Sure I may have inflammation in my right eye (explains the halo effect).
Sure I'm going back to the doc in two weeks.
Sure I'm having surgery again in May.
BUT I DO NOT CARE TONIGHT, FRIENDS! Why? Because I am wearing glasses with a "pretty close" prescription.
I can see! I can drive! I can read! I can get back to functioning like a normal person!
Originally, the doc told me he wouldn't give me a script for glasses until the one-month mark, which was March 6. This afternoon I visited the doc again. My right eye has worsened likely due to inflammation; so I'm back on steroid drops for two weeks. He also thinks this inflammation is why I can only see 20/30 when refracted. But after some begging and desperation on my part, he relented and gave me a prescription for glasses. I may or may not have sang a bar of the "Hallelujah Chorus" right there in the chair.
In two weeks, I will return to see Dr. Warren for a check-up and to discuss more seriously a time table for surgery in May.
But I am so relieved to to be able to see clearer. Whew.
Friday, February 21, 2014
Monday, February 17, 2014
17 Really Is Our Lucky Number
When the hubs and I were dating, he sent me flowers for a random anniversary. The card said something like, "Happy 17 months because 17 is our lucky number." So random, right? And cute and funny and endearing.
But on February 17, 2011 at 10:45 a.m. somewhere on the side of the road in the middle of a snow storm, our daughter was born. Yet, that wasn't the day I met her. She entered my arms 17 days later.
Today as we celebrated the dawning of her third glorious year, I couldn't help but grieve those 17 days Anna Zane wasn't home. I am sad I didn't hear her first cry or change that first diaper or kiss her sweet face.
While she too may one day grieve that loss and wonder and wish, I've come to this conclusion, and it's one I pray she will share.
If I missed 17 days to gain 17,000, I'd make that deal every time.
170 sleepless nights.
1700 diapers.
17,000 giggles.
17 millions kisses.
All worth it and all worth so much.
Happy Birthday to a girl who dreams of being big, who jumps and skips and "flips," who believes friendship means something, who hides and seeks until she drops, who likes to win, who cares and nurtures.
Don't ever forget how loved you are!
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
Not the LASIK I Dreamed Of . . . Yet
I thought my LASIK update would be really funny and witty as I relayed to you how I completely panicked in the chair, and how Valium is not my friend. And how I was psycho until about 5:30 that night. And then how wonderfully I could see and have been so busy frolicking in fields of clear, crisp clover that I had no time to blog.
A girl can dream.
My recovery from LASIK surgery on Thursday has not gone well. After updating my doctor about my lack of progress, he requested to see me today.
Because my eyesight was so poor to begin with, it is difficult sometimes to get clear vision the first time with LASIK. While, we cannot make that determination for sure until the one month point (March 6), the doctor believes I will need surgery again. Currently I have 20/25 in one eye, and 20/60 in the other. This could fluctuate for a month.
The hard part is that he cannot give me corrective lenses until the one month mark because there's the chance my vision could change between now and then.
I am praying my vision clears enough soon so that I could safely drive, and even better to be able to read. If not clear by Friday, I will need to resign from a few freelance jobs due to the inability to proofread. My work load is large right now. Not being able to drive or read for one month will be a burden on our family. I so pray the Lord is merciful in this.
I will see my doctor again next week, and then again the week of March 6th. At the March appointment, he will make the determination about corrective glasses and a scheduled surgery date for May.
I'm gonna be in this chair again. Sigh.
Can you see the panic in my eye? :-)
What? This doesn't look comfortable?
Sunday, February 2, 2014
Surgery on the Horizon
When I was in third grade, I had to sit in the front row to see the chalkboard. Time for a visit to the eye doctor.
Sporting my new pink plastic-rimmed glasses, I was amazed that you could see individual leaves on trees. I'd thought, for as long as I could remember, that trees were more like green blobs.
Here's to hoping another ocular miracle happens on Thursday.
Today is my last day to wear contacts. Tomorrow starts several days of glasses only until Thursday when the doc does his magic. It's almost an identity crises to think I will soon shed contacts and glasses. They've been part of my daily routine for decades.
I pray the Valium kicks in quick so I'm not all jitters during the surgery. (I'll be awake!)
I pray my eyes heal well.
I pray Anna doesn't freak out too much--thanks to the very stylish plastic goggles I'll be wearing for a few days and thanks to not being able to pick her up/bathe her for an entire week.
I pray the surgery is a success with nothing further needed, especially that follow-up surgery possibility.
Yep, surgery is on the horizon. And here's to hoping it's not blurry.
Sporting my new pink plastic-rimmed glasses, I was amazed that you could see individual leaves on trees. I'd thought, for as long as I could remember, that trees were more like green blobs.
Here's to hoping another ocular miracle happens on Thursday.
Today is my last day to wear contacts. Tomorrow starts several days of glasses only until Thursday when the doc does his magic. It's almost an identity crises to think I will soon shed contacts and glasses. They've been part of my daily routine for decades.
I pray the Valium kicks in quick so I'm not all jitters during the surgery. (I'll be awake!)
I pray my eyes heal well.
I pray Anna doesn't freak out too much--thanks to the very stylish plastic goggles I'll be wearing for a few days and thanks to not being able to pick her up/bathe her for an entire week.
I pray the surgery is a success with nothing further needed, especially that follow-up surgery possibility.
Yep, surgery is on the horizon. And here's to hoping it's not blurry.
Friday, January 31, 2014
Mark Your Calendars: May 19
Besides being my fantastically charming nephew's birthday, May 19 also marks the day my latest book, Legendary Locals of Fort Worth, hits the shelves! WHOO-HOO!
While I am literally--and embarrassingly so--just now digging out from all the work and hoopla the book prep brought, I am now really excited to see the final product. Galleys and edits are sure to be in my future, but the launch date gives a sense of . . . the end of the tunnel (hopefully with hallelujah lights and not a train).
The project was/is so interesting. I've learned so much more about the great and varied city of Fort Worth. From the first African-American nurse to the likes of a pioneering choreographer to golfers with gusto to the rowdy and religious, Legendary Locals of Fort Worth presents numerous photos and bios about the lives that shaped the grit and grace of Cowtown. Intriguing, right?
Amazon already allows for pre-orders. So pre-order away: http://www.amazon.com/Legendary-Locals-Worth-Emily-Youree/dp/1467101346/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1391206690&sr=8-1&keywords=Legendary+Locals+of+Fort+Worth
Stay tuned to the blog. I will update as news develops, especially regarding launch parties and signings!
Four months and counting . . . .
While I am literally--and embarrassingly so--just now digging out from all the work and hoopla the book prep brought, I am now really excited to see the final product. Galleys and edits are sure to be in my future, but the launch date gives a sense of . . . the end of the tunnel (hopefully with hallelujah lights and not a train).
The project was/is so interesting. I've learned so much more about the great and varied city of Fort Worth. From the first African-American nurse to the likes of a pioneering choreographer to golfers with gusto to the rowdy and religious, Legendary Locals of Fort Worth presents numerous photos and bios about the lives that shaped the grit and grace of Cowtown. Intriguing, right?
Amazon already allows for pre-orders. So pre-order away: http://www.amazon.com/Legendary-Locals-Worth-Emily-Youree/dp/1467101346/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1391206690&sr=8-1&keywords=Legendary+Locals+of+Fort+Worth
Stay tuned to the blog. I will update as news develops, especially regarding launch parties and signings!
Four months and counting . . . .
Saturday, January 18, 2014
Update: Passport, Adoption, Surgery, and Such
Because I know you've been wondering . . .
Good news! Anna Zane's passport arrived in the mail this week!!!!!!! YAYAYAY! All the drama is finally over. I so think this calls for an international trip, right?
And for the curious, we've had ZERO news on the adoption front. We are still waiting. Just waiting.
I've been blessed with the need to wear glasses and/or contacts since I was in third grade. To say my eyesight is poor . . . well, I believe understatement comes to mind. Thanks to a strained retina, lattice degeneration, and eye fatigue, I'm all signed up for eye surgery on February 6. It should be no big deal except for the fact I will be AWAKE during the procedure. Holy moly, I hate needles and all that jazz, but I will survive.
Finally, in really sad, difficult news, our family experienced a troubling development over the weekend. While I prefer to keep the matter private at this time, to eliminate the need for further questions, the incident does involve words like arrest, charges, and an innocent, sweet family member caught in the middle. We ask for privacy, prayers for wisdom and grace, and God's guidance. Thank you for understanding.
Monday, January 6, 2014
Things I Just Realized
While I'm too busy chasing a toddler and squeezing in some editing time to delve into significant introspection, I've enjoyed a few epiphanies in recent months. Some startled me. Some confused me. And some made me sad. More than once I thought, Why didn't I realize this before?
In no specific order, my list of aha's . . .
*I like to be around books, to own books, to stack books in every room, but I do not like to read books. Weird, eh? For an editor? I've long attributed this to my 9-5 gig. Why would I want to read for pleasure when I've spent working hours reading and correcting? It's like asking a movie critic to watch a flick without any internal commentary or analysis. Impossible, right? To a degree, that is true for me. I cannot stomach predictable writing (a.k.a. Sparks, Kingsbury, and so forth) or horrible writing (Meyer, you know who you are). Yet, there's more to to my book reading avoidance.
My husband gave me a copy of Flannery O'Connor's complete works four years ago. I've read one third of it. Why? Because it's too wonderful for me. If I read it, my soul stirs. My mind sparks. The writer who lives in my gut tries to surface. I dream of days spent locked in my office where I can be free to write whatever rises from beneath. I'm too scared to let her out. I'm too busy to nurture her ideas. I'm too worried she will consume me. I'm too freaked out to speak about this writer in the first person, to claim her. So I stick to editing and a written article here and there. When I write, it's an assignment; someone else's idea. I can do that all day. It provides enough nourishment to keep my writing fiend at bay. I've been snuffing out any flare ups for a long time.
*When we adopted, we experienced positive reactions from our family. It never occurred to me, at that time, any family would be anything less than happy with adoption news. And why is that? Well, the answer just dawned on me. My grandparents cared for numerous children in the foster system for several years, most of which were before my time (being the baby and all). Two of those darlings became my Aunt Barbara and my Uncle Marvin. Never thought anything of it. That's just who they were, my family. Now three of my grandparents' grandchildren are adoptive parents. In fact, I never even mentioned this to our case worker during the home study because adoption was so part of my family, I never even noticed.
*In October, my mother's home finally sold. Before the closing, my siblings hosted an estate sale. To try and capture that event--watching your parents' possessions leaving in the hands of strangers--is beyond any words I know. Not really sad . . . well, maybe a little sad . . . mostly odd . . . and strangely endearing. For each piece, you have a memory (or a million memories). It's not only your parents' things that are leaving for a new home, but it is also your childhood. Never again will one home hold the familiar: the rug, the towels, the books, the pans, the Christmas decor. The material things you associate with home and heritage are now spread throughout the county in numerous other homes.
The items you think are important or special end up being the most random objects. For instance, my mother's measuring cup. She used one measuring cup my entire childhood. And from the reactions of my siblings, their childhoods too. One measuring cup we'd seen thousand of times instantly brought back countless meals she made. It evoked a memory of her in the kitchen, wearing a blue checked apron while cooking dinner. Or her measuring rice to make cereal for breakfast. Or flour to make biscuits. I didn't take the measuring cup, nor did any of my siblings (as far as I know). For me, it was too special an item to keep. If it rested in my cupboards, it'd bring memories too tender. So I cherish the realization of its place in my life and the mother it represents; one who certainly kept me well fed. :-)
This measuring cup realization made me wonder what Anna will treasure, what item will conjure up feelings of home and family. I store keepsakes and plan to leave her the valuables, but what will speak love to her the most?
*Also while rummaging through my mother's bed and table linens, I realized where I got my love of lace and florals. Why it did not connect with me before, I do not know. I love florals and lace because my mother loved florals and lace. It was totally a subconscious choice. All these years I thought I fancied these fancies because it was my own independent thinking. Ha! And then I was really thrown for a loop when I found the pillowcases from my childhood bed linen set. Soft coral flowers with hints of green leaves and brown branches. My bedroom decor chosen by my mother in my early elementary years was coral pink/peach, yellow, and brown. Y'all. Do you know the color scheme in my daughter's nursery and subsequent big girl room? Ahem. Coral pink, yellow, and brown. These connections to my parents I never knew I had . . . leave me speechless.
*Did you know, in the Christmas tune "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year," one of the lyrics read, "There'll be scary ghost stories"? I had no idea until this year when driving in the car listening to a Christmas CD, and bam, there it was. Who associates Christmas with ghost stories?
*Speaking of Christmas . . . . I chatted with my aunt via phone before the big holiday. We talked a bit about the sadness of Christmas. When death's taken family members and age has led us along, the festive season changes in experience and memory. It made me realize more and more that as I age, less and less of the people who once made my holiday special will be alive. That I will be the one making the memories for my children. That those who remember that "one" Christmas or the time this or that happened or someone who can vouch about the superiority of my grandmother's chocolate pie . . . those people will not be around. Of course, this is not all gloom and tears. Life, thankfully, marches on; and Christmas is about waaaay more than family or the lack thereof.
*Whether I like it or not, I am raising a Texan. :-)
In no specific order, my list of aha's . . .
*I like to be around books, to own books, to stack books in every room, but I do not like to read books. Weird, eh? For an editor? I've long attributed this to my 9-5 gig. Why would I want to read for pleasure when I've spent working hours reading and correcting? It's like asking a movie critic to watch a flick without any internal commentary or analysis. Impossible, right? To a degree, that is true for me. I cannot stomach predictable writing (a.k.a. Sparks, Kingsbury, and so forth) or horrible writing (Meyer, you know who you are). Yet, there's more to to my book reading avoidance.
My husband gave me a copy of Flannery O'Connor's complete works four years ago. I've read one third of it. Why? Because it's too wonderful for me. If I read it, my soul stirs. My mind sparks. The writer who lives in my gut tries to surface. I dream of days spent locked in my office where I can be free to write whatever rises from beneath. I'm too scared to let her out. I'm too busy to nurture her ideas. I'm too worried she will consume me. I'm too freaked out to speak about this writer in the first person, to claim her. So I stick to editing and a written article here and there. When I write, it's an assignment; someone else's idea. I can do that all day. It provides enough nourishment to keep my writing fiend at bay. I've been snuffing out any flare ups for a long time.
*When we adopted, we experienced positive reactions from our family. It never occurred to me, at that time, any family would be anything less than happy with adoption news. And why is that? Well, the answer just dawned on me. My grandparents cared for numerous children in the foster system for several years, most of which were before my time (being the baby and all). Two of those darlings became my Aunt Barbara and my Uncle Marvin. Never thought anything of it. That's just who they were, my family. Now three of my grandparents' grandchildren are adoptive parents. In fact, I never even mentioned this to our case worker during the home study because adoption was so part of my family, I never even noticed.
*In October, my mother's home finally sold. Before the closing, my siblings hosted an estate sale. To try and capture that event--watching your parents' possessions leaving in the hands of strangers--is beyond any words I know. Not really sad . . . well, maybe a little sad . . . mostly odd . . . and strangely endearing. For each piece, you have a memory (or a million memories). It's not only your parents' things that are leaving for a new home, but it is also your childhood. Never again will one home hold the familiar: the rug, the towels, the books, the pans, the Christmas decor. The material things you associate with home and heritage are now spread throughout the county in numerous other homes.
The items you think are important or special end up being the most random objects. For instance, my mother's measuring cup. She used one measuring cup my entire childhood. And from the reactions of my siblings, their childhoods too. One measuring cup we'd seen thousand of times instantly brought back countless meals she made. It evoked a memory of her in the kitchen, wearing a blue checked apron while cooking dinner. Or her measuring rice to make cereal for breakfast. Or flour to make biscuits. I didn't take the measuring cup, nor did any of my siblings (as far as I know). For me, it was too special an item to keep. If it rested in my cupboards, it'd bring memories too tender. So I cherish the realization of its place in my life and the mother it represents; one who certainly kept me well fed. :-)
This measuring cup realization made me wonder what Anna will treasure, what item will conjure up feelings of home and family. I store keepsakes and plan to leave her the valuables, but what will speak love to her the most?
*Also while rummaging through my mother's bed and table linens, I realized where I got my love of lace and florals. Why it did not connect with me before, I do not know. I love florals and lace because my mother loved florals and lace. It was totally a subconscious choice. All these years I thought I fancied these fancies because it was my own independent thinking. Ha! And then I was really thrown for a loop when I found the pillowcases from my childhood bed linen set. Soft coral flowers with hints of green leaves and brown branches. My bedroom decor chosen by my mother in my early elementary years was coral pink/peach, yellow, and brown. Y'all. Do you know the color scheme in my daughter's nursery and subsequent big girl room? Ahem. Coral pink, yellow, and brown. These connections to my parents I never knew I had . . . leave me speechless.
*Did you know, in the Christmas tune "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year," one of the lyrics read, "There'll be scary ghost stories"? I had no idea until this year when driving in the car listening to a Christmas CD, and bam, there it was. Who associates Christmas with ghost stories?
*Speaking of Christmas . . . . I chatted with my aunt via phone before the big holiday. We talked a bit about the sadness of Christmas. When death's taken family members and age has led us along, the festive season changes in experience and memory. It made me realize more and more that as I age, less and less of the people who once made my holiday special will be alive. That I will be the one making the memories for my children. That those who remember that "one" Christmas or the time this or that happened or someone who can vouch about the superiority of my grandmother's chocolate pie . . . those people will not be around. Of course, this is not all gloom and tears. Life, thankfully, marches on; and Christmas is about waaaay more than family or the lack thereof.
*Whether I like it or not, I am raising a Texan. :-)
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