's like an episode of "Survivor" every time.

I seriously think if a shooter had come in while we were getting our bags, and had begun shooting wildly with an AK-47 while tossing out a couple of frag grenades, most folks would continue to hurriedly get their bags, maybe turn on their i-phone cameras to capture the event on video for You-Tube, and then run quickly away using their Smart-Carts as super shields, hoping they could make it through the second Customs counter before anyone else.  For many, the shooting may have even been considered a pleasant diversion, in order to be the first ones out of the gates.

Make no mistake...leaving the airplane, and getting to the baggage carrousel, not to mention getting through Customs, is really all about being FIRST.  I've seen the worst come out in people during these events, and believe me the worst is not pretty to behold.  I guess spending over 12 hours on a plane sitting next to a toddler and a crying baby will do that to folks, but I've also seen the same behavior raise its ugly head on flights that are less than two hours.  So what's the excuse?  I don't profess to know.  I do know that when I'm not extremely exhausted, I find the behavior highly entertaining.  This time around, I wasn't entertained.  Just battered and bruised, and ready to be 'voted off the island'.

My wonderful hubby was waiting for me when I emerged from the mayhem of the air travel odyssey, and it was really great to see him and get a REAL hug.  Traveling among strangers for over three weeks, there is very little genuine human contact, and certainly none with those who really love you (the groping really doesn't count).  It can be more than a little lonesome when you're on the road.

Traffic was quite congested riding home in the car, along the beach-line on the *1, but Jim finally negotiated the Toyota Camry back to our house in Ventura,... back to a fantastic welcome from my 13 year old son, who'd drawn and colored a lovely "Welcome Home" sign on several sheets of copy paper (complete with a picture drawing of an owl), and hung them on the wall, and... (this was cute) ...he had a bottle of wine and a glass ready for me in case I needed it. (I didn't.  All the traveling had actually made me quite nauseous.) What a wonderful hug I received from my young man, who is (I hate to say it) as tall if not taller than me now.  Jim maintains that he thinks Sean is as tall as him.  I'm fighting against the possibility of it.

After watching Sean play some "Infamous" on PlayStation (cool game, really), I went upstairs and took a nap, and awoke to my dearest daughter hugging me, with tears running down her face.

Climbing out of the depths of my slumber, I turned and mumbled to her, "What's wrong, Baby?"  She broke her mother's heart when she just said, "I missed you so much, Mommy."  My maternal coronary muscles just twisted in pain with her sobs, and I held my 17 year old baby girl (who is graduating high school this year) as closely as I did the first day she came out of my womb.  I never knew motherhood could be like this.  I never knew what it would be like to be loved, to be missed.  The magnitude of it is really overwhelming sometimes.  The emotion of it chokes me so hard I can barely breathe when I deeply consider it.  But regardless...it is good.  Incredibly, wonderfully...good.  And beyond scary, to be a parent.

I'd wanted to get back up later and watch movies with the kids, but the jet lag won out over my tired corpuscles and muscles, and I stayed asleep for a few more hours.  Till about 3AM, when my internal alarm clock woke me and forced me downstairs to work on the computer.

I was working on my Dr Stench novel, and editing some blogs I haven't released yet from my travels, when I heard the garage door open.  The dogs were going crazy barking, and I knew the internal household was all accounted for, so who was opening the garage?  I thought the situation was weird, but I didn't hear that creepy music playing in the background...like in horror films when you know the stupid person is going to get it... so I figured it was safe, and opened the door.  The garage door was wide open, the overhead light was on, and the driver door to the Camry was wide open as well.  Giving the garage a scrutinizing look around, to make sure no one was hiding there, I walked over to the car (which is partially in the dark) pushed shut the driver's door (I didn't take time to look inside) and then went back to the garage, shut the door and locked it.

About thirty minutes later, the whole thing was bugging me so much, I called the police and then went on line to fill out a police report of the incident.  I got Jim out of bed to go check the car to see if anything was missing.  Sure enough someone had burgled the inside (Jim had forgot to lock the car), and took two pair of reading glasses (I thought that was odd, I mean...they were ugly glasses) an i-Pod charger, and an i-Pod audio cable.  (The robber didn't take the GPS, which led me to think s/he was clairvoyant, because the damn thing never seems to get us where we want to go anyway.)

The burgling person only took small things to sell, I guess, and either deliberately thought s/he would try the garage door to see what was there, or accidentally hit the door opener, which makes a lot of noise, turns on the lights and triggers the dogs to go all "Cujo".

Jim told me the neighbors recently had their vehicle broken in to, too.  I guess with the economy so bad, some folks are looking for any opportunity to steal and sell what they can for money.  So, folks, remember to lock your shit up.  Locks, for the most part, keep honest people honest, and thieves will sell their wares to anyone in heaven or hell.  It doesn't matter who buys, so long as the color of the cash is right.  Which comes to the end of the rhyme and this story...

"To market, to market, to buy a plum bun,

Home again, home again, market is done."

And, yes, despite the hassles and the vehicle burglary, it is really REALLY good to be home.

~Cin