Shooting Eye Dagger Looks

This past week I returned to work after being out for nine weeks recovering from surgery on my left bicep and my left shoulder rotator cuff. During my surgery and recovery, my DH Mark, has been caring, tender and quite simply - wonderful.  

  

Going back to work though had one hiccup - I had not yet begun to drive again. Driving a car is like riding a bicycle, you don't forget how. However, being that I had not driven since 9 weeks prior and I wasn't sure how much my left arm was able to perform, I was a little bit apprehensive. Mark and I decided that I would spend the three days before returning to work re-acclimating myself to being behind the wheel.

It was during those three days that I felt like a 16-year old kid with their parent next to them instructing the kid how to maneuver the car and reminders to adhere to the posted speed limits. Mark was sitting next to me, gripping the dashboard and pressing on the imaginary brake on the passenger side of the car. I was giving him that look - you know the one - where your shooting daggers from your eyes and it's only by the Grace of God that you're wearing sunglasses otherwise there would be bloodshed!

When we arrived back home after the first day of my re-acclimation of behind the wheel, Mark tells me, "You should leave your combative Washington DC driving skills at home during your first week driving to and from work".  He once again was being shot with the look.

I went back to work on Tuesday; the day we had a snow storm and ended up with 12" plus of snow. 

It usually takes me 50 to 70 minutes to get home; it took me 2½ hours on Tuesday. The last half of my drive home my bladder began gently reminding me - then screaming at me - that it needed to be relieved. I arrived at home with a stiff neck, a sore arm and a stretched-to-the-limit bladder. The last thing I wanted to hear when I got home was 'How was the drive?' Luckily, Mark did not ask me any questions. Instead he told me he had been home since 11:00 in the morning and his ride home wasn't bad - 'not bad at all'. I had my look locked and loaded by the time he uttered the last syllable!

My recruit, Patrick, is about ½ way through Phase II. It seemed like Phase I dragged on and on; Phase II is flying by. Right now he is in the midst of Grass Week and Firing Week. During these two weeks, the recruits learn about the four stances of firing: standing, kneeling, sitting and prone; shooting at distances of 200 yards, 300 yards and 500 yards. The training is intense, requiring focus, patience and diligence. The seasoned Drill Instructors carefully instruct the recruits on the schematics of the rifle, sight scope measuring and the use of proper position stances with fortitude and serenity. During Grass/Firing Week, the Drill Instructors are giving the recruits constant reassurance, correcting stance positions and scope settings for the recruits to best hit their targets. I am sure not one recruit will shoot the eye dagger look throughout the whole Grass/Firing training period.  

I guess there is something to be said about focus, patience and diligence. I must have left mine at home with my combative Washington DC driving skills! 

Holding My Breath

There are moments where we find ourselves holding our breaths. Be it for the outcome of a test, swimming under water or whether or not we will be able to squeeze into a size too small pair of jeans.

Tuesday I found myself holding my breath at various points during the day. Tuesday my recruit underwent his test in the gas chamber.

I watched a video of what the gas chamber entails. The recruits go into a room wearing gas masks. Once in the chamber, the recruits circle around a sort of pit. They are instructed to remove their masks and place them on their belts. The drill instructors set off the tear gas and the recruits have a set number of seconds to remove their masks from their belts and place the gas mask on their heads correctly. Then, after the DI's give the word, the recruits come bursting out of the chamber with their arms raised; some coughing, some with eyes tearing, some gagging and snotting all over the place. The video showed all the recruits immediately ripping off their gas masks and they have a look on their faces of 'I never want to do that again!'

I really don't think I should have watched the video prior to the day Patrick faced the gas chamber. I imagined all sorts of 'possibilities': Patrick's fingers all turning into thumbs; Patrick freaking out when the gas begins to seep into the chamber, running out before given permission to do so - with his hands in his pockets; snot running not just out of his nose, but his mouth, ears, and every other orifice possible!

Since my worry was at skyscraper heights, I must have cleaned our bathrooms five times. At the end of the day, there was no telephone call, no one informing us that Patrick had issues or problems with the gas chamber.  As they tell recruit parents, 'No news is good news'. 

Some would say 'All that worry is for nothing' or 'Nothing is achieved from worry but gray hair'. My take on worry is that my hair will gray no matter how much worry is involved and there is never a 'too much' when it comes to cleaning the bathroom.

To me, nothing is a relative term.

As I have mentioned previously, I am currently recovering from surgery on my left bicep and left rotator cuff. The biggest issue was the bicep tendon; it was pretty much knackered. The surgeon had to disconnect the tendon, fix the 'knackerdness' and then reattach the tendon with titanium screws.

I am at a point in recovery that my physical therapy has increased from passive to resistance and weight bearing exercises. Also, now when I go to therapy, the therapist manipulates my arms into pretzel positions (that's what it feels like to me), to stretch the tendon/shoulder and to encourage further range of motion.

I have a tendency to hold my breath prior to manipulations. Countless of times during these manipulations the therapist will remind me to 'breath Teresita, breath'. It isn't as if holding my breath is conscious. I believe my mind is protecting my body from pain.

Perhaps, my mind knows if I pass out from holding my breath, my body won't feel the pain when the therapist places my left arm behind my back while continuously pressing up and down on my shoulder. Or, perhaps my mind knows that I can't get up and go clean a bathroom, so there's nothing else I can do but hold my breath.

Maybe breathing like nothing, is a relative term. 

Suck it up

Every year my DH, (Mark) and I buy a 'gift' for the house. One year it was upstairs window blinds, another year it was a dishwasher. That was the Christmas I spent a lot of my time at the kitchen sink since our old dishwasher had broken down.

Mark and I decided it was time to replace our vacuum cleaner.  The only performance we had from our old vacuum cleaner was the blowing about of dust and dog hair, as well as permeating a pungent smell. It seemed we were replacing our vacuum cleaner every two to three years. In the past, we had gone 'cheap' with our vacuum cleaner purchases. However, as they say, you get what you pay for.

During our holiday visit at my sister's, in addition to the good meal, opening of gifts and catching up with family, my sister gave Mark and I a demonstration of her Dyson vacuum cleaner. She so believes in her Dyson, she bought two - one for her upstairs and one for her downstairs. As she said, her magic vacuum may cost a bit more, but it had been a good investment. She told us her Dyson worked like a dream sucking up the dirt in her home.

Mark and I agreed that this year's house gift would be a Dyson vacuum cleaner. I was quite pathetic at the store fondly gazing at the box containing my brand new Dyson, gleefully rubbing my hands together. Although, due to my shoulder recently being liberated from its sling prison I had to keep my hands close to my body since I still cannot extend my arm other than while at physical therapy.

Once arriving at home, with Mark's help, I set out to christen the Dyson with vacuuming the downstairs. Embarrassingly, I had to shake out the bag less canister three times while vacuuming the family room. In fairness, the family room is where we mostly live, as do our two dogs - enough said! The next day, Mark and I vacuumed the upstairs, including the actual stairs. Again, I found myself emptying the bag less canister an impossible number of times. Wonderfully, my Dyson sucked up all the dirt and our carpets and floors look great.

Life goes on.

To date we have receive four letters from our recruit, Patrick. He writes that he is well; he likes the chilimac the best at chow. This from the boy that didn't like to eat chili for dinner!

I pour over each letter, studying each sentence, wondering if there's a second meaning between the lines. Mark is there to remind me that a man's mind doesn't work 'that way'. Mark tells me that when a man says, 'I'm fine. My drill instructor is a good guy'. - that's exactly what he means.  Where I try to give Mark a glimpse into a woman's mind. 'I'm fine' to a woman could have so many meanings:

                I'm fine =  Leave me alone; I'm mad at you!

                I'm fine =  I need to talk about how I feel.

                I'm fine =  I'm on the verge of tears.

                I'm fine =  My hair looks good today and you'd better

                                notice and compliment me - damn it!

I write Patrick every other day. I cannot tell him how much I miss him. I cannot tell him how our holidays were lacking without his enthusiasm. I cannot tell him how I cleaned his room so fabulously that it can pass even the strictest of DI inspections. However, I'd happily give it up for his own personal mess to have him sleeping again in his own bed. I cannot tell him how I've closed his bedroom door because it's too empty without him. I cannot tell him at times I just sit in his room, worrying that he isn't getting enough to eat or he isn't getting enough sleep.

I cannot tell Patrick those things for I know being a Marine is what he's wanted forever; being a Marine will make him happy. Patrick must remain on focus, thinking of the task at hand to be the few, the proud. Boot camp requires not just physical exertion, but it also calls for mental and emotional strength a recruit needs to make it through. So, I keep my letters to Patrick encouraging, supportive and upbeat.

In summary, I need to be just like my brand new Dyson vacuum cleaner - I need to suck it up.