It Still Counts

I was awake around four this morning. Those who have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder will understand when I talk about re-experiencing and how that interrupts sleep cycles and causes all sorts of nasty stuff like irritability, anxiety, fear of crowds and public places, and hypervigilance (the obsession with staying safe and keeping your loved ones safe). And the ones fortunate enough to have benefited from therapy know that talking about their trauma is a necessary part of their treatment because they process it instead of blocking it out.  

So I guess I had better warn my readers that I am about to describe a traumatic experience. If you can't deal with that right now, you are welcome to stop reading at this point. If you want to continue, you might want to grab a tissue. Especially if you're a parent.

Four years ago today seemed like any other day I had spent since my youngest daughter moved to Alberta and eventually ended up on the street, living in her car.  I was always wondering if she was safe, doing everything in my power to give her the tools she needed to get even half a chance out there. 

The previous evening she had asked for some money so she could sleep in a motel and have a shower to be ready to view an apartment the following day. I agreed and sent it.  

But she never got there.

All morning I was texting her from work, reminding her of her appointment. No response. I tried calling her again and again. No response. I gave up around 12:30 because I figured she was on the road by then.

She wasn't.

I remember what I had for lunch because I was eating it when the phone call came from my husband at 1:10 pm.  He told me that she had been in an accident. No, she wasn't okay. It was head-on at highway speed. She had died instantly.

I felt as if someone had drop-kicked me in the stomach. My breath came in gasps - I wanted to scream the words but they came out in disbelieving sobs instead. "Oh my God.  Oh my GOD!  My baby! My baby is ... DEAD!  Oh God!"

Suddenly the world seemed very, very small. There was barely enough room in it for me to breathe, almost like those scenes from horror movies where the camera gives an extreme closeup and there's a delay, an echo, in the words and actions - and they feel jerky, disjointed, surreal.

"Do you want me to come pick you up?" he patiently asked me after I stopped talking ... if you can call what I was doing talking. 

"Up, oh yes, pick up. Yes that would be good."

"I'll see you in about 20 minutes. Okay?"

"Umm, yeah. Okay.  Umm, drive safe," I said automatically. 

People at work had formed a small crowd around me, I noticed as I hung up the phone. Someone handed me a tissue. Apparently my face was wet. I can't remember who all was there, but I know there were concerned faces all around me.  I heard voices expressing sympathy - but they sounded like they were coming from the other end of a metal tube. 

I was still clutching what was left of my lunch - a spoonful of peanut butter and a couple of dried mango slices - as my manager suggested that I go to her office. She guided me there, sat me down in a chair, and waited with me for my husband to arrive.  She expressed her condolences, and asked if there was anyone she could call for me to let them know. I obediently gave her the number for the church I attended. She called them and told them the news while I ate the rest of my lunch - which felt drier than usual in my throat - because all I could think of was that I needed to keep my strength up, that my family would need me to be strong. So it became all-important for me to finish eating. Strange what trauma will do to the mind.

As we waited after my manager hung up, she leaned over and hugged me, rocking a bit, and started to sing softly in my ear, "Come to the water, stand by My side, I know you are thirsty, you won't be denied...I felt every teardrop when in darkness you cried, and I want to remind you that for those tears I died..." - the chorus of a song that (there was no way she could know this) I sang with my brothers as a teen. Of course that helped to set off a fresh wave of tears. I appreciated her expression of caring; I needed it!

When my husband arrived, those with clearer heads met him at the door. Others ushered me downstairs to meet him. One dear lady took charge and arranged to have someone drive us home - my manager took the front passenger seat and let us sit together in the back - while someone else drove behind us in a car and followed our van back to our house. 

These memories are fresh for me today because - well - it's one of those anniversary days. As I think back and remember, and relive those moments and the grief that overwhelmed me during those days and weeks that followed, the one thing that overarches everything is the one thing that heals the most: the love shown to me and to my family from all who knew us. And I mean all, from my best girlfriend who took my daughter's death as hard as I did, to the co-workers who all were so affected by it, to the doctors who worked in our area at my work, to those who came to the wake and to the funeral, to the hundreds and now thousands of people who have read my blog post about it (look in my archives on this blog for my October 24, 2013 post). 

Image "Snowflake Background" by oana roxana birtea
at www.freedigitalphotos.net

Those who know her story (which I told in that post I mentioned) know that she lived her life by the motto, "Every Snowflake Counts" - which to her didn't mean that everyone is unique and special like a snowflake, but that every bit of good that a person does, no matter how small, is helpful. It counts. There is nothing insignificant. 

It still counts. Folks who know me well, know that 2017 has been particularly hard for me emotionally, partly because if my baby girl had not had that accident, she would have turned 25 this year. So this anniversary date is a bit more raw than one might expect after four years. Grieving is not something that one ever stops doing; it takes a different form after a while, but it never goes away. 

My friends have been so supportive and so compassionate - and so patient - toward me and my family. To them I say, it still counts. Your love and your kind thoughts and words do not go unnoticed; I appreciate every bit of good that you intend and that you do and say. And I just wanted to say it.

Thank you. Thank you all. :') 

T.L.C.

The night before last, there was a "cat explosion" in our house.

They happen frequently. The three cats are sitting within sight of one another, and nobody knows who starts it, but it seems that all three of them jump as if zapped by electricity and they all race off in different directions. It's comical to watch! 

But this last time, someone zigged when they should have zagged. And one of the cats got hurt.  Of course, cats are not all that good at showing that they are in pain, but the kitty in question did have her hair all poofed out longer than usual for this type of event. Later, we saw her limping - and we thought she'd hurt a joint in her ankle in the back. We helped her, made a little bed for her in a large dog-crate with some litter in there and a couple of food dishes, so that she wouldn't be tempted to try to jump up on things or do too much, and today, she went to see the vet to get checked over. 

It turns out that it was a hip problem - a stretched ligament or tendon most likely - and the vet gave her an anti-inflammatory shot and gave us some medication to give in her food. 

This is our little Eris - named after the
goddess of Chaos in Greek mythology.
The photo was taken in April 2016.

We were concerned that her "brothers" - who are both bigger than she is - would take advantage of her weakness and try to bully her.

Quite the opposite. There has been quizzical trilling, sniffing, and reaching out paws to her, and one or the other of them is not far from her crate, keeping her company whenever they can. The oldest perched on her crate this morning, and was there most of the day (except for when she was at the vet's) guarding her and letting her know he was there by occasionally hanging his paws in front of the door, letting her sniff them. 

Both of the boys have been very gentle with her, and have not tried to engage her in playing (which to them means roughhousing!) They have stayed close, and have changed their favourite perches so they can see what she is doing in the crate.  What a tremendous model of tender loving care! The whole family has been so concerned for her, looking after her, making sure she is fed, comfortable, and settled down. The vet says that she will need to take it easy like this for another week and a half, and wants to check her over again on Monday just to see if there has been any improvement. 

Such care and love expressed toward a little seven and a half pound ball of cuteness... who has melted our hearts over and over again... and seeing her brothers take such good care of her is so heartening. It's so not what we expected, such a surprising display of concern and caring, that we are in awe.

It's so encouraging. I'm so grateful to have them all in my life. :-D



 

Pariahs in Pain

Watching someone day in and day out who is in chronic pain (like my daughter is - fibromyalgia, stage III osteoarthritis, temporomandibular joint dysfunction, asthma, and chronic cluster vertebrobasilar migraines) can make a person question the purpose of pain and wish that pain didn't exist. 

However, as unpleasant as pain is, it serves an important purpose. Pain is the body's way of signaling the brain that there is a problem and that it needs attention. Without the ability to feel pain, one might get burnt (severely) without knowing it, or ignore a serious - perhaps life-threatening - condition (such as a heart problem or a severe infection in the body that could cause respiratory failure!)

Pain is intended to be an early-warning system that tells us that something needs our immediate attention. When we heed that warning, we can get help before a problem becomes worse, even fatal. When we ignore it, the pain continues and the problem can become much more serious. When pain is chronic, not only does the body suffer, but the mind does as well. Scientists have linked chronic pain to a host of mental illness, most notably depression (see this link to the Mayo Clinic).

When the cause of the pain is obvious, sufferers frequently receive empathy and understanding from those in the medical profession and among their friends and acquaintances. When the pain is hard to pinpoint, or there seems to be no physical reason for it, the empathy tends to fizzle, and judgment begins.  A prior physician firmly believed that our daughter's pain was a clear-cut case of malingering ... which means that he thought she was faking her pain to get benefits. Having lived with her all her life, we knew differently, but unfortunately, this is the reaction some people have to face things that they cannot explain away with pat answers or banish with pills. People want to be around beautiful, healthy people with no problems. They don't want to hear about the daily struggle of having to get out of bed and do things that they take for granted. They ask how you are, but they don't really want to know the truth; it's just a polite noise people make. Rare is the person who will stop and really want to know how you are. It's human nature to want to avoid unpleasant things. The sad side-effect of this is that those who suffer chronic pain or disease (especially if the disability is 'invisible') become the ones nobody wants to associate with, or pariahs. A pariah - for those who don't know - is an outcast, a non-person ... a social leper.

In the same way, those who suffer from chronic emotional pain can also end up becoming pariahs. Emotional pain is like physical pain. Its purpose is to alert us that something is wrong and needs attention. But our society is so performance-oriented and perfectionistic that often, these early warning signs get ignored and the pain goes underground ... only to resurface in areas we weren't expecting.  

Photo "Lonely Woman On
The Beach" by Sira Anamwong
at www.freedigitalphotos.net

Nobody wants to be around someone who is sad or angry, and so we sufferers put on a mask, pretend, and ignore the pain. If folks were more accepting, and more approachable, we might feel more free about being honest about how we feel. But we've learned that the reaction of a great many people is one of condemnation. Sadly, folks seem to only want to know about our pain AFTER it is done and we have dealt with it and moved on, or overcome it. Perhaps if we had just dealt with it and discovered why we were in emotional pain and start to look after ourselves in those areas, the pain might not be there or be as intense. 

Yet by the time it becomes chronic, ignoring those early messages of emotional pain has made us numb to them. The saddest part is that the numbing also numbs the happier, more pleasant emotions as well; our emotional centre can't tell the difference between "good" and "bad" emotions - they're just emotions. So to protect itself, it shuts them ALL down.  The only ones that tend to get through now are the stronger, more violent emotions - like anger, fear, and sadness. Peace and joy and love get suppressed, or worse yet, warped by being filtered through the anger, fear and sadness.

Enter chronic depression, anxiety, and/or post-traumatic stress, depending on the circumstances that led to our pain. Wow. Talk about being a pariah? NOW we're in for it. As intolerant a some folks can be of unexplained physical pain, they seem to be doubly intolerant of emotional pain. This attitude of intolerance is toxic to us. So we withdraw. We isolate. And that just cements their opinion that we aren't worth the effort. They move on to more pleasant encounters. And we get left behind. 

I identify with those in pain because I am in pain. My disabilities are invisible - and sometimes I feel like I am invisible too. All of society seems hell-bent on criticizing and condemning things about me that I consider strengths: my introversion, my sensitivity, my empathy, and the list goes on. I've battled these prejudices all of my life.  And now, because of my invisible ailments like multiple chemical sensitivities, degenerative disc disease, and the like, I find that I am just another pariah in pain. I feel as though I have to explain over and over again why I can't go to events that "everyone" is going to. People assume that I'm antisocial, when truth be told, I just don't want to have to battle invisible clouds that mean nothing to people who aren't affected by artificial scent. Or, I don't want to stand on cement floors and ache for the next three days.  Little matter the reasons. It's part and parcel of the kind of "if you are not like us in every way, then you are not one of us" reasoning. (Don't get me started on that one.)

What am I saying? 

It's okay to hurt, if you hurt. Pain is not a bad thing. It's unpleasant, to be sure, but it is not bad in and of itself.  It is a signal that something is amiss somewhere, and the sooner we pay attention to that, and get help, the better off we are. But just because someone suffers (physical or emotional) pain on a regular basis, that doesn't make them evil or to be avoided or judged.  It makes them in need of understanding, compassion, and acceptance.

Acceptance is key. I wish we all were better at it, but it's not something that comes naturally; we have to work at it. But I figure, until more people are willing to come forward, like I just did, and talk about it, we'll just keep on being pariahs in pain.

Unspoken

A year ago today, my world got rocked. 

No, I don't mean in the way that someone made my day or anything like that. I mean, it was rocked. It was hit by rocks, knocked off its moorings, blindsided, and so much so that for weeks, even months, I was unsure of anything anymore. 

I have thought about the experience often since then, painful as it is to do so, and all I can figure out is that I was a victim of - or more likely a participant in - a miscommunication that destroyed a promising friendship. And it all came down to expectations. UNSPOKEN expectations. 

You see, I had planned to stay a few weeks with this person while I was out of town. I was willing to pay for the cost of the groceries I would be using, and I was so grateful for their generosity in offering me a place to stay at less than I would have paid for regular accommodations. 

But, well in advance, every time I would mention or even ask what this person expected to receive, that person changed the subject.   They preferred to joke around - and I could take so much of that ... and then it became so much that I had to just make an excuse and go do something else. And this was before I even got there.

We should have talked. We should have talked about EVERYTHING. 

This person's idea of friendly banter was teasing. I hate teasing. Teasing was always malicious when I was growing up, and I grew to detest it. So when this person started doing this, laughing at me, twitting me about my height and telling me to keep up, and making fun of my Maritime expressions, it didn't feel like friendly banter to me. It felt like criticism at best and persecution at worst. 

So one evening this was happening and I started to react. And I reacted badly. And I said things that were, in fact, malicious. And this person was hurt. That was the first mistake... unspoken expectations. Not talking about what things meant to us, where the boundaries were. 

That night before bed, I apologized for losing my cool and then proceeded to explain where I had been coming from. All this person heard was someone who pretended to apologize and then justified her position. Resentment grew, unknown to me. I thought things would be better. But they weren't. They got cold. Real cold. Real quick. The teasing stopped, but it was replaced by stony silence. And I assumed that the person just needed time to recover. But that wasn't it at all. The individual had made a judgement of me and my motivations based on that person's upbringing ... and not mine.

You see, this person was brought up in a home where if you screwed up, you apologized without excuses, you took all of the blame for everything, and then you moved on, letting everyone be the way they were beforehand.  In my upbringing, nobody ever apologized that way; if there were apologies at all, they happened in the midst of people trying to understand why the other person did what they did. So to this person, my apology (which would have been accepted with open arms in my own family) was suspect, and not to be trusted.

But there was something else, too.  There were other unspoken expectations, and rather than talk about them, this person never even considered that I might come from a different perspective. It had to do with the rules surrounding house guests. In this person's home, everyone - even guests - pulled their weight, and nothing was free. The unspoken rule was that you cleaned up your own mess, you paid your way, and you did it without being asked and without expecting any thanks. To do any less was just plain rude and selfish.

Photo "Girls Looking At Each Other" by Stuart Miles.
Courtesy of www.freedigitalphotos.net

I, on the other hand, grew up in a home where, whenever anyone came to visit, they would offer to help out, and my mom would shoo them away from the kitchen and say, "No, you are guests here. You don't need to do that." If they offered money, it was, "Keep your money. Your money is no good here." So I had the unspoken expectation that hosts waited on guests hand and foot. And if a guest insisted on helping, they were profusely thanked (unlike the family members, who never received a thank you, not. even. once. ... but I digress.) If I (as their daughter) tried to do something on my own, my help was not appreciated, and I was often criticized for not doing it right. So I learned to only help when I was given explicit instructions, because to do otherwise would invite parental anger.

So, back to a year ago.  It only took a few days of staying with this person after the initial misunderstanding when things really fell apart. I was not feeling well, for various reasons, but yet the task of carrying this person's things fell to me and I was never thanked. Not. even. once.  I felt as though I was treated like a slave.  All the while, I felt hesitant to do things like wash dishes and put them away, and I was keenly aware that this was someone else's kitchen and not mine. I didn't feel free to move around, and I was kind of scared of the dishwasher - had never used one of the more modern ones, and wasn't even sure how it opened, or where to put things in it. So I stayed away.  

So of course, this person thought I was an ingrate.  

I didn't know how to pay for things; at the grocery store, they would whip out their bank card before I could even speak - and all the time, resentment built on both sides. 

Each of us felt put-upon. So when the blow-up happened, it happened BIG. 

I won't go into the gory details, but when this person finally confronted me, three days later, there was a list of things that took 20 minutes to deliver... and I was not used to confrontation. I apologized; my apology was not accepted and the person accused me of justifying my behavior because I mentioned not knowing how to help and not knowing what the rules were. I paid the person twice what they had already spent on me in groceries. I did not receive any kind of comment or even a statement that it was too much.

Unspoken expectations.

That evening and the next morning, I tried to chip in and show that I was trying to follow the rules this person had laid out, but it was too late. The cold shoulder persisted. I no longer felt welcome. I was on the verge of tears the whole time - partly because of the experience and partly from lack of sleep. Finally, when they left to do something with their family, I arranged to move out and pay strangers to live elsewhere, like I should have done in the beginning. 

The relationship never recovered.  It took a long time for me to recover from the experience. I was not used to not being believed, not used to essentially being called a lazy, selfish liar, even though those words were never used exactly. It rankled that this person could feel this way about me. And to this day, the memory of how things happened and thoughts about what I could have done differently plague me. And all I can figure out from all of it is that if we had just talked about things without judging each other - if we had just listened to each other without making assumptions - our friendship might have survived.

A Gilded Cage

She sits in her room.  Or she wanders the halls, sometimes with her walker, sometimes without (because she forgets.) Her mind flits about like a butterfly, from memory to memory, all of it disjointed and from different time periods. But to her, it is all the same. 

There is only one consistent thought.  She wants to go home.  That's where she belongs.  She must get out of this place.  And she asks every visitor who comes to see her if they would just help her with her things so she can leave and go back home where she is needed. Her desire is so great to go home that at times, she has gone to the door and pounded and kicked at it. All that gets her is more medication so that she can be more "manageable."

Her visitors, when she begs them to take her home, change the subject. They let her patter on about the same stories, let her ask the same questions over and over again, and when they must go, they make some excuse to get out of the room ... knowing she will forget they were even there in a minute or so. And then she will complain because "nobody ever comes" to see her. 

Mom (in the foreground) in her element - August 2015.
My sister is in the background.

I spoke with her this morning on the phone. She was so pleased to hear from me, and talked about needing to have someone drive her home so she could fix supper because she was working and couldn't come home for lunch. So today, she was stuck in 1992... 25 years ago ... and in that brief period of time, she wasn't even in the hospital. I just let her talk.  It wouldn't have done any good to tell her that this was 2017. She would have forgotten anyway. Time has no meaning for her anymore - except for the interminable wait to go home and how the seconds seem like hours when nobody is in to see her. 

Her nurse tells me that she is doing fine, that she occasionally gets agitated, feeling like she is trapped there (which she is, really), and they just give her an olazepin and she calms down. So I look up that medication on the Internet, and I think about how offensive it would be to her if she realized she was on an anti-psychotic drug, something to keep her from freaking out.  But she isn't in control of that anymore. And now, as never before, I realize that neither am I.  The hospital staff are in control; the government is in control. 

I know that she is safe and protected where she is, that she is fed nutritious food and sleeps well at night with no danger of her wandering. I get that. And it's probably a blessing that she doesn't realize how powerless and dependent she is. It is just wrenching to watch, even from this distance, to hear her lose more and more of her sense of time and self.  One minute is pretty much the same as the next.  She is incredibly lonely, a nearly empty shell looking for a place to lie down, the homing instinct being the only thing she has left.  Much of what made her what she was, is going or gone. The spark, the chutzpah, those are disappearing into the fog of dementia.

And it's Mother's Day. 

Wow.

Flash Back - Flash Forward

OH NO.  Not again.

It's happening again!  

Please don't make me go through this again - please....

But the memory crashes in unwanted, unbidden, and the events of that pivotal day tumble like blurry slow-motion video footage - surreal but yet so real that I can feel the weight of every word, every thought, every emotion. They are like billows - giant ocean waves - and there's nothing I can do to stop them.

I'm terrified because (in hindsight) I know what the result is before I even see it again - but still - the scene plays out: the phone rings, I answer, and I hear a familiar voice tell me news that no parent should ever hear. "There was an accident ... a head-on collision ... she was killed instantly ..."

The tumult of emotions - the grief, the shock, the incredible horror and sadness, the disbelief and the anger - all descend. No, no, NO! I don't want this - I want it to go away, to stop, PLEASE STOP...

But it doesn't stop. The wave crests, washes over me. I struggle to keep from being bowled over, to remember which way is up - "Look for the light. The light is up. Reach for it ..." My head surfaces for a second; I gasp for air as the current drags me downward for another repetition of that scene - that awful moment - or vignettes from the minutes and days that followed. "Remember. This too shall pass. Feel the feelings, process them, it will get better." 

Illustration "Sketch Of Woman Crying" by
luigi diamanti at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

In a cruel plot twist, the video in my head stops rewinding and replaying, and hits fast-forward ... showing me all the things I wanted to see but will never see: her finding a soul-mate and getting married, her having children of her own, her phoning me to ask me about potty-training ... all gone. 

I cry. I remember how full of life she was - I let myself feel how deeply I miss her, and hot tears fall and make tear-drop-shaped stains on my shirt as my shoulders heave up and down. 

I find some way to honour her. I find a song on YouTube that makes me think of her and her zest for living every moment. More sobs, acknowledging a future she and I will never have. I remember that someday, I will see her again. She'll wrap me in one of her big bear hugs, and lift me off my feet like she used to do.

It helps. I give myself the space I need to deal with the aftermath. I allow myself to grieve, to breathe, to look after myself, to reach out if I need to and to receive help from those who care about me.  Prolonged isolation is not my friend, even if I need some alone time at the beginning to get through the flashback and the flash-forward.

And the wave subsides. Someone throws me a life-line and pulls me to safety. I am able to let go, to relax. 

For now. 
Until next time.

Diamond formation

A large lump of coal, under great pressure, over the course of years, forms a diamond. Such constant trial transforms a common stone into a treasure cherished by many. 

There are some people I've met who are diamonds, so formed by such intense suffering that it is hard to describe it. 

One such person cannot remember back past the time when her life was untouched by pain. 

When she was very young, she took a tumble and fell on her head. Unknown to her, it misaligned a vertebra in her neck. All of her childhood she suffered from rare migraines caused by a lack of blood flow to the brain; these were marked by nausea, extreme vertigo, and other unpleasant symptoms including temporary blindness on one side of her vision, but rarely any headache. 

She endured doctors not understanding her symptoms and then misdiagosing, several times. Not until she was 14 did she get a diagnosis (and only after extensive research by her parents who presented their research to the doctor): basilar artery migraines (BAM) also known as vertebrobasilar insufficiency. She was unable to take any medication for these attacks; if she did, she could have a stroke because the migraine medications constricted blood vessels. Since the migraines were caused by a lack of blood flow to the brain, further constriction (from medication) could shut off blood flow to the brain. It took only one such scare in an emergency room to drive that message home. The pediatrician had left standing orders to use a medication called DHE or dihydroxyergotamine, administered through an I.V. This medicine would constrict her vessels. The parents disagreed and objected; the attending physician (wanting to appease them) only gave her a half-dose. She had a mild heart attack and her migraine spiked off the charts. If she'd had a full dose she might have had a stroke.

She had to drop out of high school in grade ten due to missing so much time from the migraines, which came in clusters of up to three weeks at a time. This led her to believe that she was not intelligent, when in fact, she was extremely smart. Otherwise she couldn't have made it through elementary and junior high school with the high marks she did while still missing as much time as she did.

When she was 19 years old, pain in her neck led her to seek chiropractic help, where the slippage in her vertebrae was discovered on X-ray. The chiropractor gave her neck exercises to do with weights attached to her head, and within two months she regained some curvature to her neck and the slippage was reversed slightly. Over the next six months her migraines slowly tapered off. 

During that time, her dentist had to do a root canal in one tooth, and told her that she had to get her wisdom teeth out. She underwent both procedures about a year apart, and was left with TMJD - temporomandibular joint dysfunction. She still suffers from pain in her jaw (which extends into her neck and shoulder) and an inability to open her mouth wide, or chew tough meats.

However, the migraines were far less frequent - she occasionally had a regular one in her head but the debilitating vertigo was very rare. One day she just up and decided to go back to school and get her GED. She had it within 2 months. About six months later, she decided to go to college and become an executive assistant. She did, graduating at the top of her program. 

Photo "Single Blue Diamond" by
MR LIGHTMAN at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

She'd been at her job, living a relatively normal life for the first time in her life, when she stepped out of her work place after work one evening in late November 2012, crossed the sidewalk to get into her parents' vehicle, and slipped on a patch of black ice. She fell. Hard. 

She noticed a numbness in her left foot, and looked down. To her surprise, her kneecap was not in the correct place, but on the side of her leg. She reached down and wrenched it back into place. She doesn't remember feeling pain at this.

Her father helped her get into the vehicle. The pain hit on the ride home. It took her parents two days to convince her that she should get it seen to - she was that wary of doctors!

Thus began another pain journey. Over a year and a half and two surgeries later, she still walks with a crutch (or a cane on her good days) due to the surgeon making an error in the first surgery which was not detected during the second surgery. She has been on disability insurance since April 2013. Her surgeon has declared her unable to work indefinitely. She struggles with depression, loneliness and anxiety on a daily basis. Several months ago, her life was touched deeply by grief. She has symptoms of PTSD and battles panic attacks, multiple chemical sensitivities, and asthma.

I've told you all that to tell you this. This young lady is an absolute joy to know. She is deep, sensitive, thoughtful and loyal. She accepts people the way they are. ALL people. She's passionate about what she believes in. 

She is honest about how she feels if you ask her, even if she feels horrible. Yet she is not bitter and she doesn't use her disability as a tool to get a person to do what she wants. In fact, she has even used her crutch or her scar to start conversations and put people at ease; she understands people in pain and is one of the most empathetic people I know. Yet she won't snow you. If she thinks your behavior is hurting someone she loves, she will find a way to tell you in a way you'll be able to accept.

She has grown so much because of her pain, because of the things she has experienced. She's learning to look after herself, to believe that she is well worth the space she takes up in the world and in our lives. Pain - in her case - has become that constant pressure that has transformed her into someone absolutely priceless. She is indeed a diamond ... a precious gem in our lives. She always was.

I'm proud to know her. My life is richer because she is in it. 

And that's no lump of coal.

Every Snowflake Counts

"Whooopeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!" I would hear as the door banged and her kitbag hit the floor. 

Then the door would bang and she would be off playing until supper, charging her emotional battery with social contact with everyone in the neighbourhood. 

She was "more."  More sensitive, more demanding, more fun, more intuitive, more compassionate, more comical, more ... everything. Many were the times she cried when someone else cried because it hurt her to see people sad. She could laugh longer and louder and harder than anyone I have ever known, and you'd find yourself laughing in spite of yourself, wondering what the joke even was. 

When she was about six years old, after a few snowfalls where her dad had gone out to shovel yet another foot of "partially cloudy" off the driveway, she decided to get dressed and go out to help him. She got me to help her on with her snowsuit, shoved her boots and mitts on, and with all those extra layers toddled down the stairs like some pink Michelin-tire man on his way to a rescue mission. Her dad handed her the lightest shovel and she worked beside him until she was out of wind, her face beet-red under her scarf. The little muscles were so sore and she was so tired and sweaty that she had to give up. In frustration, she started to cry. When her father asked her why, she replied, "Because I wanted to HELP you!!" 

"That's okay, honey," he said to her. "You DID help me. You really did. The snow you shoveled, every single bit of work you did, is less snow that I need to shovel. I appreciate everything you did. Because every snowflake counts."  

She burst into tears and fled into the house. 

What he didn't know was why she cried. She told me because I asked her, and she told me with tears streaming down her face!! It meant so much to her for him to say that. She never forgot it, and from then on, it became her motto. 

Someone would be frustrated with doing homework. Or trying to help with dishes, or baking, or raking leaves. Or trying to make someone understand. Or whatever. 

"Every snowflake counts," she would say to them. 

This past June, after many failed attempts to make a life for herself here, she decided to go to Alberta, to the 'land of opportunity' - or so the myth goes. It's great for someone with a high school education and someone out there with whom to stay while they got on their feet. She had neither. 

The only things she had were the clothes and supplies she took with her, a few hundred dollars from her parents to pay for gasoline, her computer, and her phone. That phone would be a lifeline between her and home, an anchor when times got rough - for her and for us. 

We texted. A LOT. Every day, several times a day. I footed the bill for her to get a 2nd hand car. At least she had transportation, and for a time, a job.

There is more to her story; I don't need to tell it all here. (Other parts are found on my other blog, http://idol-smashing.blogspot.com ) All you need to know is that on September 19, a little over a month ago, she was evicted from the place she was staying after her landlady kicked her out for breaking house rules. She found herself out on the street that night, living in her car. 

For a month she was homeless. She kept in touch with us, charging her phone in her car, living hand to mouth, with regular influx of cash from me to keep the car gassed up in order to survive and be somewhat safe. So many tried to help her; she was afraid to get help thinking that she would have her phone stolen, or someone would hurt her or try to separate her from her boyfriend whom she met up there. 

Two nights ago, she had run out of funds again. I'd given her some money Sunday night to get herself a cheap motel room. She had felt so refreshed the following day and yet had to sleep in her car again Monday night. So Tuesday evening she asked me for money so she could have a motel for the night again. She had an apartment viewing the following morning and wanted to be rested for it, showered, looking her best. 

I sent it to her.

She was so pleased, so relieved. She thanked me profusely. In the short text conversation that followed, she told me, "I'm so tired of this life (she meant lifestyle) Mom. I just want a home."

She had claimed the funds and was on her way driving to a suburb of Edmonton that night (for a cheaper rate in motels) when she swerved suddenly away from the side of the road and crossing the center line. Her fender clipped the fender of a pickup truck, knocking him off the road (the driver was fine). But there was a van right behind him - and they never saw her until it was too late. 

She was killed instantly on impact. 

Her boyfriend escaped - miraculously - with his life. He had a busted ankle and a compound fracture of the lower leg. Of the three people in the van that her car hit, only one had serious injuries - but thankfully was not paralyzed. 

The police came to our door yesterday around 1 pm with the news. When they had left, my husband called me.

What happened next was a flurry of activity. I was aware of people standing around me as I cried out loud. Kind hands led me to my manager's office. Someone made a phone call for me. Someone else met my husband at the door and people drove us home. We were held, hugged, supported, loved. And fed. Even though we didn't feel like eating. We still don't. Still the food comes, and with it, expressions of concern, caring, loving concern.

It all heals. All of it. 

Before I say what I have to say next, let me say this. I've heard people say to me that God took Arielle. 

THAT IS NOT TRUE. God DIDN'T take her. He would not be so cruel as to TAKE her away from us.

He welcomed her. He welcomed her HOME. Not the home she was expecting of course. Not the home ANY of us were expecting.

But BETTER. Safer. More permanent. 

Last spring, before she left for Alberta.
At breakfast - on Saturday morning.
Arielle. My belle.
1992-07-16 to 2013-10-22

I have two more things to say. Two things only. 

The first is that a day and a half before she was evicted, our little girl had a personal encounter with God - so real and so powerful that it transformed her heart and made her not feel lonely or alone, for the first time in her life. She was that excited about it!!  She couldn't wait to tell us about it. She told her story to me, then to her father, and then to our dear friend Dorothy, who had been her babysitter and a second mom to her when she was growing up. And it was REAL. We could tell. This was no passing fancy. This was whole. True. Pure. 

I can't say it changed her, not in a way that denied who she was.  But it was MORE. It burned away the impurities. It refined her, strengthened her faith, and turned the direction of her life around. Something that had only been a glimmer or a spark in her growing up burst into flame and became a luminous beacon that sustained her (and, truth be told, US) throughout that last month or so of her life. She got a job. She was on the upswing in her life.

The second thing I have to say is this. You may feel that what you are saying or doing to support us, the seemingly feeble and trite words that you think you are offering, do very little to help. You may feel helpless, powerless in the face of such tragedy. I know because I've felt those same feelings in my life when having to comfort someone who has known similar circumstances. 

And now I'm on the other side of the equation.  
And I am telling you THIS.

You have no idea the power that those little actions, those little words, those inbox messages, those Facebook comments, those hugs and well-wishes, what they all mean. You have simply no idea unless you've been there. But even if you don't have that experience (and I would not wish it on my worst enemy!!) YOU NEED to hear my words and know this deep in your hearts.

What she said to us, I now say to you.

Every. Snowflake. Counts.

Across the Bridge

She rode between my knees in the vehicle, and didn't even go to the window to look out. Standing on her back legs would have been too painful for her, I thought to myself. And it was one of her favorite things to do when she went for a ride.

Hubby slowed and stopped, pulling over by the side of the road. I unhooked my seat-belt and opened the door, and got out. She didn't hear me; normally she'd be out before I was. 

She got out of the van, half-excited, half in discomfort (adrenaline can mask pain) and I tightened the leash and closed the van door. I waved goodbye to my husband; he had another errand to run and would pick me up after.

After. I tried not to think about after. All that mattered was now. 

Slowly, leisurely, even amid spits of rain, we sauntered up the long lane, lined on both sides with shade trees, grass, and all kinds of mixed wild flowers.

Raspberry canes had begun to bud already. I looked at them as we passed slowly by; their prickles were glistening in the morning's rain shower. The faint scent of raspberry blossoms not yet opened greeted me as I would stop when she stopped to explore a scent trail. After all, her sense of smell was almost the last one she had left completely intact. 

I thought of earlier times. Times when I'd have to call her back as a young dog from the neighboring field because she'd followed a scent trail out there and didn't quite know where we were or have the sense to follow her own trail back. Times when we'd scratch her just above the base of her tail and when we were done, she'd chase that tail and catch it ... and keep going round and round. We'd call her "bagel dog" because that was the shape her body made. Times when we'd be sweeping the floor and find one of those orange hockey balls she loved (and chewed on) so much. We'd throw the ball and she'd go racing after it, trotting back with it to us, and we'd have to take it out of her mouth because she wouldn't drop it unless we grabbed it first. Just two throws and the ball would be covered in dog saliva ... so we called the game "slime ball." She loved that game. As time went on and she was less able to run, she even learned to throw the ball for herself, watch it roll down the hallway and then trot after it.

A spit of rain managed to get past my glasses. It awakened me from my trip down memory lane and brought me back to the moment, on this our final walk. She was sniffing at some grass, and she nosed under some branches to get to the next patch of grass.

Among the foliage at the base in between the birches and beeches, I spotted first one, then a few, then several bunch-berry plants, the kind I used to call "trillium" ... until I knew what real trillium looked like. No, these had four smaller white petals in the center of a cluster of six much broader, green leaves. By the side of the lane, to my surprise, I saw a few late wild strawberry blossoms. Most of the flowers had dropped off most of the plants, but there were a few late bloomers amid the developing green fruit. A couple of them had flowered early, and had almost fully grown and ripened. I stopped to pick them, and tossed them gently into the greenery farther back, to start even more wild strawberry plants; I wasn't hungry. 

She was enjoying the moment. Her tail wagged a little as she smelled each new smell.

As we got closer to our destination, she hesitated more. Perhaps it was the smell of spilled oil in the parking lot that deterred her. I got her past the rainbow-streaks in that area and let her explore the front lawn of the clinic. She squatted a couple of times. It wasn't raining hard enough for her to feel like shaking off the water. 

Amid the budding "devil's paintbrush" at the top of the lane (dandelion-like flowers with multiple blooms on the same stem) I spied one lone buttercup, fully opened, symbol to me of promise and rest. They don't usually come out until July. 

Finally, after one final squat, I led Shari to the door of the clinic. 

The staff were very kind. They gave us as much time as we needed, and in their mercy gave me the paperwork to fill out beforehand rather than afterward. 

Afterward, I would be in no shape to sign papers and pay the bill. 

"Who's all in today?" I made conversation with the new girl behind the desk. "Doctor A____," she said, and Anne-Marie." 

That was such a relief for me. Anne-Marie had been there as a receptionist the first time we needed the vet's services back in the year 2000 for Shari's bladder stone surgery. Through the course of time she became the vet's assistant, and a competent and compassionate one. Though I knew this was hard for her too, I was glad she was there - a familiar face at the end.  

It made this just a tiny bit easier to bear. 

A few minutes later, Anne-Marie came out and we chatted. I told her how this had just crept up on us slowly and how the dog wasn't even asking to go out anymore; she was just doing her business wherever she wanted to inside the house. That, together with the growing discomfort in her joints, the digestive upsets, the deafness, the cataracts, the fatty tumors that pressed in on her heart and made her cough at the least excitement or exertion, the seizure she had two months ago, and the "doddering" she did when standing still (her head would "bobble" slightly), we could tell that her quality of life was starting to get really poor and that it would only get worse. 

"Yes," she agreed with me. "When they don't even bother asking to go out anymore, it's time." Her eyes filled with tears. So did mine. 

She asked me if I wanted Shari's collar and leash; I did. She switched out the collar and leash with one of theirs, handed me our set, took Shari in her arms - there was little if any struggle (unusual for her) - and carried her into the back. After having been present at Cody's final trip, I knew there was no way I could handle that experience again. I was so grateful that Anne-Marie was there.

Five minutes later, it was done. I know that the last thing she knew at the end was the touch of a compassionate hand. That meant a lot to me. 

A few minutes later, hubby was back from his errand, and he took the box containing her remains back to the van. We passed the return trip mostly in silence, only talking about anything but what had just taken place. 

I remember reading a book once by John Eldredge on the day-to-day relationship with God - it was the chronicle of just one year in his life. In the book, he described the relationship between himself and his dog, a golden retriever who loved to play ball - except he would never want to let go of the ball when he brought it back. The time came for him to say goodbye to his furry friend, and family and friends gathered with him at his home while the vet administered the final dose. At the moment of the dog's passing, even though the dog made no sound, two in the circle of friends heard a dog's bark. And then one of the friends got a strange, perplexed look on his face, turned to Mr. Eldredge and said, "I just got some words - I think they're supposed to be for you, John." 

"What are they?" John asked. 

"I'm not sure what this means, but I hear the words, 'He won't let go of the ball.' " 

That's one more reason why I know she went across Rainbow Bridge - and that as I write this, even now she is playing slime-ball.

Shari inviting me for a game of slime-ball

  And she won't let go, either.

Going Back to Go Forward

Our daughter had her knee surgery yesterday afternoon. (See my previous posts). 

Leading up to the surgery, she was starting to be able to get around the house without her crutches, but she was still limping, and the knee was quite fragile. Yet - she managed. She convinced herself that she was fine, even though the doctor had put her off work for the duration. She was only "getting by."

Yesterday, she went from "getting by" back to being what she calls "a cripple." The feeling of helplessness is hard to escape - and for her, it is embarrassing to have to ask for help to do the simplest things. 

Yet, the damage to the knee was something that would not have healed correctly on its own. It needed that operation, even if it feels like a major set-back. 

And now, she deals with post-op pain and (what is worse) that feeling of needing to depend on others. She is housebound for almost the next two weeks. The loss of control over where she goes and what she does is quite real. Even the most simple and taken-for-granted movements are things for which she has to ask for help: getting up from lying down, keeping that leg free of encumbrances that would pull on the stitches - even under the splint! - so keeping it elevated slightly so it doesn't get caught in blankets or between sofa cushions!

The surgery - in the final analysis and if all goes as planned - will have made the difference between just "getting by" and "moving forward." 

This was a few months ago, shortly after the
initial injury. The current splint looks
similar, but is totally rigid.

However, it doesn't seem like that right now. 

In her more reasonable and lucid moments, she agrees that it will be good to walk without wincing, to be able to not only function but to thrive. 

But now - now is hard.

Her dilemma resonates with me on an emotional and spiritual level. I can relate quite a bit.

Her struggle reminds me that it is pretty easy to get used to living life with a limp - when I don't have to. 

Getting better, though, sometimes involves going back to the place where I was injured, submitting to what can be painful emotional surgery, and then, paying attention to my most simple actions and reactions.  Even if it means feeling some of those same feelings again: helplessness, anger, sadness, pain - relearning lessons I thought I'd learned before. It's embarrassing. It's unsettling. It's necessary.

It's necessary, if I want to heal in the right way, because even though it feels very awkward at first, those new behaviors are the pattern on which a whole new lifestyle is built. 

I don't want to just limp along for the rest of my life. 

It's awkward for me to ask for help - but I need help because I can't do this alone. It's awkward for me to say to someone with a problem, "No, I can't fix that." It's awkward for me to say how I feel when I am feeling it, to confront someone with something he or she might not want to hear. It's awkward for me to go back to where something has gone awry and correct it - set a boundary, enforce one, respect one, look after myself, and/or pray. Yet, it's so crucial. 

It's the only way for healing to do me any lasting good.

Thoughts on Fences

Over the past few months, I've done a lot of thinking about forgiveness - what it is, what it isn't, how it happens, what that looks like in practical terms.

I've done a lot of things I have needed forgiveness for - and I've needed to forgive people for many things. Some have been minor annoyances, misunderstandings, questions of boundaries of which I or the other person was unaware. Such things are usually relatively easy to forgive and to apologize for, especially if the relationship itself is fairly solid. 

It is harder - sometimes much harder - when the offenses are habitual in nature, when the relationship is either damaged or no longer salvageable, and where one (or both) of the parties refuses to admit wrongdoing. A situation like that requires a good understanding of the boundaries between forgiveness and foolishness, between magnanimity and masochism. 

A paddock fence keeps the horses inside
and safe from wandering off. It also reminds people
to stay out from underfoot...

The old adage, "Good fences make good neighbors" comes to my mind because unless everyone involved knows the boundaries, they will keep getting crossed, over and over again. A fence is a great way to protect what's on the other side from being trampled; it can also protect the person from entering a potentially dangerous situation, such as in the case of a fence around a pasture where there's a bull.

Neighbors can interact over the fence, and I've had quite a few of these interactions over our own back fence. I've also had issues with some other neighbors coming onto our property without our permission and taking things that didn't belong to them - usually young thieves who helped themselves to something we left in our unlocked vehicle.  Remembering to lock the car has kept these incidents to a minimum. Other (former) neighbors have - in the past - behaved in such a way as to hurt my kids; these infractions have not been as easy to forgive. 

However, it's the invisible fences that are the most difficult to erect ... and to detect. These are relationship boundaries - something that I never knew existed up until just a few years ago. 

There was always a lot of friction in my home growing up - and nobody really knew why, because nobody realized that there needed to be boundaries and that there are some things where you just need to put up a big "Do Not Trespass" sign. And when natural boundaries between siblings caused problems, the parents (who - quite frankly - saw their children as their property) would intervene and try to use shame as a weapon to "keep the peace." We were therefore not allowed to "fight" ... over anything. As a result, we never learned how to stick up for ourselves. We never learned how to identify when someone had crossed a boundary because those emotional and psychological boundaries were not allowed.  And we never learned how to forgive. Forgiveness meant making excuses for the other person's behavior. And apologies were never voiced - the offender merely tried to "make it up to" the person who had been hurt. There was never any admission of wrongdoing. Nobody dealt with the elephant in the room. They just made it lie down. Each of us walked on eggshells around the other, afraid to incur his or her wrath.

That's no way to live.

What I've learned in the last few years is that without permission to have boundaries, there can be no forgiveness because there is no acknowledgement that someone has done anything wrong. The phrase, "There's nothing to forgive," is not forgiveness. If there was no offense, then any forgiveness offered is meaningless. 

When I first realized, early in my recovery, that I had been wronged as a child, that my unseen boundaries had been crossed in so many ways and by so many people, and that my pain was a natural response to being hurt - this was the first step in becoming free of it. I had always blamed myself for feeling bad; it was a big deal for me to realize that the bad feelings were natural and healthy for what I had been through. I began to see that in a lot of cases, I played absolutely no part in the wrongs that had been done to me, and I had spent decades feeling guilty for being angry and fearful, for wanting to protect myself, for wanting to get away from my abusers. 

With God's help, I was able to work through each of those hurts and come to a place of healing from them and to real, true forgiveness, even to the point of feeling compassion for those who had - in their ignorance and dysfunction - hurt me in ways they could not begin to fathom. 

Eventually of course, after I'd been healed of those things, I was able to admit to myself the wrongs I had, in turn, done to others out of my own dysfunction - and to go to them, admit my wrongdoing, and apologize from my heart. I was amazed at the graciousness of those I had hurt, their willingness to forgive me. Relationships were restored. I gained more than I lost. 

Yet there was still more to do. With respect to the ones who had beaten me or abused me in other ways (verbal, emotional, or sexual), even though I had built some bridges, I needed to build some fences, too. Just because I had forgiven them didn't mean that I could go back into an abusive situation; I needed to let them know where the boundaries were. 

This is one of the most shame-producing aspects of moving on, in the life of someone who has been systematically abused and whose abusers have not and will not change their behavior. The words "FORGIVE AND FORGET" - emblazoned in shame across the psyche of the abuse survivor - are not only an impossible directive, they are also unwise in situations like that. 

Building those fences was hard work, and I made a lot of mistakes along the way. I took too much ground back - then gave in and let myself be abused again - and finally I worked out a way to come to terms with it. I gave people a chance to get used to the new me; I had changed so very much! When it became clear that this new me was unacceptable to them, when they took advantage of my forgiveness and started to abuse me (and my children) all over again  - and in most cases they did - that's when I needed to fortify the fences. That's when I had to say goodbye. 

It was sad, but there was no other way.

The bridges are still there. Forgiveness is still in effect. I no longer wish for these people to be punished for what they did, and I no longer expect them to give back what they took from me. In that sense, I am more free than I have ever been. 

Nevertheless, I need to be realistic. Just because I've forgiven doesn't mean I have to be stupid. If relationship with them harms me or my husband or my kids, then it's best if I stay away. These are natural consequences for their behavior, another thing I am learning to allow people to experience - even if it's painful for me. 

Someday, I hope and pray that they will understand and accept that it's not okay to treat people like property. Until that time, I can busy myself with trusting those who are trustworthy, and building relationships with equals instead of with those who believe themselves to be superior. 

I used to think - because I never knew any different - that people who would accept me and be in relationship with me as an equal were few and far between. 

I'm delighted to be so wrong about that. 

Lessons Learned and Face Red

It started when the Shift key on my laptop wouldn't work on the left-hand side half the time. It was annoying, but I figured my computer was getting older and it was past the warranty period, so I'd have to find a work-around. I did. 

So it started happening more often. O...kay... Fine, use the workaround all the time. 

Apparently this is a common problem,
spilling coffee on your laptop. I wouldn't recommend it.

Then one day I spilled coffee on the keyboard. 

I tried to clean it up - but - it was too late. About an hour later my beloved MacBook Pro started freaking out. The J key started repeating when I wasn't even touching it - just jjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj across any window in which I put my cursor! And my P key stopped working. 

Finally I bit the bullet and decided to go to a local repair shop dedicated to MacIntosh computers. It had been highly recommended. "Can you do the repair here?" I asked. I didn't want it to take forever by sending the machine back to the manufacturer to have it repaired. 

"No problem," came the response. "It's a simple cleaning job. But we have to let it air dry after we clean it, so it will take 3 days." Wellllll... okay, I wanted it done right. So I agreed. They cleaned it, put it back together, turned it on, and it was still not working. "Oh, the casing is warped. It's Unibody construction (one-piece), so we'll have to send away for one. It will cost $400 after all is said and done." 

Hmmmm. Well, it's still way cheaper than a new MacBook. Okay.

Hubby gallantly stepped in and told me I could use his computer (Windows-based) while I was waiting. I was grateful, but it meant that I had to use his machine while sitting in his chair because it was set up a certain way... and his chair was hard on my back. Not to mention - it's Windows. My Mac had spoiled me; I freely admitted it.

So fine... I could spend less time online. We had to take turns anyway, right?

Then Hurricane Sandy put a crimp in delivery schedules for the Unibody, and I had to wait two weeks longer than I would have liked. GrrrUMP. This was really hard to swallow. Days upon days of calling in. Not here yet. Next Tuesday. Friday. No, first of next week.

The casing came in a few days ago, and they put it together and turned it on for a diagnostic. Today. (Keep in mind that I took the computer in there three and a half weeks ago.) This time it wouldn't even stay on for more than a minute. More checking - and then they said that the logic board (also known as the motherboard - the main circuit to which all the other components are attached and communicate with each other) was fried. 

Funny, I thought. All that was wrong when I took it in ... was the J key repeated, the P didn't work and the left Shift key was on the fritz. 

They suggested getting a new machine; the only thing working on the old one was the hard drive. So there'd be the initial repair bill, plus the cost of a new MacBook which - straw breaking the camel's back - they'd have to order in. That would take a week.

I asked if I could have my computer back. Well, it's in pieces, it would take another 2 days to put back together.  Hmm. Finally I said, "I want my hard drive back. Can you manage to at least give me that?" 

After that, I went to the shop where I originally bought the MacBook. I bought a Windows-based computer ... thinking that if a Mac would only last 3 years, I was better off getting a lower-cost computer with top-of-the-line virus protection than getting a new Mac. Even as much as it pained me to resort to Windows again; I'd been spoiled. 

I bought the computer and paid for it and the extended warranty plus a cooling fan to prevent it from heating up too much (my debit card said ouch), and arranged for it to be loaded up with Firefox and Skype, and set up the way I wanted for pickup tomorrow. Then, out of curiosity, (albeit morbid curiosity) I asked them if they still had information on the warranty for the original MacBook - the laptop which was at that moment laying in pieces at the not-to-be-trusted repair shop across town. 

They looked it up for me - they found it in their records.  There was a year left on my extended warranty.

Oh crap. Crap, Crap, and more Crap. Wa-ay too late now - but I wish I'd known that a month ago!! 

I should have taken it to them in the first place. 

I am SO embarrassed. 

There's no way out but to admit it. Einstein was right when he said that only two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity, and he wasn't too sure about the former.

I screwed up. Big time.

Lessons learned from all this: 

(1)   Never assume the "warranty has run out by now." CHECK.
(2)   Know when your warranty runs out, and get your machine repaired where you got it, just in case. Keep warranty and repair records in a place that is separate from your computer's hard drive - because if your computer stops working, you'll want to be able to get at the information.(3)   Never, NEVER leave anything liquid on the same surface where you keep your computer. If you have to eat soup, or drink coffee or cola or whatever when you are at your computer, make sure that:

• you set the liquid container down on a separate surface than the one on which you keep your computer, 
• you don't hover the liquid above the keyboard (i.e., turn your head to one side to drink, or push away from the computer to eat your soup!), and 
• that the surface you set your drink/liquid on is solid and doesn't allow for spillage and inadvertent dripping on the machine. 

Life lessons learned: 

(1)  No matter how bad you think things are, they can always get worse.
(2)  Life does go on - and it gets more expensive. Live with it.
(3)  Don't take yourself or your possessions too seriously. 
(4)  Sometimes you just have to cut your losses, face the music and take your lumps. Life hands you innumerable opportunities to make a royal chump of yourself. Learn to roll with the punches ... and know that it's okay to be human.

People can relate to it, for one thing.