It’s 3:30 a.m.

My knee – well, what’s left of it – is throbbing.

The house is dark and I’m lying here wondering how I got myself into this situation.

Genetics is both a curse and a blessing. I don’t look my age, thanks to my mom’s genes. I also got her bad knees which, at this moment, are the curse.

A few years ago, I noticed pain down the front of my leg whenever I’d pick up something heavy. That slight pain increased so I finally made a medical appointment.

The orthopedic doctor diagnosed arthritis, one of the most common ailments for women over the age of 50. I got a cortisone shot in both knees and instantly felt relief.

I could finally walk without limping, and believed I was cured.

Or so I thought.

For almost two years, the injections were a Band-Aid over an underlying problem of bone-on-bone on both knees plus the arthritis.

When the shots stopped working, I knew it was time to do what my mom and my sister both had done – total knee replacement.

I remember watching my mom walk down the hall at the rehabilitation center, cheered on by all of us as she took those first steps. She told the physical therapist she would do whatever it took to get out of there, and she did.

A few years later, my sister had both of her knees replaced at the same time. I thought she was brave. Now I know she was battlefield, front-of-the-light-brigade brave. She urged me to get the surgery, and when all other options were gone, I went for it.

The surgeon, Dr. Brady Rogers, was reassuring and professional. His friendly demeanor went right along with his honest conversations with me. I chose a time after the winter holidays and family birthdays, and in I went.

I tried not to think about the fact that Dr. Rogers would slice open my knee, take part of the knee out, shave away the arthritis and then put in a titanium knee that will forever stop me at airport security.

The pain the first and second day was mild. The meds from the hospital were still working their magic, and I stupidly thought the rest of the recovery was going to be that easy.

I did the exercises, rode the stationary bike, walked, and even unloaded the dishwasher and ran a load of clothes. I took the least amount of painkillers, patting myself on the back for having a high threshold of pain.

When the meds wore off, life was a lot different.

It hurt, and the pain was real.

I tried to be brave but had a meltdown on the third day. My husband fixed the machine that caused the problem, and I thought I was done with the worst part.

I was wrong again.

I didn’t want to take the higher potency pain killers, but when it’s the middle of the night and you’re all alone in the dark, that bottle looked like a life saver.

I admitted I needed the stronger meds, and I took them.

A couple of days ago, my sons and their families came to visit. Seeing their loving faces and watching our grandchildren play and laugh was all the medicine I needed. That night, I turned a corner on the pain and saw improvement from that moment on.

What’s really made the recuperation easier is the love and support of family and friends. Meals, flowers and best wishes have been flooding in.

The people I love and who love me might not realize how important their support is, but their love has made recovery faster and easier to bear.

Maybe it’s a trite saying, but having family and friends are not only important but also lifesavers, especially when times are tough.

I don’t know what I’ve done – or if the universe is simply extending kindness — to deserve this much mercy and love, but I’m not going to question these blessings. I simply know I am one lucky and extremely grateful gal.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

“Go past this light…”

“In 200 feet…

“Turn left at the next intersection…”

This is the voice of both my savior and my nightmare.

Most of the time, the GPS – Global Positioning System – is my driving companion. Because the system is almost always on, I’ve started talking to the GPS like it’s a person.

We don’t always agree.

“I know you want me to go that way, but there’s road construction that way,” I told the GPS one afternoon. “So, we’re going to go this way.”

The GPS will pout, resign itself to going a different direction and give me updated instructions.

Sometimes the GPS is a little slow in telling me which lane to get into to make a quick turn.

That’s when I get frustrated.

“You could’ve told me earlier I was going to have to turn left,” I’ll yell as I make a Batman-style turn.

The GPS doesn’t care I had to dodge three cars to carry out the move.

I did what it said.

The electronic voice is pacified.

Sometimes the GPS is my road trip guardian angel.

“There’s traffic ahead. I’m rerouting you.”

“This route is the fastest.”

“Road construction ahead. Would you like to reroute?”

Those suggestions are gifts from the traffic gods, ones I’m always happy to accept.

There are times we disagree and both of us get a little testy.

Recently, I’d been following the GPS directions to a Houston hospital. Take 59 north, get off at Main Street, turn right and then follow the GPS directions through the medical center maze to find the building.

Usually, I follow the GPS directions turn for turn, but this day, I wanted to pick up barbecue sandwiches on Kirby Drive. I exited Highway 59, and that’s when the conversation became a little heated.

The GPS wanted me back on the route it had chosen. I didn’t want to get back in bumper-to-bumper traffic and I had barbecue to pick up.

“Take the feeder road toward I-69,” the GPS insisted.

The GPS calls Highway 59 I-69, but for those of us who’ve driven in Houston for years, 59 will always be 59.

I paid no attention to the GPS voice because I knew I was going to stop for those sandwiches. When I turned right onto Kirby, the GPS was unhappy.

“Take the feeder toward I-69.”

I talked back.

“I don’t want to stay on the feeder,” I said with a touch of annoyance. “I’m going to the barbecue place.”

When I turned into the parking lot, the GPS was really annoyed.

“Return to the feeder road toward I-69.”

I was fed up.

“Forget it,” I said to the dashboard. “I’m getting barbecue right now.”

I turned the car off and hurried into the restaurant. When I returned, you’d think the GPS would be happy as the smell of brisket and barbecue sauce filled the air. But no, the single-minded GPS system demanded that I go back to the feeder road.

I decided the ride down Bissonnet was a lot prettier, so I turned onto that street, leaving 59 in my rearview mirror.

“Make a U-turn.”

I ignored the voice.

“Make a U-turn.”

At every single stop sign and light for the next mile, the GPS wanted me to make a U-turn and get back on the freeway. The trip became a battle of wits – the GPS voice versus the human who had the keys to the vehicle.

Finally, the GPS gave up and got with my program. When we got to the hospital 15 minutes earlier than the original trip the GPS planned, I smiled.

“See there smarty pants,” I yelled at the dashboard. “Sometimes we humans know better than technology.”

I wasn’t so smug on the way home when I went the way I wanted instead of what the GPS suggested and ran smack dab into a huge traffic jam.

I could almost hear the gloating “I told you so” coming from the dashboard.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.   

I listened to a radio show on the way home, and the host was talking about spending the day with someone famous. People called in with Jesus being one of the top names.

Also mentioned were people from history, like Abraham Lincoln, sports personalities or influential politicians. All are top choices, but there are events in life I’d love to experience again.

The first time I saw the Grand Tetons in the early morning light.

Watching a golden sunset over the boulders of the Pacific Coast.

Floating in the waters of the Gulf of Mexico without a care in the world.

As pleasant as those events sound, spending time with people is what’s most intriguing. There are people in my family who are no longer here that I’d love to get to know better.

One of the top people on that list would be my grandfather, Henry Eade. He was a wonderful storyteller, and I’d love to hear more stories about his days growing up in Lebanon. His father left his family and came to America for a better life.

I’d treasure learning how my grandfather and his mother made enough to feed a family and keep a roof over their heads.

I’d love to hear him talk about how he got started in business and about all the opportunities he took and the ones he missed. Henry Eade was a spiritual man, and I’d love to hear his quiet explanations about destiny and following one’s dreams.

I’d love to spend the day with my dad. I used to think if I ever talked to him again, I’d ask him pointed questions about his struggles, and ultimate success, over alcohol abuse.

But that’s not how I’d waste my time with him.

I’d want to spend the day talking about the little things in his life.

I probably heard his daredevil stories at least a dozen times, but what I wouldn’t give to hear the story of his looking for buried treasure one more time. What I wouldn’t give to hear his voice, a voice that grows dimmer in my memory with each passing day.

My dad was a master joke teller, and I’d love to hear some of his top jokes. Then I’d ask him for advice about how to be a better grandparent. For all the faults he had as a parent, he was an incredible grandfather.

I’d love to learn how he endeared himself to each one of his grandchildren, leaving them with sweet memories.

But more than spending the day with someone who’s passed away, if I had the choice and the power, there’s a special request I’d make.

I wish I could go back and experience a day with my sons when they were young, before they were grown men with families of their own.

For one day, I’d love to be a mommy again.

I’d like to spend a day with each one of my sons beginning with when they were born. I’d spend time rocking and holding them. I wouldn’t worry about folding clothes or cleaning the house.

I’d cuddle and snuggle them until they’d fall asleep in my arms, lose myself in that sweet baby smell and hold their tiny little hands.

Then I’d spend time with them as toddlers. We’d play with toys, have tickle fests and eat ice cream cones and splash in water puddles.

We’d take slow walks, stopping to look at everything along the way – spiders, ants, the cracks in the sidewalk, flowers and dew on the grass. As the day progressed and they grew, I’d spend time talking to them about what they liked, who their friends were, what they thought about life in general.

I’d spend more time listening, hugging, smiling and savoring every minute of being with my children and the people who made me who I am.

Having the opportunity to go back and experience those days isn’t a wish that could come true. But I’ve been given a second chance.

I might not be able to hold my own babies again, but I can love, snuggle and enjoy every minute I can with our grandchildren who are extraordinary humans.

Being with them is a dream that can come true.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

 

Last year, Taylor Swift performed live to a crowd of 96,000 people in Australia. It’s amazing how anyone could conquer stage fright to sing in front of a huge audience.

Now imagine teenagers singing, dancing and performing in front of a theater packed with relatives, peers and teachers. That’s exactly what many of our thespians did over the past month through their live musicals.

Our granddaughter has been in theater since junior high, and she loves immersing herself in a production, whether it’s a dual role of nice and mean teacher in “Miss Nelson is Missing,” the hysterical Clairee Belcher in “Steel Magnolias” or funny Sister Mary Patrick in “Sister Act.”

I’ve watched Kylie grow in confidence as she auditioned for, and earned, starring roles on the stage. It’s amazing seeing her friends perform in costumes, wigs and make-up. We’re used to seeing them in T-shirts and jeans, but they are transformed once they step on that stage.

Unlike professional performers, these teens attend classes all day, writing essays, learning algebra and completing study packets, and then go to the theater.

They build sets, including painting and decorating. They assemble the costumes, many of them learning to sew on buttons and stitch rips. They comb and style wigs and make sure the make-up trays are filled and clean.

They learn lines and practice dances and songs. In after-school rehearsals, they learn where to stand, how to work the lights and how to play off another character.

The bonds they develop in theater run deep. Not only because they spend so much time together, but because they depend on each other to make the characters, play or musical come seamlessly to life.

Fine arts relationships start early. Our youngest granddaughter is in the sixth grade, and her junior high staged their first-ever musical concert this week. Families sat in folding chairs to watch these nervous pre-teens perform.

One duo seemed to struggle a bit. I glanced at the back where Katherine and the other performers were waiting. They were standing up, acting out the hand motions and mouthing the words to their friends on the stage. I could feel their encouragement, and I knew the singers on the stage could as well.

Two girls sang “Defying Gravity.” One of the girls was in a wheelchair, and she sang the main part of not letting anything hold her down. Seeing her growing confidence and how she moved her chair along with the music, her partner encouraging her as well as all the other singers in the back, brought the audience to tears.

Fine Arts brings out the best in people, especially our young people.

The performance is all about entertaining the audience and making sure they come along with the actors on a fantasy journey.

Many thanks to the directors who work tirelessly before, during and after school for ensuring these young actors and singers see their hours of rehearsal come alive on the stage.

The next time you see an advertisement for a high school musical or concert, do yourself a favor and go. Lose yourself in the magic of the stage and forget about the troubles of the real world.

You’ll laugh, you’ll cry and, most of all, you’ll be amazed at how these young people will melt your heart.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.