My perceptions of social media.

Social media was one of the topics at a meeting I attended today with a group of the finest educators in the North Country.  It was a short, three minute blip that went a little something like this, "As an educator, be warned that if you are 'friending' students, do this at your own risk.  That is all."

I sit there, an educator, with a Master's degree in Instructional Technology and a Facebook account that contains more student 'friends' than any other educator in my school, and I am a believer that nobody is more aware of the risks and gains that are made by lending these students the means to have this closer proximity to my views, my life, and my family.  Why do I put myself at risk?

Each morning, when I walk through my classroom door, as a teacher, everything you say and everything you do always has a cost/benefit analysis attached to it.  We watch our words, we watch our phrases, the way we dress, the way we smile, and the way we come across from bell one to bell nine.  It never ends at bell nine though, it doesn't end on the drive home, for me, it never ends.

Did I know that becoming a teacher was going to define me as a human being on a twenty four hour basis?  Nah...Some would argue with that statement.  Some would say that they have a private life, and we do, but where is that line?  Where is the line between public life and private life?

My school is small, K-12, 600 students or so.  My community is small, my connections in this community are limitless.  This community is beyond any "seven degrees to Kevin Bacon" game you could ever imagine.  Everybody is connected in several ways, which makes it impossible to ever believe that you just go home and take the teacher hat off.  It does not happen.  They walk by my house, they knock on my door to sell their latest fund raising item, they are here interacting with my children, they are at church, they are at the store, the gas station, the fire department, the post office... we are essentially all forever connected.  A little more about my community... a majority of it is poor.  We do our best to watch out for each other, help each other, cry for each other, and will do this forever and always, because it is what we do.  I am a nurturer and this is not limited to my biological children.

So I am here, arguing that I can handle granting access to my students into my life.  Because my life is me, Ms. DeMarse.  This all comes down to a social identity and how it is shaped, which has been completely turned upside down when social networking sites, like Facebook, came into existence.

Social Identity is now a freshly new enigma.  It used to be shaped by your character, your choices, the peers you choose as your circle, and how you presented yourself appearance wise.  You had complete control of your social identity.  Now, we introduce Facebook.  Your social identity is no longer as sacred as people would imagine.  The social identity is now shaped by the people that are on your friend's list, the people that are on their friend's list, the comments your friends leave on your wall, and the pictures you may be tagged in.  Some would say that your social identity is no longer shaped by your own choices, but the choices of your Facebook friends.

Why were we, the educators, warned today?  The warning doesn't lie within the social networking sites themselves, but, the choices of the people that hold the accounts.  Would I go around advocating to other educators, especially new teachers, to open their Facebook accounts to their students?  Definitely not.  Educators are human, humans make mistakes, it is our nature.  Most humans lack the foresight to manage every curveball that came their way (but wasn't thrown by them).  For instance, first mistake.... posting pictures that depict partying, drinking, etc.  The photos that would not be desirable on a teacher's Facebook.  The teacher may not have posted them, but other's may have the ability to post those pictures and 'tag' the account holder, inadvertently making it a part of your social identity.  I never worry about this, because I would rather be with my children than partaking in the scenes where these pictures are taken.  If these photos don't and never will exist, you might be able to manage a student accessible Facebook account.

My students know me, they know me well.  It is the way it is in our community, and I am a personal person.  They sometimes know what I had for dinner the night before because I told them, I guess I don't feel like my life needs to be completely private after bell nine.  My personal connection with my students lends so much success to them academically.  It truly does.  It must sound strange, but, there are no shocking revelations in my classroom, it is me and them.  They learn, we laugh, they are honest with me, I am honest with them.  I know that some of my students are in desperate need for positive adult interaction, and with me, they get it.  Their accessibility to me is something they can count on and although not all of them need it, they have assurance that I am there for them and there is an element of safety in their life that they might not have elsewhere.  My Facebook has no curse words, no inappropriate literature, links, etc.  It is just me.  A happy, loving, mother, teacher, folk singer, and shoulder to cry on.  It is my platform because I chose it.

So am I completely safe with my Facebook?  Well... Am I completely safe in my classroom, or at the post office, or at the market?  To me, it is all the same.  I monitor it to make sure that my social identity is not being created for me, I have deleted things that I wouldn't want to be associated with, it is what it is.

I do not go looking for students to 'friend', they find me.  They 'friend', I decide whether or not to accept, and most of the time do.  I have the foresight to stay out of a sticky situation and believe that this is enough.

I am truly awed and amazed by the strength of Facebook and could not imagine being out of the loop of the people in my growing circle.  I hope someday that the unknown risks will be well defined and more easily avoided, the problem is, right now, it is impossible to outline all the risks and have a plan of defense because it is still such a new means of social interaction.  Even with Facebook, I still feel that there is an arms length between me and my students.  I know what is inappropriate and what is not and I respect all elements that should be respected.  I do love a little insight on the lives of the people in my circle and learn new things everyday.  I would like to say that I am home, on Facebook, still providing a positive role model to my students on endless levels inside and outside of the classroom.  For me, this is how it will be till I am told otherwise.

angels among us.

Luke and I had an apartment on Holcomb Street.  I loved this apartment.  It had cathedral ceilings, a brick fireplace, and windows from floor to ceiling.  It was going to take a natural disaster to get me to ever leave this place.  We were living beautiful but also in poverty.  It was me and Luke, I was a full-time student, waitressed part-time at Pizza Hut, and had every benefit the state could offer.  We got by but if anything unexpected happened, we were screwed.

Tracy moved in with me in 2002.  Tracy and a little one-year old Charisma who lit up every room with the brightest happiest smile and an unbelievable laugh.  Life's crap held nothing to Charisma, she was a beacon for everybody.  I could not wait to get home and do things with her.  We got into this ritual of my daily water bottle. I had a big yellow wheelie backpack with a side pocket for a water bottle.  I would get a bottle of water, take a few sips and leave it in the pocket.  When I got home, Charisma would run for my bag to claim the rest of the water bottle.  I would buy one even if I wasn't thirsty so it would be there for Charisma when I got home.

My grandfather passed away early on in the year.  It was freezing temperatures out at this time, a string of -30 degrees Fahrenheit every night.  The apartment didn't heat well, so it was prudent that we kept the door shut tight and blankets handy at all times.  Jaime was flying in from North Carolina for Grandpa's funeral and we were all excited.  She was staying with us.  Danielle was on her way from Vermont with her new husband that no one has met yet.  We had plans to go to Syracuse to pick up Jaime from the airport.  I get home from school to unsettling news.  Luke had broken a window in the living room and the entire place was so cold we could see our breath.  We had an hour before we needed  to leave to get Jaime so my idea was to get plastic for the window to seal it.  Using a hairdryer to heat the window sill to get the adhesive to work, we were able to get the window sealed and it worked.

We picked up Jaime and came home to settle in.  The next day was calling hours, we were expected to spend the day at the funeral home.  My Aunts had called to say that they planned to come spend the day watching our children at my apartment.  They are always thinking of these things before we do.  They meet us at the house the next day and promise our kids will be in good care.

12 hours of meeting people, shaking hands, crying.... We arrive home around 9:30pm.  The house has been cleaned from top to bottom, the window had been fixed, and the cupboards have been filled with food.  I forget that this is what they do... they are angels.  You do not have to be a spirit to be angel, you can be an angel present.  It was an emotional homecoming for me because they were making ends meet for us and relieving stress in any way that they could.  I remember a time when they showed up at my Mother's home when I was very young, possibly 5 or 6.  My mom struggled and they showed up with a trunk of groceries.  Loads and loads of groceries.  I remember when I first moved home from Boston and found a little house for me and Luke.  I couldn't move in till I cleaned the house from top to bottom.  I arrived to the empty house after a long day at work to find my Aunt Linda finishing her long day of cleaning my house.  If there is a crisis and we need to drive out of state, they show up with gas money and a shoulder to cry on.

I don't think it is as much as they unexpected relief, but the knowledge that someone has your back.  My mother is the same way... she blindly hands out anything she has (and sometimes what she doesn't have).  What do you say to someone who gives you and your children security?  Thank you never seems like enough.  I hope I can someday compare to that kind of love.  

The magic of Danielle.

When I was little, I followed Danielle around.  It may seem that I am referring to a short period in my life, but I am not, and the word "followed" is multifaceted   My earliest memories have Danielle deeply threaded all throughout.  She and I sitting on our beds, unable to walk in our room because we were surrounded by toys in excess of three feet high, we could swim to our door across the top.  She and I going to sleep, in the same bed, no matter the circumstance, no ghosts were getting us if we were together.  She and I riding double on her banana seat, the neighborhoods whizzing by, my eyes shut tight and face angled up feeling the wind in my hair.  The last day of kindergarten, she let me know "now.....we won't have school for a really long time."  I didn't know this...it made me sad.

 She wasn't like other people.  She knew things, so many things.  As a teenager, when everyone else was swimming and doing teenager things, her nose was in a book.  A regents prep book, and she wasn't even taking the class yet.  She always had her eye on the prize...getting out.

Another thing about Danielle.  She was beautiful, in a smart, unobtainable way.  The boys stared and lusted, and she rolled her eyes and ignored.  It was funny to me, what she had.  Some of my boyfriends broke up with me with the sad thought they might have a chance.  She rolled her eyes even further, "forget him, he is a loser."

She left me when she was sixteen.  Moved out.  I didn't have a chance to be with her again till I was 20 years old or so.  I lived in Boulder, CO, and she called one day and said her roommate was moving out, did I want to come?  Hell yes I wanted to come.  One week later, I was walking my boxes up a flight of stairs to settle into a new place with Danielle.  Together again.  Her roommate wasn't gone yet, so I bunked in her room with her for a few weeks.  The first night we laid in her room, I was eager and wanted to talk, she was exhausted and wanted to sleep, after explaining that she was not conversing anymore, she sleepily said, "besides, you just had a long trip across the country.  Pretty ballsy just packing up and moving like that....".  That was enough for me, I had her approval, I did something she admired, and that was enough for years.

The saga of Danielle and I goes on.  I find myself pregnant by a person she does not admire, and she stuck by me when he didn't (which she painfully predicted).  She force fed me wheat bread, yelled at people who didn't offer their seats to me on the train, and followed me around forging a bubble that nobody could pierce.  I was safe and that was that.  When I gave birth to Luke, she stood by me and gave the sperm donor the obligatory hairy eyeball when he visited.

Danielle.  The name may have no pull with you, but mirrors the effect of the highest matriarch in my life.  She was where the buck stopped.  After Luke was born, I moved home leaving Danielle behind which was very hard to do, she was, after all, my security.

She lives the next state over, in Vermont.  Our sons are the same age.  Danielle has grown into a perfectionist (maybe always has been one), still beautiful, kind of a control freak, and an appreciator of things that she loves.  When she discovers something amazing, she calls me and tells me about it.  Then, a few days later, I'll receive it in the mail, or as a Christmas present.

I had the pleasure of having Danielle stay at my house for a few days last week.  My face starts to get sore from laughing after being with Dani for a few days.  She prepared us dinner the last night she stayed here and I realized there is a magic that comes with Danielle.  Everything she does is tinged with this uniqueness.  Everyday things like chopping garlic.  Her garlic pieces are perfect, the way her fingers grip the knife, like Bobby Flay or something.  She has a way of doing things and is perfectly happy in her element preparing a dinner made from fresh organic vegetables and breads.  This is what she loves.  She wants to make everyone's plate, put the right amount of pasta, sauce, and veggies on each plate.  No one gets away without their greens, sorry!  She makes us all sit around the table and say what we are thankful for before we eat.  She even eats...like Danielle.  Neatly placing the fork in her mouth after every bite, closing her eyes and tasting every flavor of every morsel like it's the last dinner she'll ever eat.  She is Danielle, my sister, my confidant.  Oh how I want to be like her, but if I was like her, it would not be good.  We can not have two alpha wolves in this family, she can have it.  We will be connected forever and always because she would have it no other way, and what Danielle wants, she gets.  I won't argue.

The quickest way to rip out your heart.

He is fourteen.  I am thirty five.  I can't imagine my life without him.  He has had complete command over my heart, my love, his mire existence has brought such complete definition to my life.  He brought me stability, he defined to me the what the deepest depths of love can possibly be, and I am, and always will be completely devoted to him.

This story is long, but I can make it short(er).

Moving to Boston was a big, and necessary step for me in my life when I was nineteen years old.  I wanted to live with Danielle, reconnect with her, she had moved out of our house when she was sixteen and I was twelve at the time.  An opportunity arose, and I took it.  

As soon as I got there I landed a job at a restaurant on Newbury Street called Charley's Eating and Drinking Saloon.  Here, I worked non-stop for years.  Restaurants like this forge friendships for life.  In this time, I met a man that was doused in red flags.  We had a year long, on-off, relationship, that ended with his tendency to have many female companions.  A few weeks after we ended our relationship, I found out I was pregnant.  I was smart enough to know that I was easily influenced, I wanted all of my decisions to be my own, so I told one person, and no one else until I decided how I would proceed.  By this time I started having grand illusions of a Jerry Maguire movie like existence and was already picking out names, so it was decided, I would do this.  He was not on-board.  I was fine with that and over it.  The pregnancy went well and I still was delusional about survival. 

Luke came into the world on March 29th, 1997 at 1:16am.  The birth was difficult for me so I didn't really get to hold him until 5am.  My first thought was "Oh my god, why didn't I do this sooner.  He is amazing!", my next thought was "oh yeah, because i'm 21, on my own, barely any income, and have no mom experience what so ever."

My life changed, my world changed.  I welcomed everything because I would do anything for my baby.  I moved home to Watertown when Luke was a year old.  We settled and life began. 

This post is not about single motherhood per say.  It's about babysitters.  The heartbreak of leaving your baby with someone is sometimes unbearable.

I've had good sitters, but twice I had the experience of having babysitters that were an absolute nightmare.

The first one was a heavy set Mexican woman named Maritza.  Maritza had one other child to care for besides Luke.  She seemed like an outstanding woman.... at first.  Took Luke to the park, fed him well, he always seemed happy.  One evening after work,  I was giving Luke a bath when I noticed he had two bruises,  one on the top of each ear.  Strange bruises, I initially thought that his bike helmet must have been pushing his ears down.  I say to Luke "Where did you get these bruises?", he looks bewildered.  Then I touch them and he recoils and says "Maritza!  She pulls me by my ears!!".  I was horrrrrrified.  Completely, and utterly horrified.  I did not take Luke back to Maritza's again (obviously), but at the same time, I did not confront her because I was afraid of myself and what I would not say, but do.  I was dropping Luke off to be physically abused?!?!  Horrified.

The second sitter's name was Shelley.  I should have seen this one also.  When I pulled up to Shelley's on recommendation of the local CAPC, I notice she had signs on her windows instructing anyone within visual distance to turn down their radios.  Her neighbor had a blow up doll attached to the side of their house, facing her house, with it's arm and hand propped up giving her house the eternal middle finger.  She was a VERY heavy set lady with an endless pit of toys, all organized in clear totes, labeled, and seemed to have endless amounts of yard toys in her backyard (which was fenced in).  The thing about Shelley was, Luke was safe at her house.  She had all of her T's crossed and I's dotted when it came to safety.  Shelley was a very stern woman.  I thought Luke could benefit from the very clear boundaries that she set for him.

Luke went to Shelley's for a little over a year.  She started to become very comfortable yelling at Luke in my presence, and I felt that it was uncalled for.  If she was doing it in my presence, I figured it was ten times worse when I wasn't there.  There was a day that Luke told me that he didn't like the food Shelley made him. I brought raviolis in the can to her house and she was extremely offended by this and stated that he needed to suck it up and eat what she makes.  When I came back to pick him up, Luke told me that Shelley said "Your mom babies you.", under my breath I said "Well, Shelley is a fat bitch".  Luke has owl ears if he wants and starts laughing and states "I'm going to tell her you said that.".  I forbid Luke from ever repeating anything I ever say about Shelley, but he continues to insist she needs to know.  I tell Luke I will look for a new sitter which spurs the biggest Cheshire cat grin the boy can muster.  The next day I drop him off, and while I am standing there she goes off on how Luke's allergies make him look like he has cancer.  She says (in front of Luke) "Look at him!  His eyes have bags under them, his skin is pale!  On top of that, every time he comes here I have to start over!", I say "Start over?", she replies "I have to reteach him the rules!".  Luke pipes in "Mom is finding me a new sitter.  Aren't you mom?  Can I leave with you now???", Luke's eyes are pleading with me not to leave him there, but I can't take him anywhere else, I have to work in ten minutes and we need the money very badly.  The defeat in Luke's eyes, his tiny shoulders slunched over, my gut hurt from the horrible guilt I had leaving him there.  Ten hours later I picked him up and informed Shelley she would never be bothered with us again.  She seemed elated.  Bitch.

Luke never had bad sitters after that, I became the sitter Nazi making sure of it.  My first born son is someone that drives me nuts, but makes me proud.  I am fond of his independence, his level head, and his humorous personality.  I hope that the experiences he had growing up contributed to who he is today.  Sometimes the bad experiences are rewarding in some way, but as a mother, they ripped my heart out.

Life's failures...always lead to the biggest successes...

I don't fear failure...I fear humiliation.  I was twenty six years old and didn't want to fail my son as a mother, so I decided to go back to school and make something of myself.  I chose the profession of Nursing.  I worked at the hospital and loved my coworkers, and this is what gave me the general direction of my career prospects.

As a high school student, I was a lazy, lazy, girl.  My mom was a teacher, so this propelled me to do a little more than the bare minimum.  Enough work to pass and keep her off my back.

So, I decided to go back to school, Luke was four.  I was terrified of failing and leaving us in squaller.  As I sat in my first class, Psychology 101, I fought the overwhelming feelings of anxiety that I wouldn't be able to sit still for an hour day after day.  Yet, I did, and I was fine.  I had a year of prerequisites and random courses to take prior to the actual nursing portion of my education.

The first year went well, I learned a lot about how to study, but managed to maintain some of my bare minimum behavior from high school.  I had to take a year of Chemistry, which I was terrified about, but it ended up being my best subject.  The math involved kept me hooked, which surprised the crap out of me, I didn't realize I was a math person.

By the time I began the nursing portion of my education, I was well versed in the ways of college.  By this time, I figured out how to manage my finances, my financial aid, my part time waitressing job, Luke's subsidized day care fees, and how to apply and maximize public assistance.  What I had not yet learned was, good things come to those who work hard for it.  Three semesters in to nursing school, I failed out.  It wasn't a good situation, I had a 64.4, literally.  This is where I go in to a rant about how it wasn't my fault, how I was wronged, how I didn't know how to study, how I was so humiliated that I could barely formulate the sentences to my father "I....[sniff, sniff]....didn't make it...".  The nursing program did allow you to re-enter, you had to wait a year and come back in where you left off.  I took the rest of my requirements while waiting, setting myself up to focus on my clinicals and lectures with no distractions.  As the time came closer, my anxiety level was through the roof, two weeks before the semester where I would re-enter started, I changed my major to become a Math Teacher.

I went to my JCC advisor and he set up everything for me.  He informed me that I would be going to Oswego State, an hour and a half drive from our home.  I knew this was inevitable and accepted my fate with grace because I was so excited about what I was about to embark on.  A little worried about how I would juggle full-time school, part-time waitressing, and single motherhood, but where there is a will...I always find a way.  I remember my first day at Oswego, I dressed up and got a rolling backpack.  I did not care that I looked like a soccer mom out of her element.  The only thing is...they did not think I was a soccer mom.  They thought I was one of them, 19...maybe 20, and assumed I lived back home with my parents (why change their outlook..right?).  It did not take long for me to realize that my study habits needed to be developed.  I went looking for help, found it, and became the student I should have always been.  I never, never, realized the amount of dedication I had in me.  I started leaving my house at 5am (sometimes earlier), getting to school before the sun woke up, and being the first one in the study lab until my first class at 10 or 11.  I was de-vot-ed.  The professors at Oswego were not your typical professors, they were the toughest bunch of people I have ever met.  If you go complain about your workload, they tell you to find another major, "you're not cut out for this." was a speech I heard on many occasions.  This just fuels your fire hotter than the deepest depths of hell.

I think back on it now with such fondness.  Being the only one on the road at 5am in January, listening to my tires slice through the fresh layers of snow.  My dynasty being my constant loyal, toasty, companion, I was on a mission.  It is funny what you can do to change yourself.  I became friends with the smartest people because I now told myself "you are the smartest person here".  When I first started telling myself this, I didn't fully believe it, but after awhile, I don't really know exactly when, I really did believe it.  Then one day, I realized, it was true.  They all came to me for help, for guidance, for reassurance.  There was one day that was particularly funny.  It was a school holiday for Luke (by this time Luke is 8 years old), I had to bring him with me.  The first question was "aw, what's your brother's name?"  hahahha. 

With one more summer class left before graduation, I received the best news.  I was offered a full time teaching position at La Fargeville Central School.  So exciting....so very, very exciting.  I finished my schooling and was preparing for another enormous change in my life.  No more commuting 15 hours a week, I was now an employed teacher.  No more public assistance. :)

All I remember the night before my first day of school was the fact that I did not sleep one wink.  I got to school two hours before the day was scheduled to start and wrote my professors a final email.  Here it is...

From:	BRIDGET DEMARSE		Wednesday - September 5, 2007 6:14 AM
To:	vanderso@oswego.edu, baltus@oswego.edu, lcarlson@oswego.edu, fettes@oswego.edu, halpin@oswego.edu, lewis@oswego.edu, mosbo@oswego.edu, narayan@oswego.edu, srp@oswego.edu, tiballi@oswego.edu, seguin@oswego.edu
CC:	daksha9@aol.com
Subject:	Good Morning

To my wonderful professors:

Today I begin my first day as a math teacher.  It is bitter sweet.  I always have a little anxiety at the beginning of each semester, the element of change in my everyday schedule and wondering if I can keep up with my smarter (and younger) colleagues.  I will walk into a new school, into a sea of unfamiliar faces.  This time, instead of seeing for myself, I will imagine Dr. Lewis's nod of confidence (in my abilities), Dr. Baltus's bicycle locked up outside, Laurie's "good morning", Dr. Tiballi's moustache curl up in a smile, and Dr. Halpin sitting behind his desk, always available when I have a question.

You will go about another semester as usual.  I'd like to think what you do is just a job.  But it isn't.  It is much more, you change people's lives.  When I first came to Oswego, I had no idea that I would walk away missing it more than I could imagine.  I've come to rely on you as I would my parents, the importance of your approval being the utmost.  Now I will try to mentor my students like you have, and still do, mentor me.

Your loved so much more than you know.  Thank you.

-Bridget G. DeMarse


They replied with:

Bridget,

Ok, I "date" myself with this reply but I say "You go girl!"

Thanks for the thank you.

Have a great first day.  You will have many good days to follow, not
always easy, but always worthwhile.

Prof. Fettes

Thank you for your very kind words.  And best of luck beginning your career.  You to will have an influence on thousands.  (Please send us your best students-ha!)

  Terry Tiballi

Good luck. 

I know you can do it.

JYN

Hello Bridget.

Thank you for a wonderful note on the first day of school.  As you
move to the other side of the desk, it is good to remember how long
and deeply  the things you say and do may stay with your students. I
am often surprised at what students recall years later.

You made a very good impression on many people here and I expect the
same for you in your new school.

Chris Baltus

Hi Bridget,
 Thank you, on behalf of the department, for your very kind words.  It
was very nice to read your email before going off to my 8:00 class.  I'm
sure your first day went well - let us know please!  Take care and enjoy!

-P. Halpin

SUNY Oswego

Math Department Chair

Hi Bridget,
Thank you so much for your kind words!  It sure is a great way to start the
day!  I'm sure you'll do great--the building and faces will be new for a
short time only.  If I recall correctly, the thing I overheard most about
you was that you were/are great in the classroom--so go do your stuff and
have a blast doing it!

I know you're going to be VERY busy, but drop us a line every now and then
and let us know how it's going.

Thanks again,
Laurie

Hi, Bridget,

Congratulations on your new job. I'm sure you will bring your own enthusiasm for mathematics to your students.  They will be fortunate to have your for their teacher.

Thanks to remembering your professors here at Oswego.  It was a joy to have you in my calculus class.  I think of you often and will not imagine you in front of your class(es).

Vivian Anderson

Thank you for the wonderful note.   We miss you too!!   Your name has
come up several times in conversations this semester already - always in a
positive way, of course.
    I will say, as I have many times before, "I know you can do it!"   I
don't at all believe that many of your colleagues are smarter than you,
even if some of them do have more teaching experience.   You'll catch up
quickly on that.
    Teaching is definitely more than just a job if it's done
right.   People who choose to teach because it's a "easy" job with long
vacations really don't get it.   But it's more than worth the effort when
you see students succeed, especially the ones who don't think they
will.   I overheard a conversation today between two of my former students
from different classes who met each other last year in my office.  They
were comparing news and congratulating each other about successes.   Seeing
students encouraging each other like that made my day.
     Please do come back for a visit sometimes.   We'd love to see you!

Dr. Kathy Lewis

I sometimes go back and read these emails to remind me where I came from.  This reminds me that anyone can do anything they want if it is something they set their mind to. 

a legend passes on and a star is born...

This is what it is all about.  Life.  Death.  Living, breathing, and making your mark on the world.  I stood on a wooden platform in front of the largest podium I have ever come in contact with and delivered a speech that was supposed to encompass everything my dad was and what he left behind.

I looked into a sea of sad, sorry eyes, drooped shoulders, and it came to me that these people did not need anymore sorrow, they knew my dad, what they need was, to laugh.  My dad would have made them laugh.

"Hello... I am Bridget.  I was his favorite."

This is, I suppose, the final word now, isn't it?  My sisters will never one up me on this one.  I can tell you many things about my dad, great things....terrible things.... but what I am going to tell you is this:  he taught me right up till the day he died.  I learned the very meaning of life, watching him peacefully slip away (thank you god for having mercy on him).  I learned that life is about relationships, giving, and learning everything you can to help your soul advance into a higher realm of understanding.  That is what we want, isn't it?  The ability to understand why everything happens the way that it does, and what will happen in the future.  Nothing is certain, we are all dying, we must make the most of every day.  Simple, to the point, and almost a cliche.

On December 12th, 2009.  I drove away from this place:

sans my father.  Not the ideal situation if you ask me.  On the drive back to Upstate New York, I had an epiphany.  A very strange one might I add.  I turned to Johnny in the van and said to him, "we need to buy a concession stand and start a business."  Johnny is used to me, he doesn't bat an eye, he assures me that if that is something that I want to do, then I have his full support.  This is good because... Johnny is the cook, without him, it would not be good.  Why did this come to me on the way home?  I have no clue.

I combed craigslist ads and ebay.  Concession stands are a ridiculous price.  I found a $50 "how to" manual on starting a concession stand, the very fact that I forked over $50 should tell anyone how very serious I was at the time despite the discouragement of the discovery of the expenses.  A month or two goes by, a check in the mail from my dad's wife, "a gift from your father" she writes... the same day, a concession stand is listed on craigslist for the exact amount of "dad's gift".  We go look, and buy it.

It is a trailer, the lady sold fishfry out of it.  It was old and dirty, and we were oblivious and crazy.  She painted it (apparently several times), using a patriotic theme.  Red, white, and blue...blue, white, and red.... you get what I'm saying.  We had our work cut out for us.

 


Cleaning it up was a pickle.  We were lucky in so many ways, a neighbor who served as an electrician in the army, a landlord with tools and a spot on the town planning board, and a vigor that was fueled with the fire of losing the person you love most in the world.

We cleaned it up, completely gutted it, rebuilt the counters, took out the horribly spray painted appliances, installed a self contained water system, put in a new floor, and painted the outside snow white.  She looked better.
(pictures from before)

 

  

(pictures after)

 

Johnny and I talked about our plans with the concession trailer non stop.  Deciding what to sell was tricky.  From the beginning, I kept talking about a dinner that Johnny and I had a few months back that I thought about constantly.  It started with this delicious vegetarian chili that he made, that was completely out of this world.  He made it from scratch, it still mystifies me how he can just whip things up in the kitchen out of the "nothing" in our cupboards and comes up with gourmet creations that never leave the mind.  Back to the chili. It was good (if you haven't gathered that already).  We ate it three nights in a row, when Johnny decided to serve it to me on a tortilla shell that he also, made from scratch.  The dinner was this:  hand rolled shell, mixed greens, chili, cheddar, avocado, sourcream, chopped tomato, chopped onion, and parmeson cheese.  This dinner...was the bee's knees!!!   I even started topping mine off with a small squirt of balsamic vinaigrette.  I can't express how delicious this was!!!!!!

                                                 
 

I wanted to sell chili burritos.  The same ones we ate for dinner, over and over again.  Johnny was set on sandwiches.  We went back and forth and finally settled on burritos.  With a product in mind, we set out for more equipment.  We got lucky finding an almost new prep table in Syracuse.  An hours drive away, this refrigerated prep table was a steal, and our ticket to success.

                                            

 

After setting her up, we had to come up with a business plan.  This was for the health department and our town planning board.  Red tape, red tape, yellow, yellow, yelllow.....GREEN!  I won't bore you with the details, but getting her up and running was full of trials and tribulations.  Also, just for the record, my landlord did recuse himself from the planning board vote on account of our relationship.  One of the funnest parts of this phase was naming the concession stand.  Johnny came up with the name "the burri-in-tow", which was witty  and worked for our product.  After much discussion, we dropped the "in", and decided on "the burri-tow"

One thing we did not think about after purchasing this concession trailer was the fact that we would need a truck to tow it with.  Asking those kinds of favors was something I wasn't brought up to do, so we spent the last few weeks we had in the summer with our concession stand parked out front of our house.

It was still kind of ugly, but a much better version of what we started out with:

The end of our first year in business arrived in October of 2010.  It was slow (out front of your house in La Fargeville, NY is bound to be), but we learned a lot and had a big head start for the next season.

The following season began in July of 2011.  The French Festival was first up!  How we landed this gig, nobody really knows, luck of the draw.  We were much more prepared this season with marketing.  During the off season I managed to create a website, a logo, got a credit card machine, and we decided to expand our menu to include beef as a possible filling and fish tacos.  We also decided to paint the outside of the burri-tow in an effort to look more professional and for the "pop" effect.  White was not cutting it.

 

The French Festival in Cape Vincent, NY, is one of Jefferson County's largest festivals.  With attendance in the tens of thousands, we knew we were in for a long, hard, weekend.  A week of no sleep and constant preparation yielded our most successful event to this day.  Our sales for the first day of the French Festival exceeded our entire season from the year prior.  After the French Festival was over, our next event, and one we were very excited for was the Clayton Farmer's Market .

Clayton, NY is located on the St. Lawrence River.  Their Farmer's Market is set up along a brick lined walkway with vendors facing the river.  It is beautiful and always seems to have an eccentric mixed crowd.  The Clayton Farmer's market has become our home base this season.  We had a list of things we wanted to achieve this summer, continue with our business, spend time with our children, and not be stressed.  Although it is tempting to be open every day and try to milk as much profit as we can, while we can.  The burri-tow's summer has been Thursday's from 2pm - 8pm, in Frink Park in Clayton.  I am completely amazed and awed by the amount of support and praise we have received from all of our customers at the Farmer's market.  A conversation a few weeks back that Johnny and I partook in revolved around our surprise that the concession stand could possibly be a successful business.  Street food has always been one of my favorite things in life, and apparently other people share the same idea that we do.  It is not abnormal for me to go somewhere and say something offhand about the business to be met with someone who has heard of us, leaving me in complete and utter shock.  I even did a presentation for one of my master's classes on "starting a street food business"

 


This business scratches an itch I never knew I had.  It is a gift from my dad.  I wish he was here to see it.

keep calm and carry on

The sudden ear splitting sound of a car accident can make your heart stop.  Even worse is the seconds that feel like hours when you assess your body between the sounds, airbag, and shock.  I have had my share of car accidents.  Too many to count.  This is why my dad always conjured up beater cars for me to drive around while I was attending school in Oswego.  Cheap cars that were semi-reliable and could absorb the shock of a mishap.

A funny thing about the plethora of cars that I owned was that twice I owned a 1993 Dodge Dynasty.  The first one was yellow.  It had a car starter, cost me $450 for the beauty.  I had that car for a couple of years when one day, Luke and I picked up Bill in Lowville (a dear old friend), and we took a spontaneous trip to Boston, MA.  45 miles before Boston, the transmission goes.  It was very sad leaving my car in Boston and taking a bus home.  The next 1993 Dodge Dynasty was Teal.  This one also had a car starter.  This car was the most reliable car I have ever owned.  It had 50,000 miles on it, and cost me $300.  I drove this car for years, it was always toasty in the winter and frosty in the summer.  I grew to LOVE this car.  I decided that when I graduated college and found a teaching job, that I would not buy a new car, but stay with my loyal, beautiful Dynasty.

Two weeks into student teaching and four weeks after giving birth to Alex, I was on my way to Carthage Central School to student teach with my middle school Math Teacher.  Six am.  Arsenal St.  The only vehicles on the road are myself and a red truck in the lane next to me traveling in the same direction.  I was thinking I had time, I was early, I could drive slow and enjoy it.  The next thing that happens is the red truck in the lane to my left decides to do a U turn, crossing over my lane, forcing me to hit him, my head-his side on.  I had a milli-second to say "oh shit".  crash. glass. smoosh.  airbag.  I taste blood in my mouth.  Sucked.

My car was almost 10 years old and it saved me.  Loyal to the end.  Ambulance to the hospital.  Brandon arrives apologetic that he couldn't wake up and answer my calls from my car.  I have bruises in places that I didn't know existed.  Fat lip.

My ex father-in-law worked over the insurance company guy like a champ.  I got almost $5000 for that car along with my hospital visit.  A great down payment for the mini van I have to this day.

Moral of the story:  Dynasty's are awesome.

The Soapbox.

My mom got married once, or maybe more than once.  The time I am referencing sticks out in my mind because we had family that gifted my mother a slab of government issued cheese as a wedding gift.  It came encased in silver with a government stamp on the outside.  My mother used it to make a batch of macaroni and cheese.  I was unfamiliar with government issued food or any type of assistance.  I was lucky to live in a family that didn't need government assistance, we were middle class, I grew up in a great neighborhood, and had a beautiful home.  Our parents had an Olympic sized in ground pool put in and we had many wonderful family memories throwing pool parties and bbqs in the backyard.

Next time I was introduced to government assistance was when I was twelve years old.  I was at my friend Rebecca's house.  Rebecca found her mother's stash of food stamps, which looked to me like monopoly money, a stack of it with a staple in the side.  Armed with $76 in food stamps, we went to the local corner grocery market and spent it on candy bars, soda, popcorn, and anything else our hearts desired.  After stuffing ourselves with the loot we purchased, Rebecca's sister discovered our wrong doings and turned us in to her mother, who scolded us continuously until the punishment required me to leave their home.

Fast forward to 1998, I move back to New York with my infant son to embark on a life of single motherhood.  The life of assistance receiving was still beyond me and I didn't even consider it.  I struggled and spiraled further and further into debt.  With two jobs, one secretarial and one waitressing, I was barely making ends meet.  I luckily was able to secure a job at Samaritan Medical Center as an administrative secretary, and was able to catch back up on my bills and had benefits.  One of my coworkers suggested and helped me through the process of receiving daycare assistance, a county program that subsidized my daycare.  My son was able to go to one of the best daycare center's in Watertown.  I worked at the hospital for three years, it took three years for me to realize that I was smart enough to go back to school and attempt to bring my career to the next level.  At the same time, my younger sister escaped a very abusive relationship and moved into my two bedroom apartment with her infant daughter.  Two single mothers with two small children.  The effects of her relationship were evident to me, she had been isolated from our family and society for so long, she had to sit down and write a list of the things she needed to do to feel human again.  It was a long list.  She had over due fines to pay from turning to the police and receding her statements (in fear of reciprocation).  She no longer had a driver's license, friends, and hadn't worked in quite a while.  The first few weeks, she did what she knew how to do and felt comfortable doing.  She cleaned my apartment and had dinner on the table with all the trimmings by six o'clock sharp (things she was required to do in her relationship).

Even in her state of social discontent, she knew that I was barely making ends meet and asked me why I didn't accept food stamps or housing assistance while I was going to school.  Taking her advice, I went down to the local Department of Social Services.  The instant I walked through the door, the atmosphere change was palpable.  Desolate, hopelessness, a feeling of extreme desperation and sadness came over me.  I sat among the other people and waited for my number to be called.  I sat with a social worker who described to me that I would need to file an order for child support prior to being eligible for anything, which I did.  I then sat through an hour of endless questioning about my living situation, my income, and family life.  My picture was taken and I was given a temporary card for my benefits.

I was deemed eligible for medicaid and food stamps.  I was allocated $230 per month in food stamps.  That was it, I was now one of them.  I guess I was waiting for big slabs of government cheese to be handed to me but that never happened.  I received assistance for the next six years, in which I earned my associates degree from Jefferson Community College, and then my Bachelor's degree from Oswego State University.  I would never, never, had made it if I didn't have the government assistance that I received.

There is a stigma that goes along with carrying an EBT card.  First of all, you're not allowed to dress nicely.  People don't understand.  They don't understand that you shop at the Salvation Army and there are nice clothes there if you really dig around.  Secondly, you cannot borrow a car from someone if the car is nice.  People believe that if you purchase your groceries with an EBT card, then the make and model of any car you are driving must be substandard than what they are driving, and the car you are driving should be at least 10 to 15 years old.  If it's your birthday, and you decide you'd like to purchase yourself a small ice cream cake from Price Chopper, then that is too extravagant, and you will be judged on your judgement of what you spend your food stamps on, because after all, it is THEIR tax dollars anyway.  Lastly, if your card gets demagnified (which happens often), then this means that the cashier may, or may not, know how to type it in manually.  For some reason this is looked upon as an annoyance to those who have to wait in line, much more than if it is a regular debit or credit card.  If you hold up the line with your "annoying" demagnified EBT card, then it is OK if people look down at their nose at you, it isn't real money you earned anyway.  There was even a time where the cashier got frustrated with my demagnified card and refused to complete the sale forcing me to leave the grocery store humiliated and empty handed.

I am now four years clean.  Four years assistance clean.  Even after four years, I still feel the heat burn in my cheeks every time I read something online or hear conversation about the mandating of Florida's assistance recipients being required to undergo drug testing.  Doesn't anyone notice that these people's civil rights are being violated?  Seven percent of a persons paycheck goes to the federal government, from there, thirty of that seven percent goes to social programs.  If food stamps represented ALL social programs (yes, I'm over shooting this here), then two percent of your paycheck goes to food stamps.  For every $100 that is grossed, $2 goes to a family that isn't making it.  I bet that really pisses people off, actually, I know it does and I almost understand why.  You earn the money and someone else is benefiting and it doesn't matter how much the amount is.  Because this is such an upsetting realization, how can a non-assistance receiving person justify openly speaking of such dissatisfaction without being ostracized?  This is how.  You take a small percentage of people that abuse the system.  They make bad decisions in regards to parenting, nutrition, and possibly even abusing drugs (or look like they are abusing drugs).  We don't all really truly know the background of these people, but we do see what floats to the surface, and... we judge.  After we make our judgements, we then take the essence of this population and stereotype an entire group of people that may receive the same type of assistance.  We watch what they buy in the grocery store, how they dress, what they drive, how they talk, and how they look.  Is that a scab on their arm or...are they on heroin?  At what point do we decide that people on assistance are no longer human beings worthy of their civil rights?

If I had known the stigma, the glares, and the judgement that was associated with receiving public assistance ten years ago, I probably would not be the productive citizen that I am today.  I would never have gone in and applied.  Had I known that I would be stereotyped as a drug user, a social derelict, an abuser of the system and other's taxpayer dollars, I would have made a beeline for the doors of the same DSS building that helped me get through school.  Every time I see an article, a pat on the back to Florida, or a posting in regards to people's inadequacies as US citizens because they are on "welfare", I get sick to my stomach.  There will be people that are denied public assistance due to some kind of chemical dependency, so my question is... what happens to their children?  This is a sad state of affairs, and I hope that Florida is truly prepared to take the initiative to back up their programs with rehabilitation and quality assurance.  As a former DSS "waiting room sitter", I am glad I don't have to endure the added humiliation of yet another waiting room for my mandated drug test.

One last thing.  My sister does have an EBT card, and I know the pin.  This means that if she is sick and needs help taking care of her daughter or with shopping etc, I will go to the store with her list and use her card to buy her groceries to help her out.  I am not beyond looking anyone in my line in the eye and saying "Don't dare judge me.", There is an anger in me that will never ever go away because the mind's of people hardly change and all I want to do is create change where social justice is deserved.

pop goes the weasel and the weasel goes pop

Boys come and boys go.  I have always dealt with heartbreak with bravado, picking myself up and moving on like an Olympic champion.  The constants in my life have always been my family, my son, Luke and more recently Alex.  I know that I always have my sisters, no matter what, they are always there along with my parents.  They have redefined unconditional support with an intensity that goes unchallenged.  I don't have a lot of memorable heartbreak, just one.  The worst heartbreak I ever experienced was standing in the corner of a hospital room watching my grandmother say goodbye to my father before he passed away.  Her eyes bared an unbelievable sadness that mirrored what my heart couldn't put into words.

My father was a people person.  He gathered everyone, he fed everyone, he wined and dined....and had an insurmountable love for his four daughters that went on for his lifetime after each of us was born, despite his concern for the sons he really hoped for.  He loved taking us out on his boat on hot summer days with coolers full of food and drink, sunscreen, and so much enthusiasm for the things he loved in life.

He knew that his days were numbered and ran from it.  Coming to terms with his vices was not an easy task, but he eventually did when he had a series of heart attacks in February of 2009.  He was given a new lease on life when he was placed on the liver transplant list.  A list that he thought he would never qualify for with his past lifestyle, but he did it and deserved it.  His hospital stays became more frequent as he fought bouts of lucidity towards the end stages of liver disease.  He kept bouncing back and it was hard for us to differentiate between a serious hospital stay or a pre-bouncing back of a temporary setback.

He would be gone one sec and you'd be sitting by his bedside holding his hand and he'd wake up and say "hey baby!", and be himself again.  Such relief.  It would be our jobs to clean him up and get him on track.  We would look for things to help brighten him up and give him something to look forward to.  I remember one time going into his hospital room and finding him unshaven.  I loved helping him clean up and shaving him because Danielle was on her way and he wanted to look good for her visit. Maybe I knew I had to soak up what I could, while I could.

When it came time for him to go to Strong Memorial in Rochestor, NY for a critical moment in his life, his place on the list was very near the top and his health was declining quickly, my sisters and I rushed to his side.    His side, where we stayed for days, around the clock.  We put all of our will power and faith into the fact that his eyes would open, he would say "hey baby!" just a few more times before the moment of reckoning came, but it never did happen.  He was number one on the list and his kidneys were failing and it got to the point where they were not going to ever function fully again.  We were forced with the fact that we would have to take him off of life support and give up.  We just weren't the type to ever give up on anything, especially him.

We got to spend time with him, intimately, holding his hand, praying...praying...and the doctors and nurses walked by his room looking in on us sympathetically, because they knew what we didn't want to accept.  We made the decision everyone was waiting for us to make and took him off of life support.  He left us peacefully.  It was the biggest heartbreak and almost too much to bare.  We said goodbye and let him go.

a loft on the hill

In 1994 we moved to Boulder, Colorado.  Simply stated, it was one of the best experiences of my life.  It was a hard decision to leave the place where I grew up, but I am so glad I did.  My mother had visited prior and had an apartment rented and ready for us when we got there.  The trip across country itself was a story.  A story for another time.

After arriving in Boulder after a very, very, long drive, it was very apparent that we were no longer in Kansas (or New York...whatever).  The atmosphere was different, the people were different, even the grass was different.  The weather was unbelievably beautiful, it was a daily postcard.  I was in a place of meditation, that is what happens when you strip away the familiar everyday life, childhood friends, and any stigma from a small town girl. I didn't have high school to secure me a social circle, but that was ok, I never had a problem in this department and welcomed the opportunity to create my life from scratch.

It was my mother, her boyfriend Steve, my sister Jaime, and myself.  Steve...I should discuss Steve's very short lived relocation briefly.  We had been in Boulder for approximately three days at the time.  We went to Safeway to get some groceries and Steve had ants in his pants.  For some reason he was really antsy to hurry up and get our groceries and back to our apartment.  We were women not to be rushed.  In a huff, Steve decides to leave Safeway half way through our grocery trip when he realized we were not going to give in to his crabby patty attitude.  When we got home an hour later, Steve wasn't there and neither was the moving truck.  If you're thinking what I think you're thinking...you're right.  Steve went home.  I mean home home, back to New York.  Never saw the guy again.  I loved my mom's reaction to the situation, a good laugh and a  shrug of the shoulders.  Ah well.  Guess I wasn't the only one ready for a new life.

I got a job waitressing during the graveyard shift at Denny's and made some pretty good money.  Denny's was a place that attracted many interesting personalities, it was good money and good life experience.  A year into our life in Boulder, Colorado, an opportunity to room with a fellow co-worker presented itself and I took it.  Another co-worker owned a condo and he was planning a backpacking trip through South Africa for a year and offered his place for a ridiculously good price while he was gone.

A few months after being on my own, my bestie from high school, Mandy, moved to Boulder to live with me. Mandy also got a job at Denny's and we worked, lived, slept, and breathed together...in unison.  The best time of my life.  I loved our walks home at 6am from work, watching the sun come up, not really knowing if I was getting enough sleep, my sleep schedule was screwed at that point.

One afternoon, Mandy and I were sitting on our balcony breathing in the fresh Rocky Mountain air, when a third person walked out on the balcony.  Uri was home (this was Uri's condo)...6 months early!  I was so worried that Uri was going to be mad that a third person had taken residence at his house, he wasn't.  I was then worried that he would cut our stay short...he didn't.  I think he really liked having us around and for awhile it was kosher.  But, Mandy and I decided that we needed to get a place of our own when another friend of ours from high school decided to move in with us.  Shannon.  Shannon moved to Boulder and it was the three of us in my tiny room at Uri's condo.  Shannon got her obligatory job at Denny's working the graveyard shift (apparently this is a Boulder initiation ritual), and the three of us started saving every penny...literally.  We saved every dollar, rolled every coin, and got enough money together to find a decent place.  We put down the first, last, and deposit on a beautiful loft on the hill.  It was a one bedroom plus loft with a cute kitchen in the middle of all the excitement of Boulder.  We were one block from the Fox Theatre, three blocks from Pearl Street.  We couldn't have had it any better.  We spent a year or so at our loft before Shannon decided to go back to New York, followed by Mandy, and eventually myself, except I went to Boston, MA.  Many, many good times were had in Boulder, Colorado.  I didn't go back to visit for ten years, as soon as the plane touched down for my return, I instantly started mourning the time when I would have to leave.  Boulder is magic.  If you have a chance to go there in your life, you should, you would never regret it.

don't mess with your eyeballs...ever.

In an attempt to keep up with the age of innovation, I decided to have my eyes fixed.  Last summer, I made the big step of getting Lasik eye surgery.  On recommendation of a couple of my co-workers, I chose to have the procedure done in Kingston, Ontario, also it is much less expensive and only 45 minutes from my house.

After a pre-op appointment and all of the financial logistics were taken care of, the big day came.  My mother came with me to drive me home (and she kept insisting on moral support, but I am a big girl and really didn't need it...or so I thought).  

I remember when I was diagnosed with lack-worthy eyesight.  I was 20 years old, lived in Boston, and was pregnant with Luke.  My friend Michelle came to visit me and we were driving down Commonwealth Ave. when  I jokingly picked up her glasses and put them on.  Instead of my expectation of having everything magnified ten fold like I was looking through a set of magnifying glasses, I was welcomed with a pleasureful crisp view of Boston, it was absolutely amazing.  I can't even describe it, my eyes were bad?!?!?  I didn't want to give Michelle her glasses back.  I immediately went to an eye doctor, who proudly explained to me that he knew why I was there.  He explained that my pregnancy slowed me down and made me read more, which made me realize I needed glasses...ummmm ok.  I got to pick out new frames and went for a set of sexy librarian dark framed glasses.  Through the years I've experimented with many different eye glass frames, styles, etc.  It became my identity.  It's crazy how much you can stand out from the crowd with a brazenly awesome pair of eyeglasses.

Back in Canada, I am getting ready to have my surgery.  There was myself and two others (a woman and man) that were scheduled for the same surgery at the same time.  We were brought from a bright, cheery, waiting room and shuffled into a tight little elevator.  Next, we were shown into a dimly lit waiting room and told to put surgical caps over our heads.  Kind of awkward, we all looked like factory workers.  Prior to the surgery I was offered anti-anxiety medicine, which itself scares the crap out of me, but I wasn't scared of eye surgery.  I already had a c-section, a breast reduction, and many psychotic ex-boyfriends, eye surgery would be a piece of cake.  We waited in the waiting room for 20 minutes or so, striking up small conversation.  The lady was nervous and told me that if I started screaming during my surgery, she was "out of here", the guy was quiet and didn't converse at all.  

The surgical assistant came out of the operating room and called my name.  Here goes nothing.  I walk in and crawl up on the table.  They ask how I feel and I feel great!  For the zillionth time, they explain the procedure step by step.  The doctor comes in and introduces himself.  He starts to show me his tools which look they came off the workplace of a medieval torture chamber.  "I'd rather not" was my response to looking at his tools for slicing my eyeballs..."but thanks".  He puts a spring in my eyelid...so far so good.  Then he takes a round metal thingy and explains that he is using it to open my eye wider so he can expose my cornea so will enable him to make a small incision.  Now, I have pain drops in my eye, so the eye is numb, but the orbit around my eye...not so much.  He is explaining to me that my eyes are kind of small so I'm going to feel some pressur....OUCH!!!  He is pressing this thing around my eye hard!!!!  I start deep breathing and suddenly am feeling slightly panicky.  I am going to my happy place...happy place..."hummmm...hummmmm".  When I was having my C-section, my midwife told me that if I was feeling scared while not being able to move any of my body parts (paralysis is slightly scary), I could just sing.  So I reverted to the old method of calming myself and start singing angel from Montgomery by John Pryne.  The surgical tech starts laughing and asks if I want a stress ball to squeeze.  I ask for two.  When is he going to stop pressing down??  I am double armed with stressballs and am pumping away like crazy to the beat of angel from Montgomery, when he finally stops pressing.  He explains that I can look at the laser, it will automatically go off if I move my eyeball....great.  It smells like burning hair (did someone bring my hairdryer?), and a few minutes later...waahlah!  The second eyeball was much easier now that I know what he is doing, I left the room shaky, but intact.  

The lady in the waiting room is waiting for me to say something.  I mutter "well....that was interesting...", it was the best I could do.  The pain meds are still in full effect, so I have no pain.  They give me a set of terminator style sunglasses and instruct me not to take them off, open my eyes, or rub them.  Not rubbing them is no problem since I'm starting to feel like Mike Tyson punched me in both of my eyeballs.  Mom and I get in the car and start exiting the parking garage.  The parking attendant asks mom if she needs directions, she says "yes...ummm we are going to Alex Bay?", he says "huh?", she says "La Fargeville?", he says "ummmmm, lady, your in Canada, those places are in the states, I have no idea where those places are...".  That was the highlight of my day.  By the time we make it to the border, I am in full effect crisis.  My eyes feel like I had a major poking from a woodpecker.  Even the border patrol agent told me to immediately put my sunglasses back on after asking me to take them off.  What I didn't realize was that I had blood spots all over the whites of my eyes.  I get home, lay down, and recover...after a few days.

One thing I never realized about getting lasik eye surgery is how much it effects your identity.  For quite a while, I just didn't trust my eyes, I only trusted my glasses which are now obsolete to me.  I didn't need the glasses?  Why is this a surprise to me?  You mean I can walk into target and buy a pair of sunglasses off the shelf??  Strange... It took me awhile to get over the horror that I let someone do that to my eyes.  What if they messed up???  What if the blood spots didn't go away?  They did.  I am used to it now...a new me.  Back to taking my eyes for granted and armed with a story to tell.  Would I do it again?  Nope.

Glasses

No Glasses!