Pre-op

PhotoI just bought Stephanie a new car – well, a new used car.  She was driving my 2007 Acura MDX.  It has 260,000 miles on it.  It’s on hold for Michelle who gets her license in two months.  It has to make it for three more years before I can afford another.

Sometimes I feel like I have 260,000 miles on me.  On Saturday I turned 53.  I still have some hair which is good, but there seems to be less on my head and more in my nose and ears.  Sometimes my knees hurt.  Sometimes my right hip hurts.  My cholesterol is high, and I couldn’t touch my toes unless you amputated them and put them on the table.

And tomorrow I am scheduled for shoulder surgery.

When I first saw the doctor for the incessant ache to the left of my neck, he told me I had several bone spurs.  “Simple surgery.  You won’t need physical therapy, and you’ll be back to normal in no time.”

I think he sells used cars on the weekend.

When I went in for my pre-op appointment in May, the physician’s assistant told me that I would not be able to lift weights at the Y for 10 – 12 weeks.  That is not “no time.”  So I cancelled the surgery.  When I went in for pre-op in late July, because my shoulder still hurt, the same PA gave me a waiver and shared the news that, although unlikely, I might die from this surgery.  I cancelled again.  Last week I went back for my third pre-op appointment because my shoulder still hurts.  They made me put down a deposit.  The only thing I like more than not having surgery is money.  I assume I will be sliced open like an apple this week.

My parents enjoy surgery.  When one of them has a procedure, the other gets jealous and gets the same one.  They both had their eyes lifted because the skin on top was skewing their sight.  They both had their hands operated on because they hurt, and they couldn’t open the pickle jar.  My mom just had knee surgery.  She told me, “I need to get well soon because your dad has to have the same thing done to his knee.”  I’m guessing my dad tried to have a hysterectomy after my mom.  They are like conjoined twins that aren’t attached anywhere.

I think they sort of look at their bodies like car maintenance.  I call the dealership when the service needed light comes on in my vehicle, “I’m showing a B12 indicator light, what needs to be done?”  “An oil change, draining and replacement of your rear differential fluid, a full check of the transmission and a tire rotation.”

They call the doctor with similar questions:  “I’m showing an 80+ indicator light Doc.  What needs to be done?”  “A colonoscopy, an eye lift and a double hip replacement.”  “Can you take me on Thursday?”

I am not looking forward to this week.  Nor am I looking forward to the next “10 – 12” weeks of recovery.  I’ll let you know how it goes in an upcoming blog post… that is if I can type.

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Hurricanes, Go AWAY!

It must have been the first of September in 1996 when Lisa’s grandmother, Tutu, called to see if she and Papa could stay with us.  Hurricane Fran was on her way.  The grandfolks were living in a very nice retirement community in Wilmington.  The place was evacuating.

I loved Tutu and Papa.  She was more fun than a barrel of monkeys, she called me Mr. Wonderful.  And he, he was just a very good man.

Fran left us without power for over a week.  The devastation was significant in eastern and central North Carolina.

Toward the end of their stay, Tutu called a friend who had evacuated with the other residents of the retirement community on chartered buses.

“How was the armory?” Tutu asked.

“We didn’t stay at an armory!  We stayed at the Omni.  The nicest hotel I’ve ever been to!”

While Tutu and Papa had been roughing it out in an unairconditioned home, brewing coffee on the backyard grill, their friends had been hooting it up at a five star hotel in Chapel Hill, NC, one city over!  Apparently, they didn’t clearly catch the evacuation plan.

For Florence, my workplace had an extensive, well thought out plan.  One slight glitch:  I was assigned to check on our corporate office in the event of significant damage.  Made sense.  I live nearby.  The conference call for preparations went something like this:

We may take the servers down on Thursday afternoon.  If we do, we will just need someone to bring them back online when the weather clears.

I heard a few snickers on the line.

Someone asked, “Didn’t you say Danny was the primary contact for the corporate office?”  My name was emphasized like when Scotty Cannon didn’t pick me for the kickball team in elementary school – “I don’t want Danny on my team.”

More snickers.

I knew what they were implying.  I’m not that technical.  My mind is just not made that way.  But I am very adept at talking, something not every IT genius excels at.

I jumped in the conversation:  Hey, hey.  I know what you’re implying.  Don’t you worry.  Those little servers are in very good hands!  I got it.  By the way, where are the servers and will they have food?

I knew that’s not the sort of server they were talking about, but it was fun to envision the head IT guy squirm a bit.  I’m still frustrated that my Google Chrome keeps cutting off for no reason what-SO-EVER!

I am thankful that, for the most part, my family and friends were sparred the worst from the storm.  I am, however, very sad that so many people are suffering.  And often it seems like those who get the most damage are the ones with the least financial resources.  My heart goes out to them.  Perhaps we can all find a way to contribute to the recovery effort.

Roll Call

Last week, at Elon’s orientation, Julie and I were with a group of parents and were asked how many kids we have.  It’s sort of complicated, I thought to myself, but at the time, the word “five” just rolled off my tongue.  The other females in the group looked at Julie like she had lost her mind because y’all, that is a lot of kids!  Like more than two is a great plenty.  But FIVE?  Had she birthed them all she would have been pregnant for half a decade.

Three are in college.  One in DC, one at the University of Georgia and one in Burlington, NC, at Elon University.  Julie and her youngest are in Charlotte.  Michelle and I are in Raleigh.  We span five cities and three states.  If you speak to various members of this new tribe, you can often piece together a picture of what’s going on with each family member.  I secretly love it when siblings know something about each other that I’m unaware of.  It means they might talk to each other and be kind in the long term future.  A nice change from “You wore MY DRESS without MY permission????”

Keeping up with the crew is becoming increasingly difficult.  I believe it was DJ who started the first family Roll Call.  One kid sends a text to the entire family group:  Roll Call.  The appropriate response is a photo.  A come as you are, right then, right now pic sent back to the group as soon as possible.  This was our last call from earlier this summer.

Bailey

Child #1

Will

Child #2

Lucy

Child #3

lizzie

Child #4

Annie

Child #5

When Julie and I sent our picture, Michelle was shook!

“I cannot believe that the kids all sent pictures from our bunks at camp, with boxes of Cheez-It’s, hair in towels, unshaven, looking all regular and you and Julie sent this!”

Bruce and Julie

“I mean seriously?  Julie’s all in a long dress, and you’re wearing pants!  Probably just finished a glass of wine or something.  Are –  you –  KIDDING?  Is this how it is going to be?  We sit at home eating Cheez-It’s while y’all go out to fancy dinners?  We want in on that action!”

Truth be told, this crew would probably prefer the Shake Shack to grilled salmon and Nike shorts to pants with a button any day of the week.  Regardless, a little Roll Call every now and then is a good way to see your kids’ faces – which is nice when they are not coming in your door on the daily.

Theara and the Beatitudes

I recently taught a Sunday school lesson on the Beatitudes.  I think I may be plagiarizing, but I no longer have a copy of the book, and I don’t remember the author’s name.  So know that credit for the following concept goes to whoever the guy is who wrote this Presbyterian book on the Beatitudes.  Sorry dude.

The author says that often people who struggle economically find their joy in the allness of life.  He says that allness isn’t even a real word, he made it up.  But maybe it should be.

Am I’m making life too complicated?  Maybe it isn’t about the house or the car or the college tuition or the next vacation or the number of years ‘til retirement.  Maybe it isn’t about being included in the important meeting at work or having everyone in the world like you or being President of the Board.  Perhaps it is about being in the moment – being fully satisfied with what you are given today; right now.

Matthew 18:3 says to approach life in a childlike way.

When I worked at the Cary YMCA, there was a kid in our programs named Theara.  She had Downs Syndrome and came to the Y after-school and during the summer most days for years and years.  Now, Theara could get frustrated and definitely told you what was on her mind.  One day we were walking to Bond Park about a mile down the greenway from the Y.  She got tired, sat down, and refused to go any further.  It was hot, and she let us know that we, in her opinion, had mucked up her day with this ridiculous trek.

I sort of liked the fact that you never had to guess where you stood with Theara.  If she was happy, you knew it.  If she wasn’t, you also knew it.

But what I most admired about Theara was that she was full.  She was full of love, and joy.  She delighted in a camp skit, song or cheer.  She loved theme days where you had the opportunity to dress up in costume.  She loved running into me in the hallway, walking up to greet me with a high-five and a joke or some little tidbit about her day.  She would get so excited about the smallest things.

She wasn’t waiting around for happiness to find her.  She found happiness in almost every aspect of life, with the exception of hot walks to Bond Park.

The Beatitudes encourage us to be meek, merciful, peacemakers, pure in heart and several other things that I’m not very good at.  Who in the heck even wants to be meek?  Is that a good thing?

Perhaps what Christ was saying was to take the talents you’ve been given and maximize them.  Or maybe, that the things society says are important, like leadership and clout, are not the things He finds important.  He made this world and wants us to enjoy it no matter who we are or what we’ve been given.

The author says that happiness replaces pain but that joy embraces it.  He explains that joy takes conquest of all the stuff of life, both good and bad, while happiness depends largely on circumstances.

I, for one, too often seek happiness instead of living with joy.  And when you do that, happiness is sometimes evasive.  Joy isn’t fickle.  It doesn’t leave us even when things aren’t going our way.

I think Theara has it right.  She has contentment with who she is and where she is.  Maybe I should spend more times with kids – I might learn something about living.

I HATE Snakes!

black_snake_l1

About two years ago, my fiancé, Julie, sent me a frantic text.  It was afternoon.  I was sitting at my desk.

I’ve been bitten by a snake. 

Julie has a large natural area in the front of her house.  She walks her dog down to the mailbox most afternoons.  On this particular day, the coiled up viper saw her.  He was jaywalking across her driveway.  Unfortunately, she didn’t see him.

Ever since, I’ve been leery of walking outdoors in Charlotte, NC.  I DON’T LIKE SNAKES, and apparently on that side of our state they are rampant!

Therefore, I was rather taken aback two weeks ago when I walked into Julie’s kitchen on a lazy Saturday morning at 10.  It was hazy outside – thus not real bright inside the house.  I glanced down at the floor and saw a long, black, squiggly rope half way under the fridge.

I stopped.

It was still.

I turned on the light.

It was still still.

I took a step forward wondering if it could be rubber foam from underneath her appliance that had fallen off.

As I approached, the squiggle wiggled.

“JULIE!  COME HERE!  NOW!  There’s a SNAKE in the KITCHEN!”

By the time she entered, homeboy had slid all the way under.

I don’t care if a snake is black, white or polka dot.  Poisonous?  Doesn’t matter.  As a friend says, I don’t trust nothing that ain’t got shoulders.

Julie called Critter Control.  He said they didn’t have a technician on hand and that it was the weekend.  They’d charge an awful lot to come get him.

“I’ll pitch in!”  I yelled.

I love my money, but I hate snakes more.

He told her to call 311, it’s a city number.  And to tell them the snake was distressing her.  That would not have been a lie.

What the heck is 311?  It sounds like a place that you put people who flunk out of the Police Academy.

I told Julie to watch the refrigerator – not to let the snake out of her sight while I went to get a weapon.

When I came back in, Julie was chatting it up with the 311 operator while she stood on the other side of the dining room.  Julie tends to stroll around when she’s talking on the phone.

“You’re not watching the snake!!!!”

But she and the operator were having a lovely conversation.

It was clear that this job was not going to be taken care of by a professional.  No.  It was going to be taken care of by me.

We called Joe, a neighbor.  Joe too dislikes snakes, but perhaps less than I.

Joe asked, “Danny, do you want to pull the refrigerator out from the wall, or do you want to kill the snake.”

That’s like asking “Do you want a hand full of cash or a rectal exam?”  But it was my fiancé’s house, I had to offer.

“You pick Joe!  I’ll do either.”

I’m sure he could sense fear.

“I’ve never killed a snake before.  This’ll be a great story for my wife.”

I love Joe.

He got the spade. I grabbed the appliance.  As I started shifting it forward, Joe informed me that our friend was headed my way.  I jumped ten feet in the air grabbing my flat shovel in the process.  He squirmed along the baseboard with his mouth wide open.  His fangs were enormous (or maybe incisors, I couldn’t really tell).  I pinned him against the wall as he squirmed for his life.  Joe got his tool near his head.  Victory was ours.

The next day the critter man did come out.  He checked for entry points.  Nothing.  I’m guessing he came in through the door just like the rest of us.

The only unanswered question I have from this incident is “Why would someone work for Critter Control?”  I just don’t get it.

Running Late

Amtrak owes me $15.83.

Being engaged and living in two cities has its advantages and disadvantages.  The disadvantages are clear:  time, miles on the road, a goopy longing for one another, hours on the phone… yada yada yada – I know, it could be worse.  The advantage is I can give you a full rundown of every Starbucks and Chic-Fill-A between Raleigh and Charlotte.  Want a latte?  Burlington.  The one near the outlet mall.  Just a cup-o-joe?  Salisbury is best.  Fresh chicken sandwich, skip I-85 exit 41.  Plus it is way too crowded.

With a multi-layered travel week ahead of me, I decided that perhaps Michelle and I would train down to Charlotte on July 2, I’d train back to work on the 5th and then drive back down for the weekend.  Get a little work done while someone else chauffeured.  Michelle and Julie had yoga/shopping plans for Thursday and Friday, so it made sense for me to get the heck out of the way and return to a light half-week at work.

I waited to buy my Amtrak tix – I have travel transportation commitment issues.  What if I change my mind?  Plus, Michelle was babysitting for a family friend supposedly until 5 PM, and the train departed at 5:16.  We’d be cutting it close.

At 4 PM, I called her, “Baby, if Mr. Hill gets home by 4:40, I think we will take the train.  There seem to still be seats left.  If not, we’ll drive.  Let me know as soon as he pulls up.”

At 4:43, she rang.  “He’s here.  Can you come get me?”

“Ask him if he can drop you at our house.  It’s only 3 minutes away.  I’ll call Uber and carry the luggage to the street.”

The plan was in motion.  A click of the Uber App and five bags later, (one carrying a homemade ice cream churn – you gotta have homemade ice cream on July 4th) I was poised to depart waiting on Dellwood Drive.

Our Uber was there in a flash.  With an already full trunk, I crammed four bags in the front seat of his car and put the churn in the back with me.  Still no Michelle.  I called.

“Baby – are you on the way?”

“Almost,” she said sweetly.

“Hurry!”

“We’re coming!”

I hated to make the driver wait any longer so I told him he could leave and opened the passenger door to begin unpacking.  About that time Mr. Hill’s truck rounded the corner.

“Jump in Michelle!  Hurry!”

Our driver took off, and I quickly booked the tickets on my phone.

Raleigh has a brand new train station which is incredibly exciting.  I had read in the paper that the station was opening on the very day we were leaving.  We’d be on the inaugural 5:16 train.

We drove up to the station.  It was empty.  The signage was sparse and not one single passenger was inside.

“I swear I read it opened today,” I explained to the driver.

“I read that too,” he assured me.

I walked up to the door – it was 5:03 PM.  A guy in a uniform was inside.  He sauntered to the door.

“You looking for the train?”

“Yeah.”

“We open next Tuesday.”

“The paper said today.”

“Yeah – they got it wrong.”

ERRR.

I ran back to the car, and we sped out to the Cabarrus Street station only a couple of blocks away.

As we neared our destination, I got a text:  Your train is delayed by an hour and 8 minutes.

I guess that’s not all bad, I thought.  At least we won’t miss it.

We unloaded our goods and headed inside the hot, cramped room.  Michelle purchased a drink from the vending machine and used the decades old bathroom.

About five minutes later, I received another text.  Your train has been delayed another 34 minutes.

Had I driven, I could have been over half way to Charlotte by the time the train left the station.  I went up to the counter.

“Can I get a refund?” I inquired.

“Yep.  This train is out of New York.  It’s always late.  Probably be delayed again.  They’re working on the tracks in Maryland.”

Good lord have mercy.

$15.83 cents for the round trip Uber and an hour later we arrived home.  Just in time to repack and leave again… in my car.

Incidentally, I checked.  We made it to Charlotte an hour and forty-five minutes before the train.  I think we made the right call.

Somethin’ going down in the Dais

AT Speaker of the House

What do you do with a 15-year-old in the summer?  I’m not sure what Michelle would choose – maybe 13 weeks of watching The Office reruns on Netflix.

Nah.  Not in the Tanner house!  She can do that on the weekends.  I have her fanny busy Monday – Friday, and she is actually enjoying the activity.

Week 1 was exciting!  She served as a Page in the NC House of Representatives.  It was not an easy feat getting into that program.  Apparently it is fairly competitive.  But she’s a cool kid with a lot to offer.  I’m not surprised she got in!

One day she was helping two younger legislative staff members prep one of the committee rooms for the day’s meetings.  It was budget time in North Carolina so the work was abundant that week.  As they were prepping, Michelle asked the staff members if there was anything else she could do to help.  They said, with very serious faces, “Yes.  We need someone to open the meeting with the Star Spangled Banner.  Do you sing?”

“Seriously?” She inquired thinking they really should have considered this earlier.

“Yep.  It’s House protocol.”

She asked if she could practice.  After belting it out, rather strongly I would imagine – she has a very good voice – they informed her they were kidding.

At least something fun is happening in our government.

On the last day of her service, she spent the day in the House Chambers as the Representatives debated the budget bill.  She told me that she felt sorry for the Democrats because they knew they were going to lose, but, she explained, “they just kept talking.”

Apparently, the Speaker of the House, several staff members and two Pages are situated in the front of the room in an area called the Dais.  it is a large desk structure elevated, sort of like where a judge sits.  Michelle’s peer, Allison, was assigned to the Dais that morning.  According to my daughter, Allison is VERY southern.  She is form a small town in eastern North Carolina, and her accent is rich.

At lunch break, the Pages gathered to eat.  As they sat down at a table, Allison ran out of the House about to bust with the news:

“Y’all,” Allison exclaimed in her country accent.  “Someone farted in the Dais.”

Now I’m not sure of the culprit, most likely the male Page standing on the opposite side from Allison.  But the prospect of the Speaker of the House stinkin’ up the Dais during budget negotiations for the State of North Carolina brings me a little chuckle.  Michelle says it sounds like something I’d do at a Y Board meeting.

She’s probably right.

 

You-Haul

Last time I rented a U-Haul was around 1999.  Actually, my dad rented it to close down my grandparent’s house. My father, my brother and I drove the truck the two hours from Fayetteville, NC, where my parents live, to Florence, SC, where my grand folks lived.

Grand mama and Granddaddy Tanner lived in this house for a very long time and had accumulated A LOT of stuff.  I used to wonder how that could happen, how you could end up with so much junk.  Now, I know.  I have cans of green beans that are older than DJ not to mention rugs, tables, lamps and my dad’s Army uniform that I couldn’t button around my waist if I spent six years in abdominal cool sculpting.

We rented the largest vehicle in the U-Haul fleet knowing there would be a great deal of wares to disseminated between the three of us.  It was sort of like driving a wide YMCA bus sans the windows and sweaty kids.

If I recall, we had a refrigerator, washer and dryer, dressers, queen mattress sets, a china cabinet, tables… I wonder why we didn’t take table cloths and candle holders.  Nah.  We went BIG.  If you made a list of the heaviest items in your house, they were the ones we choose to hang onto.

The three of us packed all day and strategically placed the items in the truck based on delivery location.  We’d leave Florence late afternoon and hit my brother’s house two hours away, unload then repeat at my parent’s house that night.  The next day we would drive to Raleigh to unload my booty and return the truck.

Because my arms are the size of cooking skewers, I was tired by the time we finished packing the truck.  I mean I lift weights at the Y, but I seldom lift dishwashers.  And my brother… weakling (I really hope he read this.)  My dad, however, used to be quite a task master.  Once he started a job, he plowed through.  It didn’t matter how late it was, how tired you were or if you had a wedding to attend that night.  The job would be done in the time frame set in his head.  I’m sort of surprised he didn’t make us repaint the house before we left that day.

About an hour into our return trip headed north toward home, the U-Haul engine began to sputter.  We made it off the main highway before it completely died.  There we sat in the gravel parking lot of Ennis’ Auto Sales.  Thankfully we had all the necessary items to cook, clean and sleep as needed.

U-Haul was great.  They brought us a new truck within a couple of hours so that we could unload the one we had and reload the new one.  Yes, we pulled EVERY SINGLE item out into Ennis’ parking lot and strategically put it all back in the truck.

I’m not sure how old my dad was when he directed, yes he was in charge, my six house moves and the closure of two grandparent houses, but if he was over 52, it was too old.  I recently moved DJ into her first apartment in DC.  She moved into a brownstone on a very skinny street a couple of blocks over from Trump’s place.  I was confident we could get her bed up the two flights of stairs to her bedroom but the dresser and the couch were another story.

You know what’s great about daughters?  They often have guy friends.  A little after we arrived, DJ made a plea for help via social media and two ROTC hunks were at our door within minutes.  Like these dudes are going to flight school next fall.  A couch was child’s play to them.

As I was pondering how to begin navigating the skinny stairway up to the den with couch in tow, Biff and Rocky picked up the couch, passed me in the hallway and carried it to it’s final destination – all within about 10 seconds.  They then asked if there was anything else I needed help with.  I felt so old, so useless.  Was I now solely the truck driver?  Was my toolkit not needed?  Was I not going to have the opportunity to put to use the years and years of dumbbell work I’d stored at the Y?

I am thankful for Biff and Rocky.  Taking a large couch up a small flight of stairs would have been a beast on my own, although I’m sure I could have done it.  But I will say those dudes stripped away a little bit of my manhood that day.

Spreading Wings

Lucy graduation

I know – I logically know that the progression is natural.  They are born.  You cuddle and cradle them.  You feed them.  You attend all of their school events and dance and piano recitals.  You help them with their homework and clean their rooms and braid their hair.  And then… they leave.

It makes sense.  We all did it.  It is normal.

And yet, when they toss up that tasseled cap with such exuberance, a little piece of me flies away too.

DJ did it.  Now it is Stephanie’s turn.

There is part of me that is relieved.  There were times that I never thought we’d make it, especially after the loss of Lisa.  There were days that I would have relished less responsibility, less little people fully dependent upon me for nearly everything.

But not today.  No.  Not today.

If I could bundle her cute little self up in a blanket and walk back 15 years, I’d do it in a minute.  I’d go back to her falling into a deep, deep sleep on my shoulder – drool and all, sweet soft cheeks nestled on my neck.  I return to the summer that we worked so diligently trying to get her to learn her colors to no avail.  I would ask her yet again to remove her two front fingers from her mouth, her version of the thumb suck.  I’d feed her smashed green beans from a jar and be excited when she spit them back at me.  I’d change her diaper and stay up with her when she had the never ending fever, and she looked at me so drained, so helpless.  I’d sit through another two hour awards assembly just to see her walk across the stage for six seconds.  I’d buy another leotard – damn those things wear fast, and the expensive shoes from Uniquities that made her prom dress look just right.

This time, I’d do it all with a great big smile on my very tired face.

Yep.  They grow up.  And we take their presence for granted until they’re gone and the house is quiet.

I’m so proud of this kid.  She is smart and poised and gracious and caring.  And I just enjoy being with her.  Not everyone can say that about their child.

I’m thankful for our time.  I’m excited about the future.  I miss the past.

She’s Home

Ten Ways You Know Your College Student Has Returned:

10.  La Croix in da house! (the diet Coke of Millennials)

La Croix

9.  Tennis shoes in da house!  (the kitchen floor to be exact)

sneakers

8.  Dirty dishes in da house!

Dad:  “DJ, could you PLEASE clean up the dishes you use while I am at work?”

DJ:  “I clean up some of them.  Just not the hard ones.”

dirty dishes

7.  The stained shirt returns.

Phone call September 2017:

DJ:  “Dad, I got a stain on that white blouse.  Do you think you can get it out?”

Dad:  “Probably.  Just bring it home.”

May 2018:  It returns.

blouse

6.  A lone sweet potato, just hanging around.

sweet potato

5.  Tupperware filled with unidentifiable things.

tupperware

4.  Plugs, plugs, all kinds of plugs –

plugs

3.  Empty drawers.

Drawer

2.  Cluttered floors.

floors

1. The annual bathing suit blowout.

bathing suit

It’s so fun to have them back.  Right??

 

 

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