Sunday, December 12, 2010
On the Other Hand... You Have Different Fingers
“Wow, look how bad my hands look. I’ve never looked at them before,” my Grandmother said to herself. Never really looked at them. I hovered next to her, camera ready. I had taken a group picture of just the family hands. I didn’t know what to say. Her hands are gnarled with age and arthritis, but I really like them that way. They don’t hurt. Despite the way they look, she isn’t in pain.
“Pastor shakes my hand like this,” she says as she grabs the fingertips of one hand with the other. Now I know why, is what she was implying. She felt that her hands were too ugly or gnarled for others to want to touch.
“They probably think you’re in pain,” my mother suggests. “You’re not in pain.”
“No,” Grandma agrees. “I’m not in pain.”
The disappointment in her hands came after being compared to all the youthful and not-so-youthful hands of the house. None of them have taken on a gnarled form. Only hers. The base knuckles of each finger are enlarged and rounded. The back of her hand bruised from bumping something. One of her pinkies has a thin metal rod in it to straighten out the tip. The rest of her fingers lie at funny angles.
The Thanksgiving meal would have been exhausting for her. She was dreading it, until the family stepped in. My mom told her not to worry about it. We would bring all the food we needed down to Grandma’s house. She could pick up whatever she wanted to at the store. I even volunteered to learn the ropes of Thanksgiving to ease her mind. She was so grateful. Her tired hands can’t do it anymore. The turkey is just too heavy to handle. Her hands don’t move right. Just the thought of being in charge of making the meal was too much. She was happy to pass the torch.
In the evening, after the meal was over and cleaned up, we sat at the table in the kitchen. I shoved a box of crayons, two candlesticks, some coloring books, and forks out of the way and wrangled in the entire family. A dishtowel was laid out so the hands would be seen easily in a black and white photo.
“We’re waiting on you!” I shouted to my dad and brother. They slowly got out of their easy chairs and shuffled to the kitchen. “Put your hands in a circle. Ready? Okay, don’t move.” I snapped a quick picture. “Wait!” I quickly changed the settings. “Okay, don’t move. Here I go.” Flash. Click. “Don’t move.” Another adjustment. Flash. Click. “Okay. Thank you!” The boys went back to their easy chairs. Grandma and the rest of the crew resumed conversations and coloring.
When I asked my grandmother later, she answered that hands are useful. They show kindness. They’re used to do things for others, to be helpful, to care for the sick, to play with grandchildren. Basically, her life’s work, but she wouldn’t say that.
I realize now the respect I have for old hands, the work they’ve done, the lives they’ve touched.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Let Your Hair Down!
My hair is unruly at best. It’s doesn’t do what I want it to do. Most of the time, I’m too lazy to straighten it, I see no point in curling it, and I refuse to dye it. Many of us, guys and girls alike, feel the need to make our hair look “good.” Well, sometimes, I don’t want to make my hair look good. I just want it to cooperate.
When it doesn’t cooperate, I throw a chunk of it up in a bobby pin and call it quits. Maybe tomorrow it will work out. Maybe not.
My cousin, Hannah, has this really long, really straight hair. It’s gorgeous. So, I asked her about hair. She gave me a simple three-word answer: people and colors.
Simple. People have hair in different colors. I get it. What about the hair on our arms? That’s hair too, but I bet few people think of those hairs when asked.
So, why do we have arm hair? Or leg hair?
Well, here’s the deal: body hair retains your unique chemical signature, which allows people to sense and respond to you. One of the most important forms of human-to-human communication is through scent. Weird, huh?
According to Dr. Bruce Perry, your body releases chemicals called pheromones that create a unique scent to you. Babies are known to recognize their mother’s scent on a blouse and pick it out of a group of blouses based on scent alone. Cool, hey?
When we’re afraid or aroused, our pheromones change. Dogs can “smell” fear and it’s very likely that humans can too. So there, hair is not simply for looking good or being stylish. It serves a real purpose. More than one purpose, too.
The hair in our armpits, for instance, reduces skin-to-skin friction and I’m pretty positive that hair tends to keep our heads warm, too.
So, while I’m waiting for hairstyles to change to the awkwardly wavy trend, I guess I’ll just breathe in the pheromones.
Go ahead, let your hair down!
Friday, December 10, 2010
Speckled Scandinavia
Freckles give me color, thankfully. I’m a pasty white girl. I don’t tan. I burn. I burn, and for a week, I’m no longer a pasty little white girl, but a green-spotted lobster with sore, tight skin. The teardrop freckles on my cheeks take on the color of green olives after they burn in the sun. It must be the offset of colors.
Eventually, the freckles change back and the sunburn fades to reveal more freckles and forever-white skin.
In high school, all the girls tanned for prom. Months before the prom season arrived, they tanned to their hearts content hoping their white Wisconsin skin would look better for that one day. The day they danced in the dark. Ha! They all disappeared in the prom photos, but my white Wisconsin skin was glowing! I didn’t fade into the background. I couldn’t if I tried. The flash seemed to bounce off my skin. I’m not even kidding. I have a picture to prove it. I’m standing next to a classmate, her skin a nice deep and even tan. And then there was me. I laugh at the picture every time I see it. I really was white. It’s great.
When I was a young girl, I looked forward to the day where my skin would be older and finally turn brown. Skin, like many things that are better with age, is darker when it gets older. At least it is in my family. My grandmother, my parents, my great aunts and uncles all have darker skin. I guess most of them are German. I don’t really know what that has to do with anything. I just know that Swedes are pale and I’m a Swede. Swede-Norwegian to be precise. So there’s a double whammy. I’m still waiting for my German half to kick in. My dad is the only tan Scandinavian in that bunch of tan people. He works outside a lot, so that explains that.
Now I know that my skin won’t get any darker. I am careful with my freckles. I don’t want any of them to become cancer. I’ve accepted them, slowly. The freckle by my eye is my favorite. It’s unique. A beauty mark of sorts. So, to all you freckle-faces out there, you’re beautiful. Not everyone has freckles. We’re special.
Windows to the Soul
Have you ever looked into someone’s eyes? I mean, really looked deeply into someone’s eyes? Some people find that intimidating. Others find it romantic. My mom told me that she looked into people’s eyes because they are beautiful and she likes to see the emotions behind their words. “You can tell if they’re honest, caring,” she replied when I asked. “They’re the windows to the soul.”
I was going to ask my grandfather what he thought about eyes, but I just couldn’t do it. The reason? Macular degeneration. My grandfather, the one with the great ears pictured below, has the wet form of macular degeneration.
For those of you who don’t know what that means, here’s the scoop: According to the American Macular Degeneration Foundation (AMDF), macular degeneration is an incurable eye disease that is the leading cause of blindness in people aged 55 and older. It’s caused by deterioration in the central portion of the retina, the inside back layer of the eye that records images we see and sends them via the optic nerve from the eye to the brain. The central portion of the retina, called the macula, focuses central vision and controls our ability to read, drive, recognize faces or colors, and see objects in fine detail (AMDF).
There are two types of macular degeneration: wet and dry. About 10-15% of cases of macular degeneration are the wet type. My grandfather is in that percent. This means that abnormal blood vessels are growing under the retina and macula. These vessels can then bleed and leak fluid, which causes the macula to bulge or lift and distort or destroy central vision. Under these circumstances, vision loss may be rapid and severe. The following picture is what a person may see when he suffers from wet macular degeneration.
My grandfather can no longer drive himself around. He was such an independent person, and in a matter of months, he lost that. To treat his condition, he gets prescription eye injections on a regular basis. They improve his vision, but won’t cure it.
Needless to say, I just couldn’t ask him about eyes. I wasn’t sure how he would answer, and I honestly couldn’t bear to hear it. It’s hard to realize that someday you’re going to have to take care of the people that once took care of you.
My mother was able to avoid the dreary outlook when I asked her. She called the eyes a person’s best feature and I believe that. Eyes are gorgeous.
Up to My Elbows
Well, today I’m talking about the elbow, the bend in your arm. If you’re a mammal, it’s the bend in your forelimb. If you’re British, it’s an alternative rock band, which was news to me. (You can check out a performance below. I know you’re curious.)
I never give much thought to my elbows. So, I was glad when my cousin’s wife (my cousin-in-law?), Kristen, had a story to share. She isn’t obsessive about her elbows either, but did find they come in handy. Well, almost. “You can hit someone with [your elbows] without it really constituting violence!” she told me. Her husband snores—I’ll tease him about that later. (He’s my cousin, I’ve got to.) When they first got married, Zac told her to elbow him if his snoring bothered her. So, she did. To her dismay, he slept too soundly and her constant jabs proved useless.
“He kept waking up with bruises all over his back. I take my nighttime elbowing seriously, but we’ve discovered that elbows are not the answer to snoring,” she teased.
If the elbow doesn’t cure snoring, at least it’s a great tool for self-defense. The bone just below the elbow is the hardest and most unyielding part of the human arm. Our jawbone is actually the hardest part of our body, but it’s hard to defend ourselves with that. See the link below for a video that teaches self-defense using your elbows. It’s very simple and could come in handy some day.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Now Hear This Part Two
My brother and I used to visit my grandparents’ house every summer for weeks on end. We would play, laugh, shout, swim, and run around outside. There was even a time when we took Tarzan toys from McDonalds and played behind the bushes, squeezed between plant and house, pretending we were in a jungle. We built so many memories with our grandparents and looked forward to every vacation we were able to spend with them.
One summer, my brother and I asked my grandfather why he had to wear hearing aids. I don’t know if it was the first summer he got them, or if, as children, it was just the first summer that we noticed them. We were on the stairs going down to the basement to play and he answered in his harsh, but teasing voice: “Because you two kids are too loud!” My grandma scolded him for that. She knew that we were too young to understand that he was kidding. I know I believed him. It was years before I realized the actual cause of his hearing loss was the fact that he had worked in the factory at Simplicity Mowers for over 30 years, putting things together in an environment that was constantly loud. No amount of hearing protection could save his ears from 30 years of constant noise.
I finally told him, a year or two ago, that I had believed his joke for all those years. We laughed about it and I hoped he didn’t feel bad. Sometimes, behind his rough and tough exterior, I think he is one of the most thoughtful men I know. He writes anniversary cards to my grandmother, even after fifty-one years of marriage. Especially after 51 years of marriage. When she is sick or has some sort of accident, he gets kind of quiet. He’s attentive.
His eyes watered at the hospital during an emergency last year. I have never seen him cry and don’t think he ever has. But his eyes watered one day, and I knew that meant a great deal. I feel bad when everyone is talking at once and he leans in, one ear forward, eyes squinted, trying to understand what is being said, trying to hear the person who is actually talking to him. Then, we all stop and wait for one person to speak so the words don’t run together.
He has funny ears, and honestly, my ears resemble his. They stick out funny on each side and are kind of large. My four-year-old sister has these same ears as well. When I put her hair up, I have to laugh, because one ear sticks out at a slightly different angle than the other. Just like Grandpa. I love it.
Like I mentioned earlier, I asked my brother what he thought of ears. Well, Franklin didn’t give me the profound musician’s response that I thought he would give. I thought, since he loved listening to music, playing and performing music, that he would connect that to the audience that he so enjoys. Or at least to himself. After all, he has come just shy of dedicating his life to music. But no. Instead, he tells me that he thinks of earwax and soft fuzzy ears. Okay. Fine. He also mentioned extendable ears, which is a Harry Potter thing. Thank you, Franklin.
I didn’t realize that I was going to write so much about ears. I honestly didn’t think they were that interesting. In reality, it’s not the ears that are so fascinating to me, as much as it’s the people dealing with their own issues with ears and hearing. I have always had a soft spot in my heart for my grandfather and it has recently blossomed fully. Maybe it’s the connections that I have with the people with their ears…
Now Hear This Part One
There is a large truck driving around outside. It could be a garbage truck. It could be UPS. It’s safe to say, though, that I can hear it. It’s close. It’s lumbering. It must be big.
The fridge has kicked into gear in the kitchen. The whirring of some mechanism inside is a sign that the cooling thing—whatever it is—is working again.
Laughter can be heard from the apartment next to mine. Sometimes I roll my eyes, hoping the people shut up. Sometimes I smile and laugh to myself. Laughter is contagious. I love the sound of laughter.
I love to be able to hear things, and certainly, don’t take that for granted. I hate it when I have to ask people to repeat themselves if I missed what they said, and I feel awful if someone asks me to repeat what I have said. Of course, if they ask me again, I just get annoyed.
I come from a family involved with ears. My aunt Kim works for an ear, nose and throat specialist. My grandfather has had hearing aids for almost as long as I have known him. And the rest of my family is involved in music. Whether it is playing, listening, or loving it, we all need our ears to hear it. Not to mention, just every day life. Conversations in my family couldn’t take place without some form of hearing, as is the same for most, if not all, families.
I asked my aunt what she thought about ears. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to ask her, because I knew I would get her professional opinion instead of her personal one. But then again, the professional opinion would be just as valuable. I was going to counter her response with an answer from my musical brother, but he didn’t prove to be as useful as I hoped he would. Nonetheless, his opinion counts and I will share it with you soon.
My aunt reminded me that everyone has ears. [Insert a smiling emoticon here.] She’s clever. Ears are all different shapes, sizes and colors. It’s an anatomical organ that detects sound. Thank goodness. They also play a part in keeping your body balanced. I looked up the ear online, and honestly, with everything else going on right now, I couldn’t make heads or tails of all the medical terminology. So, if you’re curious about the ear. Check out the link below. I'm going to take a break.
Sniffle
When I asked my 12-year-old cousin what she thought about the nose, she asked if she could be gross. I have a feeling that this is going to be a little harder than I thought. The nose knows. Ugh. Pun intended. Sure, I replied. Whatever you think about the nose. Go for it.
Examine your nose, I told her.
“When I think of a nose, I think of boogers and that they are weird.” Crap. How do I work with that? She also said that noses smell things. Well, that’s true. Now what?
I guess you work with what you’ve got. And that’s all I got.
So, I’m looking up boogers today.
I know that they serve a purpose, otherwise, why would we have them? According to kidshealth.org, your nose and sinuses make about a quart of boogers—also known as snot, properly known as mucus—every day. Holy cow. But fear not, this snot serves a good purpose. The gunk in your nose captures dust and other particles that could otherwise make it to your lungs and cause irritation or infection. They do have a purpose!
I’m not going to delve into any more details. Click the link below if you’re curious. I dare you. It’s actually quite interesting.
Now, blow that snot out of your nose and go smell something. Use your other nasal function!
I really enjoy the smell of breakfast wafting up the stairs in my parents’ house. There is something about the way the scent is warm, just like the pancakes or French toast that produce the lovely aroma. I wake up and am drawn to the top of the stairs. They are hundred-year-old wooden stairs with a straight banister and a turn at the bottom. I love them and have only fallen down them a few times in my life.
So, as the breakfast wafts, I wander down, take the corner, and go to the kitchen. Here, the golden light from the sun shines in from the east window and makes the kitchen glow with warmth. By the time I’ve gotten up, the table has been set, the pancakes have been piled in a mound on a pan, and are sitting in the middle of the table. Mmmm. Mom bustles around taking care of finishing touches and I follow my feet to an open chair where the sent of fresh bacon is the strongest, breathe a contented sigh.
What’s your favorite smell?
Digits
I bend down and tie my shoes, a rare thing. I usually just shove the shoe right on without even untying it. I use my left index finger as a shoehorn while the right hand pulls up the tongue. Then, I jam my foot inside. It only hurts sometimes. Next shoe. Switch hands. Then, I throw on my coat and zip it up. I head out of the room, open the door and venture out. The day begins.
The day first started with me smacking the snooze button on my alarm clock. Sometimes it’s just out of reach of my short little fingers and I have to swing at it again before it wakes up anyone else. My hands only hurt temporarily when I miss and hit the wire rack below.
The night before, I spent hours typing assignments and chatting online, my fingers working away much like they are now. I don’t know how they do it or why. My brain tells them to do it and they only get a few things wrong. Even as I sit here typing this, I marvel at the speed at which my brain tells each individual finger to find its own individual letter and push down the key. Wow. How strange. I think I just typed that in thirty seconds. Now that’s fast. Fingers are fascinating things.
I opened up these thoughts to one of my cousins, asking her what she thought about fingers. She immediately thought about life without them and the things she wouldn’t be able to do. Play piano, draw, write, use the computer. A devoted pianist, computer freak and locksmith of sorts, she needs her hands. Obviously.
She contemplated how weird fingers looked. Hers are short and stubby, with short fingernails so she can better play her music. “But man, I’d take music over nails any day,” she writes.
Fingers, simple little tools that perform so many things, and really aren’t that simple at all. There are three bones called phalanges: distal, middle, and proximal. The thumb doesn’t have a middle phalanx. There are joints, fat deposits, flexion points, tendons, and blood vessels. All these things allow for the different movements. Bend. Straighten. Side-to-side.
I watch my hands as I type this paragraph. They bounce back and forth as I delete and fix my mistakes. Sometimes the fingers get it wrong. But that’s OK. They work hard. Index bounces to the Y. Middle finger bounces to the delete. I never did listen in keyboarding class. I always moved my entire hand to hit delete. Numbers too. I could never match up the correct finger to the number it was supposed to hit. I kind of hate that. It takes much longer to hit the key and reposition when you move your entire hand. Oh well. Now I use my fingers to navigate the arrow using my computer’s track pad. Hover the arrow over post. One click and it will be done. Marvelous.
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