Datebook: Monday, April 23rd ~ 2006
“Logic” is a funny word that we banter about often.
The unusual thing about logic is that we use it as noun and as a verb in a manner of speaking--you can “use logic” or “it can be logical.”
Oddly enough, I have been caught up in the concept that we often do not actually apply logic when we use these terms.
And of course, to add to the subplot, men and women sometimes see things differently.
Three weeks ago, while I was at the grocery store, my husband had a heart attack. On the way home, I met an ambulance on our two-lane country road and I had a premonition that it was somehow connected to my house. I berated myself for the remainder of my two mile journey for this voice of doom in my ear.
It wasn’t logical after all.
Even after I arrived home there were no real neon arrows of alarm. There were no crowds of neighbors on the corner, no notes taped to the door that said, “While you were out.”, in fact everything seemed pretty much in order except my husband wasn’t anywhere to be found. This was in fact, a bit of an annoyance on my third trip into the house with the case of water, gallon of milk, and litany of other perishables thrown in those 1/12 ply blue shopping bags that lose their poly bond once they leave the air quality of the food chain).
My daughter, home for the day from skating all week and trained in the world of CSI being filmed in every city of the United States and/or channel surfing past the 20 episodes of Law and Order that seem to be on each night, checked the last number dialed on our portable phone and discovered it was 9-1-1.
It was not logical to believe that time stood still, but it in fact did.
At least, that is, until I answered the phone that was then ringing to tell me that my husband was being transported to one of the two hospitals in our county.
It is not logical to forget to turn onto a road you have driven fifty times a week for the past twenty years, or logical to make deals with whomever is willing to make them in your call to muses.
I arrived at the hospital to be told he was being medivac-ed to the heart trauma center in the next county. The doctors felt he had a blockage and advised he would be out of surgery before I could drive the same distance.
The nurses handed me a plastic bag that contained some of his clothes and advised me that they were sorry that they had to cut off his sweatshirt. When I left that morning he had been working in the yard, wearing his jeans with the knees ripped out, (not Alan Jackson mode) and his zip-up Old Navy sweatshirt that has been ripped, bleached, stretched out, hit by the weed-eater, repeatedly buried under the bags of weekly trash (by me) and rescued and salvaged (by him). His gravitation to bag-man couture is not logical since he has at least twenty shirts and sweatshirts with tags on them in his closet.
“I’m saving them”, he would say.
“Why don’t you just throw out your yard-wear and start wearing some of your older everyday wear as yard clothes and wear your new clothes, that are now five or six years old, everyday.”
He would just look at me. “That doesn’t make any sense (synonym for ‘that is not logical).
I looked at the nurse. “You had to throw it away?”
She nodded, not telling me what I suspected, that the medical staff had not thought the biohazard bags could contain it.
Still, it was not logical to feel teary-eyed over a misshapen rag that had escaped the trash bin by some seemingly magic power. But at that moment, I likened it to Superman’s cape.
I do not remember the drive to the city. I am assuming I did all the correct things. I can only say that somewhere perhaps there is a logical portion of our brains that takes over and guides the other part, the paralyzed part, to go on.
The doctors were right. By the time I arrived at the second hospital, he had two stents put in a major artery and was on the mend. When I walked into the ICU, he was actually awake and worried that the tractor and his garden tools were still out on the lawn.
Yes, three weeks ago the world stood on its edge for a period of time. It does not seem logical that my husband went back to work last Monday, but trust me, he really needed to go.
We have much to be thankful for. Now, twenty-one days later, I am tempted to send a thank you card to the nurses for cutting up that awful sweatshirt.
He, on the other hand, ponders how medical science has developed a procedure that can move surgical devices to the heart through a small hole in the leg but yet cannot fathom how to use a zipper on a shirt and thereby save both patient and valued sweatshirt.
“It’s just not logical”, he says.
That’s true, I think.
Mombo
The unusual thing about logic is that we use it as noun and as a verb in a manner of speaking--you can “use logic” or “it can be logical.”
Oddly enough, I have been caught up in the concept that we often do not actually apply logic when we use these terms.
And of course, to add to the subplot, men and women sometimes see things differently.
Three weeks ago, while I was at the grocery store, my husband had a heart attack. On the way home, I met an ambulance on our two-lane country road and I had a premonition that it was somehow connected to my house. I berated myself for the remainder of my two mile journey for this voice of doom in my ear.
It wasn’t logical after all.
Even after I arrived home there were no real neon arrows of alarm. There were no crowds of neighbors on the corner, no notes taped to the door that said, “While you were out.”, in fact everything seemed pretty much in order except my husband wasn’t anywhere to be found. This was in fact, a bit of an annoyance on my third trip into the house with the case of water, gallon of milk, and litany of other perishables thrown in those 1/12 ply blue shopping bags that lose their poly bond once they leave the air quality of the food chain).
My daughter, home for the day from skating all week and trained in the world of CSI being filmed in every city of the United States and/or channel surfing past the 20 episodes of Law and Order that seem to be on each night, checked the last number dialed on our portable phone and discovered it was 9-1-1.
It was not logical to believe that time stood still, but it in fact did.
At least, that is, until I answered the phone that was then ringing to tell me that my husband was being transported to one of the two hospitals in our county.
It is not logical to forget to turn onto a road you have driven fifty times a week for the past twenty years, or logical to make deals with whomever is willing to make them in your call to muses.
I arrived at the hospital to be told he was being medivac-ed to the heart trauma center in the next county. The doctors felt he had a blockage and advised he would be out of surgery before I could drive the same distance.
The nurses handed me a plastic bag that contained some of his clothes and advised me that they were sorry that they had to cut off his sweatshirt. When I left that morning he had been working in the yard, wearing his jeans with the knees ripped out, (not Alan Jackson mode) and his zip-up Old Navy sweatshirt that has been ripped, bleached, stretched out, hit by the weed-eater, repeatedly buried under the bags of weekly trash (by me) and rescued and salvaged (by him). His gravitation to bag-man couture is not logical since he has at least twenty shirts and sweatshirts with tags on them in his closet.
“I’m saving them”, he would say.
“Why don’t you just throw out your yard-wear and start wearing some of your older everyday wear as yard clothes and wear your new clothes, that are now five or six years old, everyday.”
He would just look at me. “That doesn’t make any sense (synonym for ‘that is not logical).
I looked at the nurse. “You had to throw it away?”
She nodded, not telling me what I suspected, that the medical staff had not thought the biohazard bags could contain it.
Still, it was not logical to feel teary-eyed over a misshapen rag that had escaped the trash bin by some seemingly magic power. But at that moment, I likened it to Superman’s cape.
I do not remember the drive to the city. I am assuming I did all the correct things. I can only say that somewhere perhaps there is a logical portion of our brains that takes over and guides the other part, the paralyzed part, to go on.
The doctors were right. By the time I arrived at the second hospital, he had two stents put in a major artery and was on the mend. When I walked into the ICU, he was actually awake and worried that the tractor and his garden tools were still out on the lawn.
Yes, three weeks ago the world stood on its edge for a period of time. It does not seem logical that my husband went back to work last Monday, but trust me, he really needed to go.
We have much to be thankful for. Now, twenty-one days later, I am tempted to send a thank you card to the nurses for cutting up that awful sweatshirt.
He, on the other hand, ponders how medical science has developed a procedure that can move surgical devices to the heart through a small hole in the leg but yet cannot fathom how to use a zipper on a shirt and thereby save both patient and valued sweatshirt.
“It’s just not logical”, he says.
That’s true, I think.
Mombo
posted by ice-dance.com @ 6:20 PM
1 Comments:
Mombo, I am sorry to hear that you had such a scare and I am glad that your husband is on the road to recovery. Best wishes to you and your family! You have a wonderful sense of humor and make us all laugh! It is like you can read our minds when it comes to the world of Ice Dance. We thank you for the time you take to share your life's experiences in the world of figure skating and beyond with us. All of us Boston Ice Dance skaters and parents send our very best to you and your family!
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