YOU SEE, I DON'T GET OUT MUCH

YOU CAN SEE, I DON’T GET OUT MUCH

Oops! Blah! Blah! Blah!

(*)(*)(*)(*)

Truly, I’m really not antisocial. I’m not really an introvert. At the same time, I’m not much of an extrovert, either. I’m stuck somewhere in the middle.

If I find myself in a crowd, I usually prefer to blend in, rather than stand out. I’m not afraid of public speaking but should I do something you feel should garner attention of some kind of praise, I’d really prefer a quiet thank you opposed to a public display of gratitude.

That’s me – a weird, complex blend of trying to hide in plain sight.

On the other side of my mirror, once we become friends, LOOK OUT! My grandmother once told my mother, “Look out for that one! She could talk the ear off a brass donkey.” Huh! Thanks, Nanny.

But she was right.

Once I feel comfortable with someone, I then feel uncomfortable if there is a pause in the conversation. My tongue somehow finds it way out of my mouth and wags like a dog in heat!

Want to talk about aches and pains? Hey, I’m your girl! I certainly have enough of them. How about talking about our kids! Oh boy, don’t get me started. Grandkids? I don’t see a stop sign. Oh, and let’s not forget our husbands. They are all unique and we each have our funny stories about them, but that doesn’t mean I won’t share mine.

Mothers? Grandmothers? Heritage? Look out brass donkey, here I come!

Anyone would think that I shut myself away and never see anyone and when I do, it’s the proverbial verbiage dam breaking loose.

I’m not and it’s not.

It’s that once I get comfortable with someone, the conversation, whatever the topic is completely enjoyable.

Just last week, my friend suggested we have a lunch date and invite some of the newer neighbors I had not yet had the chance to meet. I eagerly agreed and had the opportunity to sit next to a woman who lives four doors down from me.

Yes, we took turns talking about our homes, when we moved in, our husbands, the jobs we have or had, and then Debbie made the mistake of asking me, “So, you’re still working. What do you do? I’m a retired nurse.”

The verbiage dam burst wide open.

I told her about my weird, crazy, and interesting life.

I always wanted to be a nurse but back when I was high school age and thinking about college, my parents didn’t have the funds for tuition. While I was more than willing to find a job and pay as much as my employment would allow, I already had a part time job to help support my family. A college education for me was only a dream that was about to burst.

After high school graduation and my part time job ended, I entered the full-time work force that enabled me to help my parents even more than before. My brother was in college and my sister in high school. My mom was a teacher (and back in the sixties, catholic schools didn’t pay much) and dad worked as a carpenter for the Metropolitan Opera House in NYC. Not a bad job, but still, the pay wasn’t the greatest.

At the tender age of eighteen, I met the man who’d become my husband. All too soon, he put a ring on my finger, we said our vows and a new life for me began. That was in September of 1965. By August of 1966, my first son was born.

I know! I know! I’m making this a long story, but hey, she asked, didn’t she?

By November of 1967, son number two came into my world.

July of 1977, their father left. He went to work one day and decided not to come home.

I looked around at my little house and the two little lives that held my responsibility. After securing a mediocre job (it was the best I could find on such short notice), I realized that, well, boys will be boys, and as they grew, so would their mishaps. They would play tag football in the street. Okay, I’d have to face scrapes on the arms and legs. Little League would offer more of the same or in the case of my younger son, worse when he ran to stop a ground ball and knelt on a piece of glass that was missed by the ground crew.

A friend of mine told me about a first aid course being given by a local fire department. I signed up.

As that course was ending, the announcement was made that a CPR course was being planned. Yes, I signed up for that, too.

My instructor, who to this day is still considered a friend of mine, told me about the EMT course that would begin three months after the CPR course ended.

“Sign me up!” I said.

That was in 1991. In 1992, I met husband number 2, and we married in 1993.

I may not have been a nurse, but I was treating the wounded. Yay, me!

We moved from NY to Florida in 1998 and for the next several years, my medical training became stagnant. There wasn’t anything for me to do . . . . until . . . in 1992, we moved my invalid mom to live with us. She could barely walk, almost completely blind and her hearing was only about 70% active. She also had dementia. I took care of mom until the angels took her away in 2016.

I thought my medical days were now over. What did I know?

In 2000, I read an ad for a man looking for help caring for his wife who had severe dementia. I applied and was hired immediately.

Three and a half years later, I’m still taking care of her.

“So, Debbie, that’s my life in a nutshell. Aren’t you sorry you asked?”

Debbie laughed, hugged me, and said, “I am SO glad I got to know you. Let me tell you about MY life.”

And so, the tale of two women who don’t get out much, began.