This last week I experienced the opportunity to enjoy laughter from my boss's, boss's boss. As he spoke kindly to me about the strange and unfortunate situation I have been in, I enjoyed the moment of sharing person to person the wonders of this life. It was a moment I won't too soon forget. Besides, who leaves their boss's side at 7 or 8am to speak to me just before more corporate bodies pour into the workplace? Really? It was sweet.
I was the girl behind the glasses growing up. I didn't receive my first contacts until I was a junior and in a class with all boys; yes, I was the only girl in drafting class. I kissed two boys during high school. One had me hold his pot in my jacket while we were at a football game so he didn't lose it; the other ended up in prison at least a couple times. My best friend through the years listened to sick music, smoked, dropped out of school, got pregnant, and eventually earned her diploma. I was a straight A student with perfect attendence who rarely didn't ride the bus to school.
I was passionate about two things: art and writing. Math skills were passed down to me from dad, and I excelled, but I could sit in the backyard for hours and draw or write. In ninth grade spanish class the professor asked us all several questions, one of them being what we would be if we could be anything. I wrote down an Olympic diver, but I barely swim. With two parents who weren't very healthy, I somehow ended up with a passion for health, nutrition and a degree in sports management. I rarely watch sports, but I once painted a golfer.
I had few friends growing up and avoided making enemies, though I doubt I ever talked enough to do so. One guy still bullied me when I was mistaken for someone else on the elementary playground; I got shoved down a hill. I was skinny, short, and was pulled into an office to get weighed, unlike the other middle school students in gym class. I love being called Zimmerman, but I was usually one of the last to get chosen in gym class. I'll never forget the time I intercepted the football, the time Korey high-fived me when I hit Corey during a tennis match, or the time Coach B. let me sit out the rest of the volleyball games for the year after hitting the ball into the rafters one day. I told him from the beginning I didn't want to play.
I started slouching in high school when I sat in the back row with Mike and Amy in english class. It was the same class I found myself bored enough to teach myself how to raise both eyebrows separately and back and forth. My posture has never been the same, Amy got engaged to some big, bald guy, and Mike got fat. I took what required english classes I needed in college, and then did an awesome speech on slam poetry for a poetry class. Amy and Mike were two of my favorite people, both runners like me with beautiful characters. Amy was also a great art student and my husband for a psychology project where we had a child together; I still have that project somewhere.
I spent most of my later high school years scared. Grandpa had passed while I was a sophomore; I remember sitting in math class, someone listening to Eminem, and myself replaying in my head what dad had said to me just days ago about it possibly being the last time I would ever see Grandpa. I was sad knowing I would never see him alive again, but I didn't want to remember him starved and thin. Grandpa looked great in his light blue suit with false colors on his cheeks the last time I saw him. I was more scared, though, knowing the fight my dad had been fighting.
Hospital corridors, in home nurses, cans of feeding tube "food" aren't supposed to be in childhood memories. I didn't turn down a time to go to the drive-in theater with Joy and Brandon because I knew they're be shooting stars I could wish upon, wish upon hoping I could take some of dad's pain. He should have had more years; he'll never walk his daughters down an aisle on wedding days or hold grandbabies.
I've had a pain in my side this year that doctors can't seem to figure out. I'd like to keep it confined to 2010, but I don't know that it will happen. I don't really get a choice in this one either. I'm tired of doctors, lab tests, and hospital visits. Tonight my brother drew a mark with a permanent pen on my side right where I was holding my finger on the highest level of pain with applied pressure. I love this kid! We were watching the movie Blindside, I was holding onto my side, and my mind was going through all the experiences I've gone through. My mind continues to do so.
Whatever it is that is just loving my side from the insides needs to come out. I might just have to see the specialist again, but it is going to have to wait until after Thanksgiving. And, I will probably have to reward myself with a massage after going through more crap with doctors who serve their community with cookie cutters, if you know what I mean. I don't eat or sleep much these days, but I'm not scared or too worried.
I've seen a lot thus far and have shared time and special moments with a lot of people. But, Lord, I have a lot of life I want to live yet! I have a nice, young man I want to spend a lot more time with, someone who I am far too far away from at the moment. I have a brother who I made promises to about our kids playing together. I have new passions to discover and new work to be found. I shall have to move at least a few more times in this lifetime, and get down to one car load of crap! I have mountains to climb and faith to exercise. There is so much yet to be added to what has already been.
Sleep must be had first!
