Cursive: A Right of Passage

In case you didn’t know, I teach my cousin as an English touter. (Turns out to be a perk of having a degree in writing that I didn’t know about.) ;) Recently I was chatting with my younger cousin and found out that due to when he was going through school, he only had one lesson on writing in cursive. According to him, they barely taught him how to write his name and then never talked about it again.

This idea kind of boggled my mind. When I was in 3rd grade I spent countless hours learning how to make each letter stroke for stroke. Writing my name became an art project. I was amazed at how fancy my name looked. Then afterwards, I saw changes in my printing penmanship as well. Letters that used to be nothing but sticks changes and morphed into these round curly shapes. Thankfully it made my hand writing easier to read, and I think that it has maintained a decent pretty quality to this day.

What really made me sad about the phasing out of cursive in school, is that another of my cousins couldn’t read the hand written well wishes written to her and her fiancé on cards at their baby shower. These beautiful messages had to be translated for them as if they were written in a different language.

I am grateful that I learned and can read cursive. That means I get to keep the notes from my elders and reread them whenever I feel the need. I love that I have a box with cards that mark special moments in my life, and that I get to hold those moments closer because of this skill.

Thankfully I am able to teach my cousins enough that they should be able to learn to read those heartfelt messages and be able to treasurer them as well.

A Day to be Repaired

On May 28th, 2019 I had surgery on my left knee. There was quite the build up to the actual operation though. I had spent nine years trying every other option that my doctor offered to relieve the pain I was constantly living with. Nothing was showing up on the MRI scans or X-rays. No one could tell me what was causing me so much pain. I had gotten to the point that I was starting to think that there was no fix for me, and/or it was all in my head.

It all started October 10th, 2011. I had been dealing with knee issues, mainly jumpers knee, since sixth grade, but that day was different. During color guard practice for our home show that others had been setting up for to go on that night, I was turning around, and when I went to bend my knee, it gave out. Staggering amounts of pain came from my knee and I couldn’t speak through it in a normal voice. I was told by my coach who had to have been 50 yards away, that he heard what sounded like two hollow metal poles hitting each other, and when he turned to look all he found was me on the ground holding my flag like a safety blanket.

My teammates helped me off the field, and my mother was informed. She had been helping set up so she came to check on me. I iced my knee and marched through the pain that night to go on with my marching band. I told no one about the pain for the next week. The weekend after Home Show was the state compotation and I wanted to finish the season. Come Monday I couldn’t walk due to the pain.

This set of events started a sequence of many doctor appointments and treatments that ultimately lead me to being sent to the Mayo Clinic central hospital in Rochester, MN. There I met Dr. Dahm. That woman was my savior. She listened and helped me decide it was finally time to tailor a known surgery to my needs. Before I had been told that there wasn’t great odds that I would have less pain after. She didn’t promise pain reduction either, only that the structure would be repaired and that I would be able to learn to trust my knee again.

So I scheduled the operation for the summer months because I really didn’t want to be on crutches during the winter, plus I could wear shorts with the giant brace that came with recovery. My mom, grandma, and I spent the night before in a hotel. Needing to be at the hospital bright and early, and living three hours away did not mix. Doctors came in to the preop room and signed my knee to make sure we were all on the same page. Didn’t want to cut open the wrong limb. They even showed up this laser guide that helped the nurse put my IV in. My grandma was very interested in that laser thing.

The next thing I knew I was being wheeled into the cold operating room. I don’t remember much after that until I was eating dinner in my room. The doctors were pretty happy that I was hungry after, because the stomach tends to be fairly tired after surgeries.

My mom found a shirt, that I still wear these days, in the gift shop. It states proudly that I was repaired in Rochester. The laughter that shirt caused really helped me feel lighter after the surgery. What made me feel even better was when at my post op appointment, my doctor told me that they found the reason I was in so much pain for so long. The back of my knee cap was pretty damaged from rubbing on the bottom of my femur. With the structure work they did in the surgery, I no longer have to worry about that.

Recovery was quite the process. I hated not being able to do things for myself. My sister heard me complaining about that and found her own way to help me feel better. Normally I am the one who scoops the ice cream for the family when we have it. I couldn’t do that confined to a large chair in the living room though. But my sister told me to grab my lap desk, and brought me over the scoop, the ice cream, and my bowl. I was able to serve myself at least and that absolutely made my day. It was the little things like that, that made me feel more like me.

I will forever be grateful for the scars that I now carry on my knee. 36 stitches, eight weeks using crutches to walk, and four months in a brace at all times. People say that your don’t know what you got until it is gone, and those moments of recovery certainly taught me to value the ability to do things for myself, and to find joy in the little things during the day.

Knight in Shining Armor

Today my cousin came to my rescue when I found a bee in our grandparent’s kitchen window. I have never gotten along with that certain insect. Ever since I was a kid, and I got stung by one, I have tried my best to avoid them.

I had heard a buzzing, like a large fly against glass, coming from the kitchen multiple times. Every time I went to point it out to W. the buzzing would stop. Giving up on trying to get him to hear it as well, I stood up to get a glass of juice from the kitchen. Just as I entered the room, I spotted a large bee crawling across the window pane. Quickly I backed away, and asked my cousin to come into the kitchen. When he took the two steps into the room, and I pointed out the flying insect, all he did was ask me what I wanted him to do about it.

I explained that I would be very grateful if he could get a paper towel and take care of the bug. He complied, having to wait a short moment for the bee to fall down the window pane again so he could actually reach it. When he went to flush the bundle, I assume because he moved pass the trash can and towards the bathroom, the now very angry bee stung him through the paper towel. My grandpa joined us in the kitchen shortly after, and had to take five swings to get the bee to give up.

I know we are supposed to be saving the bees, but can you really get upset with the situation when there is no way to get the insect back outside again with the rest of bee kind? Personally, I am not a fan of inside bugs, so most of those that find themselves inside the same building as me, end up in the same situation as this bee. RIP Bee…

Fear’s Power

Fear has this insane ability to cripple us. Nothing truly brings you to your knees like a true phobia. I will never claim to be fearless because my phobias certainly make me look like a total wimp when they arise in my life. Needles, spiders, and falling, seem to rule my life sometimes.

I was 18 before I could muster up enough courage to get my ears pierced. I had already graduated high school and was preparing for my first year of college before I decided that I wanted to wear pretty and fun earrings more than I feared the event that would make that possible. Sitting in the chair at Claire’s I felt pretty silly. I know I should have gone to a real professional to get it done, but we were in the mall and I decided spur of the moment to get it done and over with.

I had seen little girls just hop into the chair and not even flinch when they got their first or even second holes. My fear had me shaking and begging me to chicken out again just like I had every other time I had tried. Starting at age six my godmother tried to take me several times to get my ears pierced, but I couldn’t make it past the colored marker making dots on the skin to make sure they were even on both sides. (On a side note, I had my ears pierced for almost a year before I even managed to remember to tell my God mother that I had finally done it. Sorry.)

When I finally sat down in the chair I asked if they could have another person come over and help so both sides could get done at the same time. That way it would be over quicker. While they set that up, I picked out some starter earrings that had my birthstone on them. By the count of three it was over with and I was being told about after care instructions.

The relief that I felt afterwards was pretty euphoric. I was sort of dizzy and not paying that much attention to the world around me. All I wanted to do was pose for pictures that I could then send to my friends to show them that I finally had done it and could wear pretty earrings.

Looking back, I really wish I had just faced my fear and gotten my ears pierced earlier in life, like those other little girls. Then I could have worn fancy earrings to my high school dances and on the few dates I actually have been on. Learning that I can’t change the past and I just need to live with my life story has been an interesting journey for me. I guess this is just one more quirk that makes me unique.