Posts Tagged ‘ medicine ’

Bladder Is Fine, Tea Kettle Not So Good

Monday, April 16th, 2012

The Dangerous, Angry Tea Kettle

My sister Polly  (“It’s Another Fine Mess”) tells me  that a person needs to pee before they get in a car. Her friend Connie the Paramedic (“Who Ministers to God?”) tells her when you are in a car accident, and you have a full bladder, the bladder blows up.

“Before you get in a car  to go anywhere,” Polly says, “you must always pee.”

I tell Polly I always do that and I make sure everyone around me pees so we don’t have to pee when we are on the road.

Polly has taken a strong pain pill she needs because of constant neck pain. She is flying very high and happy on the medicine. She is talking so fast on the phone there is no way I can break in to make comments or ask questions.

Finally, I manage to thank my sister for the critically and medically important blown bladder  information and say that I will pass it on.

This is an interesting day.

I wake up with a stinging rash across my chest and back, and I feel nauseous with pains in my stomach. Later, my tax man calls and says I owe $20,000! Twenty-thousand dollars! I had planned on $8,000. I heave a sigh, double over with the pain in my stomach, and sink into a deep chair  by the fire. It is raining too—great gusts and swipes of driving rain and hail. (more…)

Blessings Of An Unusual Kind

Tuesday, April 6th, 2010

My mother, who is 87, has been talking lately about the tea kettles.

“The tea kettles are doing this, the tea kettles are doing that.”

It took me awhile to understand that she is talking about the recent American political group, The Tea Party! I had been thinking, ‘Why? Why are tea kettles out doing things?’

My mother and I are sitting on her deck, watching the cars go by on the road on the other side of her wide field. My mother smiles broadly and her white hair glistens in the sun. She’s wearing her little red, dog-hair decorated sweater over her blue, green and purple top with the coffee stains on the front, with hot pink sweat pants and high rider tennis shoes.

“You look good, Mom,” I say. “I’m glad you stopped that cancer medicine. You don’t look terminal to me.”

This is the medicine that cost $4400.00 (!) a month and caused Mom’s nose to swell to the size of a small potato.

I had come over to visit her after she had been on the medicine for a few days. I kept looking at her face. Something wasn’t right, but what was it? She didn’t look like my Mother. I had studied her, carefully.

“I think your lipstick is wrong,” I said. “It’s going up over your top lip somehow and it seems odd.” (more…)


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