You know how every family has its own peculiar language?
Every tribe?
Every profession?
The vocabularies are different. Words that are meant to be verbs inexplicably become nouns. And vice-versa.
Try proof reading a techy resume if you’re not sure where this is heading.
Scrubby brush takes on a communal meaning you didn’t know you didn’t know until you did.
Then there’s the secret code for labeling the bone broth in the freezer.
I’ve had one of those experiences over the last 48 hours or so.
First, a story.
I spent many summers as the Camp Nurse.
It’s an interesting job. Everything from helping a young woman who is breaking your budget because she has a severe case of cramps, and is going through a bottle of children’s Tylenol liquid a day, and doesn’t believe she can swallow a pill, to coating a kid head to toe in Calamine lotion so he can spend one extra day working up the courage to take the swim test… it’s an adventure.
For the uninitiated, M&M’s are the way to go for kids who “can’t” swallow a pill.
And, in case you wondered, you leave the bar-b-que fork in the kid’s leg on the way to the ER instead of pulling it out somewhere in the middle of a national forest with no 911 service.
But, all of that aside, here’s the first thing you need to know, just in case you ever want to be a camp nurse. Or a school nurse. Or perhaps even a grandmother.
The first words out of your mouth, when you have to call a parent, are, “Freddy is fine!”
Then you ask which ER they prefer for a CT scan. Or whether Freddy has a history of broken bones.
Let me say, again, Freddy is fine.
I, however, am exhausted in the post stress crisis sort of way.
Flashbacks are definitely involved.
Last September, when lots of us were on the pilgrimage road with the Black Madonna, many of you prayed along with me for a critically ill friend in the midst of hurricane Irma and I am grateful, still.
Last night, my nice new cell phone had what another friend of mine would refer to as a come apart.
Everything beeping and ringing at once.
My friend, it seemed, was being taken, alone, by ambulance to an unspecified hospital somewhere in the northeast part of Georgia with symptoms frighteningly similar to her adventure last year.
Let me say it again. Freddy is fine.
Her “tribe” went into action. We found her. I did, as is part of my designated role, the phone calls to the moms. Three generations of women scattered around Georgia and Florida, making it better.
The miracle-working neurosurgeon from last fall was located, much to his amazement. And hugely helpful. (I’ve had some practice!)
I began to feel better when I got the text pic of her in the ER with her own clothes on. Things are a bit more critical when they start cutting them off with bandage scissors.
And even better, still, when I talked to her while she was on her way home last night. My friend. The same one I’ve known forever.
She slept a lot today.
I did, too. And had weird dreams. And ate potato chips. (Non-GMO in avocado oil!)
My loss box is rumbling again.
I’m behind on everything. (At least the things my Intentional Creativity sisters believe in being behind on!)
I need to paint but all I want to do are prayer dots. So, one of my work-in-progress canvases (the one known as Apothecary) is getting a new coat of black gesso. Then come the dots. Dip. Dots. Pray. Repeat.
For today, last year’s prayer dots.
Freddy is fine. (And has a follow-up appointment scheduled!)
Freddy’s tribe of beloveds are fine, too. If a tiny bit worse for the wear.
Blessed be.