Author: Kathleen Fisher

Kathleen Fisher is a Chicago girl at heart though she moved from there many years ago when a handsome scientist swept her off her feet. What started as a light-hearted blog about life, marriage, and kids turned more serious in September of 2018 when her husband of 35 years ended his life. A new journey began that day and she now writes about unexpected loss, grief, and finding a path towards healing.

Acting 101

My acting gig as a Standardized Patient ended Monday with the last round of medical students.  Over four afternoons, I had 24 abdominal exams as well as having my heart and lungs checked each time.  There was a lot of heavy breathing/hyperventilating on my part, and I never did a header off the table even though it made me woozyish.

I was a 45 year-old English professor, married with no kids, who liked to camp and hike with my husband when the weather was good.  And a high functioning alcoholic.  That’s the tricky part for the kids.  Nearly every student asked me something that wasn’t covered in training such as:

So where do you like to camp?  Haven’t been in forty years.

Who’s your favorite poet?  Dr. Seuss.

What’s your husband do?  Make me crazy.

You said you eat out a lot.  Where do you go?  Culver’s with a coupon.

How often do you and your husband have sex?  What?????

What kind of English do you teach?  Blogger English. 

It was a lying fest for four days and more than one student told me I played a good, cagey alcoholic.  Why, thank you.  After they did the exam and asked a meeeeeellion things about my fake life, they went in the hall while I answered some questions on the computer about what they did or did not do.  When that was done, I called them back in, introduced myself and we talked about how it went.

I met students who were English and philosophy undergrads, a paramedic, a writer, a former teacher in one rough part of Chicago, a Giants fan, and a diabetic.  Without exception they want to get better, and are willing to get input and advice from somebody they just met on how to make that happen.

I can’t say it was easy, but I can say it was interesting, enlightening, and encouraging.  Oh, and a few years down the road, we’ll be in very good hands.

This Too Shall Pass

 It’s been a busy week.  This is a piece I wrote a few years ago when illness struck………….

I have wondered for a long time if I am one of the millions of people who suffer a mental illness.  In a magazine article about obsessive-compulsive disorder, I matched three of the five signs, and told The Big Daddy that I might be in need of some professional help.  “Nahhhh”, he said.  “I’m pretty sure your crazy meter is in the normal range.”

On an early morning while drinking coffee, I read in the newspaper that Jackie Chan suffered a back injury while filming a movie, and then immediately got a stabbing pain in my left side.  Wow, I just need to read about someone else’s pain and I start hurting. I wasn’t sure what category of mental disorders that fell into, but I made note of it and got some ibuprofen.  A few hours later I was in the emergency room, hooked up to an i.v. and diagnosed with a kidney stone.  I was sent home with instructions to drink gallons of water per day and pee into a strainer.  If all went well, my stone would come out or break apart on its own and I would be fine.  If all didn’t go well, I would need surgery.  With my new best friend, Vicodin, I nursed my little rock and told The Big Daddy when he called to check on me, “I’m after me lucky charm.”  Only slurred.

For three weeks I drank and peed, with nothing to show for it but another appointment with the urologist.  I wasn’t feeling much better, and was resigned to the fact that I would have to have surgery.  Initially, a resident came in and asked me how I was doing.  “Oh, I’m still having quite a bit of pain.”   “Left side flank pain?” he asked.  “Yes, yes, that’s it,” I said.  I don’t even know where the flank of me is.  “Well,” he said, “that’s interesting because we don’t see any sign of the stone on the x-ray.  I’m going to talk to the doctor and we’ll try to figure out what to do next.”  It was at that moment that I believe Jesus healed me, because as soon as he said they couldn’t find the stone, I felt much better.  Maybe I shouldn’t have been so loosey-goosey with the Vicodin and paid more attention to what was landing in the strainer.

Eventually, Dr. Ologist came in the room and I flashed him a big healthy smile and assured him that my pain would probably subside soon..  Like as soon as I got to the parking garage.  He seemed concerned and told me that I could call him at any time should things change.  The Big Daddy watched this interchange, and the look on his face convinced me that he now understood that I was nuts.  I didn’t need to schedule another scan or appointment.  I only needed someone to suggest that I was well, and lo and behold, I was cured.

I am back to my old self, but I have to wonder whatever happened to that stone.  Maybe a piece of it broke off and is lodged near my aorta, and I need to start making plans for the afterlife.

Or maybe I’m straddling a wall of crazy.  

Johnny

When The Boy child was in high school, we arm twisted him into trying out for cross-country.   Practice was rough going, and every day when I picked him up he would hobble to the car.  A month later the weekly meets started, which are bright and early on Saturday mornings.  The Big Daddy and I had to get up and at ’em to make it on time and that meant coffee.  Lots of coffee.

I was at one such meet when all that java started taking effect and I needed to use the port-a-potty.  No sooner had I gotten there when a group of runners had the same idea, and I let them use it ahead of me so they wouldn’t miss their start.  Just as it was my turn, a truck pulled up and an older guy got out and said, “Folks, gotta clean her up so you’ll have to hold it for a few minutes.”  By then there was about a dozen of us waiting, and we watched him unwind a huge hose from the side of his truck that he stuck down the hole of the port-a-potty to suck the waste out and into a tank on the truck.  He wiped things down with a rag and a spray bottle, swept the floor, restocked the toilet paper, and hung an air freshener.  All the while, he never stopped whistling.  When he was done, he waved his arm toward the door, did a little bow and said, “Ladies and gents, I give you a clean Johnny.” 

We all stood there dumb-founded until the guy behind me broke the silence and said, “I’m never going to complain about my job again.”

Truer words never spoken.

Source:

Truth or Fiction

Our local grocery store has a card that offers a gas discount based on how much you spend.  Before the end of the year, I had accumulated enough points to get fifty cents off a tank of gas.  Yeehaw.  Except I couldn’t find it, and that was the second one I lost.  I tore the car apart and dug in every coat pocket with no luck.  In January, my points were reset and now I have thirty-five cents off a fill-up.  Come to Mama, oh missing gas discount card.

It is making me crazy.

I was telling Mallie Bee about this for the hundredth time and she was like, “Too bad, so sad.”  Nice display of empathy, little one.  That’s when things went downhill, as she accused me of never being sympathetic when she can’t find something.  This is true, but she misplaces something every single day.  We argued about this for awhile and then I told her this………..

Remember the time you called me at work because you lost a textbook?  Remember that you were so upset you started crying?  I told you that it had to be in the house somewhere, for you are the child who misplaces everything, but not the child who loses everything.  I told you to calm down, make yourself a bowl of ice cream, forget about it for awhile and when I got home I’d help you look for it.  I was as cool as a cucumber and may have called you “honey” a few times  Remember that?

She had no recollection of that incident.  None.  My bright, shining moment when I was not screaming at her for being irresponsible and she had no idea what I was talking about.

I might have been tripping down The Mother Memory Lane with the wrong kid.

Cutting Back

The Speckled Trout is a year old this month, and this is post #305.  Sheesh, that’s a lot of writing.  When I first started, it would take me days to finish one post.  I’d work on it, delete half of it, rewrite it, post it, take it down, put it back up, find a typo, fix it, put it back up.  I wonder if the five people who were reading it back then were like, “What the hell???  I was just in the middle of reading something and now it’s gone.”

Thankfully, writing nearly every day has improved my ability to clearly get my thoughts down and it doesn’t take as long as it used to.  However……….since about December it has been a real struggle to maintain five days a week of posting, and I’ll be my own critic here and say that I don’t love what I’m putting out lately.  That takes time to formulate and I’ve got other things competing with that at the moment.

Rather than hold myself to the rigorous schedule I started, I am going to cut back on the posting so I’m doing it 2 – 3 times a week.  I spend my days writing in my head, and tend to fly up the stairs to get it written down because I’m so excited when it comes together.  Dork alert……a good sentence makes me crazy happy.  Instead of flying up the stairs lately, it’s been more of a trudge and that makes for forced writing, not good writing.  I have some longer pieces I’ve been kicking around, so I will see you here sometime next week with a return of my mojo.

HE has nothing to do with the above, but I’m thinking he might be the cure for my self-diagnosed Seasonal Affective Disorder, even though a certain Ellen friend always claims to have dibs on him………….

Mary Mary Never Contrary

My neighbor, Mary, has MS.  She was diagnosed when she was 19.  You couldn’t imagine what thirty-five years of a disease like that can do to a person, and none of it is good.

Recently, Mary needed to get a crown.  Not the pretty, sparkly kind, but the expensive drool-inducing kind, and she asked me to take her to the dentist.  When I picked her up, she scheduled a return appointment to get her permanent crown put on, and asked me if I could bring her back.  Only if I’m not working by then, Mary.  Sure enough, two weeks later You Know Who is available for a ride to the dentist.  It is my custom to reward myself for any dental work I have endured, and I told Mary that when I picked her up.  Little work, little reward.  Big work, big reward.  Mary’s not as greedy as me, so she decided on coffee and a muffin.

We sat in the local coffee shop talking about kids and husbands, our crackpot Governor, music, writing and the neighbors.  With all her limitations and reasons to be bitter, she is not.  She is funny and interesting and dear to many of us.  Our Mary in her wheelchair conjures up all kinds of thoughts, but in her presence I see the grace.

I’d Like To Thank The Academy

Well, an opportunity has come my way.  A money making opportunity that involves acting skills.  

I ran into a friend after Christmas and we were both lamenting the lack of suitable employment.  She called me a couple of weeks ago with a prospect.  It seems that teaching medical schools hire people to portray patients in order to give students the opportunity to work on taking a patient history, extracting information, and general people skills.

I was intrigued, so I called the training department and had a nice long chat with the recruiter.  Seems 50+ women are in high demand, at least in this field.  I went into their office for an orientation/overview of the program and have since passed the background check.  This week is two days of training followed by four afternoons of working with the med students.

The “patient” is a 50-something professional woman, slightly overweight and a high functioning alcoholic.

You could say I was born to play this part.