WEENIE HUT JUNIOR

So, my mother, God rest her soul these 3 years, was an amazing woman.  She could cook and sing; she was a wizard with numbers.  She was a friend with anyone and everyone – the cashier who never spoke a word to me would share her life’s story within 2 minutes of striking up a conversation with my mom.  Truly a great lady and I miss her everyday.

But my mother had a physical anomaly, one that our family knew about, laughed about but didn’t routinely share with the world.

She described it this way - her bladder was under her eyes.

Yup, mom was a weeper.  And a weeper over just about anything-kid’s artwork, babies, Lassie TV programs, good news, bad news-all of it and any of it could trigger Niagara Falls, accompanied by her stock phrase, “God bless your/her/their heart(s)”.  Thus, she always kept tissues tucked in the sleeve of whatever garment she had on-robe, sweater, jackets – and if the shirt was sleeveless, the Kleenex got tucked into her bra strap.  So many Kleenex went through our laundry, I believed as a young child that my clothes were made of angora, soft and fur covered.  As for her sniffling, my sisters and I giggled; we rolled our eyes; we shrugged our shoulders and passed a hankie. 

There’s just one problem.  Along with the varicose veins and wide hips, I inherited the same anomaly.

Movies.  Graduations.  Mass.  Happy events.  Sad events.  It just doesn’t matter; I will boo-hoo at the drop of a hat.  My kids think it is hysterical, especially the boys.  They will encourage me to watch or read something, knowing the sad angle (at least sad to me), and then giggle like mad fiends when I start to snivel.  And as I age, the tears are quicker to come than ever-but never so more as when I’m sick.

Yes, I am a weenie. 

Case in point?  Last Thursday I had to have an epidural in my back to help alleviate a ruptured disc and nerve damage.  Now this isn’t my first time for this type of injection.  I had one in January and have had several others in previous years.  No sympathy please.  Hard living and a big butt will catch up with you somehow.

But back to my drama.  Mind you, I act brave.  I chit-chat with Rob on the way to the hospital, making small talk.  I smile and thank both the valet captain and the administrative assistant who checks me in.  I walk – ok, more like limp dragging my leg like a zombie - back to the exam room.  And then the nurse walks in.  To take my blood pressure – and it starts.  Tears.  I chew the inside of my cheeks, but no luck.  Down they pour.  All she’s doing is taking my blood pressure!  Asking me what drugs I take!  Taking my temperature!  And I am just sniffling away.  God bless Rob, after 28 years he knows not to ask.  The poor nurse however, is just plain baffled, especially when I tell her it is an inherited genetic defect.

Now you might say that I’m being too hard on myself.  An epidural is a difficult procedure, right? Especially when you don’t get a baby to hold afterwards.  EXCEPT, I’m tearing up as I type this.  Seriously.  Total wimp.  Either that or a commercial with kittens in it just came on the TV. 

Truly though, what makes it so hard is someone in my family just underwent a LOT of medical procedures in the past year.  And Kyle cried precisely 3 times.  During 6 months.  6 MONTHS!  Me? I cried at lunch today.  And I can’t even tell you over what. 

So, okay.  Mirror, mirror on the wall, I am my mother after all.  I guess there are worse things to have inherited from her.  Besides, my family likes their laundry soft and fluffy, right?