phantom limb syndrome

It’s only been a little over 24 hours since my two better halves boarded a plane for Canada and left me alone and lonely in this city of sacrament. I miss them so much. I missed them even before they left. Now I am here with too little to do and too much time. Sleep escapes me. Who wants to sleep when things go bumpity-bump in the night and no-one is here to help me shoo away my scary imaginings. Obi gives some reassurance, but not much. Especially when he starts barking at an empty room and I wonder if he senses something I can’t see. That’s when I turn the TV volume a little bit higher and pretend to laugh at the silly shows.

When I got up this morning from a pretend sleep, it was exactly 3:30 am. In exactly 1 hour I had to be at work. I looked at the coffee maker, wondering how to operate it. Cam always started the coffee, always made sure there was fresh energy brewing before I spirited myself to work. As for my cell-phone, it’s missing again. It could be under the cushions, or under some messy stack of papers, or right under my nose!! But I couldn’t find it without Cam’s help.

My legs feel bare without some tiny arms clinging to them, tugging at my shirt and exclaiming “Up! Up!” The tiny hall is too quiet without the Sophia Bear beating the walls with her wooden spoon.

I think I am suffering from phantom limb syndrome…the emotional kind that runs in families. I feel handicapped without them. Their absence is tugging painfully at my heart. I know, it will only be for ten days, but it’s still hard. Right now, I have to re-teach myself the basics of living alone – lock doors, eat healthy (stay away from McDonald’s), clean up, and put gas in the car. While I wait for these 10 days of loneliness to pass, I have to stretch out my thoughts and practice skills I haven’t used, like reading a favorite book, writing in my journal, and socializing with non-family beings. I might even find the time to dust off those painting brushes and let loose at a blank canvas. Who knows, I just might uncover a part of me that has not seen the light in a long, long time.

Yellow

If you have a child, know a child, or know of someone who has a child…then most likely, you have heard of The Wiggles – those 4 singing-dancing-wiggling guys dressed in colorful star-trek outfits. I first saw them about three years ago. There they were, 4 grown men prancing about and singing a duck/rooster song. My first thought was: “Are your kidding me!!” What right-minded child would watch these men who clearly looked uncomfortable dancing to silly nursery rhymes. But lo and behold – the children around me were mesmerized.

In my household…the Wiggles ROCK!! Sophia’s favorite song is Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, but she calls it “Up Above” and tries to dance to it just like the ballerinas in the video. Her second favorite song is “Big Red Car” and she's got the moves down. Not a meal goes by without a Wiggles song being sung. Numerous Wiggles videos now line our shelves, and Cam and I are forced to watch them. I must admit I have come to love those colorful dudes, and I find that I enjoy watching their videos long after Sophia has lost interest.

So, who are these mature, professional-looking men, and what insanity drove them to wiggle to children’s songs? I heard a rumor that they were a failed band that found success in children’s entertainment. Actually, there is some truth to that. The blue and purple wiggles were in a little-known band called the Cockroaches. The blue, yellow, and red wiggles were classmates in an early childhood development class. In their pursuit to become teachers, they became good friends and decided to put together an album of children’s songs. More than a decade later, they’ve almost conquered the world of children.

Recently, Greg the yellow wiggle was replaced due to a chronic condition called Orthostatic Intolerance. Again: “Are you kidding me??” It almost sounds like a joke. Why? Because Greg is towering tall - his height has become his own downfall. Ha ha ha. I’m probably the only one laughing. But seriously, I’m sad to see him go. He was my favorite.

Car: 1 Obi: 0

While Cam, Sophia, and I were enjoying ourselves in Colorado, our faithful dog Obi was in the care of some friends here in Sacramento. These friends of ours watched Obi many times before. They had kids that loved playing with him and I’m sure Obi enjoyed the table scraps they gave him despite our protests. They generally took good care of him, and in return we paid them $15 a day. The only problems we’ve had were the dog leashes. Each time, we left Obi with a nice $50 retractable leash. And each time we got him back, the leash returned broken beyond repair. After losing two expensive leashes, we decided to leave him with a cheap one – and even that was destroyed!

Nevertheless, we prefer them over taking Obi to the kennel, which costs $20 per day + tax. Obi also picks up bad habits from the other kennel dogs and we don’t know what horrible thoughts go through his mind while stashed in a cold 4’ X 6’ concrete cage.

This time however, something bad happened. Towards the end of our trip, I got a call from a stranger, asking if I was the owner of a dog named Obi. “Yes,” I replied cautiously, wondering if it was a prank call and at the same time panicking with horrible images of an accident racing through my mind.

“Well, I have your dog,” the lady said. “His leg is badly wounded. “
It turned out Obi managed to escape my friend’s house through a window that was slightly opened. From there, who knew what happened. He had crossed a major road that was 6 lanes wide and ended up some few miles from my friend’s house. The Good Samaritan who found him cleaned up his right front leg, which had a large gaping wound. Thank goodness she found him. And I am so, so, so grateful that 2 years ago, Cam and I decided to get Obi those cute tags engraved with his name and phone number. Without it, Obi would still be lost.

Obi came home with a wrapped up front paw and loads of pain killers and antibiotics. My friends were very sorry of course, and they did pay $300 for the emergency pet hospital. Now, about two weeks and hundreds of dollars in vet bills later, Obi is so much better. It was a challenge getting him to take his pills. A nice mouthful of chicken tenders and bacon sure helped the medicine go down. He also had to wear his cone collar a few times. He kept running into things. It was quite funny.

We still don’t know what happened to Obi that day. Why did he escape? How did he get his wound? The vet speculated that he was hit by a car considering how deep his wound was. I like to think that gallant Obi was sitting contently when he heard a damsel dog in distress. Without a moment to lose, he tore open the window with his powerful jaws and ran to save the day. Maybe the damsel dog was stuck on a manhole, and maybe there was a huge car coming. And maybe Obi hesitated a little before heroically rescuing the damsel dog and pushing her to safety. Maybe he took too long sniffing her before getting himself out of the way. Maybe, just maybe.

I still have to pay my friend the pet-sitting fee, in addition to the vet bill. This is turning out to be a very expensive deal. In retrospect, maybe the kennel would not be such a bad idea for next time.

Sophia's return

Sophia went back to her day care today after almost 2 weeks of traveling. She’s always so good about waking up early and getting into the car to be driven to a place far from home only to be left in the hands of somewhat unfamiliar faces. Sometimes she cries when we set her down in front of other kids who are also crying or whimpering. And sometimes, she’s just too sleepy to care and sits down and stares at her breakfast while mom and dad kiss her good-bye. But most of the time, she recognizes some of her playmates, the few toddlers there who have been with her from day one and have grown with her since she was six weeks old.

Today, those friends of hers were very excited to see that she has returned. They squealed her name in delight and rushed over to see her. “Phia! Phia!” they said as they huddled over and hugged Sophia before she could even get both feet on the ground. And there they were, three toddlers plus Sophia, in a tight little group hug. It was the cutest thing and I wish I had a camera to capture the moment. It is so nice to know that Sophia is loved, by her peers, almost as much as she is loved by mom and dad.

Memoirs from a red state

We returned home from Colorado Springs feeling like we left our hearts. Although we are back to our familiar corners where we can stretch out our giant paws and scratch our furniture and not worry about the mess we make, Cam and I feel like we belonged more to Colorado Springs. We’ve returned to Sacramento only to breathe unhealthy air and suffer sniffles and sneezes throughout the day. We’re back to endure eternal rush hour in sweltering heat and rude drivers on the verge of road rage.

If you have never been to Colorado Springs, consider this a giant billboard urging you to visit. The mountains are so close, you can see them while lying flat on the ground. The occasional rains on the mountains brings such cool breezes, there is no need for A.C. If you are an avid cyclist, Colorado is probably the best place to bike. Parts of the interstate even have dedicated bike-lanes!! If you have ten things to do at ten different places, you can get them done in one day and still have time to do ten more. That’s because there’s practically no traffic there – the highways are big and wide with multiple lanes and so few cars. You can drive from metropolitan high rises to rustic old western saloons within 30 minutes. And the air is so clean. Cam’s persistent dry cough disappeared within a couple days of getting there, and my mysterious throat allergy mysteriously vanished. But the thing I love the most about Colorado is the beauty of it all. There are rocks there that are so red and orange you wonder if some interplanetary traveler put them there.

But, like all things in life…there is an existing dark side to this bright colorful state. Within its square boundaries, Colorado houses many gun-toting, NRA-touting, Bush-loving, right-wing conservative yahoos. It is a red state afterall. With 9 electoral votes, it has voted for the RED team 9 times out of the past 10 presidential elections. Certainly, it is a foreboding state for a blue girl like me. But for this coming election, polls say it is neither blue nor red. In fact it is a swing-state WHITE (why not purple???) Maybe Cam and I should go there to tip the balance a little. Cam did suggest that the next time we visit, we should go to James Dobson’s Focus on the Family Visitor Center and post Obama/Biden stickers on the bathroom stalls.

It really doesn’t matter to us that Colorado is red or blue or purple. What matters is that there are so many things there that we love. And as we got ready to leave, we often wondered why we couldn’t just stay.

My thunderstorm

It rained, it thundered, it lightning-ed. I got wet, I got splattered, I even got singed. The thunder was so loud, but I couldn't cover my ears. I was rooted to one spot, although I tried so hard to escape. The house probably shook, and the temperature - though hot at times- was very cold. That really was some thunderstorm - and it all happened inside.

Everyone else's thunderstorm did happen outside, and I enjoyed it for just a moment, my head lifted to the sky and drinking in the grace. Complete with rolling thunder, big full bellied clouds, and a gazillion raindrops. After much dancing and cavorting under the white, gray, blue, and dewy dew, I entered the house where an angry darkness was glooming. My sister, my dad, my mom, and even my elusive brother were there in the kitchen brewing up a nasty storm.

I tried so hard not to get caught up in it, but it was inevitable. I was family, I had to do my part. My dad, the authoritarian and king of stubborndom, thought he could still control the thoughts, ways, and means of his flock. But we little ones have grown up. All of us, with our own earned wisdom and evolving dreams, have flown far from his grasp. One of my sisters, however, still struggled to be free. My dad often brutally disapproved of her choices. In the storm, he tried to gather us to rally against her and her choices. I refused. I defended my sister at the risk of breaking my dad's heart. Everyone in the kitchen were yelling, at each other and at me. I learned to keep quiet and listen, and listen, and listen. I waited for the calm that approached but never quite landed. There were tears, lots of tears.

In the eye of the storm when things were momentarily still, I looked at my mom and dad and felt a great sadness. Their world and my world were so different. I have struggled to understand their logic, their reasons, their customs. It was difficult for me, how much more for them? They have travelled so far from their niche to see their flock again only to find the strange worlds they have settled into. For one or two of us, he tried to herd back to his island, where everything was perpetually green. The futility he must have felt when he realized he no longer had that power.

I tell my dad that we were all okay. I tell my mom not to worry. We were all grown up now. No need to tell us to come home.