automotive, Chronic Illness, Chronic Pain

Windshield Fairies for my Birthday

Nobody gets by unscathed, no matter how well maintained. We were meant to break, but we were meant to kindly build each other back up. That’s what my birthday was like, because my husband is my rock.

My family’s cars have been used and reused. They are in a constant state of repair.  We have four. I know, it’s ridiculous. My husband’s day job is managing information and programs for a major air conditioning company. His night and weekend job? Maintaining our vehicles. My day job is managing my body and energy. My night and weekend job? Feeling guilty about my day job. I know, I have to get a better job.

Happy Birthday to me!…. For my birthday, my husband scheduled time for auto glass repair technicians to come to our home to replace windshields on the Honda and the Chrysler. Yes, for my birthday, on my birthday. It was one of the best presents I could have asked for. I had gotten so sick and tired of  hearing myself nag to my husband about the cracks that go across both windshields. I have been nagging for a couple of years now. I can still hear my annoying, whining voice in my head, squawking about that windshield. I was equally annoyed by his continual retorts that it wouldn’t be worth it, because the vehicles probably wouldn’t make it through another Wisconsin winter anyway. So, should I wait until winter for it to crack apart and crash onto my lap? Call me crazy, but driving down the highway with thousands of cracked windshield cubes on my lap in subzero temperatures is not my idea of fun. I may be a Green Bay Packers fan, but not one of those crazy ones that wants their eyes frozen shut as they drive down the road. That would be very unsafe. So, after a couple of years of whining, he scheduled to have them repaired. On my birthday.

Happy Birthday to me!… The day before my birthday I took my migraine pills, cursed fibromyalgia, tested out a magnetic bracelet for pain relief, wondered how much of my fatigue was a part of cancer treatment recovery,  slept away the day and held my breath to see if the windshield fairy truly would come. By day, my husband Mike was working and making meals. By night, he had pulled the Honda into the garage to make another dream come true; Mike would fix the brakes on the Honda so that our son can drive to a new high school, out of our district, to pursue the educational experience he dreams of. Meanwhile, Jake, our son, drove the Focus back and forth to the city for auto parts.

It was 8:20 p.m. when I woke up to Mike saying that he had to leave. Jake had been in a car accident and that Jake said he was alright. He had been hit while turning by the auto parts store. Knowing that Jake was alright and that Mike was there for him, I decided to stay in bed and rode the struggle bus with my headache and nausea. Texting and waiting to be texted, I worried. Somehow, they still had managed to get the parts for the brakes before the store closed at 9:00 p.m.. The guys got home safely and I convinced my husband to wait until morning to get the Focus towed home. He had had a long enough day. 

7F13C5BE-312D-40C5-B935-2D7B97A3A253The next day was my birthday. I felt a little better. Slow, but steady. I ate. Mike took the Honda with its new brake drums to meet up with the tow truck driver and the Focus in the city. As rain sprinkled through a sunny sky, the windshield fairies arrived in my driveway, prepared their work area and tools, then swiftly got to work.

Windshield fairies don’t do brakes, which is unfortunate. Although Mike had fixed the brakes on the Honda, he had to drive home with only the emergency brake. He had done a fine job of fixing the brake drums, but the fix had fixed so well that the increased pressure broke the rusty brake lines.  Mike made it home safely to our driveway where the two grown fairies stood with their work truck for an extra hour. Patient and kind were they.

Two broken cars, a tow truck and Mike made it back home safe and sound. And the magical auto glass specialists were there ready to make our road views anew. After they had fluttered around and buzzed on their cell phones for an extra hour in wait to once again work their magic on another windshield, we filled the garage with the Honda, that apart from the broken windshield we thought had been fine that morning. The tow truck crane gently took the smashed car to a second rate spot on the lawn. Sweeping into the garage, the windshield fairies once again worked their magic. Mike gave the fairies an extra treat for being so kind to stick around and work their magic on the second windshield. Everyone was safe, sound, sick of cars. Well, Mike and I were anyway. Happy Birthday to me!

It still being my birthday, I rested on the couch. But, my son wanted to do something to make my day special. Bless his heart. We all sat outside in the sun at my favorite restaurant. I had a Dr. Pepper with my favorite meal. Soda is like poison for your body, yet I felt compelled to reward myself with some. A very old lady said that her secret to living to an old age was having a Dr. Pepper everyday. It doesn’t really extend your life. We capped off the day around a campfire with family and drove safely home. Happy Birthday to me!…

Within only days, there have been a couple of trips back to the automotive store and my husband has worked his own magic on restoring the brakeline. Our son’s dream of taking the Honda to his new school has come true.

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And… now we are onto the body of the Focus.

Life, it’s chronic.

 

Thanks for visiting!

Chronic Illness, Chronic Pain

K.I.S.S.- Keep It Simple Silly!

Why keep it simple?Because more is too much.

Let’s aspire to K.I.S.S.

Stress kills the body and the soul. In the U. S. of America, ‘more’ is cool. Half an hour drive away from my home is the city of Arcadia. It’s slogan is “Arcadia is ‘More.”: More? More what? It must not matter, as long as it is more. Every commercial… more, more, more. More stress is more like it. More stuff, more social connections, more activities, more money, more education, more candy, more wine, more work, more responsibilities, more sleepless nights. Being overly busy is complicating our lives and stressing us. This culture I grew up in, of material composition and social standing had lured me into making my life complicated. I have done that. I have learned to partake in activities that bore me. I have learned to commit to small talk and pretend to find humor in topics that don’t seem either sensitive or well thought out. I have contributed by volunteering in activities that require shy people like me to be very uncomfortable. People like me get lonely in a room full of people. It is draining. “Keep it Simple Silly” is again my goal for 2018, to live according to my nature in order to live outside the world of stress and hurried frenzy. Trying to deny our vulnerabilities as humans is stressing. I push through pain of fibromyalgia and it produces longer, more intense pain. I push through chronic fatigue and it knocks me down even harder. ‘More’ produces more stress. Less is less stress. Keep it simple silly!

Let’s aspire to K.I.S.S.

When I was little, there was a man who lived out in the country down the road from my grandparents. I never did see him. His grass grew long.  If someone actually lived in his house, I had not ever witnessed anyone come or go. Family told me that he was a hermit. I was young and didn’t understand what kind of creature a hermit is. I imagined that a hermit must look like an ogre. That hermits were homicidal. The word ‘hermit’, I learned, was an accusation and an insult. Only scary, creepy people are hermits. Yet, he had a name. He was a person. I wondered why someone didn’t just go see him. I wondered why the neighbor was hiding. Through the eyes of a child and the wisdom of adults, I concluded that he must have been forced to be a shut-in. I imagined he had no life, no possessions, no lawn mower. I assumed that he must be empty. How lonely, I imagined. Never would I want to be that much alone, to sit in a house and stare at a wall all day. That would never be me. I would change the world. I would be free. I would blend in. What would that even look like? Fear of rejection makes us put on certain social masks. I had to learn the tricks and habits of social interactions that I found disingenuous. It was something I assumed that I would have to learn in order to lose the feeling of being looked down upon. Fear drives us to make our lives more complicated. It took way too much energy to keep hiding behind social masks. Worried about blending in and being accepted? Keep it simple silly! Simply share your kindness. It is not more complicated than that.

Let’s aspire to K.I.S.S.

I didn’t possess the secret necessary to blend in; or the shoes. I didn’t have the shoes. I was allowed the gift of very practical, comfy “old lady shoes”. I wanted flats like everyone else. The kind that your feet would freeze in should you live in Wisconsin. It is just what every teenager can use in order to help form an identity and feeling of belonging to the peer group. The pants. The jeans were too short and too wide. I used binder twine as a belt. Yes, a skinny girl with the body of a young boy. Only a few shirts, a few sweaters; rotating them strategically in hopes that no one would notice or judge. But, I really did not need more. I just wanted ‘more’. But, like my mom always said, “School isn’t a fashion show”. I didn’t want to believe her, because when I got there everyday I would see the trendy sweaters and skirts and shoes and hairstyles How pleased people were with these things and how they commented on others’ appearances. It looked like a fashion show to me, but school wasn’t a fashion show for me. It was a place to learn and a place to be able to participate in track and cross country. I fit in. All I had to do is run. Besides that, school was a place where I had the one friend I could tell about my crushes, but not about my insecurities; because I was weird, not weird in a bad way, just weird in a hermit way, like the guy without a lawn mower. Kind girls let me sit silently at the lunch table and just listen as they carried on with conversation. Get me in a group of people outside of home, and I would maybe talk to one person. There is a lot to be learned when you are the silent type. Nobody knows what you’re thinking and nobody finds out that you don’t own a proverbial lawn mower. If I put my thoughts out there, I would have to explain myself. Justify myself. My simplicity would be exposed. I would not fit in with ‘more’ people. Keeping thoughts to myself, things seemed simpler that way. Without the differences being pointed out, I wouldn’t need more. The shame would be avoided. I could still be myself. I didn’t need to chase after more.

Let’s aspire to K.I.S.S.

Do you have a disorder? Aspiring to be more is requiring people to see their social differences as disorders. It is standard to conform to the expectation that if we are different than the social norm, then we must admit it as a disorder. We can not simply have struggles. Struggles are only for the disordered. If you want to be considered as having an acceptable difference, you must advertise it as a disorder. Others may be uncomfortable that I think too much, or I am too socially anxious, or too sensitive, or too shaky or too introverted or too chronically ill. Yes, apparently it is becoming necessary to have a disorder in order to explain away your struggles. Nobody really has a disorder. It’s a scam for you to feel just inadequate enough that you will be more likely to conform. Let’s keep it simple.  Struggling is simply necessary, but being ashamed of struggling is not a necessary stress.

Let’s aspire to K.I.S.S.

The ‘real’ world does not have to revolve around jobs and being friends with everyone. It does not have to involve making connections in order to manipulate ways of getting more stuff or more relationships or make status. You already have more ‘stuff’ and interesting experiences to talk about. I already have influence. It seems like saving the ‘real’ world would mean that I would have to be more; more connected with more stuff. There was a time when I went to work and I couldn’t park my car on the street side of the business, because it was an embarrassment to the company. It took me awhile to make the connection that the business needed a more professional image. Professional meant powerful, more influential, more important. Professional meant the art of social persuasion, small talk and most importantly, stuff. More stuff. More conflict. Less simplicity. More stress. I like to think that when I questioned why I had to move my car, it gave pause to my boss on how he was pretending to be someone he wasn’t so that he could have more. By the way, that boss ended up closing the business and starting up a business where employees can park their cars and it doesn’t matter what they look like. Good for him! He simplified his life with his wife and child.

Let’s aspire to K.I.SS.

Fast forward to today. I am college educated with a nuclear family, a mortgage, a debt and dependable vehicles. Vehicles, not vehicle. We have a new house, professional clothing, four cats, a flat screen t.v. and electronics I don’t know how to use. Being chronically ill, my days are not predictable enough for a full-time job. Unwarranted guilt adds to my stress. Volunteering fulfilled some of that void. Volunteering has me doing more stuff. Keeping the balance between home, self and community even more complicated. My husband makes the money for the medical bills, for the kids’ activities, for our children’s college, for the stuff. More work, less simplicity. More doing, less being.

Let’s aspire to K.I.S.S.

Do we all not know how ridiculous and self-sacrificing it is to do more? Should we be saying, “Keep it Simple Silly?” It can be simple. You may not seem as successful or social or cool, but you may be able to live with your true self without guilt, without sleepless nights. It can be simple again. Get rid of the crap and keep it simple. Save yourself if you want to save the world. Put on that oxygen mask and breathe. Be what you love. Love what you are, not what you have. Keeping it simple will clear away the smog that keeps you from seeing the beauty and simplicity of life.

Let’s aspire to K.I.S.S.

Having more and doing more is chronic. Simplicity breeds clarity and perspective. Simplicity is inspiring the way that the “Life is Chronic” blog will be set up. It will feature blogs that were written when I make it a priority, not to meet a quota. It will be written to reach those who stumble upon it and like it. It will sometimes be written when I am sharp and also when I am not so sharp. It will not use shocking or mentally manipulating titles to snag people into reading it. That may seem contrary to the typical money-raising goal of reaching more people and getting more advertisements so that more money goes around, keeping it simple and genuine. It inspires me to draw pictures for you, instead of searching through quantities of photos, searching for the perfect one. The artwork on this post is brought to you by me. It is brought to you with patience and intent, the intent to show you that this blog is just about the most broad topic ever to be considered a niche: life. Get rid of the shit and keep it simple. Save yourself. It’s your life.

Let’s aspire to K.I.S.S.

Let’s Keep It Simple Silly! Let’s get rid of the material stuff that distracts us. Let’s get rid of the mentality that we have to do more. Maybe you already do that. I applaud you. It has been over a month since my last blog entry. Partly because I was distracted by breast cancer treatment, fibromyalgia and chronic fatigue syndrome, but partly because I am distracted by the stuff available on social media. I recently have been sucked into Smule. It is a karaoke app and it is a great way to have fun. Keep it simple, though or you’ll find yourself sucked into caring how many invites you get and feel compelled to sing more songs simply because you were ‘invited’ to do so! It is now time for me to enjoy the simple process of drawing a picture. For the benefit of me and you. K.I.S.S. my friends! Life is chronic.