Digging deep

The last week has been rather trying.

Ok, it’s pretty much sucked out loud.

This time last week I was puking like a freshman pledge at a fraternity party, and the fun didn’t stop until I dosed myself with Phenergan and Zofran and conked out for the night. Little did I know that that was a harbinger of what was to come.

The preventative course of antibiotics has quite simply kicked my ass. I’ve never been one to run from a fight, until now. I’m done. I’m out. Let the countdown begin so someone can drag my sorry carcass out of the ring.

I’ve spent the vast majority of this week in my bed. The entire week. This is rather unusual for a busybody like me, but there was no way around it. My body said, enough. I got up for the necessities: sustenance, teeth-brushing, and potty breaks. Oh, and to drive carpool. Gotta go get the kiddies! Yesterday I picked up the kids in my pajamas — a first for me. I know some moms who do that on a regular basis, but I had never once done it, and today may well be a repeat performance. One of the teachers in the pick-up line, an adorable & energetic kindergarten teacher, stuck her head in my car to say hi and giggled at me in my jammies. She said,”Oooh, I want your life.” I looked her straight in the eye and said, “No, you don’t.”

Trust me on that.

Never have I been laid so low by the workings of modern medicine. Not when I had chicken pox in grade school and had to miss the school carnival (a belated thank you to Rick Dodd for bringing me cotton candy from the event). Not when I had mono in middle school and thought I was near death. Not when I got my tonsils out in high school and would have slipped quietly out of this world if someone had just pulled the sheet over my head.

I have never felt this sick.

I seriously considered calling my dear, delightful doctor yesterday to say that I highly suspect the antibiotics are poisoning me.

My whole body hurts. My bones ache. My lower back feels like it’s being pulled in all directions. My eye sockets feel too big. My tummy is in serious turmoil. The back of my mouth feels like something died in it. My tongue feels fuzzy. My brain is switched off yet my head is spinning, and the idea of making a simple decision is overwhelming. Nothing sounds good, nothing tastes good, yet I’m convinced that there’s something out there that will make this all better. Fresh-squeezed orange juice? No. A grilled cheese sandwich with spicy mustard? Sorry. An angel food smoothie with extra antioxidants? Good try, but no. Macaroni & cheese? Hah. Yogurt with lots of blueberries? Puh-leeze.

The only thing that’s gonna help me in this dire case is time. As the sage Boy George once said, “Time, oh give me time.”

Time to heal. Time for the drugs to run their course. Time to patch up my desiccated digestive system. Time to get past this latest round of shittiness.

(I really hope it happens fast, too, because my favorite girl & I have tickets to see Taylor Swift tomorrow.)

It’s time to dig deep, to look to wiser women than myself, and to seek comfort from whatever source in which it may reside. Today it’s Harriet Beecher Stowe who speaks to me, whose words assure me that I can get through this:

“When you get into a tight place and everything goes against you, till it seems as though you could not hang on a minute longer, never give up then, for that is just the place and time that the tide will turn.”

I’m waiting.


Uncle Tom

Just had a major blast from the past — no, I wasn’t listening to the best of the 80s station on my satellite radio; some things are best left in the past.

I was driving down the street, minding my own business, when I saw this:

A Tom’s truck.

Yes, I pulled over to take pictures. If I’d had more time, I would have accosted the driver and told him my story. That guy lucked out today. Talk about dodging a bullet.

Don’t know Tom’s? Let me tell you about it. Not the shoes, either; the snacks.

When I was a kid, my Uncle Wilford drove a Tom’s truck. He was my mom’s older brother, and I adored him. Some jackass drunk driver blew through a stop sign going 105 mph on his way to a Tejano beer fest and killed him a few summers ago.

But the Tom’s live on.

Uncle Wilford was sweet and generous and mild-mannered. My mom used to say that the only thing she could find wrong with him was that he was a Yellow-Dog democrat (not that there’s anything wrong with that). She loved her brother despite their differing political views.

Occasionally Uncle Wilford would be working near us, even though he lived an hour and a half away. I have no idea why he drove his Tom’s truck our way; it never occurred to me to ask. I was just happy to see him. And his truck.

See, Uncle Wilford would park his Tom’s truck in our driveway, open up the back doors, and let all the neighborhood kids climb in and eat to their hearts’ content. I always got to go first, of course, and I always chose a bag of Hot Fries. In my day, the bag had a picture of Andy Capp on them. Apparently this is what they look like now. 

Tom’s had a much bigger product line back in the day, with not just chips but candy, too. My mom was a bit of a stickler when it came to junk food, being the queen of all things homemade, so we didn’t have a lot of crunchy, salty snacks that came out of a bag. Nowadays, with the prevalence of snack foods, this seems weird but it was how I was raised, and it made it that much more special to have free reign in the back of a snack-foods truck.

This is what the back of the truck looks like now:

Maybe my  memory is faulty, but it seems like there were a lot fewer boxes back then. I don’t recall Uncle Wilford every having to open a box to let my friends and me get our mitts on the goods. As I remember, the snacks were neatly organized but not boxed up; ready for the taking, as a snack should be.

Imagine the scene with a dozen or so kids turned loose in the back of a truck full of snacks and being told “Have at it.” I can remember some kids seeing that truck pull onto our street and running full-speed to our house. Barefoot and breathless, and ready for a snack.

Here’s what’s funny: I guess none of the kids bothered to learn my uncle’s name, and they called him “Uncle Tom.” Or maybe they knew his name but conflated him with the Tom’s snacks. (That’s one of the many things I wish I could ask my mom about today — how sweet it would be to have seen the Tom’s truck today, and dialed my mom right up to say, remember when we were kids, and Uncle Wilford parked his Tom’s truck in the driveway, and all the kids called him Uncle Tom?)

Of course at the time, none of us kids knew of the Harriet Beecher Stowe novel Uncle Tom’s Cabin. I bet my mom and my uncle snickered behind their hands when they heard the innocent children’s voices hollering, “UNCLE TOM IS HERE!!” I know I would be.