Break, Broke, Broken Revisited: This Time It’s Personal

“Did you hear something pop?” asked the paramedic.

“No,” I replied. “I couldn’t really hear much over the screaming.”

“Screaming?” he asked, looking all around. “Who screamed?”

“Me,” I admitted sheepishly.

These days I can’t seem to catch a break. Well, Okay, maybe this time I did. Sort of. You see, apparently appliances are not the only things that can break when times are tough financially.

Remember what I said in my August blog post, “Break, Broke, Broken”?: “Stuff may be broken, but I am not.” Well, just a month later, I almost was.

Confession time: I have a history of epic-level klutziness—the kind of stories you trot out at parties to make people laugh.

One incident involved a dark Halloween night, a winding country road, an Angus bull (2,000 pounds worth) and a totaled Toyota. The good news is, I didn’t get a scratch in the accident.

Another fiasco was a fall at the nursing home in front of no less than 100 onlookers—an event later requiring surgery and months of physical therapy. (Embarrassment trumped pain as I realized I, the young person, was on the ground being loaded onto a stretcher as the frail, elderly folks stood over me, watching solemnly.)

Thankfully, in my latest klutz attack, my foot and ankle did not get broken. Although, in all truthfulness, an actual break may have hurt less and healed faster than the torn ligaments I now have.

And, worst of all, I didn’t even get a good party story out of it. You’d think if a person has to clomp around for a month in a knee-high moonboot, it would be more interesting to relate a tall tale of being chased  by rhinos on a Serengeti safari. Or at minimum, a story of reckless Alpine snowboarding.

But, no, for me, it was that dang laundry again. Always that $@#&! laundry.

September 4^th, the Saturday before Labor Day was beautiful in Georgia. It was the kind of late-summer weekend that leads a woman to daydreams of beautifully weeded flower beds, immaculately cleaned living quarters and super-purged closets. It was the kind of day when accomplishing that mile-long to-do list seemed possible.

But, my first thought was, I’ll quickly get the laundry chugging so it’ll have plenty of time to line-dry. (Dryer’s still broken.)

Apparently I wanted that laundry done a bit too quickly. As my mind focused far away on the to-do list, my body flew over the last step of the stairway.

It’s amazing how time slows in an accident. At some point in the endless freefall, I tossed the laundry hamper sideways, thus making room to land face down in the foyer as some woman screamed loudly very close to my ear.

My right foot lay at an odd angle beneath me as I sprawled less than a foot in front of my new water heater. (Okay, I love my new water heater, but falling down to kiss its feet is a bit much.)

Yep, klutzy is my middle name; I admit it.

As I rose carefully from the floor, I watched a big blue goose-egg emerge on the top of my foot.

This is not good, I thought, as I hobbled to the phone to call Mom and Dad (again).

“Call 911 this minute!” Mom instructed. “It’ll take us at least an hour to get there.”

“Is it gonna cost me if they come?” I asked, my on-the-dole persona flipping into instant alert.

“Just call them,” she snapped in that tone of voice only a mother is legally allowed to use—the kind of voice that instantly makes you feel 12-years old again and mentally adding the “or else” part even if she didn’t say it.

I called 911.

Five minutes later: two paramedics, two EMTs, two firefighters and three shiny red trucks arrived. Must’ve been a really slow morning in my semi-rural community, I thought.

In the middle of the chaos, neighbor Lynn burst through the front door in time to hear a trip to the ER was necessary. Still worrying about money, I actually did put six highly-trained emergency personnel on hold while calling to have my mother check the insurance plan book to see if I could afford an ambulance trip. (We have the same carrier.)

I could not.

Yes, that’s right. In the midst of total chaos and excruciating pain, my chief concern was price. I am, after all, living on the dole, and I just paid for a water heater, too.

Fortunately, Lynn stepped in to offer to give up her Saturday morning to drive me to the ER so that I could save the ambulance fee. Where would I be in this dole adventure if it were not for family and friends, I asked myself for the thousandth time?

Still, trust me on this, you do not want to have an orthopedic accident on a Saturday morning of a three-day weekend when your orthopedist won’t be back in the office until Tuesday. Let me explain the effects of this long weekend succinctly: “Ouch! Ouch! OUCH!” (for 72 hours straight in spite of heavy-duty painkillers).

Still, I did “catch a break” this time—the foot was not broken, but, I badly tore the ligaments, necessitating weeks in a cast.

But Dr. Bones was not finished with his diagnosis. “See,” he said, “If you’d just get married, you could lie around with your foot on a pillow and not have to worry about starting up a business.”

Very funny, Doc. Wise cracks thrown in at no additional charge.

It’s a good thing that through my ongoing klutziness over the past 12 years, we’ve become friends or I might, in my pain and drug-fuzzed state have needed to hurt him for that one.

Oh, and just to make things interesting: Did I mention this foot in the cast is my driving foot? How am I supposed to get from Point A to Point B?

“Mom!”

(Again? Yes, again. Apparently, in her retirement years my mother has a new career: me.)

Oh, and as if driving me around like Miss Daisy is not enough, she also gets to cook my meals, scoop cat litter boxes, and push me in a wheelchair when I have a business appointment. Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is when your mommy has to help you in and out of the shower? (Thankfully, at least it is a hot shower—glad I got that water heater before this happened). Meanwhile, Dad waters plants, runs errands and takes on whatever else Major Mom assigns him to do—all while remembering not to complain about the haphazard schedule now going on at his house.

It has been nearly four weeks since my fall. My foot no longer looks quite as much like a purple football with five fat sausages attached. More importantly, the pain has lessened to the point where I can now focus on other things—such as money.

Since that plunge down the stairs, my medical bills so far now total more than $2,000. Thankfully, insurance covers a big chunk of that amount. Still, I’ll have to figure out how to pay the hefty co-pays and deductibles. I’m hoping there’s no need for surgery or physical therapy, but the fact that it’s still swollen and discolored three weeks later is discouraging. That unmet annual deductible looms large, but I’m trying hard not to think of that too much.

As I consider my own situation, I wonder how people without health insurance manage? How do they pay $2,000+ for emergency medical care? And, my bills are just for a badly torn ankle and foot. What if it was some life-threatening emergency?

Right now, my insurance is somewhat reasonable, but still a stretch on my teeny-tiny dole checks. But, in April, my monthly insurance cost will skyrocket to an amount larger than my monthly dole check. 

In fact, at some point, the dole check will dry up entirely. I can only hope that the business I’m starting has taken off by then. I was making great progress on it until the fall, but a four-week setback at this point is not a good thing.

Yes, I still have financial worries but throughout my “broken” situation, whether it’s broken appliances, a broken bank account or even now my bruised-but-not-broken body, I’m learning what’s still whole in my life—my family and friends—and to be thankful for that with my whole heart.  

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Photos Courtesy of:

Cast & Crutch (not Ariel): 

http://www.flickr.com/photos/westman/1121336077/in/photostream/

X-ray (not Ariel's X-ray): http://www.flickr.com/photos/akeg/

Crutches:http://www.flickr.com/photos/bru_camargo/

That’s a Lovely Dress You’re Wearing, Miss Scarlett

I have a hard time accepting help.

No, I mean, I really, really have a hard time accepting help. 

Like Scarlett O’Hara, I’ll flounce grandly about in drapery dresses before letting anybody guess I need help.

All my life I’ve helped people. Maybe it’s in my DNA—a personality trait inherited from altruistic forebears. Once, I took a personality assessment and was nearly off the charts for helping others. It isn’t just what I do; it’s who I am.

My family was a strong influence. My grandfather worked multiple jobs during the Depression to support five families. My grandmother visited the sick and cooked for others even as she was dying of cancer. My parents are also givers and helpers.

Until I started living on the dole, I didn’t think much about my volunteerism or donations. I did for others because helping makes me happy.

Now, I’m on the dole. There’s not much to share. I can’t give money because I have none. In short, my charitable usefulness is diminished. Instead, I find myself—to my horror—on the receiving end of help—a peculiar situation indeed.

And, I still do not, repeat, do not, like it.

In recent weeks you’ve read my parents’ take on my situation. Here’s mine:

My “Super” Dad was always the first to look over broken stuff at my house, but in the old days when I had money, if it required more than a simple fix, I would tell him I would call the plumber, carpenter, electrician or other repairman. Mostly, he advised and I’d take it from there.

Yet, last December, it troubled me to watch my 68-year old father with bum knees and arthritic hips down on the cold garage floor trying to repair my dryer—for days. I wanted to say, “Don’t bother with it. I’ll call the repairman.” Instead, I bit back my words and let him work while I cooked him dinner. It wasn’t much, but it was all I could offer.

Since my late twenties, my parents and I have gone to dinner “Dutch treat.” However, now that I’m on the dole, they insist on paying. At first, we’d squabble about the bill;  I told them I could still pay my way if we went out only occasionally.

More than once, Mom said, “Stop being silly. We want to see you, and we’re perfectly capable of paying. You can take us out when you get a job.”

Each time I accepted their generosity I was uncomfortable. Still, I reasoned  I would have a new job soon; my freeloader status was only temporary.

But, the thing about parents is how wily they are. To avoid the who’s-paying hassle, Mom mostly suggests a restaurant farther away. She knows I’ll drive us in my fuel-efficient car, and I won’t make a fuss about the bill if I drive.

“We’ll get this,” she says as she grabs the check. “It makes up for the gas.”

I’ve figured out that trick. Now when we eat out, I don’t argue because I understand it’s important to them to do this. It makes them feel as if they’re doing something useful. Yet, I can’t help who I am; Mom told me yesterday that I still wince as though I’m about to be hit every time the server asks if it will separate bills or all on one.

And my parents aren’t the only ones accommodating my circumstances. When my college roommate (last week’s guest blogger), told me not to buy her eight-year-old son a Christmas present, I felt awful. Still, I appreciated her understanding . She’s been a supportive friend during my joblessness.

The list of those who have given to me goes on and on. Here are a few examples:

Mom’s longtime friend suggested that Mom and I join her and her daughter for a home-cooked lunch at her house.

A friend about to be married asked if, to avoid the expense of a bridesmaid gown, I’d prefer keeping the guest book. (I did.)

Another friend suggested dinner with a “buy-one-get-one-free” coupon. Then she grabbed the check, telling me she was the “buy one” and I was the “free one”.

A CPA friend bought my lunch—saying I could reciprocate when I found work—and put me in touch with other contacts I could call to try to network some contract work.

A business contact became a friend as she encouraged me, took me to networking events, offered free use of her copier and office space, and in general, made my job search easier.

I’m blessed with people who care. But, I’m still me, and I can’t shake that tendency to minimize my challenges by saying with a smile: “Well, it’s tough, but I’ll get through it.”

Maybe I really do suffer from Scarlett O’Hara Syndrome—the affliction that causes strong women to sew drapes into dresses just to appear to be keeping it all together in tough circumstances. Even if our bellies are filled with shriveled radishes, we maintain the illusion that all is well and thanks-so-much-but-I-don’t-need-any-help.

I’m not sure if I will ever be 100 percent comfortable receiving help. Hugs, encouragement and emotional support are easiest to accept. Work, money and restaurant meals are another matter. But I am learning. I really am.

I keep telling myself others need to help—just as I needed to help back when I had money.

When I won’t accept help, am I withholding myself from them?

Is it selfish to be unwilling to be emotionally vulnerable enough to accept help?

Is it arrogant?

Am I depriving them of the opportunity to feel good about themselves?

Is it just another way of saying, “I’m awesome. Let me be the strong one. Let me be your benefactor, but you can never be mine”? 

I’m learning it’s important to receive the love, understanding, support and help that  friends and family want to share. It makes me human. And, maybe that’s the hardest part of all.

Still, in the end, even tough Miss Scarlett knew where to go for help: “What is there to do? What is there that matters? . . . Home. I'll go home.”

And, even if it’s hard to accept help, home is what I want, too. Home is not a geographical place—it’s my family and friends. It’s their love. It’s where I keep everything that matters most to me.

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Just for Fun: Check Out Miss Scarlett’s Drapery Dress in Gone With the Wind:

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And For Even More Fun: Check Out Carol Burnett in “Went with the Wind, Part 2”:

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And, a Bit More Fun:

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Photos courtesy of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer (MGM) (public domain)

What Do You Say to a Friend?

By Guest Blogger: "Martha," Ariel's college roommate and close friend

 

What do you say to a single friend you've known for more than 20 years when she has lost her job—her only source of income? What do you say to that same unemployed friend who has always been employed and has worked her way up to a great job? What do you tell that friend who had her foot poised on the next rung of the corporate ladder?

 

"It will be okay. . ."

 

"God has a plan. . ."

 

"It could be the best thing that ever happened to you. . ."

"God uses these times to test our faith and teach us. . ."

 

"Just think how God will help you grow through this experience. . ."

"Just be glad you knew in advance so that you could plan ahead for the change in income. . ."

 

After Ariel lost her job, I struggled with what to say that would ease the blow and help and support her as she faced uncertain days. All the phrases above sounded pretty cliché and didn't seem to be appropriate (even though I still said many of them, I'm ashamed to say).

 

Now, upon reflection, I realize that I should have handled things differently. After some pretty devastating personal events in my own life (not job related), I heard some of the same clichés from both friends and family.

I just wanted to scream at them and say, "NO IT WILL NOT BE OK!!! I DON'T CARE WHAT GOD IS TRYING TO TEACH ME!!! WHY ME?!?!? WHY AM I BEING PUNISHED?!? I HAVE ALWAYS TRIED TO DO THE RIGHT THING!!! WHY IS THIS HAPPENING?!?!?"

I wonder now if Ariel secretly wanted to yell any of those heart-wrenching words at me each time we hung up the phone. If so, I can only ask her forgiveness.

I wish I had just said, "No, it's not OK. It's hard. You'll have to struggle. I don't know what to do to help. But, I will be here for you."

 

Sometimes, I'm learning that simple honesty and a willingness to listen and be leaned on are the best ways to help a friend who needs you.

As the months have passed since Ariel's job loss, I have noticed some differences in our relationship. In the past, because of her busy work schedule, I had to make appointments just to talk with Ariel. (No, I'm not kidding). We would email several times to find a suitable time for both of us and finally connect by phone. And, always, as we were talking, Ariel was on her way to or from work, to or from meetings. Now, I can expect to find Ariel at home almost any time I call. I still have to be careful of my timing in case there is a phone interview on the calendar, but at least I know where she is.

 

It's also interesting how our topics of conversation have changed. We still share personal things (not to be mentioned here), but now, instead of talking about the latest trendy restaurants that Ariel has tried, she is sharing recipes with me and chattering excitedly about her herb garden and homegrown tomatoes that will be ready soon. It seems that in her efforts to save money during these lean financial times, Ariel has become quite a good cook and gardener.

Instead of visiting and heading to a pricey restaurant for lunch, we choose homemade pizza topped with herbs from Ariel's garden and fresh vegetables from a local farmer's market. My son had no complaints, by the way, and LOVED Ariel's pizza that she served when we last visited.

(Food has always been an important "ingredient" in my relationship with Ariel. When we first met, we bonded over homemade goodies sent to us by our moms during final exam week at college. All our friends were still studying, but finals were over for both of us. There we were with care packages filled with homemade pound cake, cookies, bread and other goodies. Ordered out of our rooms by our (then) roommates who had to study, we met in the hallway each holding our care packages, found a place to sit and began to dig in. And, now, more than 20 years later, we still enjoy being together and eating yummy food.)

Any friend who can stay friends with me for more than 20 years is someone worth keeping. Ariel is a friend like that. I fully expect our friendship to last many more years. So, Ariel, the best I can tell you is that this time in your life right now is hard. I know you are hurting and confused. But, God heals in HIS time, and works through events to make us more like Christ. This is often a very long and painful process. It's just plain hard when you're going through it. But, God is there. Trust that HE cares and that HE won't let you down.

And most of all . . .

 

I didn't say it in the beginning, but I want to say it now, "No, it's not OK. It's hard. You'll have to struggle. I don't know what to do to help. But, I will be here for you."



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Photo Courtesy of: http://bit.ly/9KhcCK (Note: Not Ariel and Martha)