Quality is Important: An Allergy Shot Tale

Once a week, I get allergy shots or immunotherapy. I receive one injection in each of my upper arms. In my left arm, I receive a tiny amount of trees and grasses. In my right arm, I receive an even smaller amount of dust, dust mites, and mold.

Two weeks ago, I reacted to my dust, dust mites, and mold shot. The skin on my arm grew hot and pink. And itchy. I had a large spot, approximately the size of a cider donut, for almost five days. Since starting treatment, I haven't reacted, so this response was new to me. Luckily the reaction didn't grow in size, nor did I have other symptoms.

Since then, I've returned to my allergist's office twice. The nurse who was administering injections today is my favorite. She's friendly and kind. She always admires the tattoos on my arms. Her touch is gentle and kind.

We've had longer discussions about my symptoms and health since I reacted two weeks ago. Today I gave my favorite nurse a little feedback on her rapport and ability to inject me with a foreign body in a manner that doesn't feel invasive.

She smiled and said, "Hey, that could be a thing. Giving nurses injection reviews."

I replied, "I'd give you five stars."

Her smile widened. She started the timer for 20 minutes, the required period patient must wait at the doctor's office to ensure you don't have an anaphylactic reaction, and said, "Thanks."

Then I walked back to the waiting room and heard her call the next patient who also would receive a quality injection and a little bit of tlc too.

English Burst my Language Bubble: A Repatriation Poem

Bom dia.

Namaste.

Ahoj.

Hello.

For two years, I floated in Portuguese.

Tudo bom? (How are you?)

Tudo bem. (I'm good.)

Each morning 

when I entered my school campus in Brazil, 

the security guards and I 

exchanged these smiley greetings.

For four years, I zoomed around India.

Bus. (Stop.)

Bus. Bus! (Stop right now because this is the shop I want to visit.)

Each day 

as I buzzed 

around Mumbai in a rickshaw, 

I knew I needed to lean forward 

so I could see out and tell

the rickshaw driver 

to stop as he approached my destination.

For four years, I dined in Prague.

Dobrou chut' (Enjoy your meal.)

Na zdraví. (Cheers.)

Each day

as I ate lunch 

or enjoyed a Friday Happy Hour with my friends,

we wished each other well

as we shared food and time

together.

Outside these small moments,

I lived in a bubble.

Understanding some.

Using the Google Translate app on my phone.

Reading labels.

Making guesses.

Language became background noise

when I didn't have enough.

I lived in an English language bubble.

Choosing when it formed.

Choosing when I popped it.

Six months ago, 

English burst my language bubble.

My return to Chicago

popped it.

Some days, I hear

the everyday conversations 

of families at the grocery store

about which aisle contains 

an ingredient for tonight's dinner.

These are the moments living 

outside the bubble 

guides joy into my heart.

Some days I hear

families in disagreement

over big topics.

Or I turn on the car radio 

where I'm greeted by 

the weekend's violence.

These are the moments living

outside the bubble

my head feels overwhelmed.

My language bubble

wasn't made of gum so

I can't blow one again.

Instead, it was like a soap 

bubble floating into

the air.

My language bubble burst.

Target Tales #1: Hand Sanitizer Search

Target Tales are stories or poems from my observations of and interactions with fellow shoppers at the retail store Target. 

"It's NOT here," shouted a woman with a voice that's seen a lot of whatever she was looking before.

"What???" questioned an older gentleman.

"I said, IT'S NOT HERE!"

I continued down the central aisle and found the source of the loud shouting, I mean conversation—an elderly couple, pushing a cart down the handsoap aisle.

"But it should be by the soap. It's hand sanitizer. Jenny told us to buy it," said the older gentleman.

"I know Bob. I heard her, too, but we can't buy it if it's not here."

Hand sanitizer was my Target list too. The hand sanitizer was hiding at the end cap of the hand soap aisle.

As their conversation continued, I tuned out and stared at the options in the bins before me. Small travel-sized bottles. Blue goo and green too. A peach variety and original unscented. I wanted to choose a scented sanitizer but decided on the generic unscented one. Why this choice? I thought ironically; the hand sanitizer would probably be the products that held the most significant number of germs on them in the entire store, with so many people picking bottles up at Target to combat the recent Coronavirus U.S. outbreak and its news coverage. I decided unscented was the best option because selecting it involved the least amount of touching the bottles.

The woman saw me and her back straightened.

"Bob. That lady over there has some."

"What?" called Bob.

"I said THAT LADY OVER THERE HAS SOME BOB," hollered the woman.

The couple shuffled over to the hand sanitizer and additional hand soap aisle.

I smiled at the couple as they moved closer to me.

The woman smiled back.

She looked up and down and noticed that there were only travel-sized bottles.

"Bob, they only have those tiny bottles. We need big ones."

"Why? We can just buy a bunch of those small ones."

At this point, I asked, "Do you need some help?"

The woman said, "No, you aren't wearing a red shirt. You don't work here."

I replied, "You're right, I don't, but I'd be happy to help you."

"Thanks, but no thanks. You've got places to go," as she turned back to discuss the bottle-size dilemma, Bob.

I smiled, and although I had no place in particular to go, said, "Well, then have a nice day."

They didn't reciprocate the farewell because, at that point, Bob had asked her what I asked his wife. 

I hope they found the big bottles of hand sanitizer for their peace of mind and Jenny's too.

Heartbreak Has Somehow Made Me Into a Runner

Somehow over the past six weeks, I've become a runner. When I say become a runner, I mean I run three times a week because that's what my Couch to 5K running app says I should do. Today I completed training week six. Today hurt. My calves were cramped. My thighs felt like jelly each time my foot struck the treadmill. Regardless of the discomfort, I was determined to complete week six.

My running commitment stems from wanting to put a bad breakup behind me. Last time I was training for a 5K race, my heart was broken. This heartbreak shredded my desire to run. At the time, I couldn't do much at all, let alone run.

As athletes know, actually let me change that, everyone who's breathing understands, our heads can be our highest obstacle to overcome. Not the blisters. Not the thigh chafing, but our minds. Grief. Depression. Anxiety. Worries. Doubt. Fear. To name a few capitalized hurdles, move into our paths.

When I started running again six weeks ago, I knew it would be challenging. This week was the most challenging so far for a couple of reasons. The first is obvious. There are just longer periods of time you have to run. The second was my mind. The last time I trained for a 5K, I quit after week five because that's when my heart was broken.

I procrastinated in actually going to the YMCA to complete today's session, but eventually, I was in the car and on my way there. As I walked into the fitness room, I followed my usual routine. Over the years I've noticed following routines help me to feel at peace. Having this calm headspace would prepare me for today's longer distance. Thus, my headphones went into my ears. I pressed play on Miranavator's Spotify playlist. I grabbed two towels and sprayed one with disinfectant before picking a treadmill. Then I turned on TBS so I could watch FRIENDS on mute with captions.

As Monica delivered the worst speech ever at her parents' 35th-anniversary party, I began to feel the smooth, shiny scars on my heart. I noticed they were there. In the past, those scars created physical hurdles I couldn't overcome. So I acknowledged them. I acknowledged my calve cramps. I acknowledged my jelly thighs. And I kept running. Today those scars are what helped me to overcome my physical pain. Those scars will continue to heal and running may be one way to help those scars fade. Here's to week seven.

1 Big Sister + 1 Big Brother = Big's Day (aka Nephew Bonding)

Blueberry ice cream

I have two nephews. This is of my older nephew, E. He just turned four on February 14th, Valentine's Day. Yesterday E turned in his birthday coupon for a Big's Day.

One of my auntie goals is to create experiential ways for us to bond. Since I'm the big sister in my family and he's the big brother in his, I thought of the concept of Big's Day. Small simple days with just of the two of us to have some quality time to bond over being the oldest child in our families.

Yesterday E turned in his birthday coupon for a Big's Day. He has shown a love of art lately and I gifted him a painting pottery session for his birthday. We visited the local pottery painting shop at the mall. Neither of us had been had this experience before. As we entered, we were guided to a table and then told to choose our object to paint. If you haven't visited one of these shops before, there is an insane variety of objects you can decorate. It can even be a bit overwhelming. From fire trucks to frogs to plates. From olive oil bottles to butterflies to bowls. E chose an ice cream cone to adorn with five delicious colors of glaze.

A brilliant Big's Day 

The shop assistant told him he before painting, we had to wash the cone with a sponge to remove the dust. After this direction, we were told we needed to add three coats of glaze to obtain a strong color after his ice cream was fired in the kiln. As E and I worked together through the pottery painting process, I was reminded of how cultivating my auntie relationship with him has some similarities.

I recently moved closer to home. Closer to my family. Initially, I felt a bit distant from him since we only really knew one another from time together during vacations and connecting weekly during a FaceTime chat. But like the process of glazing, where you add layers of paint to enrich your pottery item, we too can achieve this beauty. Each time we visit the local playground, learn about nature center animals, visit the zoo and paint pottery, we too are creating stronger bonds. Just like E's ice cream cone will be more brilliant from adding the required three layers of glaze, our relationship will too have greater depth and strength each Big's Day celebration. I'm looking forward to tasting these vibrant bonds.

My New Tattoo

On my left cheekbone, just below the corner of my eye is an tattoo which I hadn't noticed till it was there this week.

It's in the shape of a heart.

In actuality, it's an age spot.

A tattoo of sunshine and years.

A tattoo of oceans and pools and lounging in the sunshine while sitting with friends.

A tattoo of AYSO soccer games and orange wedges on Saturday mornings.

A tattoo that I've earned by living 39 years.

Of all the random shapes this tattoo chose to be, I don't think a more perfect shape could have appeared. A heart.

As I observe college and high school friends embrace their 40th year on Facebook, I've been noticing the love that surrounds them. I notice they are celebrated by people they love. I noticed they're posting more photos from those celebrations than any other year. I notice they're embracing our age and the tattoos that go along with it. Strong self love.

I'm going to make a declaration so when I, in rare moments, freak out about turning 40 in a few weeks, I'm reminded of the grace and honesty that comes with aging. I'm embracing my age and the tattoos and wrinkles and all that go along with it because as cliche as it sounds, age is just a number.

Thank you to my strong women who are doing the same this year or who I've celebrated previously. It's your love of yourselves and embracing our age that remind me even our funky shaped age spots are something really wonderful.

Note to readers: Rereading this while taking a break from grad school just shows how completely obvious it is that I'm on vacation from school for a week. Time to appreciate the small stuff AND actually write about it.

It's Okay Not to Be the Tough Girl

Yesterday when I arrived home from school, as I do each day, I changed out of my teacher clothes into sweats. I slide my toes into my cozy moccasin slippers and walked into my living room. As soon as I sat on the couch, I heard a loud "thud." Something had fallen onto the floor. Since the handyman had hung artwork the previous day, I assumed it must have been on the walls. I scanned them first. Nothing.

I stood up and realized one of my funky side table legs was on the floor. It had fallen off.  I love this side table and its quirkiness. I love the carpenter who designed it because he saw tree branches and their uniqueness and incorporated those into his art. These little nuances can make the table a little temperamental and vulnerable at times (aka, the legs have been known to fall off) but I love it a little more for those traits.

Post repair. This time the right front leg (closest to the camera position )fell off.

Despite the table's vulnerabilities, this table is strong. After loosing a leg, my table still stood supporting a heavy copper lamp, votive holder and even my half full glass of water. Not even slight wobble but obviously in need a little tlc.

As I sat on the floor to reattach the fourth leg, I realized that the table was a metaphor for me. I was my quirky 3-legged side table. I could still support lots of weight. I could still function but I needed some tlc too.

Each leg has a specific way it fits into the top. If they weren't so tricky, I'd flip the table over for a better view but today that seems like a little too much work.

Over the weekend, I unfortunately was in a bus accident. A pedestrian ran out in front of the bus I was riding. The bus driver slammed on the brakes to avoid them. This caused me and other passengers to be thrown from our seats. Thankfully my injuries are contusions. Thankfully I was with friends on the bus and they went along with me to the hospital. Thankfully they are also okay. I have contusions on my head, face and shoulder. I have typical aches and pains and bruises all over my body from being in an accident. Exhaustion from a late hospital night and from my body trying to heal.

Saturday I stayed home, rested and slept. Sunday I also took it easy. One brief lunch outting to test my strength, some massive lesson planning and assisting the handyman. That wasn't too much.  I was okay or so I told myself that I was.

Yesterday when I woke up, I was more exhausted than I'd been Sunday evening. I figured I'd pushed myself too hard on Sunday. Despite a tiny voice in the back of my head saying, "Are you sure you should go?" I went to school. I thought I was strong enough and being back into the normal routines would be just what I needed. Shortly after I arrived, I realized I'd made the wrong decision. The advice from family and friends both near and far, was right. I was going too fast. I was still standing, just like my table; trying to awkwardly balance, shouldering too much weight, pretending everything was fine.

After the accident, new friends and colleagues here in Prague reached out to support me here. Phone calls, visits, text messages. All with offers of help. How many did I accept? None. I said no to everyone. I said that I was okay and didn't need anything which I thought was true. I had food. I was resting. I was taking Ibuprofen. What else did I need? When I wasn't in the comfort of my home though, that's when I realized I should come home to get some more rest. I also realized I needed to accept the offers of help. Maybe the accident was impacting me more than I thought? Maybe I needed a little tlc? The table could stand on 3 legs and I could stand after the accident, but why should I struggle alone?

I'm learning that I have a need to appear independent. That I think it's weak to ask for help in my life outside of school unless it's for things like restaurant recommendations or where to buy ice cube trays. I need to be the tough girl. Especially when I'm a new member of a community.

What this accident has taught me is that it's not just okay, but it's good to be vulnerable. People want to help. It's okay to show your weaknesses to others because we all have them.

It's good to ask for help when it's offered; be it soup or company or a laugh, because even if you think you didn't need it, you probably do.

I need to be more open to ask and receive help. I need to accept the tlc just like my little quirky table does when one of its leg falls off. It's okay not be the tough girl because what you receive from others will make you stronger than you could have ever been without. It also sometimes involves amazing arnica cream, flowers and chocolate too.

Flowers and great company from a friend.