Smials

On my 22nd birthday I threw myself a Hobbit-style bash: lots of food, friends, and smials. "Smials?" you ask, "What are those?" Well, my dear friend, you should read The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien. Smials are gifts that are given, usually on one's birthday, to those who come to the party. They are usually an item of not much value or purpose and were often re-gifted. I wrapped up 30 small items that I owned and gave them to my guests. Sheets, books, cups, knick-knacks, they all were given away. In general, I do not enjoy my birthday. There's so much birthday hype. "You deserve this! You should ask for this! Go here! Get this! Get free that!" I don't care. This is, in some ways, why I don't enjoy Christmas as much as I'd like. I hate expecting gifts. I am, without fail, disappointed; and that disappointment leads to guilt because I should be appreciative of the gifts I get. And I am! Please don't think I'm not. But for me, the sentiment behind the gift is much more important than the item itself. Because people feel obligated to give me gifts on my birthday, the sentiment is often...lacking. Forced gifts are often bad gifts, and then I feel obligated to convince the giver that I AM thankful, that I AM grateful, and that, of course, I lOVE it. Just get me together with my friends, throw in some good food, delightful beverage, and the opportunity for me to show my love to those around me. And I like showing my love with smials. So...there it is. Hopefully next year I'll be able to throw another Hobbit-style bash.

Obsidian with grey-lines

My Great-Aunt Liz's Gifts: My graduation gift, a gift to my mother, and today's gift of obsidian.

I had one of my oldest clients today. She was in her eighties (late eighties) and needed help on the table, only able to lay side-lying. Her modesty was nonexistent; she stripped down, and I saw her aged skin head to toe. It reminded me of my great-grandmother's (she was 94 when she passed) except not as translucent. Touching this client's skin was bizarre. Shifting across muscles that are more toned than expected, dry patches that scratch and flake, the muscle's handling a surprising amount of pressure. There's something so strange about working on something some foreign, this tiny figure surrounded by too much skin, curled up like a six-month fetus.

After work I went to visit my great Auntie Liz and my great Uncle Bill. I have to leave the dash out of "great [relative]" because although they are my dad's aunt and uncle, they are also great. Truly. They've lived epic lives--they lived in Tanzania for quite a while as missionaries, and also traveled other places. Honestly I'm not sure where they have all been. But every time I have ever visited they made me so, so welcome. Uncle Bill introduced me to Mr. Bean, Aunt Liz introduced me to creamed honey. And every time we had to leave, Aunt Liz would let me choose a rock from her collection.

See, she collects rocks. She knows more about them than anyone I know. She polishes them, has special cabinets with felt-lined drawers. When I was younger, she would pick a stone out of her small polished stone basket. Those were the rocks for kids. Now, however, she lets me choose out of her case. I chose the obsidian obelisk, which she sad is grey-lined. Obsidian is hard to cut, I guess, and obsidian cutters rarely share their secrets.

She's lost her appetite and has lost fifty pounds. I know that's a bad sign, that she'll not live too much longer. I think she's giving away her collection as a way of prepping for passing. I can see how the skin on her arms looks, the skin on her feet. "This isn't where we want to be," she said, "but it's where we need to be."

My Moses hates baskets

My poor Mosey-baby. When I came home from work today, he immediately curled up to sleep. Didn't even cry for milk. Well, he usually wails by the fridge, so I checked on the sleepy pillbug and saw blood on his left bottom eyelid.
My aunt Denise is a veterinarian's assistant and loves animals more than most people I know. I called her, and she asked me to try and determine if something had scratched his eye or if something was stuck in it. I couldn't do this, but she told me that if the eye was left untreated, and something was seriously wrong, Moses could lose his eye.

We went to the Pet E.R. here in town, and some very nice vets determined that his cornea was scratched about half its thickness, with part of the scratch folded in on itself. Left on its own to heal, that fold could damage Moses' vision or become infected; the best thing to do would be topical anesthesia and cut the fold off! And that's what they did.

I cried on the way home. Moses howled in the car, the most miserable I've ever heard him sound. He hated the clinic and was shaking, almost hyperventilating, the whole time. $250 later, he's stuck in a cone that doesn't allow him to curl up and sleep, I'm sticking drops in his eye every two hours, and he's still scared.

Earlier today I thought a client was weird because of taking his dog to a canine chiropractor. Well, I understand more now the lengths I will go for my pet. I hate seeing Moses uncomfortable. I hate seeing him scared. I hate seeing him in pain. Hopefully he'll soon be used to the cone. He has to wear it at least for at least two days so he won't damage his eye further. Since an area of his cornea is thinner now, there's a possibility he could tear it.