Perfect Storm

At the end of July we hosted a party for my daughter who had graduated from high school back in May. It was a HOT and HUMID July afternoon, pretty par for the course for summer in the Midwest. I had decided that I was going to cater it all and not worry about a thing. It has been a stressful year and even harder summer, with lots going on in our family and little time to worry about the details of a backyard event. However, I did want to pull off a great party for my daughter who has worked so hard to get where she is and deserved a day of attention and celebration.

Lucky for me, Ted worked nonstop to get the yard ready. If you know us, you know we have a large backyard with a decent sized ~~swamp~~ wetland taking up a corner of it. There are random groundhog/skunk/raccoon holes all over it. Add a swing set, multiple trees, and a huge slope leading from the street level to the lower-level walkout basement, and he had a lot of work to do. Also lucky for me, I have a sister who came into town a day early to help with the indoor work. (Not lucky for me: A dog that has had extensive gastrointestinal issues which results in steaming cow pies in our yard and frequent sulfurous gas emissions.)

The day of the party we were in pretty good shape. That morning, we woke up at 8am to get the final decorations on the tent before the party started at 2pm. It was a steamy and hot already. (For the record, I am terrible in the heat. I sweat like a sumo wrestler in a sauna.) Franny, my sister Melissa, and I began by carefully moving the rented tables and chairs onto level ground to avoid the large divots in the yard. We gently placed the royal blue fancy tablecloths on the tables and made sure they hung evenly all around. Ted and his brother had strung outdoor lights throughout the tent. Franny assembled around 20 lanterns of different sizes and hung them evenly and symmetrically from one corner of the tent to another. Melissa spent a lot of time stringing together a banner of paper triangles to hang as bunting around the perimeter of the tent. We all worked hard as the time slipped by until around 12:30pm, when we felt we were done. We were drenched in sweat and disgusting.

We had about 45 minutes to get ready before the food arrived. Ted ran to the store to get ice and Franny ran to Target to get a last-minute item. Melissa and I went upstairs to shower. I even had time to sit on my bed after the shower and take a short break before the work began again.

Now, I realize this a long, boring build-up to my story. But you need to know the extent of the work that was done before disaster hit. And it hit fast and furiously. At 12:45pm, around an hour and 15 minutes before the guests would arrive, and after four hours of prep, Ted arrived home from getting ice to see a truck in our driveway and the tent guys packing up our tables and chairs.

Apparently, the owner “Steve” (I’m going to protect the poor guy and not use his real name), got his dates wrong. He thought pick-up was the day of my party, not the next day. The tent was halfway disassembled. The lights had been cut down and were tossed aside. The flags Melissa had so carefully strung and hung were ripped off the tent and lying crumpled on the ground. The tablecloths were in a pile in the dirt. (I really wish I had taken a picture to show you the extent of the damage, but the fury that overtook me prevented me from being calm enough to take a photo).

All I can say was I thought I was in a dream.

I don’t know how to explain what came over me, but I ran down to the yard yelling like I was possessed. It’s possible that the stress of 2026 funneled into my brain, personality, and mouth all at once and was released on that poor guy. I won’t repeat what I said, but it ended with Steve (a big, tall, burly man) sitting on a chair re-stringing those delicate flags with his beefy hands.

Side Note: I don’t know how a person could look at a tent that was strung with lights and banners and flags and lanterns and see tables covered in pristine clean tablecloths and maybe if you looked around notice that there wasn’t really any garbage laying around and not be able to deduct that maybe A PARTY HAD NOT HAPPENED YET. Why he didn’t stop short and think, “Hmm..maybe I should double check my dates,” or “Hmm..maybe I should knock on the door and ask them if they want their lights or lanterns or tablecloths before I rip them off this tent and throw them all on the ground,” I just don’t know.

We had a little over one hour to get the place set up again. Except this time, we had two very frightened tent workers helping us. I can’t comment on anything during his part of the day because I actually walked away and let the rest of my family handle it. What I can comment on with confidence, is that none of us ever really recovered from the heat. The next hour was such a rush that I started sweating again and never stopped. I did not wear what I was planning on wearing. I did not wear my hair down the way I was planning. (In fact, in the pictures from the party my hair is a disaster. Why did no one tell me?) My makeup ran off one hour in.

But in the end, it made a good story for everyone who walked through the door. “Did you hear what happened with the tent?” We all had a good laugh as it was fixed before the guests showed up and it looked nice enough that no one noticed. And as with every “I can’t believe this happened” incident with me (and they seem to happen often), mid-way through I was thinking, “This might make a good blog.” But was there enough material? Well, I shouldn’t have worried about that, because what happened the next day left me with no question.

Monday was a dark and overcast morning. It was obvious from the skies and the forecast a storm was coming. I wondered when the tent guys would come to pick up their things and was surprised they hadn’t arrived early in the day. I decided to go outside and make sure all the tables and chairs were completely underneath the tent. I was hoping to get some kind of refund for the trouble the day before, and the last thing I needed was the owner saying his tables were water-damaged and we could call it even.

At around 11:30am it started getting really dark. If you live locally, you will know that in some areas it was dark as night outside that day. Suddenly, the alerts went off loudly in unison on all the phones in our house. Tornado warning. Now, I will admit that I am lazy about tornado warnings. I don’t always take them seriously and go into the basement like I am supposed to. But this time was different. It was very windy and by now black as night. My friend Maggie was visiting, and she and Franny and I went into the basement with the dog and took shelter.

Now, mind you, I have a walk-out basement. So, even though we are “taking shelter,” there are two glass windows and a glass door that lead to the very wooded yard, so I am not sure how safe it actually is. But there we were. It was loud and windy and rain was pelting down and by the now the power was out and it was VERY dark. It was a little bit scary, and at one point I even thought I heard voices, but in a dreamy sort of way, like if you were in a horror movie and strangers show up at your door during a storm looking for shelter while running from aliens.

Except this horror movie was real life and the tent guys were outside my house. it was real life and suddenly Franny yelled, “The tent guys are outside!!”

Yes readers, the oh-so-bright tent gentlemen were back. Taking down my tent in the middle of a tornado.

I went to the door and opened it. Three grown men were wet and shivering on my back patio like stray dogs.

“THERE IS A TORNADO OUTSIDE. GET INSIDE” I ordered them. I was dumbfounded. I am sure I looked like a disappointed and confused mother. What on earth where they doing there? None of them moved. “Oh we’re okay, we’re just going to —” Steve started to say. “GET IN THE HOUSE NOW! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?” I interrupted.

Suddenly Steve looked to his right, “TREE FALLING!” he shrieked, and the next thing you know, he and his lackeys were running into my house while a tree crashed about 10 feet from where he was standing.

I was done with this mayhem. I started barking out orders. “Come in the living room. Don’t touch anything, you are wet and dirty. Don’t sit on my couch. Who is in charge?”

Turns out Steve was the owner. He went on to explain that according to the radar they checked, the storm had passed, so they decided to head to my house to collect the tent and tables. I mean, you don’t need radar to see that it is pitch black outside and windy and rainy and that a tree just fell down next to you. But anyway, there they stood in my basement for about a half hour until they felt it was safe to pack up and leave.

Epilogue: A few days later, the weather report showed c that an actual tornado had touched down in our area. In fact, according to the map, the path of the tornado literally passed through my property. I have to believe it touched down the minute I had opened the door and the tree fell. This is because it matches the time stamp of when I snapped a pic of the Steve and his crew in my basement. (Yes, I took a picture of them. I was already concocting the blog in my head as it was happening.) Unfortunately (or fortunately for them), the power went off as soon as I clicked so the picture is dark, which might be good because I don’t want them to sue me.

I know you are all going to want to know what the rental company was so you can avoid them, but I have used them twice now and I’m not going to ruin a guy’s business because of one mistake. He rectified it immediately and gave me a partial refund and was very apologetic.

Then again, when Ted said, “I’m sure you must feel horrible. This probably never happens to you,” Steve look at him and answered, “Eh, about once a year actually.”

I can’t make this stuff up.

**The path of the tornado,. X marks my house**

humor, Uncategorized

Tick, Tick..Boom!

It was an ordinary Friday morning. Which meant I was running late.

It was 7:30am and I was still in my bathroom putting on my makeup. I had to make my lunch, eat some breakfast and (hopefully) grab my Starbucks Vanilla Cream Cold Brew and still be at work by 8am.

Which meant that per usual, my hair would go up into a ponytail, causing me again to wonder why I spend close to $200 every three months at the salon when I don’t use my hair to its full potential.

As I pulled my hair back, I noticed a black-ish scab on my hairline. Right in the middle of my upper forehead.

“That’s weird,” I thought. I didn’t remember bumping my head or scratching a mosquito bite there. I couldn’t recall a late-in-life pimple (oh yeah, I still get them) popping and healing.

I scratched at it, but it didn’t move. I scratched a little harder. Nothing. I moved closer to the mirror (because yes, I can’t see a thing due to terrible eyesight). As I moved my head toward the mirror, a terrible thought occurred to me.

TICK!!!

As I got closer, I could see that the black spot was not a scab, it was a tick. Even worse, it was a LIVE tick. Yes, I had a live tick embedded in my hairline, its body firmly attached to me with its eight legs flailing around.

Now, I am fairly calm in a crisis. I can make rational decisions and take over and lead the people to safety if need be.

Exception: Once, when my kids were around 2 and 5, our family was in the kitchen together. Ted and I were preparing lunch when I looked down at my feet as saw a mouse there. (The only thing I have been able to conclude from the multiple times I have played this trauma over in my head is that someone let the dog in from outside and didn’t notice she had a mouse in her mouth. I assume she was leaving this treasure as a present for me.) Anyway, the second I saw that thing I screamed (and I mean SCREAMED) and went running into our office, leaping on top of the desk while shrieking at the top of my lungs, leaving my children alone, fully embodying the “save thyself” mantra. It was not my proudest moment.

So let me rephrase that. I am fairly calm in a crisis that doesn’t include a live animal.

Back to the tick.

By now I was freaking out. Sobbing and crying and panicking but still, of course, conscientious enough to text my coworkers that I would be late and by the way there was a tick in my head.

Now, I work in a grade school. Occasionally, we see a student come into the nurse’s office with a tick attached to them. In fact, just the week before, the school nurse, Olivia, had removed a tick from a student’s head while the poor boy was wailing and crying. At the time, I was fascinated with the whole procedure. But truth be told, I was also internally shaming him for overreacting. Mind you, this was a 10-year-old.

One week later and God was teaching me a lesson in empathy and humility.

I texted Olivia that she needed to get to my house now and remove this thing. We decided to meet at the school where the official tick-removing tool was. I was in no shape to drive, so Ted took me and dropped me at the door. Thankfully, my coworker, Diane, was already closing all the blinds in the nurse’s office and readying the room as if I were having surgery (which I kind of was). Less than 10 seconds later, Olivia had popped that sucker right off my head and placed it in a to-go bag for me.

After doing all sorts of research, I discovered that it was a male dog tick and was pretty harmless since it had not been attached long and left no mark. I am going to assume the culprit was the female husky that sleeps all over the house and rubs her body in any gross thing she can find in the yard. This is the first tick experience in the 24 years of living in this woodsy yard, so I am going to pray it was a one-off.

It has been a couple of months, and I still find myself itchy and paranoid and checking my dog periodically and trying to stay away from trees and bushes. I worry about every mark and piece of dirt on my skin. The other day I saw something small and black on my desk and jumped out my chair only to realize it was a crumb from the mint chocolate chip protein bar I was eating.

Overall, I would place this experience somewhere between the Fall of 2014 when we had lice in our house and having myself cut open twice during my C-Sections. Lice lasted much longer, but for some reason didn’t freak me out quite so much. Having C-Section’s is a longer recovery, but at least you end up with a baby at the end.

Then again….those babies stay attached to you much longer than that tick did…..:)

Uncategorized

How many days?

Is it possible to wake up cold and sweating at the same time? Even when you are not going through menopause? Well, that is how I was greeted Monday morning. I slept horribly, and not only because one of the campers woke me up at 2:30am to go to the bathroom. (This happened three out of the six nights I was there by the way.) I asked myself if it was child abuse to limit water in the sweltering heat. (No, I did not limit her water. Yes, I considered telling her that bears come out around 2am looking for tasty children.)

The day started with morning activities. These included Orthodox Life, arts and crafts, and swimming lessons. I had made an under-the-table agreement with my co-counselor that if she led all of the water activities, I would take cabin duty every night. What do I care about going to bed early? Let the youngsters have their fun and stay up late, as long as I didn’t have to get into mucky lake water. Unfortunately, when I ran this past the Water Safety Instructor, he had other ideas. With so many campers, they needed both of us to assist.

As we approached the water on day one, I looked over to see the Media Director. (Dammit, was that kid everywhere?) If you are familiar with my blog, you know that I have very little vanity. You have seen the terrible pictures of myself I have posted in the past. But this was going too far. I walked over to the poor kid, looked him directly in the eye and said, “There better not be one picture of me on the camp website in my swimsuit.”

“I got you,” he said, and nodded slowly. Honestly, I don’t care if I scared him or not.

Swim lessons were a disaster with various 8-year-olds crying and clinging to me and not wanting to go under water and thinking they were drowning. After about 15 minutes I was told I could take the criers to the shore and we were done. I happily got out of the water to dry off. Except…I could feel an itch on my leg. I looked down to see something black with a little blood on the back of my calf.

LEECH!!

Oh my gosh, could this camp hell get any worse? The only positive was that this was the moment I realized that I was going to turn this whole experience into a blog and so I better start taking notes on this nightmare.

Turns out the lake had leeches. The directors had taken steps to clear the lake by hiring “Raw Meat Robby,” a local who apparently did this for a living. He was a native of northern Michigan who showed up in his pickup truck, dog in the back, and dropped a bunch of raw meat in traps into the lake to catch the leeches. Yes, this really did happen. No, I don’t think he caught any. Yes, I still eat meat.

After swim lessons one of my little ones who had never been to camp before looked at me and said, “How many days?”

“How many days?” I repeated to her, confused. “Until what?”

“Until I go home.”

“Oh. Five,” I said. And then under my breath, “Same, girl. Same.”

Finally, we reached the end of the day. Just when I thought my responsibilities were over, I learned that a handful of the girls had never showered on their own before. Trying to manage ten girls to move quickly is hard enough; trying to do it with only five showers to work with and half of the girls not knowing what to do is unreasonable.

“Does everyone have a towel? Do you have clean underwear? Get the sand out of your hair! Wear shower shoes! Yes, you have to take a shower every day here! Listen, if you don’t let me comb your hair out I will NOT be around when your mom comes to pick you up!”

And that was just while we were in the cabin getting ready to walk to the bathroom. Then there was the shouting of instructions from outside the shower stall:

“Now shampoo?” one would yell.

“Yes, now shampoo!” I said as I undid the cap and squeezed it out on a hand that sprang out of the shower stall.

“Now conditioner?”

“Yes, now conditioner,” I said as I undid that cap and squeezed that out on another hand.

Finally, I got them all showered and fell into bed.

The next afternoon Franny came running up to me a little worried.

“Mom,” she said, “you’re going to have to do the Camper Save today.”

“Ok, ” I said,” what’s that?”

“It’s when they have a drill where they pretend a camper is missing and you have to go find them.”

“Ok,” I said again, not understanding her concern.

“Mom, you have to run really fast! Around the camp! There is a time limit!” I was insulted. How feeble did she think I was? Yes, it had been a few years since I worked out or run as a form of exercise, but it wasn’t like I couldn’t participate in a simple drill. Besides, this wasn’t a life or death situation. A camper wasn’t really lost. Quite frankly, I could barely get those girls to stop asking questions or give me some personal space, fat chance one was going to be away from me long enough to get lost.

Five minutes later my niece Melina approached me, looking very stressed. “Thea Sal,” (this is what she calls me), “you have to do the camper save today! You have to get out of it! Tell them you can’t do it!”

“Why?” I said, not quite getting why everyone was so freaked out.

“Because, you’re OLD!!”

It was actually very sweet of them to be concerned. I mean, if I was in their place at their age and one of my aunts had to run around a camp, I would have been concerned as well. On the flip side, I also would have wanted to watch it as I don’t think I ever saw any of them run before. Moms in the 80s didn’t really run for sport so it would have been entertaining.

When it was time, I headed down to the beach where the drill was supposed to begin. We were supposed to go in pairs to check various parts of the camp for the “missing camper,” which was actually a milk jug filled with sand. Initially, I was assigned to search the field, which was the farthest you could get from the beach. I would have had to run up an inclined path made of rocks, through the whole camp, past the driveway, and to the field. Suddenly my bravado went out the window. I looked at the kid in charge and said, “I’m 56. I am not running to the field.”

Honestly, as I recount these memories and my interactions with these poor young staff members, I am lucky I didn’t get written up for bullying.

I was instead assigned the lodge and some surrounding buildings. The timer went off and we all ran. I could go into the whole mess of how I searched my buildings and didn’t find Lost Camper, yadda yadda yadda, but the short version is…I forgot to check a building and Lost Camper died on my watch. Ironically, he was in the Infirmary. I argued that in real life a nurse should have been there to help him. But it was still a fail on my part.

By Saturday I was more than ready to go home. It was a hard week, but MDSC is still as magical as it ever was. I can still see that. But if I ever decide to go back, I will have it in writing that I will be working in the kitchen. And I definitely will NOT get into the lake.

aging, Being greek, humor, Uncategorized

Happy Camper?

This past summer, I revisited the Metropolis of Detroit Summer Camp (MDSC) for Orthodox youth that I had attended as a child and young adult. Starting at age seven, I would stay each summer for two weeks at this camp located in northern Michigan. I started sending my own kids there when they were in grade school, and for several years Teddy has been a lifeguard there. My sister, Melissa, and I have a deep love for MDSC. We had often spoken in recent years of going back as cooks so we could relive our youth (minus the swimming lessons and hiking through tick-infested forests). This year, the camp was severely short-staffed and was considering for the first time in their 75-year history of cancelling a couple of weeks of camp. As a result, Melissa and I decided to take the opportunity and go back as kitchen staff. Both our daughters were also going to be there as staff members. How fun would it be to go back to summer camp as an adult?

Not too fun it turns out.

The day we arrived at camp I was excited, but also a little nervous. As I arrived at check in, the director looked at me and said, “So you and your sister can decide which one of you is going to be a cook and which one is going to be a counselor.”

I’m sorry, what?

Apparently, they were so short-staffed that one of us was going to have to move to the junior girls (ages 7-10) cabin to be a counselor all week. There I was at a church camp, volunteering in an environment that helps to spread the word of God with selflessness and sacrifice, and all I wanted to say was, “I’m sorry, I came up here to hang out with my sister and bond over hamburgers and french fries, not watch a bunch of 8 year olds.” I went to find Melissa to discuss what we should do.

“I don’t care either way,” she said. “You decide.”

Being a counselor would mean going to swim lessons, doing arts and crafts, playing athletic games, and generally being a mom for a week. Cooking for 80 people would mean getting up at 6am, spending the day in a hot kitchen on my feet, and preparing food and doing the dishes. So, generally being a mom for a week. I chose counselor.

I chose poorly.

They placed me in a cabin built in the 1950’s with no ventilation or air. There were three sections: The left side was large, airy, and had real beds and mattresses. This is where Melissa and my daughter, Franny, were. The 10 junior girl campers were on the right side of the cabin in a similar room, but with bunk beds made of metal with thin mattresses.

My co-counselor, Emily (20 years old), and I were in a tiny, cramped, windowless, dark room between the two larger rooms, separated from the campers by a curtain. (Her name has been changed, not for privacy, but because we were at a Greek camp and if I use real names I am going to have to differentiate between Maria One, Maria Two and Maria Three and George the camper and George the counselor.) I was on a bottom bunk so low I couldn’t sit up without getting my hair caught in the metal spokes from the top bunk. The mattress was a three inch piece of foam I assume is similar to what they use in prisons. Oh, and did I mention the camp doesn’t have cell service? Everyone is supposed to give up their phone upon arrival, but I don’t think they dared ask me for mine after the bait and switch they pulled on me. But it didn’t matter anyway. The only way you could use your phone is if you could find out the secret wifi password, sneak to the top of the flagpole hill, stand in a certain spot, and make sure no one saw you doing it.

The embarrassment of being three decades older than the rest of the counselors happened almost immediately with the staff introductions. As your name is called, you are supposed to do a cute choreographed dance or chant with your co-counselor. This is adorable and fun if you are 20, not so great when you are 56. Emily and I decided to do a Disney channel spoof where we take the pretend wand and outline the Disney ear…and end in a crossed-arm-white-girls-trying-to-be-hip-hop stars pose. As you can see from the picture I was way off with my timing.

As if things couldn’t get worse, modern days have afforded the camp a Media Director. This position was filled by an adorable young man who spent his days going from activity to activity taking photos and uploading them to the camp website. Suddenly I felt sorry for celebrities who are constantly dodging the paparazzi. It is impossible to be “on” all day. You never knew when you were going to be in the background of a snapshot. I found out quickly that my “resting face” leaves me with little to no neck, and a chin that blends right into my sternum. I believe the clinical term for this ailment is referred to as “jowls.” (See pictures below.) By the way, when you look up the word “jowls” to make sure you are using it correctly, it directs you to pictures of Mastiffs and Great Danes.

The evening activity that day was a game of Gaga ball at the field. I am familiar enough with Gaga to know that I was not going to be able to match the energy and speed of the campers. I decided I would wait until they had a Wordle tournament or bird-identification test to show my real talents. I climbed into the pit, which I’m sure wasn’t a pretty sight. (Thank goodness the media director wasn’t around for that one.) Suddenly I had an idea.

“Hey,” I said to the closest kid to me, a boy around 10 years old. “If you cover me during this game I’ll get you an extra dessert tonight.”

God bless this child who spent the next ten minutes protecting me like I was a tribute in the Hunger Games. Every time the ball came near me, there he was, expertly deflecting it in another direction. This lasted the whole game until eventually it came down to him, me cowering behind him, and another counselor. Suddenly, my protector was out, and it was just me staring at a young man about 20 years old and the size of a tank. He gently rolled the ball toward me and hit my leg. That’s all it took.

I didn’t matter though, because at dinner that night I excitedly bragged to everyone that I got second place in Gaga ball while I discreetly took an extra piece of cake from the kitchen and handed it to my savior for the day.

And that was just day one.

If I wrote every crazy thing that happened it would be the length of a book, so I have split this blog up into two parts. I hope I have set the scene for you, because it’s going to be a bumpy ride. I am going to make you relive everything I experienced. It will be long. It will be hot. You will want to stop reading by day two. You will count down the days until it is over. Stay tuned next week for more escapades.

Uncategorized

Rite of Passage

If you are of a certain age, you may have already experienced the dreaded colonoscopy. Since I have a family history of colon cancer, I had my first one when I was 35 and have continued to have them regularly since then. As many people will tell you, the prep is usually worse than the actual colonoscopy. I mean, who wouldn’t want some alone time under a warm blanket, get in a fifteen minute power nap, and wake up to some Lorna Doones waiting for you?

So a couple of weeks ago Ted was due for the second colonoscopy of his life. The first one was five years ago. Back then, after the nurse had taken him back for the procedure, I had run out to get myself a coffee. When I returned, the entire waiting room was looking at me as I walked in.

“Are you Samantha?” someone asked. “They have been calling for you!”

Apparently, Ted had had the quickest colonoscopy known to man, and the nurses had been looking for me for several minutes while I was gallivanting around town. I sheepishly walked back hiding my iced mocha behind my back so I could tend to the patient.

Side note: Lots of my stories include me showing up somewhere late because I was getting a Starbucks. I almost missed the beginning of my son’s high school graduation because I was getting a drink, and by the time I arrived there weren’t any parking spots left. I had to do the walk of shame up the bleachers, squeezing myself into my seat as “Pomp and Circumstance” played.

As I said earlier, the colonoscopy preparation is usually worse than the actual procedure. First, you have to fast for a whole day. Now, that might not seem hard, but let me tell you…it IS!! Going a whole day without food is not easy. By about mid-day I am usually wondering how those people who have been stranded in the wilderness or lost on a raft at sea made it for days on end without anything to eat. I become very sympathetic to those rugby players who resorted to eating their friends after their plane crashed. Then, after not eating for twelve hours, you have to drink the most disgusting liquid ever created in the history of man. Over the years, advancements in medicine have helped to create more palatable potions to help you expel everything in your body, but apparently my doctor is old-school. He still likes the old standard: a slightly gelatinous, never-fully-cold-enough, faintly salty fluid. Just thinking of it makes me gag. And of course, there is a time constraint where you have to drink around 54 gallons of this stuff in an hour.

And then comes the real injustice of the day.

Just when you are saying to yourself, “I don’t think this stuff is working,” you suddenly need to make a beeline to the bathroom, shoving all people, dogs and furniture out of the way so you can get in there in time. And there you will stay off and on (literally) for the next 8 hours or so.

As Ted prepared for his procedure, Franny and I were business as usual that day. Now, a nicer wife would have been supportive and maybe had a bland dinner or eaten in secret so as not to make things worse for their spouse. However, that is not me. And this is because of an incident that happened during my very first colonoscopy many years ago.

Ted was invited out to dinner with some work colleagues. I may have been invited, (I honestly don’t remember), but I do remember telling him to just go, that I would rather have some privacy than have him stay with me and miss out on the dinner. When he got home that night, he had a huge piece of delicious chocolate cake with him. One of his coworkers had ordered it for me and sent it home with Ted, telling him that he hoped it all went well for me in the morning. I put it in the fridge, looking forward to eating it the next day.

The next day after I got home, I took a nap and rested a bit. I came downstairs to dig into that chocolate cake…and saw it wasn’t there.

“Ted,” I asked, “where is my cake?” It had been less than 24 hours. What could have happened to it?

“I ate it,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

Readers, I don’t need to go into what happened next, but it was on par with when he mentioned he was “tired and hungry” mid-way through my 16-hour labor with Teddy.

This is a legendary story in our house. And this is why Franny and I didn’t feel bad getting Panera for dinner.

The next day we drove to the clinic where Ted was having his colonoscopy and parked. Right before we got out of the car, he shut off the engine and turned to me. (It is important to mention here that Ted is a bit of a hypochondriac and highly suggestive. If we have chicken for dinner and several hours later I mention that I think maybe that chicken was actually a few days older than I thought, he will immediately get a stomachache. If I have a cough one day he will wake up with a worse cough the next day. If he goes to the doctor for standard check-up and the doctor orders routine blood work, Ted will tell you the “doctor is very concerned and is ordering blood work.”) So I braced myself for what was coming as he looked at me very seriously.

“Now, I don’t want to be on any life support or hoses. I have a one million dollar life insurance policy. Make sure you talk to our lawyer if anything happens.”

“YOU’RE HAVING A ROUTINE COLONOSCOPY!” I shouted. “The worst thing that’s going to happen is someone is going to eat your chocolate cake! I’ve had four colonoscopies and we have not once talked about my final wishes!”

He was not receptive to this response.

Thankfully, all went well. I stayed in the crowded waiting room so as not to get yelled at again. Ted got the all clear. And I didn’t have to execute his DNR.

I just wish I had known about that life insurance policy beforehand…

Never a Dulles Moment

Finding the absurd in the ordinary