POST Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome

In an encouraging, but short-lived burst of energy yesterday, I decided to hand wash some of my favorite sweaters. I'd been planning to do this since the holidays and, until yesterday, it just wasn't even an option -- or a necessity, since I've been living primarily in sleep pants and camisoles for the past two months.

As I gathered the sweaters I wanted to wash, I came upon a beautiful scarlet (crimson?) cashmere sweater.

I took it off the shelf, unfolded it, and wondered where this beautiful sweater came from. Why was it in my closet? Who did it belong to? Where did it come from? Was it a gift? It must have been, because I could never afford a cashmere sweater like this one.

As I stood there, it slowly -- very slowly -- came back to me. The day before my accident, I had brought a box of items to the local Goodwill store and, having a few minutes to kill, decided to go into the store and browse a bit. That's when I found this sweater! I tried it on, loved it, and bought it... along with... along with... damn, I couldn't remember.

Along with... wait, it's coming back to me.

Dishes? Corningware? I went into the kitchen and opened the cabinet. Yes! Ah ha! Along with these:

At that point, I began to recall my entire trip to the Goodwill store, something that I had completely forgotten until the sweater in my closet touched off the memory.

My injury occurred a full day after my trip to the Goodwill, yet I'd forgotten all about it. Why? What else had I forgotten?

Suddenly, something my boss had asked me about was beginning to make sense. A few weeks ago, he'd wondered about the status on a particular detail of a particular project. I'd drawn a complete blank and had no idea what he was talking about -- something that's bothered me ever since, because I pride myself on never dropping balls in my project management work.

I went back through my e-mails, looking into the issue my boss had inquired about, and there it was: at 11:35 PM on January 4th, I received an e-mail asking me to look into the issue. I'd begun to do just that, then decided to take a short break to take Shasta for a walk with Tom.

Instead, I fell and broke my ankle -- and dropped that ball.

Is this how post traumatic stress manifests itself? Did I simply lose a day of memories here and there around the time of the accident? Why would I lose memories from before the accident, instead of after it? And why do I have a few selected crystal clear memories about the accident itself?

I remember having both hands over my face as a way to try to deal with the pain. (Huh? Why?) I remember Tom whispering into my left ear, "You'll be OK, Sweetheart, help is on the way." (I know why I remember that -- because we don't normally use endearments or pet names for each other, and his use of "sweetheart" made me gush, even through the pain.) And I remember Peter, who has EMT training, coming outside to help, and feeling immediately that I was in strong, capable hands as he asked me to squeeze his finger... and then I didn't let go, and I held onto his hand. I remember absolutely needing to get off the steps and lie flat so I could put my head back because I felt like I'd pass out, and Peter gently helping me move into that position.

And, triumphantly, I remember the ER nurse at the hospital telling me I wouldn't remember her -- and I definitely do! (But damn, what was her name?!)

I can't explain any of this -- especially since I had no head trauma, so I can't understand why my injury messed so strangely with my memories. But I guess that's the mystery of post traumatic stress syndrome, and why it elicits more questions than answers for so many people.

Oh, no! Say it isn't snow!

Hey, Baby. Ya want smooth, tight, and BURPY?!

I'm a Tupperware whore. Worse, I'm an '80's Tupperware whore. Here -- look:

Not sure what this says about me (other than that I'm a meticulously organized mom and project manager... duh!), but there you have it -- my, um... tidy little secret.

Other than canned goods, very little makes its way into my kitchen fully cloaked. In fact, I pretty much strip it all down the minute it gets past my front door.

My kids are cerealbox-reading virgins, pure as the day they tasted their first Cheerio. I never even allowed them the opportunity, poor deprived, sheltered kids that they are!

Even my gadget drawer is dominated by Tupperware party freebies.

Would you believe that we even used to eat on plastic Tupperware plates, from when the kids were babies until... well, far too recently. I think it was only when they were in junior high that we finally moved to ceramic plates, primarily because we'd just gotten into the habit of using plastic square plates and didn't give it a second thought.

And I'm embarrassed to tell you that it's only been since they left home that we brought our favorite Dansk dishes (which were a wedding present!) into the "everyday" cabinet -- not because I didn't trust the kids not to break them, but because I'd hidden them in the "special occasions only" cabinet and totally forgotten about them!

Pretty pathetic, isn't it?

I'm Steppin' It Up

This is what I've been scared of for the past two months.  I've made it up these steps that lead to my office once or twice since my injury, but mostly on my butt and always with people there "to catch me."  (Ha!  I'd take us all straight down if I were to fall!)

Today I arrived at the office alone and stood at the bottom of the steps alone (and snapped this photo as I pondered my fate)...  

Then I took a deep breath, planted my crutches (which I have to double up, since I hold on to the railing for dear life with one hand) and embarked upon my uphill battle.

My laptop is essentially my office and it, along with a few files and a notebook, travels with me in my backpack, which probably weighs about 12 to 15 pounds altogether.  That totally throws off my center of gravity -- which is an important consideration when climbing stairs using crutches.

I started in on the rhythm which takes all my concentration: plant crutches... hold railing... steady...lean over step... step up with good foot...bring up injured foot... steady again.  Plant crutches... hold railing... steady...lean over step... step up with good foot...bring up injured foot... steady again. crutches...hold railing...steady...step up.

When I got to the top of the steps, I turned around and snapped a photo of my achievement:

It might not look like much to you, but I felt like planting a flag, declaring myself victorious, and calling home from the top of the world!

Where'd Everyone GO?!

Is it just me, or have you noticed this void of commerce around you too?

This used to be the area's K-Mart.  This parking lot was usually filled with cars, and people would be coming and going at all hours.

Now? Not so much.  In fact, not at all.

This is the Mongolian Grill restaurant in our town.  It's our favorite local restaurant and we go there often -- though less often lately, both due to my injury and to the economy.  It's not unusual to have to wait for a table, even on a weeknight.  

But last night at 7:30, the place was a ghost town: 

How has the changing economy affected things in your town?

(Almost) Wordless Wednesday

(Presenting the contents of tonight's fortune cookie.  This must be referring to NEXT winter...)

Please don't tell me I've done this to my kids!

So I was at the kitchen sink, scrubbing a frying pan, when I looked out the window and caught the figure of a gray cat, looking up into a tree.  Since both Boo and Bailey are gray and the cat was near the back of the yard and facing away from me, I wasn't immediately sure which cat this was -- Boo...

...or Bailey:

As I looked at the gray cat staring up into the tree, I assumed it was Boo, and immediately thought to myself, 'That sly hunter!  He's stalking his pray in the tree, calculating his next move...  What a smart cat!'

As the cat turned toward me for a moment, I realized that it was actually Bailey and caught myself thinking, 'What a space cadet, staring up into nothingness like that!  My god, what does go on in that airy little Bailey-brain?!'

I was immediately ashamed, of course, and I couldn't help but wonder whether I'd done this to my KIDS at any point.  If I had, surely that would have scarred them for life and I'd be guilty of horrible parenting filled with all the taboos -- stereotyping, favoritism, assumptions, and all those other travesties that lead to negative self-esteem, insecurity and... oh my god, a life of crime?!

Have a screwed these guys up for life?  I simply can't bear the responsibility!  Must I now reflect upon all those times that I might have treated them unfairly and not even realized it, skewing expectations and stereotyping my own children? 

Oh my god, what have I DONE?!

Sigh.

On second thought, they seem pretty balanced to me -- and they certainly have each carved their own path with confidence and aplomb.  They sure don't hesitate to be exactly who they are, no matter what any of the others -- or Tom and me, for that matter -- think of it. 

I guess they'll be OK.

But it looks like it will take some major snuggle sessions to repair the damage I probably did to poor Bailey. 

Confession

I will be unavailable  this evening between 8:00 and 10:00 PM because... because... well, actually, it's because I'm doing some, um, market research regarding a local Seattle dignitary.

Er... personality.

Well... celebrity.

OK, fine -- pop culture icon!  Geeze.

(Jason Mesnik, Kirkland, Washington: ABC's The Bachelor)