Category: Life

I’m emerging from a bad dream. Seriously, this past week has been a trip to hell and back. I’ve never been so uncomfortable in all my life.

This is also the first time I’ve felt like sitting down and writing about my experiences. I’ve been in physical pain and mentally drained of all emotion and thought. I’m not 100% yet – in fact, as I sit here, my heart is hammering double time, I feel a little woozy and my staples are so tight that it’s hard to catch a breath, but at least I can sit upright without wanting to pass out, so we’re making progress.

In case you’re just tuning in, this time last week I admitted myself to the hospital. My insides swelled to about three times their size and I was unable to pass gas or have a bowel movement for close to a week. I was a walking time bomb – literally. In fact, if this had had happened back in the old days, before all of our technologies and talented doctors, I’m quite certain I would have died. My insides would have burst, toxins would have flooded my body and I would simply cease to exist.

But let’s not get melodramatic.

Surgery Day – December 23

I was scheduled to go into surgery around 3:00 or 4:00 that day. I still had a rectal tube (sorry for the TMI but sometimes life is messy) and as if I wasn’t uncomfortable enough and didn’t have enough on my plate to deal with, I started my period. (I was late, by the way. In fact, I had quite convinced myself that I was going to skip the month of December entirely, but no such luck). I freaked out thinking that would somehow postpone my surgery, but the nurses assured me it wasn’t that big of a deal. In fact, they said, it happened quite often. They said that the stress of having surgery often triggered women into a menstrual cycle so I didn’t feel too bad after that.

But still ….. NOW?!?!

The day ticked by slowly. I wasn’t physically uncomfortable, they were giving me something for the pain, but I was dying of thirst. I had been NPO (nothing by mouth) for 24-hours and my mouth was like the Sahara Desert. I was also worried that I would get bumped and my surgery would be put off for another day. (That happened to Kevin a few times when he had had his motorcycle accident back in April. I think he got bumped three times before I threw a fit and they got to him).

Two o’clock rolled around and still no word. I started to sweat but hadn’t given up hope at that point. The nurses didn’t know anything. Finally, at 2:30, they told me they were coming for me.

Kevin and the boys were there and they rode down to the operating area with me. I tried my best to maintain a positive attitude around them, I didn’t want them to worry, but inside I was scared out of my mind. I’ve never had surgery before and I wasn’t sure what to expect or how it would go.

We said our goodbyes (I remember waving cheerfully and feeling so stupid – like I was about to go on vacation or something – I also remember the boys’ worried faces) and they wheeled me into the holding room. Due to some procedure protocol, they had to make sure I wasn’t pregnant. They had me go to a restroom to produce a urine sample. I couldn’t produce a urine sample, I had just peed and honestly didn’t have any more to give. This was a problem, because they couldn’t proceed with the surgery until they made sure I wasn’t pregnant. (This must have been an issue for them in the past because they were QUITE insistent). Luckily, they had drawn some blood from me and the blood sample is good for 72 hours. So, I had to wait about 30 minutes for them to get a sample of that blood and then run a pregnancy test on it.

It was negative, of course. (As if my being on my period wasn’t enough of a sign I wasn’t pregnant, but they had to do their job).

While I was waiting to find out the result of my non-issue pregnancy test, I laid on my bed and listened to other people either being prepped for surgery or coming out of surgery. The groans of pain was enough to cause the hairs on my arms to stand on end. There was one very old woman who was unresponsive to their questions and they spent several tense moments trying to revive her. In addition, every time the doors would open, I would get a glimpse of several nurses waiting to go into their surgeries and some of them had on full face masks and protective eye wear, like they were preparing to drill into bone or something.

I was quickly freaking myself out. My blood pressure rose and my heart rate sky rocketed. I could hear other doctors coming in and reassuring their patients, even making them laugh, and that helped me somewhat. I forced myself to relax but I’ll be honest, it was hard. I was seriously scared.

And alone.

My nurses were great. They really were. But they were busy and didn’t really have the time to spend with me comforting me, so I just sort of made myself relax because I was afraid if I got myself worked up too much more, they would have to postpone my surgery.

It wasn’t as if I WANTED my surgery, I just wanted to have it over with so I could concentrate on getting better.

Finally, my doctor came in.

A word about my doctor – I don’t like him. He’s not the most personable doctor I’ve ever had and his bed-side manner sucks, but to be fair, I was an emergency case and he was fitting me in, so I should be grateful for that. It’s just, every time I needed something, or the nurses needed to ask him a question, he could never be reached and he never returned calls. The few times he had come to see me in the hospital, he was brusque and borderline rude. I just hoped his medical skills were better than his people skills.

My doctor came in. He came to my bed never once looking at me. He went through my paperwork, signed where he was supposed to sign never making eye contact with me or saying anything to me. Even the nurses sort of shuffled nervously around him. Finally, he looked at me. “Any questions?”

By now, I’m so irritated with him for not giving me the time of day even though he was getting ready to cut into me I just returned his dead-pan look and said, “nope.”

And that was that. He turned on his heel and I watched him walk off.

That was the last thing I remembered before the surgery.

Kevin told me that the surgery took 2 1/2 hours – longer than they were expecting. Apparently, in addition to cutting out the twist in my large intestine, they discovered that I had A TON of extra intestine that needed to be removed. How they didn’t see this on the x-rays or the CT scan is beyond me, but they cut out all of that extra intestine (the doctor later illustrated just how much that was and it was A LOT) and sewed the ends back together again.

Because they had to remove all of this extra intestine, my incision ended up being MUCH longer than they thought it would initially be. They cut around my belly button and made a vertical incision down (six inches) toward my privates. This incision is currently held together by staples.

My doctor said that when they removed the intestine, my grotesquely bloated stomach promptly deflated. My stomach is now a floppy mess. The skin has been pulled out of shape and is puckered – it’ll take me quite a long time to work the muscles back into shape. But I’m not complaining, the problem has been fixed. (I hope).

I remember being buried by blankets when I got back to my room after my surgery. In fact, they had even wrapped a blanket around my head like a hood I was shivering so fiercely. I also remember frantically pushing my pain button, though nothing happened. They had me on a PCA (patient-controlled analgesia) which meant I could control how and when I received any pain killer, but it was only programmed to allow me dosages every ten minutes, so I could push away but nothing would happen unless it was time for another dosage.

I also remember opening my eyes and seeing Kevin, but I couldn’t focus on him and that worried me. I saw him, but I couldn’t pinpoint him, my eyes would flicker upward and refused to remain constant. I tried not to freak out about that, thinking it was probably just the anesthesia but it was weird. I was in and out of consciousness for quite some time, but finally, after about 30 minutes of being back in my room, I started to come around.

The pain took my breath away. It was a biting pain, like an animal was ripping chunks of flesh off my body. It didn’t seem like it took that long to get a handle on the pain, but until then, I couldn’t even think straight. I don’t remember much about the rest of that night … and it’s probably a good thing.

Recovering – Christmas Eve

I felt better. And by better I mean, I was conscious and aware of my surroundings. They had had to put a catheter in me, which was very inconvenient considering my period was flowing heavily by this time and the only way I could control it was to insert a tampon (again, TMI, sorry, but I want to remember this because … wow). So, I had a tampon AND a catheter tube in my lady parts to deal with. Talk about uncomfortable. The nurses didn’t exactly want me to do that, they would have preferred I stick to pads, but I was flowing so heavily that I was making messes and it was seriously stressing me out and I didn’t need anymore stress at that time, so I just dealt with it.

The menstrual cramps, coupled with the cramps of having abdominal surgery, were nearly unbearable. I was hooked up to my pain meds, but I hesitated to use them. Pain meds cause constipation and I was terrified that after going through all of that, I STILL wouldn’t be able to go to the restroom, I didn’t push my button unless I was dying.

The nurses called my doctor – who was off for the holidays, so they called the doctor on call, who didn’t know me and who took forever to respond and the stuff they gave me? Didn’t even work that great; I still ended up pushing my pain button, but at least it finally gave me some relief.

I spent the entire day after surgery trying to find my comfort level. It was a balance act between tolerable and dying. One of the worst parts was getting up and moving around. UGH. It was hard. My body was stiff and my staples felt tight and sharp, but I made the effort. In fact, I spent a good deal of my energy on fooling the nurses into thinking I was doing better than I really was.

I was on a mission to get home as quickly as possible and I knew the only way to make that happen was to push myself – and I did indeed push myself and it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.

I laid in my bed Christmas Eve day and tried not to think of my guys at a family get together having fun. Kevin’s family is literally spread all over the world and everyone had made it back for Christmas – everyone was there, except for me. I called Kevin and I could hear them having fun in the background, they were just finishing up the gift exchange game, and I tried not to cry.

By the time evening rolled around, the hospital floored had cleared out. I slowly walked around the floor and several of the rooms were completely empty. There was nary an alarm going off. The phones were silent. Everything was quiet. It was both peaceful and depressing.

The hospital is no place to be during the holidays.

I was in bed Christmas Eve when I heard singing. It was “O Holy Night” and it was being sung by a group of volunteers that were walking the hallways singing Christmas Carols. It was absolutely beautiful and the thought of those kind people, sacrificing their time to volunteer and cheer people up at the hospital with their songs still makes me cry. It was wonderful.

My guys came up to see me that night and we all sat around and watched old Christmas movies on TV. My room mate had left by that time so we had the room to ourselves. It was cozy, if not a little sad. I felt really bad for the boys – we had all decided to wait to do Christmas when I got home and I knew Christmas day would be just as depressing for them as it would be for me, too.

(… to be continued)

So. I’m in the hospital right now. I’m physically comfortable (somewhat) for the first time in a few months – I can’t tell you what a relief THAT is. (Don’t ever take your physical comfort for granted, trust me).

I’ll tell you right now that this post is going to be too much information, so I apologize in advance if it makes you cringe. But this is what is going on with me and maybe it’ll help someone in a similar situation.

It all began last week … about Tuesday, I think. I’ve mentioned several times on this blog before that I’ve had intestinal issues on and off for several years now. I usually just ride out the discomfort until things get back to normal.

I had every intention of riding this last bout out too, but this last bout was unusual in that it was a lot more painful and it just wouldn’t go away.

Finally, I couldn’t handle the pain anymore – it was becoming unbearable. The question was – walk-in clinic, or the ER?

Kevin and I weighed our options, talked it over and then finally decided to go to the walk-in clinic thinking if it was easily fixable I would get in and out A LOT quicker and it would be A LOT cheaper than if I went to the hospital.

I was seen right away. I told them that I was feeling a lot of painful pressure in my abdomen and that I hadn’t had a bowel movement in several days. My stomach was also severely distended – I looked six months pregnant, that’s how bad it was.

In fact, if I hadn’t been feeling so bad, it would have amused me the number of times people kept asking me, “Are you SURE you’re not pregnant?” Because honestly, I really looked it.

The doctor treated me with indifference. He wasn’t rude, just sort of bored and indifferent. I didn’t care at that point, I just wanted relief. They did an x-ray, then about five minutes later, wanted to do another x-ray.

Kevin had to take off, he was meeting his landlord for his new office (more on that in another post), but we both knew if they wanted to take another x-ray, this wasn’t as cut and dried as they thought it was.

I went back to the exam room and in five minutes, they called for me. The doctor that saw me was standing with another doctor and both were shaking their heads and whispering while looking at what I presumed were my x-rays.

I started to get nervous.

They showed me my x-rays and I’ll tell ya folks, I could tell they were a mess the moment I laid eyes on them. I had a TON of packed fecal matter along with MASSIVE gas bubbles completely clogging my large intestine.

It didn’t look good.

The doctor was no longer bored and indifferent, he was quite serious and a bit more animated. He told me they didn’t have the equipment necessary to help there and that he recommended I go to the ER as in NOW.

They burned copies of the x-rays onto a disk and I left.

I went home. I wasn’t going to no stinkin’ hospital!

HA! Just kidding. I’m stubborn but not stupid.

I told the boys what was going on (Kevin was still at his meeting – we had taken separate cars), then started packing an overnight case (or in my case, a loaded up a Wal-Mart bag), just in case I had to stay overnight. I called Kevin and waited for him to come home so he could drive me to the ER.

The clinic had called ahead so the hospital was expecting me. That was nice as I didn’t have to wait six hours to be seen (actually, in all fairness, the ER wasn’t even that busy so I was able to get in right away anyway).

They showed me to a room, had me strip down and don the humiliating hospital gown and gave me an iodine drink to prep me for the CT scan. (The iodine marks a path and makes reading a CT scan easier).

After waiting an hour after drinking the iodine, they wheeled me down for the scan.

Since they were taking a good look at my intestines, they had to inject more dye into my, erhm, lady hole while I laid on my back with my arms over my head. I was slid into the machine and told to hold my breath while they took some pictures. After that was done, I was wheeled back to my room in the ER to await the results.

About another hour later (WHY does everything take so long in the hospital), the ER doctor came in to tell me they were going to send me home. He said some other things but honestly, I was so shocked that they were going to send me home that I sort of tuned out the rest of what he was saying.

Fortunately, another doctor had also looked at my CT scans and he noticed that not only was my large intestine overly swollen, but that it also narrowed at one point and they were concerned about that narrowing.

He vetoed the other doctor’s orders and they admitted me.

(Kevin and I STILL can’t believe that doctor was going to send us home. I mean .. HELLO?!? I’m six months pregnant and writhing in pain, SOMETHING is wrong with this picture, dude!)

My room was cramped and I had a roommate. She was recovering from her own surgery (she had had to have 10 inches of her intestine removed due to infection!) and was on the road to recovery. I’m afraid I wasn’t a very good roommate – I was in so much pain I couldn’t think straight let alone carry on a conversation. They finally gave me some morphine and OMG, I was pain free and actually comfortable for the first time in WEEKS. I immediately went to sleep. I wasn’t allowed to drink or eat anything and only relied on ice chips to quench my thirst.

The doctor came in and told me that they were going to have to do a colonoscopy so they could get a better look at the narrowing in my intestine. They wheeled me down to do the procedure.

I was nervous, but honestly, I just wanted them to fix whatever was going on with me – screw being embarrassed about a roomful of strangers getting a good look at my lady hole.

And as if getting a colonoscopy wasn’t embarrassing enough, I recognized one of the nurses – she had helped Kevin when he was in the hospital recovering from his motorcycle accident. She didn’t recognize me at first, but when I told her about Kevin, she remembered him and we chit-chatted for a little while.

And the whole time I was thinking, “THIS ISN’T AWKWARD. Nope, not at all.”

They had me lay on my side, injected some sleepy juice into my IV and before I could ask her what it was, I was out. The next thing I remember I was waking up in my room and seeing Kevin sitting in the chair opposite the bed. I remember saying, “Oh look! I’m back in my room,” but Kevin said I told him about seeing that nurse that had taken care of him about five times before that – I have no recollection of doing that. He said that I would recount the story, then pause for a few minutes, and then repeat the story again. He said the last time I told him about seeing the nurse, he responded with a, “Yeah, I know,” and I acted totally surprised that he knew the outcome of the story and said, “how did you know that!”

I bet my roommate had a good laugh.

I also apparently sang, “Born Free!”

I think he’s lying about that part, but who knows, I WAS grateful that I wasn’t feeling any more pressure, that’s for sure.

In addition to sucking out the gas and cleaning out as much of the fecal matter than he could, they found that my intestine had twisted. The doctor illustrated it by comparing it to one of the long balloons that party clowns use to make party animals out of it – you know, that twist in the animals. He opened up the twist, put in a stint and that was going to serve as my short-term solution until we could schedule a time I could come back in to get that twisted part cut out of my intestine and they would sew the portions back together again.

I was sort of relieved that it was something physical and simply not a diet issue, which would have been a little harder to control, I’m sure. I was also relieved to find out that it wasn’t a tumor or anything more serious as well.

They wouldn’t give me any more morphine. Apparently, my blood pressure went up while I was on it and they thought there was some correlation between the morphine and the pressure, so they gave me some sort of pain killer with Benedryl in it. It made me extremely sleepy and I slept like the dead for two hours before waking up with a headache from hell.

I knew the headache was either from my sinuses or a caffeine withdrawal (because I hadn’t had any coffee in a few days). But the staff wouldn’t give me anything but extra-strength Tylenol which did absolutely nothing for my headache and it went on so long that I did what I always do when I don’t get a handle on my headaches – I vomited. Multiple times. Only they were dry heaves because I had absolutely nothing in my stomach, not even water.

It was painful and quite frustrating, but at least it would serve to relieve the pressure from my head for a little while before the cycle started all over again.

To say I had a rough night that first night would be putting it mildly.

Finally I had had enough. I asked Kevin to bring me some Aleve D from home and I took it. (I refused to take anymore of the Benedryl and the blood thinner they kept INSISTING was necessary and which I kept INSISTING was not [I had only been in bed for a day, I couldn’t possibly have been a blood clot risk at that point] and since I wasn’t on any other medications, I knew it would be safe to take the Aleve).

The nurses were NOT happy with me when they found out I had taken an Aleve. They hurriedly told the doctor who “approved” the medicine and they were able to add it to the orders. I know I probably shouldn’t have done that, but I was desperate and what sort of hospital doesn’t carry something with Pseudoephedrine – I mean seriously).

Even though the Aleve made my headache less intense, it didn’t get rid of it and I continued to vomit. I then knew it had to be caffeine withdrawal and I took a couple of Excedrin Migraine, again knowing that I wasn’t taking any other sort of complicated medications that it would have an adverse reaction to.

It worked. My headache from hell FINALLY went away.

I never told the nurses about taking the Excedrin. And I know, I sort of suck as a patient – refusing medicines I don’t think I need (they kept trying to give me anti-nausea medicine, too – which didn’t work, I might add) and taking unauthorized medicines, but dang it people, I know my body and what it needs. Again, I wouldn’t have done any of that if I had been on anything with an unpronounceable name without first checking with the nurses.

I had to stay another night. I’m not sure why, if you want the truth, but before they would release me the next day, I had had to have a bowel movement – which I couldn’t do. I just couldn’t do it. Nothing would come out.

They made me drink a large bottle of some sickly sweet magnesium concoction, which after waiting for an hour didn’t produce anything. Then I had to have an enema – clear. Then they made me take some laxatives – no go. And last but not least, they made me drink prune juice followed by a hot tea.

Still … nothing. I did produce clear muscusy-looking stuff, but no poo. Finally, they gave up on me and discharged me. They were supposed to send someone to me and wheel me out, but I saw Kevin drive up to pick me up and I got impatient and walked out.

I KNOW! I’m a terrible patient!!

Monday night, Jazz had his Christmas, oops, excuse me, HOLIDAY concert at school. I wanted to go, but I was physically MISERABLE! I had so much stuff in me and SO MUCH PRESSURE that I seriously thought I was going to explode (and coincidentally, nothing ever came out). However, I decided to go at the last minute and I’m glad I did. He played a solo in one of the songs and when it was over he made an effort to find me, Kevin and Dude in the crowd and I gave him a big thumbs up. He smiled and that moment was worth all of the physical discomfort.

I felt a little better on Tuesday – all of that stuff had worked it’s way through my system, but by Tuesday night, I was doubled over in pain once again. I still hadn’t had a BM or had passed any gas and I was in serious pain.

Kevin suggested I use a heating pad, which helped A LOT, but only if I kept it there, which meant I spent most of the day Tuesday flat on my back with a heating pad pressed to my belly.

We talked about going back to the doctor on Wednesday but he left the ultimate decision up to me.

Tuesday was another rough day and we decided I really needed to go back to the ER. I had called the office of the doctor who had worked on me in the hospital, but they just told me that if I was having difficulty, to go back to the ER.

So, that’s what we did.

Kevin dropped me off at 7:30 this morning and then left to take the boys to school and get some stuff done.

They took more x-rays of me, saw that my x-rays looked exactly as they had when I was admitted the first time and promptly admitted me. They were telling me that the poo in my intestines (and there was still a significant amount) had likely impacted, which meant they had attached to my intestinal wall.

NOT GOOD.

They promptly gave me another colonoscopy, only it wasn’t a colonoscopy, it was a flexi-scope which in essence is a little more detailed than a colonoscopy and inserted a rectal tube to help drain the BM and expel the gas. (See? TMI!!!)

So, here I sit. In my new hospital room (which I like better because it’s a bit bigger than my last one) watching TV with my new roomie, who is a sweet, spunky old woman, waiting to see the doctor so I can find out when my surgery will be scheduled.

Because apparently, they aren’t releasing me this time until this problem has been fixed. I’ve sort of reached emergency status, I guess.

It doesn’t sound like it’s going to be THAT big of a deal, but you know any surgery shouldn’t be taken lightly. I’m really bummed that it looks like I will likely be in the hospital over Christmas but I’m optimistic, if they perform the surgery tomorrow, maybe I can go home Friday night??

We’ll see.

At any rate, we may have to postpone Christmas until I get home. But my guys are cool with that – they will just be relieved to see me back to normal and not doubled over with pain.

So. I’m BACK in the hospital right now but BACK on the road to getting better.

Finally – my intestinal issues will FINALLY be resolved. Thank God.

UPDATED: I just talked to the doctor – I’m scheduled to have surgery tomorrow around 3 or 4 in the afternoon. Since this is an emergency and they haven’t had a chance to completely clean me out, they will have to cut a little more than they had anticipated, which means it will take me a little longer to recover. They will not release me until I’ve had a BM and everything seems to be back to normal which means I likely won’t get to go home until next Tuesday!!! I’m going to miss Christmas!! I can’t tell you how bummed about this I am! My guys want to postpone Christmas until I get home, but we might celebrate in my room if my roomie is gone by then, we’ll see. At any rate, this is going to be a really weird holiday, that’s for sure. Wah!

How exactly do YOU define intelligence?

I was listening to talk radio today (*gasp*) and the subject of intelligence came up.

What exactly makes a person smart?

Is a person smart if he/she believes or supports something that is wrong? (Which begs the question, what is the definition of wrong? And what’s wrong for one person isn’t wrong for another person).

Is a person smart if he/she uses big words? Or can articulate an argument? Perhaps a person is smart if he/she has an expensive degree from a well-known university.

Does being smart mean one can regurgitate facts, figures, passages? Does being smart mean being a good public speaker, or having the ability to convince normally rational, down-to-earth people to elect someone foolish? (*Cough-Obama-Cough*)

What exactly is the definition of smart?

When someone calls someone “smart”, exactly what are they referring to? The way they’re dressed? Their demeanor? Their speech? Their grammar?

What?

I always wonder exactly what people mean when they call someone smart and always want to ask them to clarify the label; be specific, what exactly makes them smart?

I think a lot of people have smart MOMENTS. They APPEAR smart on the surface, but when you take away their self-imposed script, when you remove their talking points, they really don’t know what they’re talking about at all.

I think people make smart STATEMENTS, but when you ask them to clarify their arguments they choose to deflect the argument or answer questions with questions of their own – smart people answer questions because they CAN.

Once again, I think people, in general, are too willing to slap a smart label on someone without really checking to make sure they really know what they’re talking about.

Just look at the people in Congress right now. Listen to some of the stupid things they say, with a straight face, and who have no clue that what they said made absolutely no sense whatsoever.

What alarms me even more is that people don’t even RECOGNIZE that what was said didn’t make sense – they simply nod their heads in dumb agreement and accept it as fact.

And I’m talking about everyone, not just a certain party who shall remain nameless (but starts with a “D” and has the word DEMO in it).

My motto? ALWAYS QUESTION AUTHORITY. Don’t just take what someone says at face value, dig a little, educate yourself on both sides of the issue and then make your own informed decision on who is right and who is completely out of their mind.

What to know how I define a smart person? (Too bad, it’s my blog – neener, neener):

Someone who is educated, has common sense, is willing to ask questions and then listen to the answers, who has a strong emotional base and who controls his/her emotions and does not cave to emotional bias before coming to a conclusion and someone who can empathize with a person or situation without allowing that empathy to sway the outcome of the problem.

To me, being smart means balancing all of the above. I realize that’s a tall order, but it’s not impossible.

A smart person has the ability to look at all sides of an issue and then come to a rational, and logical, conclusion. Sometimes those conclusions are not popular, but they are sincere and often times right.

I think smart people have the ability to distance themselves from the issue at hand in order to give themselves a chance to look at the situation with an impartial eye. Smart people are not afraid of humility and have the strength of character to admit when they are wrong. Smart people are emotionally mature.

Smart people do not resort to name calling and insults during a debate or automatically assume that if someone disagrees with them, they are “trolls.”

Merriam Webster defines smart as:

mentally alert, bright, knowledgeable, shrewd

I think being “smart” actually means so much more.

Ignore this picture.

Well, don’t ignore it, just don’t judge it too harshly. It was actually an experiment.

Don’t ask me what that experiment was, I don’t have a name for it. I saw this concept (breaking up one picture into two different parts) on another blog and thought I would play around with it. Granted, the subject matter is a little dull, but you get the gist of it.

Or maybe you don’t.

This is the star on top of our tree. I have no idea what this star is called … a .. pointy silver star with thumb holes punched into the base. (My descriptive powers are on Christmas break. Hush).

All I know? Is that this particular Christmas decoration is PRECIOUS in our household. The boys know to be extra careful with this puppy because I will go ballistic if it breaks. (Okay, not really, but I’ll be sad, okay? Actually, it wouldn’t take much effort to break it. Just hold it in the palm of your hand and squeeze – *pop*).

I have no idea why I’m so attached to this tree-topper-star-thingie because it doesn’t hold any sort of sentimental value for any of us and if we’re honest, is sort of ugly, but it’s become a Christmas tradition in our household. A Christmas tradition that started when I was a litlte girl.

Not this particular star, but one like it.

I think the one on top of our tree was gold. Same sort of star, but gold. (I can imagine my mother shaking her head and saying to my dad, “Nope. She’s wrong again. It was gold AND silver.” I’m rather infamous for remembering things wrong).

For some odd reason, I remember that silly looking star above anything else on my childhood tree.

When Kevin and I started dating (we lived in “sin” for two years before we got married – another post for another time), I dug out my old, crappy (cheap) Christmas tree and we decorated it with our meager (cheap) ornaments. When I put my gaudy-looking star on top (and trust me, it was a hideous looking star), Kevin said something about having a gold pointy star on his family’s Christmas tree growing up.

The same kind of star we had used on OUR tree.

(It was quite obvious to me that we belonged together from that point on – the SAME kind of weird looking star?? What were the odds?)

We spent several years actively looking for one of those weird looking stars. It was only after we STOPPED actively looking for one did we finally stumble on one. (Isn’t that always the case?)

And there it’s been perched on top of our tree ever since. Though we haven’t actively been searching for another one, I have yet to find another one. They’re hard to come by, apparently.

Though it looks odd, jutting out of the top of our tree like an ominous silver finger flipping us the bird, it also looks right. It fits. It completes our tree.

This unusual tree topper fits our family.

What sort of tree topper do you have on your Christmas tree?

Christmas song #14 Carol of the Bell by Barlow Girl