Remember that old Hee-Haw ditty?
Deep, dark depression, excessive misery
If it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all
Gloom, despair, and agony on me
This has been one helluva holiday season in our household, let me tell you. Rick’s cousin, a man as close to Rick as any brother, died a few days ago. He was terminally ill. We knew he didn’t have long. But oh, how we had hoped that Gale would be able to see one last Christmas.
It wasn’t to be.
We had planned to attend Gale’s funeral today as a family. But on Friday, our poor girl-child finally came down with the flu that had already felled the E-man, myself and Hubs. It’s been 10-plus glorious days of good times around here, folks. Fever, chills, hacking and general misery.
Normally, by this time, the smell of a freshly cut Christmas tree would permeate our home.
This year’s holiday scent is lemon Lysol.
So today, while Rick and the E-man headed down to south Arkansas for the funeral, I prodded our poor girl into an urgent-care clinic. Once in the exam room, the nurse asked her to put on a face mask.
That, peeps, is when I finally lost my tentative grip on sanity.
At first, I just chuckled.
My daughter looked at me quizzically.
“It’s just that … well, you look kind of like a Sneetch with that mask on,” I explained — before doubling over and laughing.
Girl-child gave me one of those slitty-eyed looks so perfectly executed by preteens.
“You know,” I gasped. “Sneetches. Dr. Seuss. They have those snouts…”
“Yes,” she said, “I know what Sneetches look like.”
Her expression suggested that she was not the person in the room in need of a doctor.
I kept laughing. Until I cried. Hell, it’s a wonder I didn’t pee my pants.
“It’s just … I mean … this just totally summarizes our holiday season … ”
“We’re missing Gale’s funeral so that you can wear a Sneetch snout and get retested for the flu that we already know you have just so we can get some Tamiflu and maybe get you well by Christmas .. even though we don’t even have a tree or decorations up or presents or …”
“Ooooookaaaaay,” Daughter said through the beaky mask.
“I’m sorry!” I snorted. “I’m sure there’s a special place in hell for mothers who laugh at their sick children … their sick children with SNOUTS!”
By the time we left, I had finally composed myself enough to explain that while some holidays don’t turn out quite like we expect or want, you just have to learn to roll with life’s punches. Don’t bother asking, “Why me?” Don’t get angry. Don’t get depressed.
It’s life. It’s messy and yet it’s glorious.
I mean, I’m HERE. I’m not a set of skeletal remains in the Chihuahuan Desert.
We’re together, and my husband, kids and I share a sense of humor that, while a little twisted, allows us to get through situations like … well, like this one.
Anyway, when we got home, I started looking through posts from my old blog and found one that illustrates how finding the humor in a bad situation can carry you through the bad times.
And, after all, the darkest hour is just before dawn.
So here’s a post from 2007. Enjoy:
WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 26, 2007
A Christmas of Calamities
I was actually eager to come to work this morning because – omg, two days without Internet access and my fingers had started to shrivel and fall off … because, you know, I clearly didn’t need them anymore.
On the Eve of Christmas Eve, the power in the master bedroom went off. Hubs fiddled with the fuse box and got part of the room powered up, and then there was this pop and a hideous burning smell.
“Fire in the attic!” Hubs yelled. “Call 911 and get the kids out of here!”
My daughter, Tootie, and stepdaughter were already up, having smelled something strange in Tootie’s room. I snatched a sleeping E-man out from his bed and we all headed outside.
Minutes later, the first fire engine pulled up. The E-man was agog.
So was his mommy, during the few seconds, that is, that she forgot the house might be on fire.
Firemen! Oh, goody! Merry Christmas to me!
Then all rationality returned when I remembered the state of our bedroom — which, given that we had just returned from a weekend away — looked as though 20 sugar-fueled toddlers had romped through it.
And yes, fleetingly, I did wonder: Could I maybe dash in and tidy up before they start, you know, putting out flames?
As it turns out, there was no fire. There is, obviously, a problem with our wiring. An electrician is coming tonight. Meanwhile, we have no power in that part of the house. And since the previous homeowner did terrible things with the phone lines underneath the house, the wireless unit thingy is operational only in our bedroom.
I’m not sure who was more horrified by the realization that we would be without the Internet — me or my stepson.
“You mean I can’t get online?” he asked over and over. “At all?”
Hey, buddy, you’re supposedly grounded from MySpace. I’m the one who’s going to be suffering here.
By Christmas Eve, Hubs was curled up on the couch, hacking and whimpering under an afghan, while I hurriedly assembled and wrapped toys.
“I think I hab a feber,” he sniffled. “Can you beel my borehead?”
It’s been joy, joy, joy around these parts, let me tell you.
So. Hubs remains ill. We still have no power. No Internet. *sob*
But hey, I can now say I’ve had firemen in my bedroom.
If only they hadn’t been greeted by the sight of my old, stretched-out maternity bra dangling from the closet door, which, of course, is conveniently located next to the fuse box.