The Heart of a Princess
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Dec. 10, 2008
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Trials, Treasures, and Trivial Things
Five minutes to five o'clock and we are still waiting for that phone call.
"We'll call right back.", says the wonderfully efficient nurse at the doctors office. Woohoo! Big Fat Hairy Deal! She really is such a dedicated office worker isn't she?
*fumes, sighs* I'm truly angry with that nurse, but I ought to forgive her. After all, this is not the first time I've received the news, but as the problem grows gradual worse, getting it taken care of can't be ignored any longer. She can barely lift more than the weight of a pencil and even the slightest touch causes intense pain. I am positive, because she actually is complaining. And her pain tolerance could rival that of the Martyrs.
Mom has a lump in her breast.
She's had seven miscairrages, each adding 50% more of her already skyrocketing risk. It's probably cancerous or, at the very least, pre cancerous, and I highly doubt we'll have the money any time soon for the specialist check-up after the initial examination, little lone the surgery.
You know, it really hit me when I was writing this - the unchangeable seriousness of this situation. Like a slap across the face.
I have excepted it, though. Yeah, I'd miss her and yeah I'm scared I won't have the strength to find where I finally fit. To find the right church, the one parallel enough with my beliefs to find a husband; the one who is willing to take care of Dad as well as myself, because I don't know if he'll live through her death in one piece. To "redeem her" properly like I'm supposed to, the way I feel she deserves
But I'm not crying.
Because God is my strength. Not Rosemarie, and not Dad, and not even a church, if I can find one to help me. This can mean definite good as well. It means her time is over, that she's fulfilled God's purpose in the world, that she's completed the important purpose her being was obliged to take on after one of the many life-altering decisions she's made. That she's pleased God, and somehow I'm really pleased with her more than ever. This means I'm ready to start on my own path independently. She can finally go home.
She's suffered so much..
Not that I pity her. That's the farthest thing from the truth! It's her experiences that has given her the strength to be different from all of them, because when they went out drinking, she went home and cooked a meal for my father. And when they frequented bars for things other than to get intoxicated, she stayed home and played with me. And took care of me. And read the Bible to me. And did my home work with me. And loved me.
So, however indirect, those hardships lent me the knowledge and foresight I have today. That is something I am grateful to both her and God for, eternally.
Yet, in something like this, I still hurt for her, because it really isn't fair.
*sighs* I know that "His ways are judgment: a God of truth, without iniquity, just, and right is He" (Du.32:4), and I have to keep reminding myself of that.
Maybe with the unwavering pain she's an ill-tempered, ill-langauged, haggard old grump, but she's my grump, and I'm going to pray myself into a migraine that I can have her a little longer. There are things I want to experience with her, not selfishly either, like learning to sew (and annoying our teacher into a frazzle), finally doing the laundry, memorizing all those all-you-can-consume-cholesterol Hungarian meals, finishing high-school (or just the first chapter of ninth grade algebra), and raising my first little one knowing only what she's said and God says about how.
So if it takes yelling at the doctor, or punching her squarely in the nose (to which Mom would gladly oblige. *smirk*), she is going to get that breast exam without the stupid extra visit! I am determined and whether airhead nurse practitioner Jen likes it or not, She. Is. Going.
Dad will simply tell her it's out right stupid. You know, in that way he goes:
"Oh that is just stupid." *chuckles*
And, of course, this is not the highlight of my week, by any stretch of the imagination. I got my Christmas stuff out into the mail! I say stuff because it consisted of a $34 truck load containing everything but the powder room sink. (Which I whole-heartily think we should mail to the building office so they can fix it there, since big fat Franky-boy can't fit under the counter. *rolls eyes*) Technically yesterday was the day the majority of our packages went off to the post office, where I stood on a line stretching like a curvassious (I love that word, but heck if I can spell it.) slug all the way to the door waiting to have them weighed. I suppose I wasn't the only one who possessed the common sense to have Christmas gifts in the mail early. That way it'll be only cards that I am still sending away into next March. Leba and Katie's star of David quilt kit received dressing up in blindingly silver paper today, however, after Dad found the perfect size box at Wal-Mart. (It will forever amaze me how he manages to find just the right size and how generous people are to him. Why he can walk up to a brother or sister and be given the name, phone number, and hours of their church without second thought. In that, I try to emulate him, being so free and outgoing. Just with a little more caution. -_-; ) I am so relived that's done.
Now! To get the dolls that I am not keeping packed up for the Re-uz-it is the next endeavor, preferably before Christmas. I think we'll give them to White Horse this year, since they are still apt to sell toys and there are many farmers in the neighboring area who have plenty of children to fit into a budget this Christmas. *smiles* New Holland never sells toys anymore. They really should! I still remember when I was little going through the ten-cent bin and picking just 3 or 4 each time. (And collaberating a never ending amount of toys. it's taken me practically 3 years to finish organizing them and I haven't completed it yet!) or when the lady at the Ephrata location let me go through the bags. They had these food-n-bread bags with maybe six to seven toys or doll clothing articles each for fifty or twenty-five cents, you see. Every time we visited the Re-uz-it, I was allowed to buy just one, sometimes two if Mom had scrounged up enough extra. (And she often did.) Now, to the average adult they looked as though they contained nothing but useless junk, but I would stand on my tip toes at the counter and trade one thing from this bag for another from this bag, until I had a bag of treasures. We then filled up the tub with toys and bubbles to give them a good washing, and low and behold:I always manged to find something amazingly nice! It was magical, being allowed to pick my own toys and washing them (and splashing in the bubbles for a good half hour. *laugh*). I'd hate for that to not be possible for a little one, because it was always better for me than the expensive talking elmo plush I saw at the K-mart. It was something both Mom and Dad had worked for, something that didn't only mean hours of building worlds, but playing in the tubby with Mom and playing with Dad when he got home from his second job (when he sacrificed precious sleep for me.) I would hate to see that lost.
Once I've crossed that off the list, I'll be onto doing both my yearly reports: one long one on the history of wool gathering and weaving, and one shorter on the near threatened Sand Cat. (She's really a beautiful creature, that feline and so well adapted to her environment! I'm continually fascinated anew at how "very good" He made created the world.)
Well I must be going. Dad will be home soon with the groceries and those chocolate fiber pop-tarts (or Fiber One toaster pastries) certainly won't grow limbs and put themselves away, though you never know in this house. *laugh*
Blessings,
~Gabrielle~ |
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