Feb 09 2015

When “Helping,” Doesn’t

Published by Kathy under General

A friend and I were talking about crazy pet stories the other day, and she reminded me about talk that introduced us to “Cholo, the Pet that Would Not Die.” It was such a bizarre tale that I had no idea how I had ever forgotten it.

Cholo was a black and white mutt of indeterminate lineage. He lived an unremarkable life, right up until the day he got mowed down by a car. The family loved their little dog, but his skull had been fractured in the accident and one eyeball had popped out. They could see brain matter dripping out of his head, and it was obvious that the little fellow was not going to survive.

As much as they didn’t want to do it, the family knew that the most humane thing they could do for Cholo was to put him out of his misery. They could not afford to take him to the vet to have him put down, so they did the best they could do.

They didn’t want for him to just lie there suffering until he died, so they grabbed a gun and a shovel and took poor Cholo out into the desert. They didn’t just shoot Cholo once. Oh no. They shot him five times to make sure he was out of his misery. BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! Then they buried him in the desert and sorrowfully went home.

A week later they opened their front door and to their horror found Cholo sitting on their doorstep. He had regained consciousness. His eyeball had somehow popped back into its socket. He still had five bullets lodged in his little body, but he had been able to extricate himself from his grave and find his way home from the desert to the people who had lovingly tried to do what was best for him on the day of his “death.”

The family, realizing that by “helping” poor Cholo they had actually caused a whole lot of harm, took every penny they had, bundled up the little dog, and took him to the vet. They only hoped the vet could undo the damage they had done in their efforts to do the right thing for their beloved family pet.

The vet was the person who told the story. He reported that despite the little dog’s car accident and the family’s subsequent attempts to help him, Cholo was actually in pretty good shape. He said that the family did not need to give their life’s savings to repair the damage they had caused. They were able to take Cholo home, and all was well.

Dogs are the most forgiving of animals. I can’t see a cat coming home to a family that had shot it five times and buried it in the desert. But how often do we do the same thing as Cholo’s owners do? I’ve never shot a dog once, much less five times — but in my own ham-handed way, I try all the time to do the right thing and instead do something that is exactly the opposite of what I have intended to do.

Life is a minefield. Does the young mother whose child recently died want a word of condolence, or is this the day she has said she can make it through church if only nobody mentions her loss? Does the recent widow want to laugh, or does she want you to share her grief? Does the mother of the bedridden child want to talk about the burden she is carrying, or does she want to forget it for just a moment?

It’s a temptation in such situations to just say nothing, but that causes problems of a different sort. A few years ago a dear friend died suddenly, leaving her husband to mourn her loss. The husband mentioned months later that most of his former friends had pretty much forgotten him, choosing to take the easy way out and not risk offense by avoiding him completely.

I don’t know the answers to any of those questions, but I can tell you one thing — I always, always do the wrong thing in any given situation. You can call me Cholo’s Mom. I am the one who puts the bullets in the gun. I pull the trigger myself.

(Parenthetically, who shot that little dog anyway, so that not one of the five bullets hit any major organ? Somebody here is really, really inept.)

As I have grown older and, hopefully, wiser, I am learning that the reason I keep getting in trouble for saying the wrong thing sometimes is because I choose to say anything at all. In the act of offering love to people who are undergoing trials in their lives, we often forget that philosopher Paul McTillich said, “The first duty of love is to listen.”

The hard part about listening is that a lot of times the people you are listening to aren’t actually talking. They speak with nonverbal cues that have nothing whatsoever to do with speech. It is hard to remember to let people speak nonverbally instead of running all over that nonverbal conversation with words like a rhinoceros, because you’re too blind to see the part of the conversation that doesn’t have words.

I am a good rhinoceros, sometimes. I can trample nonverbal conversations just as effectively as I can shoot wounded dogs five times and then bury them in deserts to put them out of their misery, even though I have never shot an actual gun. It’s all part of trying to help, and then doing exactly the wrong thing.

But I am not completely untrainable. Recently I have been trying to stand back and wait for those verbal cues. Or when I say something, I try to make sure that the first thing out of my mouth is not something relating to the tragedy at hand. I do not always succeed, because there is that inner rhinoceros and he is big. His first instinct is to trample, and he is hard to control.

Then, when I have trampled someone’s feelings and made things worse, I gallop away, hating myself for a week or even more because someone who was smarter or wiser or kinder would have known how to be a better friend. But alas, I have only been Kathy for all these years, and the older I get, the more Kathy-like I become.

But I have also been on Cholo’s end of the exchange. Well-meaning friends have tried to help me and have done just the opposite. I remember the visiting teacher I had, years ago, who was determined she could help me lose weight if I knew more about diet and exercise — even though I had forgotten more about nutrition than she ever knew.

The interesting thing about her unwanted and unsolicited advice was that she closed every visit by giving me a plate of highly caloric treats that were made with ingredients Fluffy and I would never have eaten. I tried to thank her graciously for the stuff every month, and then we threw it into the trash. We always shook our heads at the mixed messages she sent, and I tried not to be upset. I did not always succeed.

I want to always be as forgiving as Cholo. After reading his story again last week, I am going to work on it some more. But just as much, I am going to work on trying to really help the people I want to help. I want to help people the way they need help — not the way that my first easy impulse tells me to help them.

After all, the rhinoceros Kathy and the spiritual Kathy could have two distinctly different ideas when it comes to the help people actually need. The rhinoceros Kathy may be louder, but the Kathy who listens to the still small voice is the one whose ideas should be trusted.

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Feb 02 2015

Talent by the Loaf

Published by Kathy under General

Fluffy got a new computer for Christmas, and in the process of installing the new computer he has had to do some major office cleaning so that he could set up his new computer next to his old computer. This has caused a flurry of activity, with bags of trash being hauled out and things being relocated to more appropriate places.

In the middle of all this, I was puzzled last week to see him leave the office and start a mysterious bread-making project in the kitchen. Fluffy often makes bread, but this was a different project. In fact, he was pretty secretive about it, and when I asked what he was doing he said, “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

Fluffy just loves secrets, and he loves them all the more because secrets drive me absolutely crazy. The more he can get me in a tizzy, the happier he is. He’s all boy in that regard. If he can have a secret project that will annoy me to pieces, he is just as happy as he can be.

So I ignored him while he performed his magic in a cloud of flour and yeast. A delightful aroma soon wafted from the kitchen, and I only hoped I would soon be tasting something wonderful. Sure enough, dinner that night consisted of freshly-made sourdough bread, along with Fluffy’s frozen freezer jam and lots and lots of butter.

Although Fluffy is a champion bread-maker, this was his first experience making sourdough bread. I had given him all the equipment to make sourdough bread a year ago, as a Christmas present. But shortly after Christmas, when company had arrived and Fluffy had wanted to clean the family room, he had put all his Christmas presents into a box and stashed them in his office.

As the year passed, he would remove presents from the box as he needed them or remembered them, but there were still a few forgotten items still hidden away more than a year later. At the beginning of the year I just assumed he hadn’t liked the gifts I had given him. As the year progressed, I forgot about them altogether.

There they sat, forgotten by both of us, until Fluffy rediscovered them in the process of cleaning his office so he could make way for something he had received as a present this Christmas. He looked at that forgotten sourdough-making kit, decided he liked it, and then decided he liked it enough to make some sourdough bread right now.

He wasn’t sure if the bread would be successful, because the small jar of sourdough starter said it was “best if used by December 31, 2013.” But the starter was still moist and smelled like starter, so he decided to give it a go.

So he temporarily abandoned this year’s Christmas present, went into the kitchen, got out the flour, and made us some sourdough bread for dinner. He has been making sourdough bread ever since. In fact, I like his sourdough bread better than his regular bread, and I like his regular bread extremely much.

What can I say? Fluffy is a man of many talents.

All of this brings me to the topic of this little essay. We as human beings are pretty creative at burying our talents. We don’t all literally put them in a box and put them on the floor of our office the way Fluffy did with his sourdough kit. We all have our personal ways of doing it.

I always wanted to be an artist. I didn’t have any dreams of going to Paris and wearing a wimpy little beret, but I would have taken art classes in college if only I could have afforded the supplies. After I got married, I finally took a class in charcoal drawing at night as part of a community education program. To my surprise, I was talented. No — I was really talented.

I don’t know if it makes sense to say this, but I was too talented to be a casual artist. I wanted something that could be a nice little hobby for me. Instead, it became something where my teacher took it upon herself to convince me I needed to drop everything else in my life and become an artist, full-time and to the exclusion of everything else.

Eventually I quit drawing and painting altogether because every time I took it up, my teachers tried to convince me I had to be an artist, period. I had to give up writing. I had to give up being a person. I was born to be an artiste. I had the gift.

Well, I don’t deal well with being told what I have to do. The more pressure you put on me, the more I run in the other direction.

I still have all the supplies, but I haven’t picked up a brush in years. At this point, if I ever did pick up a brush I’d have to start over. I’d have to take lessons again, just like a beginner. And I don’t know if there will ever be time again.

In the vernacular of the teenagers, that ship has sailed. In a Biblical sense, I’m afraid my talent may have been buried so deeply that I may never find it again. I only hope I don’t get in trouble for that in the next life. I hope that the talents I have chosen to use are more important than the one I have chosen to hide away in the earth.

Since our introduction to sourdough bread this month, Fluffy and I have laughed about all the good bread we have missed over the past year because we had a treasure that had been buried and then forgotten.

I’m sure all of us have multiple such treasures in our lives. I have read that squirrels spend so much time finding and burying food in the summer, because they aren’t so great at finding those little caches of goodness when they are covered with snow. Perhaps more than 50% of their treasures are never located again and just rot in the ground or eventually germinate into big trees. I hope our percentages are a little better than that.

It’s still early in the year and not too late to make a resolution. Try to think of at least one treasure you’ve buried, and resolve to dig it up, dust it off, and put it to good use this year.

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Jan 26 2015


Published by Kathy under General

Fluffy and I are secret shoppers, otherwise known as mystery diners. That means that we eat in restaurants like regular humans and then go home and write a report about our experience. This report is then submitted to the restaurant, so that management will have a better idea of what they are doing right and what could be improved.

Before I go any further, I need to include a cautionary note about those emails that promise you can make $200 along with your free meal. Oh, do I wish that were the case! Alas, these emails have about as much credibility as the ones from those friendly Nigerians who want to share their millions with you once you send them a small processing fee and the numbers on all your credit cards.

There really are many legitimate companies are looking for secret shoppers. But there are a whole lot of strings attached, and there’s not a whole lot of money involved if you are the secret shopper — at least, I haven’t found any money and I’ve been doing the work for a good half dozen years.

What I have found is that you’re more likely to spend up to two or even three hours working on the report after you have consumed that “free” meal. Yes, sometimes the meal is a $200 feed. We eat well as secret shoppers.

Being a secret shopper may not make you rich, but it is not without its compensations.

But even so, the most I have ever been paid on top of the meal reimbursement has been $20 for my time. This is hardly the kind of gig that allows you to quit your regular job and make a six-figure income, especially when you consider the time you have spent commuting to and from the restaurant in addition to the time you have spent answering the questions in the report.

When you include the cost of your time to write the reports, it’s something that you are doing as an adventure more than a job. Nevertheless, for old people like us with more time than money, it is an interesting diversion and more fun than staying at home drooling in front of the television.

The cardinal rule for any secret shopper is that you never want to be busted. That means that you don’t want the establishment to know that you are there as a secret shopper. Obviously, your visit will not reflect a true customer experience if they know you are going to be writing a report based on what has happened to you while you were there.

The secret shopper companies provide lots of suggestions to avoid being busted. You obviously don’t want to be seen writing in a notebook, or carrying the questionnaires or report forms that you will eventually complete. So you must rely a lot on your memory, and fill in the details after you have departed.

This is not as easy as it sounds, because some companies want a whole lot of details including service times and the names and descriptions of every single employee who interacted with you. If you think this is easy, just try going to a Brazilian churrascaria and remembering the names and physical descriptions of all eight gauchos who served you, without taking notes.

I double-dog-dare you to do that without messing up. I can’t remember what I had for dinner last night. I cannot tell you what I am wearing right this minute without looking down to see. How in the world can I remember the names and physical descriptions of eight gauchos who look almost exactly alike but not quite alike? Does Eduardo have the pencil mustache, or is it Alessandro?

So you have to cram all these things into your head, while pretending you are only enjoying your meal.

But some of the restaurants really make it difficult to avoid detection. For example, we are doing an assignment today that must include pictures of all of the food plates before any food is eaten.

Who does this? Who goes to a restaurant and takes beauty shots of all the dishes of food that come out? Secret shoppers, that’s who. But we make ourselves less suspicious by making ourselves more suspicious, if that makes any sense.

Let’s be honest, here. Nobody with that face looks professional enough to be hired by any reputable organization. When we were on that assignment, I was barely even getting back my hair.

We take pictures of everything — each other, the moose head on the wall, the menus, the bread plates. We are picture-taking fools. And because we act like idiots, the people at the restaurant think we are dorks instead of secret shoppers. You see, secret shoppers could not possibly be as unsophisticated as we are.

Oddly, the more you act like a dork in your picture-taking endeavors, the less likely you are to be tagged as a secret shopper.

We have done a restaurant in the past that has always been a real challenge. You must call the day before for a reservation and tell them that you are celebrating a special occasion.

You must tell them that you have never been there before, and get specific driving directions to the restaurant. This is the first red flag. This particular restaurant is conspicuous enough that people in the area use it for a landmark. But even if you are new to the area, most people have a GPS available to them or know how to use Google Maps.

You must arrive 15 minutes early and tell the host that you have decided to visit the bar first. At the bar you must order both drinks and a specific appetizer. For card-carrying Mormons like us, you can usually order something non-alcoholic, but not always (that’s a subject for another column). But why would a pair of non-drinkers make a trip to the bar, anyway?

Do you hear the ding-ding-ding of the alarm going off when you order that specific appetizer at the bar immediately before going to your table? If the restaurant staff aren’t already suspicious, their Spidey Sense is on full alert by the time that weird appetizer has been delivered — especially considering you have gone to the bar to order non-alcoholic drinks.

Then during your meal you must order another specific appetizer and a dessert (even though this results in more food than any human being could eat in one setting). Finally, you must have the staff take your picture as you celebrate your special occasion together.

We often laugh about this, and wonder how any employee would not be thinking “mystery diner” when you are jumping through all of these hoops. Wearing a, “Hi, I’m a mystery diner” t-shirt would probably be less obvious.

Nevertheless, in all our secret shopping experiences, we have only had one spectacular fail, in terms of being busted. Ironically, this one should have been one of the easier assignments in terms of preserving our secret identities.

Other than making a reservation, we didn’t have to do any of the usual things that might raise suspicion. We did not have to take pictures or order multiple items from the menu. It should have been an easy assignment.

After we placed our order, Fluffy wandered off to visit the restroom. Most assignments require you to inspect the bathroom facilities, but this should not have raised any suspicions. But as he walked past the kitchen area, he heard one waiter say to another “Hey, we might have some secret shoppers at table 99.”

It was interesting to observe how we were treated throughout the remainder of the meal. The food was delivered by one of the managers, who proceeded to describe every dish as it was served.

Fluffy had ordered a salad, and the salad was built right there at the table, with complete descriptions of all the ingredients and how they were being combined together. The chef himself made an appearance, making sure everything was prepared to our satisfaction.

The waiter was like a fly buzzing around the table, continually refilling our drinks and asking if everything was okay. It was as if the Royal Family were visiting the restaurant, and all of the staff was at their beck and call.

When the check was delivered, it was no surprise to find that we were indeed seated at table 99.

We have laughed at this experience several times, as we have pondered what it was that caused us to be busted. Whatever it was, it would be nice to bottle it and sell it. Can you imagine what life would be like if everyone treated everyone else as their most honored guests?

Our society seems to grow less and less civil each day. People rarely acknowledge each other when passing on the streets. Many people won’t hold doors for each other, and some actually get offended when you do. Many times you pass through the check-out line of a store with little acknowledgment that you actually exist, beyond the minimal communication necessary to complete your transaction.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we treated every human encounter as the most important event that would occur that day (or that week, or that year)? This brings to mind the scripture in Hebrews 13:2: “Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.”

Have we missed an angelic encounter because we were too full of ourselves to acknowledge that spark of divinity that resides within all of us? And even if the people in our sphere are not always angels, do we owe them any less?

As Jesus reminded us, “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me” (Matthew 25:40).

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Jan 19 2015

Cleaning the Building

Published by Kathy under General

These days, Mormons are everywhere you look. If you’re trying not to hit them with your car as you pass them on their bicycles, they’re behaving scandalously on some reality TV show.

Okay — not all of them are scandalous. Most of them are dancing or singing, or doing some other wholesome activity. It’s only the naked one on “Survivor” or the heroic cancer survivor father-son team that won the million dollars on “The Amazing Race” that immediately come to mind for me.

I tried to figure out how many of us there are in the USA, compared to other religions, but there aren’t any current figures. The most recent study I saw was four years old, and it had us being the fourth-largest Christian religion in America — right behind the Catholics, the Southern Baptists and the Methodists. Four years later, with four million more members worldwide, who knows where we are now?

Anyway, with Mormons multiplying like rabbits, we need more and more places to worship. And because we’re generally a messy lot, those places need to be cleaned on a regular basis.

Some years ago, the Church threw up its hands and decided it could no longer afford to waste donated dollars in the hiring of professionals to clean our meetinghouses. And since the meetinghouses were going to have to be cleaned, the members were just going to have to do it themselves.

Ideally, everyone in every Mormon congregation was just going to volunteer to take his turn wielding a mop bucket or a vacuum cleaner. I don’t know how well that works in most congregations, but it apparently wasn’t working really well in our neck of the woods.

I kept hearing rumors that the Hooper family and the Hunter family (one family with a whole boatload of kids, plus the Relief Society president’s family) were keeping our meetinghouse clean, along with a few other families, and it just wasn’t fair.

Well, it just wasn’t fair to those families that were doing the work. Everyone else probably thought it was a great deal for them, because seventy-five percent of everyone else wasn’t doing a whole lot of anything.

Fluffy and I were in that satisfied seventy-five percent of the ward, although Fluffy would volunteer about once a year when the high priests group was assigned the cleaning. What did people expect? I’m in a wheelchair! I can’t put on my own shoes and socks! So last year, when the sign-up sheets went around for people to clean the building, I didn’t even look at it. It was just not something I was cut out to do.

Then things changed, and when they changed they changed in a big way. In December, it was announced that in 2015, every family was going to participate in the cleaning of the building, and to assure that this happened; the families had already been scheduled — all of them. (Apparently the Mormon principle of free agency does not apply when cleaning the building.)

Surely we would not be on that list, I thought. But Fluffy looked at the list, and there we were. Saturday, July 18, 2015, Fluffy and I have been signed up to clean the Sterling Park meetinghouse of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

How did we react? We laughed and laughed and laughed. Fluffy decided he would wrap me in double-sided tape and then roll me down the hallway like a bowling ball so I could pick up the dirt like a giant lint-roller.

Let me explain how ludicrous it is to have Fluffy and me cleaning the meetinghouse. If you were to walk into our home, you would immediately conclude that we came from “old money.” And I certainly do not mean that in the sense that we are sitting on piles of cash.

People who have “new money” have houses that are nice and shiny and clean. Armies of cleaning people come in regularly to make sure the houses stay that way. “Old money” people, on the other hand, sometimes don’t have the funds to pay for those armies of cleaning people. If you look hard (or sometimes if you don’t look hard at all) you see the evidence that the armies are absent.

Our house is pretty much clutter-free. We do not have piles of things here and there. But there are garlands of cobwebs. Sometimes I’ll see a cobweb and point it out to Fluffy. It will be a massive thing that herds of sparrows could congregate on, if they were so inclined, but when I point it out, Fluffy will say, “Wow. That’s a good one,” and go about his business.

He is a man. He does not care about cobwebs. He has more interesting things to do.

It’s the same way with dust. A few months ago I saw a party attendee writing a message in the dust on top of a cabinet in our family room. I solved that problem! After the party, I had Fluffy move the cabinet to our dining room. Some people dust their furniture. Other people sit in front of the TV and have couch naps. Fluffy and I are firmly in the couch nap camp.

Fluffy does a lot with the vacuum. He vacuums the floors. (He also vacuums my head when it is time to cut my hair with the Flowbee system. I cut his hair with the vacuum cleaner too. What can I say? We’re old. Nobody cares how we look.)

Anyway, vacuuming the floor is just about all the interest Fluffy has in floor-related things. Do you think he is going to mop our hardwood floors? No. He has more important things to do — and I am not saying that sarcastically. It takes a lot of time to bake bread and to do the laundry and to do Kathy-related responsibilities. Mopping the hardwood floors is not on his radar.

I actually have an assignment as far as keeping the house clean. It is my self-appointed task to keep the powder room clean on our main floor. Let’s just say I am not very good at this. I can clean the sink, and I can clean the inside of the toilet bowl, and I can use a long-handled scrubber with a wet wipe on it to cursorily mop the floor. This is pretty much all I can do from my wheelchair, so it has to be good enough.

I am aware that the top of the tile kick-plate is grimy with dust, but I cannot reach that. I am aware that the grout between the tiles is black, but in my defense only a bonehead would put white tiles with white grout on a bathroom floor and then not seal the grout. The people who owned this house before we bought it did a lot of stupid things, and we are now enjoying the benefits of their decisions.

There are a lot of things in that bathroom I cannot reach — the mirror, and the walls, and a whole lot of the floor. Sitting in a wheelchair does not offer a whole lot of maneuverability.

So when people come to our house, I hope they do not have to use the bathroom. Or when they do use the bathroom, I hope they are thinking about other things than the tile kick-plate or the floor. The surfaces within Kathy reach are sanitized for their protection. Everything else, in the bathroom and the rest of the house, is “old money.”

If our own house is decorated with cobwebs and dust, who in the world thought we were capable of cleaning up our church meetinghouse? It was obviously somebody who didn’t spend any time in our home — that’s what I thought. Nobody in his right mind would ask us to do any cleaning when our own house is barely making do.

But there was our name: Kidd — Saturday, July 18. It was there in black and white for everyone to see.

When our friend One-F came over for dinner and games one night, we regaled him with the story. We thought he would think the image of Kathy rolling around the floors in double-sided tape would be as funny as we thought it was, but One-F, who is younger than we are, is nevertheless somewhat wiser.

“If you should be exempt from cleaning the building, Kathy, who should be?” he asked. “We have a whole lot of people who use walkers. Should they be exempt?”

Just as I was about to say, “Well, of course,” he added, “What about the women who just had a baby last week? What about the women who had a baby last month? Where do you draw the line?”

Suddenly there was a huge gray area. It wasn’t just Kathy anymore. If you start adding pregnant women into the mix, there goes half the ward.

And there are lots of other people who have allergies or ailments of one kind or another that could disqualify them, too. Once I got disqualified, I could be that first domino to fall. We might wind up with just the Hunters and the Hoopers cleaning the building again. We’d be right back where we started — and everything would be all my fault.

But once One-F got me on the guilt train, he took me all the way to the station. “Besides,” he added, “what kind of message would it send if you got out there in your wheelchair and cleaned the building right along with everyone else? You could take pictures. You could pass out brownies. You could cheer people on. And maybe you could do some cleaning, too.”

One-F was absolutely right. It’s not as though I don’t have hands, after all. The counters in the kitchen are Kathy-height. And at the rate my nerves are growing back, who knows? Maybe by July I’ll actually be able to stand up as I clean the counters. Stranger things have happened.

When Fluffy and I got the news about cleaning our church meetinghouse, we immediately disqualified ourselves. The reasons we did so were obvious. But a well-timed kick in the rear from a friend reminded me that all too often we give up long before we should do so.

Instead of saying, “I can’t,” we should be asking ourselves, “How can I make it happen?” The answers may surprise us. In the process of answering that question, we may find ourselves achieving far more than we ever would have done if we had just given up without making an effort. And in the process of making that effort, we can have a whole lot of fun along the way.

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Jan 12 2015

The Turkey that Would Not be Eaten

Published by Kathy under General

Way back in prehistoric times, perhaps as early as October of last year, our home teachers invited us to a big, communal Thanksgiving feast at one of their homes. This was not going to be an easy feat for me, because I do not get into other people’s homes willy-nilly, but I was eventually able to navigate the stairs through the garage and make it into the house.

I felt so brave, which shows you how pathetic it is to be an old person. We think it’s a major accomplishment when we manage to brush our teeth or get our shoes on the correct feet.

The Thanksgiving celebration was such a rousing success that when we learned that everyone was going to be in town for Christmas, Fluffy and I volunteered to have a similar dinner at our house on Christmas Day. This was no small matter. One home teaching family had three members; the other home teaching family had four members, plus perhaps the lady who lived in the basement, and then there were Fluffy and me.

I’m not big on math, but that was more people than Fluffy and I are usually feeding. We usually don’t host anybody, other than ourselves and Alex Trebek. Mr. Trebek keeps us awake during dinner so that we don’t fall face first into the soup.

We had already decided to order a ham from Famous Dave’s — not because we needed a ham but because their hams are so good we were looking for any excuse. But once we knew we were feeding an army, we also ordered a smoked turkey. Then we invited a friend from the temple and her mother. Why not? When you’re feeding an army, what’s two more?

As Christmas approached, things started to fall apart. Home teacher John’s parents announced they were coming sometime that evening. We bravely said that they could come for dinner too, bringing the tally to a lucky 13 if they decided to accept and if the agoraphobic lady from the basement didn’t join the party.

Then John learned that his sister-in-law and her family were planning on arriving for a visit sometime that day as well, and at that point it became apparent that not everybody had been communicating with everybody else. Some people had accepted our invitation without getting prior spousal approval, which is never a good thing.

John and wife Michelle decided to bow out of the Christmas Day dinner, replacing it with a dinner at the Cracker Barrel on another day — their treat. Then Michael and Melanie came too, but was that in addition to or instead of the Christmas Day dinner? Nobody actually let us know.

Fast forward to Christmas Eve. We knew were down to no more than seven people for dinner — Fluffy and me, the temple friend and her mother, and Michael’s family. But Michael’s family told us they were going to a movie on Christmas Day. Was that before dinner at our house, after dinner at our house, or instead of dinner at our house? We never were completely sure.

Also, our friend from the temple had not called to see what time we were eating. My guess was that they were eating elsewhere and that we were eating alone, but we couldn’t be sure.

At the last minute, we made menu adjustments. We decided to make cranberry fluff salad, cook the ham, bake the pie, share a sweet potato, and call it good. If someone called to ask what time we were eating, we could always make mashed potatoes and gravy. The turkey was spared for another day.

As it turned out, we ate Christmas dinner wearing our pajamas and Santa hats and watching Alex Trebek. After eating, we took a short nap on the couch. Despite the change in plans, it was a quiet Christmas and all was well. The turkey napped in the refrigerator, cold and happy. It dodged a bullet.

A few days after Christmas, we heard from a friend who suggested we revive an old tradition of having Easter and Christmas dinners together. We said we could do it retroactively, but our Christmas dinner would be on New Year’s Day. We already had the food.

So on New Year’s Day, which is a much nicer day to cook than Christmas, Fluffy and I did all the cooking that we’d planned to do the week before. We made dressing for the turkey. We made gravy for the turkey. We made mashed potatoes. Fluffy made another batch of cranberry fluff salad, the batch he had made the week before being long gone because it is so fine.

And of course, we finally heated that smoked turkey. It was a glorious bird. I couldn’t wait to eat it. It was the star of the meal. In fact, we had to postpone the meal until the internal temperature of the turkey reached 165 degrees, something I did not understand because the turkey was already fully cooked when we got it from Famous Dave’s. But we were obedient, so we waited.

Fluffy, being the family member with operating feet, was a whirling dervish of activity. He asked Dale if he would carve the turkey, but Dale declined, citing a lack of carving experience.

I would have been glad to carve the turkey, but I was making gravy and then I started telling Dale the story of the Halifax Explosion. There was an ulterior motive here. I wanted him to travel there at his own expense, interview a lot of people, and give Fluffy and me the research so we could write a book about it for an American audience. Then we would split the royalties three ways.

I could have carved the turkey as I was talking, and I would have been glad to do so if someone had brought me the turkey. It is just as well nobody did, because I was gesturing wildly with my hands as I was talking at the dinner table, and I’m sure everyone at the table was glad I did not have a knife in my hands at the time.

The only other potential turkey carver at the table, Lynne, is so polite that she would not have touched the turkey without written permission from the turkey in question, and the turkey was not in a position to write.

So all the food made its way to the table except for the star of the meal — the turkey itself. The very centerpiece of my Norman Rockwell feast sat on a counter across the room while everyone dug into the ham and the mashed potatoes and dressing and gravy and cranberry fluff salad.

Halfway through the meal, Dale said, “I think I’m going to get me a turkey leg.” He went over to the turkey, ripped off a leg with his bare hands, and back he came.

I thought to myself, I’d like a piece of turkey. But do you think it occurred to old Coma Brain that it might be a good time to carve the turkey so we could actually eat it? No, it never did. I don’t mind carving a turkey. I’m not good at it, but I would have been glad to do it. We could have had turkey and dressing and gravy too, just the way I’d planned from the beginning. But the idea never even crossed my mind.

We sat there visiting and watching Dale pick apart his turkey leg. He commented on the sinews and the skin, but he never told us how good it was or wasn’t. I still have no idea whether that bird was a good investment.

We have baguettes and avocados and cranberry-orange relish, all ready to make turkey and avocado sandwiches at our next meal. But I fully expect that before we get around it, we are going to see a one-legged turkey use his crutches to push open the refrigerator door. He will hop out of the refrigerator and hobble to the side of the road, where he will stand on his remaining leg and hold up a little sign saying, “Curse you, Mister Dale.”

Most of us plan our lives in neat little outlines. In the innocence of youth, we may expect that our lives will line up like this:


It’s only when we get to the end of our lives that we see the path our lives have really taken is more likely to resemble this:

“The Hallelujah Chorus”

It’s how we deal with the curve balls of life that defines who we are as people. In fact, it’s a good part of why we are here. We need to adapt to things we don’t expect — the spectacularly good, and the terribly bad, usually without any time to think about them and take them in. Not only do we need to adapt to them, but we also need to accept these things with grace.

We all know people who hit a bump in the road and just stop. It may be the death of a loved one, or the inability to have children. It may be a severe illness. It may be going through life as a single person. It may be something as seemingly trivial as the death of a pet. It may be any of the times when life diverts us from our established plan.

All of those things are big bumps in the road, but they are part and parcel of life. They are not things that are designed to stop us in our tracks. Nevertheless, if we look around us we can see many people sitting in front of their own personal boulders, steadfastly refusing to get up and climb over them, or walk around them, or plow right through them as though they are not even there.

There were a dozen little things that could have ruined our Christmas this year, but we ended up laughing them off and having a delightful celebration. It is my hope for the New Year that we can all take that attitude with the little and big obstacles that will inevitably block our path as we head down the highway of life.

3 responses so far

Jan 05 2015

The Making of Diamonds

Published by Kathy under General

Fluffy and I went to a wedding last week, and as we sat in the temple I couldn’t help but remember our own wedding ceremony a little more than 38 years ago. We were so young. We were so innocent. We were so — well, we were so stupid. We only thought we knew everything, when in fact we knew so little.

I could see that Fluffy was a diamond in the rough. He had jagged edges that would trip an elephant. I thought it would be no trouble to grind those edges off, once we were living in wedded bliss. I naively assumed that Fluffy would calmly sit there while I used the grinder on him to get rid of those nasty imperfections.

What a dolt I was! Fluffy will not even submit to a haircut unless he’s in the mood! He kept a mustache for more than thirty years, fully knowing that I hate facial hair in any form. If he wouldn’t even shave a mustache for me, why in the world did I think he was going to sit still long enough for me to mold him and shape him into the person I thought he should be?

It just wasn’t going to happen.

We’re just not even going to mention the little detail about what right I thought I had to change him, anyway. I’m not the first woman who went into a marriage thinking she was going to tame the savage beast — to civilize him, if you will.

As author John Grisham says, women go into a marriage thinking they can change their husbands and men go into a marriage thinking their wives won’t change — and both of them are wrong.

John Grisham is right. You can’t change a man. There isn’t a hammer big enough to knock off those rough edges. And the harder you try, the more determined the husband is to keep whatever quality it is you’re trying to get rid of.

I spent a lot of years trying. I would ask something of Fluffy, but Fluffy considered excessive asking to be nagging. If I mentioned something once, that was okay. The second time I mentioned it — even if it was a week after the first time — I had crossed the line into nag-dom, and Fluffy was less likely to do whatever it was I had asked than if I had never asked him at all.

If I hadn’t gotten the hint the second time and dared to ask him about the same thing on a third occasion, heaven help me. It was never in this lifetime going to happen — not even if Fluffy had been intending to do it in the first place.

Take mustaches. Please take them. Take all of them, far from me. Gee, do I hate those slithery little things! I don’t know why I have an aversion to them. It is totally irrational. I completely admit that some men look a lot better with them than without them. I don’t like them for the same reason I don’t like peanut butter or the Tabernacle Organ. I just don’t.

But the moment that Fluffy knew how much I hated mustaches, keeping his mustache became a matter of principle with him. His mustache was a part of him, and if I loved him, why was I trying so hard to change him? He never exactly said that, mind you, but that’s what his big, sad eyes were always asking me. I didn’t have an answer for that, so I always backed off.

So the mustache stayed until the moment he was given a choice of keeping the mustache or keeping his status as a temple worker. Then he shaved. It took me a year to get used to the clean-shaven Fluffy, and I had to admit that the mustache-less Fluffy looked a bit strange. But that’s a different topic for a different day. The point is, for the purposes of this column, he did not get rid of the mustache for me.

As I sat in the temple last week, looking at the dewy-eyed bride, I wondered what in the world possessed me, back when I was twenty-six and dewy-eyed myself, to think that Fluffy had all those rough edges and that I didn’t have any rough edges of my own. It never occurred to me that I, too, might need a little bit of fixing — or maybe a whole lot of fixing.

It never dawned on me that my rough edges might be even bigger than his were, and that instead of Kathy being given the task of polishing Fluffy up into a fine gem, God had instead thrown two rough stones into the same rock tumbler. Instead of him needing all the fixing, I needed to be fixed right along with him. We needed to grow, or be shaved off, or to be groomed, together.

Oh boy, am I mixing my metaphors!

In retrospect, I see that my vision for Fluffy was a lot punier than God’s has been. How do I know this? Because right now, today, Fluffy is a diamond that shines brighter than I ever imagined he could shine. I couldn’t have turned Fluffy into the person he is now. My imagination isn’t good enough. God is a better gem polisher than I ever dreamed of being.

Perhaps instead of trying to mold our mate (or children) into our image of what we want them to be, it would be better to encourage them to be the kind of people that will cause their best selves to appear. In other words, we should be the master of the garden, but we don’t select the seeds.

You can’t change someone to be what you want, but you can put them into an environment that will foster positive change. If you surround them with love and acceptance and happy experiences, sometimes the rough edges fall off without any effort on your own, and people become the diamonds they were supposed to be from the very beginning.

And usually you will find that the same process has removed most of your rough edges as well.

3 responses so far

Dec 29 2014

Learning from Failure

Published by Kathy under General

Sometimes you read something that changes your life. For me, a recent example was reading a talk given by R. Lanier Britsch back in 1999, “The Nobility of Failure.”

Ironically, the one contact I have had with R. Lanier Britsch in the long-ago past also involved a failure of sorts, and he was responsible for it. He taught a class on world religions when I was a student at Brigham Young University. It was one of my favorite all-time classes.

Britsch was a fascinating teacher, and I was enthralled with the subject. I aced the course — right up until the final exam.

I wish I had a copy of the final exam to reproduce for you. At the top of the paper was the name of the course. Then there was the word “Name,” followed by a colon and a line where the student could fill in his name.

That was it. Every other word — and I mean every other word on the several-page exam — was in one of five languages: Chinese, Japanese, Hebrew, Aramaic, or Sanskrit.

No, that’s an exaggeration. There were different sections on the test. At the top of each section were instructions: “Fill in the Blanks;” “Matching;” “Essay;” “True or False” — that sort of thing. The instructions were in English. That was helpful.

But when you’re filling in the blanks of a sentence whose words are in Hebrew and you don’t actually speak Hebrew, the words “Fill in the Blanks” at the top of the section are not quite helpful enough.

Britsch left the room — as well he could. Even if we had not been students at Brigham Young University, there was no way we could have cheated. All we could do was shake our heads in astonishment. Then we laughed.

I was actually able to answer a question or two, just because of the context. “Namu Amida Butsu” must have gone in this spot, for example. There was no place else it could have fit. But I failed the test, and if I failed it everyone else did too. At least there was convincing evidence of this.

Before this final exam, my grade had been the highest in the class. I knew this for a fact, because Britsch had helpfully kept the grades posted in the hall on a bulletin board for everyone to see. I checked after every test to make sure my status was firmly in place, with that shiny “A” intact, and it always was.

That was the only “A” I was pulling down in a semester where my final grade point average was going to end up being — get this — .56, so you can bet that I was basking in whatever glory I was able to achieve.

So when I saw this exam, I was fully expecting that this text was a joke, and that when the final grades were posted, I would still be at the top of the glass with that shiny “A” grade.

Well, I was half right. When the dust had settled, I was still at the top of the class, but after factoring in the final exam, my grade in the course was now a “C.”

Some professors!

Anyway, I thought it was just a teensy bit ironic that this talk should be given by Lanier Britsch, considering that he was single-handedly responsible for a failure on my part. But his talk on failure was so important that it brought tears to my eyes, because failure has been one of the things in my life at which I have been, shall we say, the most successful.

I do not say this in the hope of being reassured otherwise. I know that some people consider me to be wildly successful, and at least as far as marriage and home and friendship are concerned, I have hit the jackpot.

What can be more important than home and family and friends, you ask? Absolutely nothing. Nobody is more fortunate than I, and I know it. I thank God for my blessings every day of my life.

But in other areas of my life — areas that I do not choose to share with others — I have been somewhat less successful. “Colossal failure” is the phrase that comes to mind. Things have happened to me that have been so bizarre that it’s almost as though an invisible brick wall had been built between me and success.

I did the work and I did it well. Then, when it was time for the reward, the reward did not come.

Things have been so completely against common sense that more than once I have said in my prayers, “If you’re not going to help me, all I ask is that you not stand in my way.”

I guess that’s why I was so touched by the talk. In it, Lanier Britsch quoted a man that many of us would consider a huge success in life — Mitt Romney.

Paraphrasing Romney, Britsch said, “he forthrightly stated that even though we may work hard, keep the rules, cross every t, and eat everything on our plates, we might not be big successes in life. A good deal depends on fate or luck or circumstance. Sometimes the good guys do not win — or so it appears.”

This is Kathy speaking. We all know people whose every effort is rewarded. Doors open for them. Things are handed to them, seemingly before they ask. They fill up their plates and eat everything they want without having to diet.

They don’t know the meaning of the word “pimple,” or “zit,” or whatever teenagers are calling them these days. They date (and later marry) the cheerleaders or the basketball players. Heck, they are the cheerleaders and the basketball players and the rest of the royalty in high school and later in college. Once they get out into the workplace, dream jobs fall in their laps.

I think there may have been a time in his life when Mitt Romney could have gone in that direction. Tall, wealthy, and good-looking, he may have gone a lifetime without ever developing compassion to go with it. A lot of people in his position never understand that it wasn’t their own virtue that got them their looks or their wealth or their success — it was the luck of the draw.

And yet Mitt Romney delivered that speech about failure more than a decade before his defeat in the presidential election, so somehow he learned along the way that life doesn’t come easy for everyone. I can only imagine how his own words may have comforted him in the years since he lost that election, and has reflected on the truth of what he said.

After quoting Romney’s words on failure, Britsch went on to tell the story of Mormon missionaries in the 1800s that went to India to try to spread the gospel, only to have doors shut against them at every turn. Although the missionaries who went to England saw success at every corner, the missionaries in India were only met with disappointment and heartache.

After baptizing only people who expected to be paid to remain members of the Church, and being condemned for everything they did, they went home in seeming defeat, only to almost freeze to death as they struggled across the plains to join their fellow Saints in Utah. It seemed as though everything they did ended in failure or near-failure.

But, as Britsch pointed out, these men were strengthened by their experiences. They were forged in the furnaces of their hardships, and not one of them regretted the time they spent away from their wives and their families, preaching the word of God to people who had no interest in hearing what they had to say.

They recognized that there are blessings associated with sacrifice, even if the sacrifice is not accepted. They understood that there are unseen recipients of that sacrifice — God, and the person who pays the price and suffers the loss.

So can we all be. Our failures are not really failures, if we learn the lessons we are supposed to learn and become better people in the process. We can choose to be successful no matter what the world says.

In the words of Mitt Romney — a person who has since learned from bitter experience — we may “work hard, keep the rules, cross every t, and eat everything on our plates” and stumble long before the finish line. “Fate or luck or circumstance” may work against us, and we may not win.

Nevertheless, there is no need to think of ourselves as failures in this game of life. Some of the most successful people on earth only appear to be that way from our earthly perspective. And some who have lived lives of seeming obscurity and humility may be — in the long run — the most successful people of all.

We are not losers until God says we are, and His is the only opinion that really matters when all is said and done.

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Dec 22 2014

The Breakup

Published by Kathy under General

I have lost my own true love.

It has been nearly two years in coming. When I first awoke from my coma in December of 2012, I was afraid that something was not right. And though I have tried to deny it many times, the time has come when I must now face the truth.

Although the two of us had blissfully spent many stolen hours together, after my coma things just were not the same.

I tried to force the issue. I tried to pretend that things were going to be the same as they always had been.

When I awoke from my coma, my taste buds were off. I couldn’t taste anything. “It’s the drugs,” the nurses said. And indeed, I was taking so many powerful medications just to stay alive that I wasn’t eating much of anything.

Hospital food was out of the question. The dieticians tried to tempt me with one “delicacy” after another, but face it — it was all made by the hospital cooks, and at that point I was not in a good hospital. Their food was not going to tempt me.

The dieticians finally brought me two bottles of Ensure at every meal. Fluffy took most of the bottles home, where they sat in the refrigerator for months until we finally threw them away.

Instead of the hospital food Fluffy brought me Jell-O or soup, and I ate as much as a cup of that a day. I lost a ton of weight, and that was fine with me.

When I got home, food and I continued to be at war. For about eight months, I ate Velveeta dip on toasted baguette slices for every meal. It was all I could taste, so it was all that tasted good.

One by one, my taste for foods came back. Apples were almost the last. They had been my favorites and I was glad when my love for them returned, but try as I might my one true love remained elusive.

I tried to woo him back.

Every few months, Fluffy would make the pilgrimage to Popeye’s. He would buy the chicken — all dark meat with spicy seasoning. It was just the way I had eaten it, all those furtive years.

It was the chicken that would have been my last meal if I had ever found myself on Death Row and had been forced to make the request — four-piece dinner, all thighs, with red beans and rice and an extra biscuit.

But try as I might, I couldn’t get the chicken to taste the way to me after my coma as it had tasted before. Even two years later, it has an off flavor.

I say to the chicken, “It isn’t you. It’s me.” And it’s true. My taste buds are catty-wampus. I want to love the chicken the way I used to. I just can’t.

Last week was the last straw. I had a doctor’s appointment near a Popeye’s. I decided to get chicken for me and go somewhere else for take-out for Fluffy. His choice was anywhere else. (He isn’t on speaking terms with my beloved. His is a seething jealousy.)

We arrived home, and Fluffy set the feast before me. It took only one bite for me to know the sad truth.

It’s over. “Irreconcilable differences” is what would go on the papers if there were any formal papers, but there aren’t. We have just grown apart. Something that I thought would be a lifetime love affair is no longer a part of my life. Oh, I may return to Popeye’s for the biscuits and the red beans and rice, but I see no point in buying the chicken again. It is finished between us. There is no sense in forcing the issue.

I have spent two years trying to rekindle my flame with Popeye’s chicken. It’s a small incident, perhaps, but it illustrates the idea that we as human beings often hold onto things long after we should let them go.

Sometimes we cling to habits, stubbornly, even though they are no longer our friends. We hang on to a sedentary way of life even though we know we should exercise, or consume a diet that only young people should eat. We watch television shows that dull the senses, or play video games that numb the mind. We may allow our vocabulary to drag us down rather than uplift us, or choose music that incites rather than heals.

Sometimes we hold on to companions who would drag us down. We follow their lead rather than making the effort to being the leader, refusing to put forth the courage to turn the group in a different direction.

It is often the little things that make a big difference in our lives. Either we do those little things or fail to do those little things — a difference is made either way.

1 Corinthians 13:11 says, “When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.” The verse implies maturity. When we are spiritually mature, we discard the things we need to put away, the “childish things” that distract us from a meaningful life.

It has taken me two years to realize I need to walk away from my one true love. I only hope that when I am confronted with habits and issues that really matter, I will able to spot them a little more quickly, turn away without hesitation, and become the creature that God intends me to be.

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Dec 15 2014

Two-Year Anniversary

Published by Kathy under General

The Kidd family passed a milestone recently, although I passed it without even thinking about it and had to be reminded by Fluffy. He, being on the sentient end of it, wasn’t exactly in a position where he could forget about it.

Two years ago, I was in a coma. Some of you may think of this as a relaxing twelve-day nap, but it was a life-altering event for me. I was not the same person when I awoke as I was when I went to sleep.

There is a whole lot involved in the coma biz — so much that these days, when we see people on TV shows who are in comas just wake up and go about their pre-coma activities, Fluffy and I tend to laugh and laugh.

In fact, I was lying in my hospital bed when Fluffy and I watched Leroy Jethro Gibbs of “N.C.I.S.” wake up out of a coma, strap on his gun, and run off chasing the bad guys. I would have rolled out of my bed laughing, if I could have rolled over, that is. Having awakened almost completely paralyzed, rolling over at all was somewhat out of the question.

After I woke up, Fluffy had to teach me how to open and close my fingers into a fist. To encourage this, he would bring dice games to my hospital room and would spend hours chasing the dice around the room as I attempted to pick up the dice cup and throw out the dice like a normal person.

For months I had daily occupational therapy (the occupational therapists work on your arms and hands) and daily physical therapy (the physical therapists work on your legs and feet). The heroes on TV never have to learn how to make a fist again, much less how to brush their teeth.

But I assure you, these little acts take weeks or months or even years for those of us who are not highly-paid television actors.

Fluffy tells the story of how, in the second of my three hospitals, I used to try to convince him to help me escape. I wanted him to get the wheelchair from home and sneak it into my hospital room and take me home.

“Great,” said Fluffy. “Show me how you’re going to get out of bed.”

He said I’d try and try and try, until my face was red and maybe I’d move one leg a half-inch toward the edge of the bed. “Okay,” I’d finally say. “Maybe the nurses can get me over to the edge of the bed.” (The nurses in this hospital were strong men from Africa. It would have taken strong men to move me across the bed. Fluffy never could have done it by himself.)

“Great,” said Fluffy. “Show me how you’re going to get into the house once we get there.”

I’d think for a minute. “Men from the ward can get me into the house.”

“Great,” said Fluffy. “How are they going to get you up the stairs?”

“I guess they can carry me,” I said. It was obvious I wasn’t thinking this through. I probably still tipped the scales at close to four hundred pounds, and even after they got me into the house it was fifteen more stairs to get me into the bedroom.

“Great,” said Fluffy. “And how are you going to go to the bathroom?”

“Oh, never mind,” I’d say in frustration.

Then, five minutes later, I’d say, “Hey, I’ve got an idea. Next time you come, why don’t you bring the wheelchair from home and take me home with you.” And thus the conversation would start all over again. My hands and feet were not the only parts of me that needed retraining!

This was in December. I didn’t go home from the hospital (yet another hospital) until March 5. Even then, I felt like a baby chick leaving the egg prematurely. It took me nearly a half hour to get into bed. Our bed did not have those nifty rails that were on the side of my hospital bed. Fluffy finally rigged a rope in bed so I could grab it and pull myself far enough onto the bed that I wouldn’t fall out. It was an answer to prayer.

Even then, I was so weak I kept falling off the wheelchair as I transitioned from the bed to the wheelchair in the morning. Once I was on the ground, the only way to get me up again was to call Fire and Rescue. That’s how weak I was. This did not promote marital harmony. Finally Fluffy found a different way for me to get off the bed in the morning. It was another answer to prayer.

I was not strong enough to stay in my wheelchair without a seat belt to hold me in. Otherwise, I’d slide right out like a greased pig. I was not strong enough to sit in any seat other than that wheelchair until September of that first year, securely belted in. The first day I was able to get over on the loveseat and sit next to Fluffy where I belonged was a red-letter day.

I was not strong enough to go into the bathroom until June, two months after I returned home. I am sure this was an answer to Fluffy’s prayer, because until then I was using a bedside porta-potty that had been supplied by the hospital. Somebody had to clean that porta-potty after every use, and here’s a hint: the hospital was not sending out orderlies to do the job.

Even now, two years later, Fluffy has to put on my shoes and socks for me in the morning and take them off at night. I am not a total doofus. If I did not wear compression stockings I could put on my own shoes, albeit with considerable difficulty; it is the compression stockings that make Fluffy’s participation in the process necessary. It takes a good ten minutes to get shoes and socks on my feet every morning.

I’ve found throughout this process that challenges seem insurmountable. After a while, with perseverance, they become possible. That’s how I conquered the stairs. I practiced on a plastic stair-stepper until I could do one step. That alone took months. Then I went up the first five real steps every day until it seemed easy. Only then did I try the last ten.

My next goal is to be able to stand up from a chair without pushing myself up by the arms, just using my legs and the walker. Right now it’s impossible. It’s the hardest thing about church with the exception of using a walker in the parking lot, which is a real pain in the neck.

But getting up once I’ve sat down on those nasty church chairs is impossible unless Fluffy just about gives himself apoplexy in an effort to pull me up again. Something just has to change. So it will.

That’s what happens in the process of growth. Something is just too hard to tackle. So you agonize over it, for a nanosecond, or an hour, or a week, or even longer. Finally you decide to do something about it, and you mentally work it out. Then your body follows. Eventually, through a process of trial an error, you do what has to be done.

It’s a process. In this case, I am going to practice knee bends to strengthen my knees and my thighs. They won’t like it, of course. They will think it is w-o-r-k, and they do not like w-o-r-k, which is why I have to spell it. But eventually they will be stronger, even against their will, so that when I try to stand up just using the walker, I will be able to do it.

And then, one day, I will be able to stand up even without the walker, just the way you do. Effortlessly. Or even with effort. Hey. I’m old. Everything I do takes effort. It’s one of the rules.

When I can stand up again the angels will sing, but perhaps not as fervently as Fluffy. Then I’ll go on to another goal. That’s part of the human endeavor. Whether you’re a baby learning to walk or a person like me recovering from a coma, it’s the way of life.

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Dec 09 2014

The Great Unrecognizable Kathy

Published by Kathy under General

We happened to be scheduled to work at the temple on Black Friday. Of course, because everyone at the temple wears white it is more appropriately called White Friday. But I digress.

Anyway, as Fluffy was rolling me from one place to another I noticed a couple we hadn’t seen in several years. I had really enjoyed working with them several years earlier when they had been assigned there as temple missionaries. Seeing them once a week while they served there resulted in quite a bit of time spent together.

One of the fun things about working in the temple is getting to know all of these interesting people who have lived in many places and done many things.

When the wife came to the office to visit with the office staff, I waited patiently while she talked to Karen and then to Lydia. Then she turned around to me and looked at me without a glimpse of recognition.

She read my name tag and said brightly, “Oh. Kidd.” I could tell she was faking it. The name sounded vaguely familiar, but she had no earthly idea who I was.

I said, “I used to have long hair. I lost a hundred pounds.” I didn’t mention the coma that took the weight off me. She didn’t have enough interest in that. You only have interest in coma-related things when you know people, and she obviously didn’t think she’d ever met me before in her life.

She smiled at me vacantly and walked off, looking to reconnect with her other friends. No doubt if she had seen me as I looked before my coma we would have embraced like long-lost companions, but I am not the same person I used to be. I understand that.

This is not the first time this has happened, you see. The last time, the person was a lot closer than a missionary who had only been here on a two-year assignment.

The last time, the person was someone who had been in my home. I had been in her home. In fact, I had held Connie’s hand, so to speak, as she and her husband Floyd had built that home. And then when it was finished, she had invited Fluffy and me and another couple over to inspect every inch of it and see the grandkids’ pictures that were nailed up the staircase to the second floor and into the bedroom.

She and I had worked together as initiatory directors every week at the temple. We were part of a tight little group of four temple couples. We went to the Cracker Barrel together on numerous occasions. We celebrated the Millennium together.

We were tight.

Then she and Floyd started working at the temple on a different day, and Fluffy and I just didn’t see her anymore. The first time I saw her after the coma, I was in the temple and she came to the office. I called out, “Hi, Connie!”

She gaped at me, silent. Then she said, “Who are you?”

I said, “It’s Kathy.”

She said, “Kathy who?”

She had been standing at the counter, but she wasn’t content to wait until I shouted out my last name. She came back to where I was sitting and kept looking from my name tag to my face. I don’t think she was ever able to reconcile the two.

I tried vainly to convince Connie that she knew me, and that we were friends, but she never believed it. We never had a conversation that indicated in any way that she knew who I was. She just walked off and out of my life. The end.

It hurts when people whom you considered to be your friends do not recognize you as friends anymore, but as soon as Fluffy picked me up at the end of our shift all was well again. He recognized me just fine. Our home is happy and warm. That’s what’s important to me.

And the bottom line is found in 1 Corinthians 13:12 — For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.

I am known by my Creator in a way that will never be forgotten. No matter how much weight I gain or lose, how old I get, or what I do to my hair, He knows me through and through. He accepts me. He loves me. He doesn’t have to sneak a peek at my name tag. He is waiting for me. And when the time comes for me to return to His presence, His will be the arms that welcome me home.

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