by Christie Perkins
Tears at bedtime are not all that uncommon. It’s because there is pain. Hunger pains that is. These hunger pains become the outrageous Water Meter Reader.
And it’s not me crying… it’s my little guy.
Now I’ve learned a thing or two about pain in my cancer journey. Most of the time I’m feeling alright but there are times when I understand good old physical pain. Mostly it is in my hip (prime vacation tumor location). I can admit tho, that most of the time I feel quite normal. In fact I feel great!
But, in the reconstruction phase of my cancer journey there have been moments of intense pain (I’ll save that for another post), so I could relate to this little hunger pain.
Yet, I’m not very compassionate.
I’m not compassionate because I’ve slaved in the kitchen a-fixin’ the meal and all I get is a squeal- “I don’t like it,” he says. Continue reading
by Christie PErkiNS
This all started with my “trip”
to in Home Depot. I was just checking out lights. Luckily it was just my husband, me, and my random eyewitness that was on the aisle.
The floor was incredibly flat and smooth, not slick even a niche. Then poof! I dropped from eyesight. It’s like a magic trick. You know how tricks like this work: you see it, but you don’t.
How in the world can you fall on that? “That,” meaning nothing. I question my trick.
But, since my eyewitness was mentally documenting my fall and my husband had that quizzical look on his face I decided to fool them again. I pretended nothing happened. But the cock-eyed looks from the gents on the aisle made me splash out a smile, a chuckle, and a shrug.
Lets just forget that… moving along.
A couple of days later I’m in the granite store and we do a repeat trick. Wow. Fabulous moments going on here. Always getting the same quizzical look and silent words reverberate loud and clear in my ear…
What in the world?
My finale is always the same though: a smile, oops eyes, and a shrug. And the next several days I continue to fall when I walk. I trip on a thin cardboard box, the end of the broom- the straw fluffy-puff end, not the handle.
People begin booking my stunts. Continue reading
by Christie Perkins
So I wake up every morning greeted by the mod podge dumpings just beyond the foot of my bed. Some of it is new stuff that needs new places, some of it old. Hello! The pile is a little more chipper than I am at it’s rude awakening.
Hey, I say then run away. I like you and all but my spaces are small, you look comfortable there next to the wall. But, it’s about time I combat my inner brawl.
You (pile of things) have out-stayed your welcome. I keep feeding you more and more things because… because, well, you look hungry. Yeah, that’s it. You eat everything that anyone feeds you, rejecting no offers (Dude! even dilapidated Christmas bows and useless empty boxes that stow… this pile just grows and grows!). You suck my energy then expect me to pick up after you. You are sleeping at the foot of my bed, and though you don’t snore your drooling all over the place. I like you. I do. I just need my own space of sunshine and grace.
And then the solution to the problem I got: you just need your own-grown name-plot spot.
Well. There’s a sunrise moment if you’ve never seen one. (And since I would rather close my eyes to it, it festered like an oozy zit… ok, I’ll stop this rhyming fit.)
Maybe. Continue reading