He was 24. A gentle man. Feeling sick on duty, he took a permision and went home for a treatment.

When his mum asked him why did he come home early today, his face moody, he said he was sick.

“Dad can’t allow me rest", he added. 'Everyday saying why can’t I go to Europe like other men of my age? Why am I still living in his house after all?”

“He just want to know how far you’re trying to help your younger ones: he is afraid he would die soon.”

“So he always says. I always tell him I am looking for a good employment here because going to Europe should be for another reason rather than looking for a job.”

“Just take it easy.”

“Not this time. I won’t take it easy this time. If he tells me again, I will tell him to stay away from me. I’ve good plans.”

Meanwhile, his father returned home to carry a file he forgot on top of a box TV looking hurried and worried. Hearing him telling his mother what they discussed, he waited in the kitchen until he eavedropped everything.

“I've heard all that you told your mum', he said in a low tone in the parlor after a few minutes. 'You're not a man because you can’t control yourself.”

Mafai finished swallowing his pills when his mum called him to the palor so his dad, sitting in his cushion, his feet in his old bathroom slippers on a tile floor, spoke to him.

"You see, you think I'm disturbing. You think I was against your plan, don't you? But let me tell you today: I'm not against your plan but only suggesting."

His mum nodded looking at the wall curtain.

"I don't want you to suffer brokeness that's why I was giving such suggestion. To say it as though to be clear and concise, I want you to make a lot of money like most of your mates who travelled abroad. But since you found my suggestion not worthy, I called you to say do whatever pleases you so I won't be the cause of your misfortune."

He counted all the tiles he could see and think about his girl friend so to be less ashamed. But he wasn't.

(c)2018

Laugh Lines

Hubs hates clothes shopping. Hates. It. His entire closet is full of “gently worn” t-shirts he buys in bulk 3-4 times a year on eBay, preferably with college team logos emblazoned across the front and free shipping. Jeans are purchased during random trips to the local Wal-Mart simply by checking out the size tag (34 x 34? Yeah, they fit) and casually tossing three pair into the cart with the milk, Comet Cleaning Powder, and a container of shampoo/body wash that would last the average family three years.

Some days, I’m a little bit jealous.

So when I told him I was headed to the city to buy some new clothes, and he replied, “I’ll go with you,” I swear the earth stopped turning on its axis for the brief moment as it registered this aberration in the natural order of things.

“This isshopping,” I said, speaking slowly. “You did get that, right? And it’sgirlshopping. You know, where we take several items in various sizes into a dressing room to try them each on, sometimes more than once for comparison’s sake, then repeat the process as necessary over the next several hours. Seriously?? You want to go with me?” He grinned, “Sure. How bad can it be?” Let me count the ways.

An hour’s drive later, we pulled into the mall parking lot and headed inside, as I pulled out my list. “You have alist?” Hubs looked surprised and a little dismayed. “How many things are you buying??” “We’re not even inside the first store,” I sighed. “And yes, I have a list. Youwantedto come, remember?”

For the next 45 minutes, I shopped while he followed six inches behind me the entire time (qualifying as stalking in 39 states). He was picking up anything and everything he thought looked cute or sexy, regardless of the discrepancy between said item and my body. Repeated reminders to put back any item in a size zero and that I wasn’t shopping for date clothes didn’t seem to diminish his enthusiasm for my new Indecency wardrobe.

At one point, I actually considered trying on the wispy, size 2 pantie-bra set that he was clinging to with a hopeful look on his face. I figured one quick peek would put an end to that particular fantasy once and for all. I knew Odds were that I’d look more like a overstuffed wienie wrap than a hot pole dancer, instantly destroying his mental delusions, and ultimately requiring couples’ therapy because some things can’t be unseen.

The next hour was spent explaining why it was necessary to take three different sizes of the same jeans into the dressing room. “You’re 60. How can you not know what size you wear?” he grumbled. “Every brand is cut differently,” I said, trying hard to be patient. “Well, that’s just stupid,” he replied. I decided it was time to solicit his help, if for no other reason than to keep him busy.

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“Will you see if they have these jeans in an 8?” I asked, tossing a pair over the dressing room door. “Who am I supposed to ask?” “Anybody that works here.” “How will I know?” “She won’t be carrying a purse.” Ten minutes later, he returned with my size 8 jeans. He was also carrying three midriff-baring cropped tops that I’m quite sure I’d seen Miley Cyrus twerking in on national television. I’m flattered that in his imaginary world, I’d be smokin’ in teenage tube tops, but reality insisted I stuff them at the bottom of the “That ship has sailed” pile and slip on the jeans instead.

Hubs poked his head in the dressing room, “Those make your butt look great. Get those.” “But they give muffin top,” I said. “What the hell is ‘muffin top’??” “It’s when your belly fat rolls up and over the waistband of your jeans, making you look like a banana muffin at Starbucks.” I pulled my shirt up for an up-close-and-personal visual, sending Hubs into a fit of snort-laughing, choking out, “I got it. Wow. Nope, those jeans are definitely not for you.” And that’s the last time you’ll seethatfrom me, buddy.

As we walked around the store, me in front and him stalking me from behind, he entertained himself by looking for women whose jeans were too tight or too low-riding. He spotted a large women with a Harley vest on over her tank top and seriously tight jeans. He leaned over and whispered loudly enough for me (and anyone within 15 feet) to hear, “I’ll bet she’s got one of those muffin tops.” Yes, I think she probably does. She’s also got a “Screw with me and I’ll hurt you” tattoo going up her arm. I think if she heard that, she’s going to kick your ass all the way to your car.

The rest of the afternoon was spent explaining (“IknowI already have a red sweater, but that one is ablue-red, and I need acherry-red), justifying (“Yes, this denim jacket is $150, but I’ll wear it witheverything), or flat-out denying (“Iknowthe tag says $80, but that’s before the discount, which they’ll take off at the sales counter”).

An hour or so later, I was assuring him that we were really, truly almost done. I just needed to do a quick run through the fragrance department for anything new and delicious. That was before I knew we’d have to pass by the shoe department to get to the fragrances. I immediately got waylaid by an uber fabulous pair of leopard-print boots.

“Shoes??” he wailed. “You didn’t say anything aboutshoes.” “Well, how could I?” I asked, “I didn’t know about them this morning. And if I don’t get the jeans, I can buy the boots.” “You mean, not buy the jeans we spent two hourstrying to find? The ones that gave you a great butt, with no muffin top?Those jeans?” “You know what?” I said, “Let’s go back and try the jeans on one more time, to see if they’re cooler than the boots.” “I know I’m being set up,” he replied, “But not a chance. Just get whatever you want and let’s get the hell out of here. There’s a sports bar across the street and I need a beer.”

Some things are just too easy.

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Hospital Odities
By Vicky Claflin

As many of you know, I’ve spent the last several weeks battling an exploded, nasty appendicitis attack. I came to a slew of emails and messages (for which I am grateful) asking, “What the hellhappened??” so I decided to write about it. (Ranking second only to “What I Did on My Summer Vacation” photos, but you asked.)

I’d been having stomach pains the week prior to the Big Event, but none of my self-diagnoses turned out to be the problem. (Never trust Wikipedia with your health care.) Hubs wanted me to go to the ER, but seriously? Who goes to the ER for stomach flu? So we waited for my internal storm to pass. It didn’t.

Four days later, I woke up doubled over, with intense, debilitating pain that had me on my knees. Hubs scooped me out of bed, stuffed me into the front seat of his truck, and tore down to the hospital ER. The doc determined quickly that it was probably appendicitis, and the next thing I knew, I was being wheeled down the hall for the first of four CT scans. Well, crap.

The doc told us that the scan revealed a severely burst and pissed off appendix, and because I delayed coming in, it had gotten septic and run rampant throughout my abdomen. They needed to go inright away, and they were going to “try” (try??) to get it out, but it was such a mess, they weren’t sure if that was possible. Yeah. because that’swhat you want to hear while the anesthesiologist is masking you up.

Five and a half hours later, I’m dopey-stupid and sleepy in Recovery, while Doc talked to Hubs. I heard snippets like “dangerous and difficult surgery,” “if you’d waited one more day day, she wouldn’t have made it,” and “not out of the woods yet.” I. Don’t. Think. So. I amwoman. I am strong. I am healthy. Stand back and see how its done. After a week, dazzled with my ability to bounce back so quickly, they said I could go home and finish recuperating. We packed up my jammies, my new purple walker, half a dozen prescriptions, a list of exercises, and left with high hopes.

Then things got real.

I was not getting better. I was getting worse. The pain and frustration of being bedridden had me in tears all day long. Hubs refused to leave my side, staying home to help me sit, stand, or put on a clean t-shirt. Nothing was working. He cooked all my favorite meals, but my appetite was nonexistent, and I was rapidly dropping weight, leaving me with zero energy to doanything.

After two weeks of trying everything he could think of, Hubs announced that we were going back to the ER, and it was not an option. An hour later, I was strapped to an ambulance gurney with two 22-year-old pups I’d never met, going to Portland for specialists who were trained to “perform surgery at this level. ” Okay, nowI was freaking.

At the ER at Portland, another CT scan showed a raging infection throughout my abdomen that was life-threatening. My weight had dropped from 120 to 99 pounds. (I looked disturbingly like a hairless cat.) Hubs was beside himself because they kept referring to him as my “next of kin.” I’ve never been so scared in my life.

This is the time you start sleeping with one eye open. I just knew that if I ever actually fell asleep, I’d never wake up.

Good news: Back upstairs to a second ER, the docs found what we all hope will be the magic bullet. Bad news: No going home to recuperate for you, Missy. They released me to an in-patient nursing care facility for the next two weeks. Fourteen long days of rest, interspersed with daily physical therapy, occupational therapy, speech therapy, and of course, the requisite horse-pill antibiotics that that would cure a bull moose of pneumonia. As for sleep? You’d sleep better on a cot in the middle of a Las Vegas casino. The constant carts, with their squeaky wheels, going back and forth down the halls, the chatty night aides standing outside your door arguing about their job descriptions and who has to clean up old lady Zelda’s unfortunate bout of gastrointestinal distress, and my personal favorite, the med aide who comes into your room at 3 a.m. with pills for everybody, andturns on the lights. But time went by and finally, I was cleared to leave.

Now I’m home, with another two weeks of therapies, drugs, and lots of sleep (I’m learning to love naps). I’m also on a once-in-a-lifetime weightgainprogram. I’m positively giddy about all those yummy, fattening things I didn’t eat before because they’re…well, too fattening. I told Hubs to go to the store, go up and down every aisle, and whenever he saw something he knows I like, but rarely eat due to the ridiculous calories, put that in the cart. It almost makes it all worthwhile. (Don’t judge…I’m shallow.)

In other good news, my seemingly endless hours in the hospital and nursing facility (docs call it “Extreme Boredom Therapy”) weren’t wasted. The writer in me looked at everything going on with “I’ve got to write about that.” A few truisms about hospital stays:

1. Know how to find your happy place. We teach our toddlers how to “self-soothe.” But doyouknow how to do it? You need to be able to calm yourself down, because even your most devoted family and friends will eventually get tired of your whining.

2. Take whatever wins you can get. Walked the complete hallway that morning? Ate your entire dinner? Finally peed? Yay you!

3. Ask for help. My roommate was an elderly woman who had several medical issues, but she “didn’t want to bother anybody.” So she’d lie in her bed, moaning, in pain. I kept telling her, “Push the white button. The call button.Push the damn button.” She got it. By day three, the staff wanted to have me shot.

4. If there are 200 people working at the facility, 198 of them will see your junk. And neither of you will care. (Hubs has never seen me pee. Not once in 18 years. Now he’s a black belt in pee pans, and can change out a bed pan in 10 seconds flat. Yet, the romance lives on.)

5. It’s okay to be scared. You’d be an idiot not to be. When docs start tossing around phrases like “You should have died,” and “You’re on our Miracle Wall where we show photos of patients who beat the odds,” it’s natural and normal to freak the hell out.

6. When the doc says “This might be a little uncomfortable,” ask for a shot of Patron and a piece of leather to bite down on, because it’s going to send you screaming for your mama.

7. There’s always somebody worse off than you. Go help them. Sometimes we forget that the world doesn’t revolve around us. (Bahahahaha.) Helping someone else is great for getting out of your own head and gaining some perspective.

8. Never,evergive up.

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