(In an effort to save myself from embarrassment, I wasn’t going to share this story. When I realized that I was embarrassed even without everyone knowing, I thought it was useless to keep it to myself. Besides, I think it might make one or two of you laugh…and isn’t laughter one of the best forms of therapy. Lori, I think you will love this one.)
“Take out a sheet of paper and number 1-10.” Oh, those are the probably the most dreaded words I can remember from high school. No matter how well I thought I knew the material we were covering, I always felt this overwhelming feeling of incompetence the minute the teacher would say those words.
My, how some things never change.
Last semester, I enrolled in an Anatomy and Physiology I class at a local community college. After 36 years of not knowing what I wanted to be when I grow up, I set out to complete pre-requisites in order to be eligible for Nursing School in the Fall of 2010. I’m not sure I had ever studied as hard in my life. We started with memorizing the bones of the body, then, proceeded with the muscles along with their origin and insertions. Anxiety never stopped building the whole semester.
By December I was trying to catch my breath after having filled every corner of my brain in just a few months. Studying for a final exam had never before been so stressful, especially since I had set a personal goal of making an A in the class. I have no idea what I was thinking. Hmmm, I am a single mother of two, very active children, work full-time, and I expected an A?
A week before the final exam, the professor announced that we would have a quiz for extra points to be added to our final exam grade. There would be a possibility of 10 points. Nothing would be counted against the final if answers were wrong. Sounds easy enough, right? Well, it would have sounded easier had the extra points not been 10 comprehensive questions that could cover bones, muscles, nerves, special senses, tissue or anything we had discussed all semester long.
The dreaded day of the quiz arrived. The professor walked into the room and said, “Take out a sheet of paper and number 1 through 10. I will call out the questions twice. Once we have completed the quiz, we will grade them. (Holding up the leg of a skeleton and pointing) What is the name of this bone.” I was absolutely relieved, because I knew the first answer.
(My professor kept a log of class participation in discussion and encouraged us to chime in during his lecture and gave an incentive of extra points for doing so. Because I had studied myself crazy for class, I made it a point to contribute in order to earn the participation points for the class.)
When the professor asked the final question, I was finally able to take a deep breath and somewhat relax. I had known the majority of the answers and would have several extra points to add to my final exam grade. Whew! I put my pencil down and was ready to grade the quiz. (Holding up the leg of the same skeleton and pointing) the professor asked us to identify the bone. Because I had so consistently participated in class to this point, I confidently answered, “TIBIA!” I was SO excited that I knew the answer!
When everyone’s head turned and looked at me, some giggling aloud, I realized that the professor was asking the quiz questions a second time for anyone who might need to hear them again. I had just blurted out, in Tourrette Syndrome fashion, the answer for everyone and the quiz wasn’t over. Immediately, I felt a rush of heat as my face turned some horrible color of red I was sure no one had ever seen before. I’m sure I had not been that embarrassed since the first grade in 1979 (another day, another story). I immediately thought I would probably have to spend the night in the classroom, because I didn’t want to walk out and hear what the other students, 18-20 years old, had to say about some crazy, 30-something year old woman, who couldn’t control herself. I was mortified. I still had another day of class with these students for the final and the thought of coming back into the classroom with them made me nauseous.
Somehow, I did it, though, and still managed to make an A in the class!
Classes began again last week. This semester, I’m taking A&P II. I expect to make an A in this class, as crazy as that sounds. Some of my classmates from last semester are in the class, and they seem to have either forgotten about my outburst or are laughing inside every time they see me.
My professor announced on the first day of class that we would have a quiz every week. The same anxiety from last semester crept into my head and I couldn’t breathe again. Monday, I walked into class prepared for those dreaded words, “Take out a piece of paper and number 1-10.” However, he never gave the quiz. I’m going back this afternoon, and I while I will be anxious and sitting on the edge of my seat, I WILL NOT participate when it comes time to answer the questions on the quiz.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Fences
Oh, the prospect of snow does conjure up so many wonderful memories!
Just below our house was my grandfather's farm, where my uncle could always be found. He milked cows in the Spring and popped wheelies on his motorcycle; milked cows in the Summer and ate half gallons of ice cream in one sitting; milked cows in the Fall and scared me to death on Halloween; milked cows in the Winter and LOVED the snow as much as any kid I ever knew. Basically, he milked cows and lived life to its fullest and fastest!
I can still see the fear in my brother's eyes as he talked about taking a trip to Franklin with Roger in the snow. Roger drove fast and fearless without the snow. In the snow, he still drove as if there weren't anything on the road. My brother talked about spinning and sliding in the truck as if he were on skis that he couldn't control. However scared he had been and relieved to make it home, he was ready to hop back in the truck, because it was more fun than anyone could ever imagine.
We've heard stories of Roger sledding on the roads at midnight, and I can close my eyes to this day and see him laughing so hard as he headed down a hill at breakneck speeds - his favorite way to ride.
When I was 8 years old, Roger came to our house to sled with me. My parents had bought the last green, metal disc slide at the hardware store and we had gotten a lot of snow. We would start out at the top of the hill next to my neighbors' house and sled to the bottom of the hill in our yard which was separated from my poppa's farm by a wire fence. We were sledding for a while, my uncle taking his turn with my brother and me, so the snow was packed down like a solid sheet of ice.
It was my turn. I got on my metal disc, held onto the white plastic handles and began what would be my last ride for the day. My uncle, Roger, was standing about halfway between to help me, "just in case." I'm pretty sure I knew my destiny when I passed him going 150 mph, because he told my mother, "Her eyes were this big around (making hand gestures as big as tires)." I was headed for the creek, trees, I think even a cow, and then, I came to an abrupt stop.
Remember that fence I mentioned earlier? You know, the wire one that separated our yard from the farm land. Let me try to paint you a mental picture...wire fences, the BARBED wire fences that are used for farming, typically have large squares...I was on the disc, I stuck my arms and legs out in front of me to stop, and I did stop...but each arm went through a square and each leg went through a square. My face and torso were stopped by the wire on the fence. I even have a scar in my eyebrow to show for it. I ran, bleeding, into the house and crying. My uncle followed trying to help me, and after seeing that I was okay, threw his head back and laughed that familiar laugh...the one that makes me wish I could go outside and sled down the hill, run into the fence, and hear all over again.
Oh, the prospect of snow...so, I went to buy a sled today. When I walked into the hardware store, I saw the familiar metal disc with the white plastic handles. As tempted as I was to buy one, I was drawn to a bigger sled...one that I can pile both girls in with me and race down the streets at breakneck speed. I'm not sure how we'll stop, because there aren't any fences...but I'm hoping in my mind there will be a familiar ringing of laughter from the daredevil I loved so much.
Just below our house was my grandfather's farm, where my uncle could always be found. He milked cows in the Spring and popped wheelies on his motorcycle; milked cows in the Summer and ate half gallons of ice cream in one sitting; milked cows in the Fall and scared me to death on Halloween; milked cows in the Winter and LOVED the snow as much as any kid I ever knew. Basically, he milked cows and lived life to its fullest and fastest!
I can still see the fear in my brother's eyes as he talked about taking a trip to Franklin with Roger in the snow. Roger drove fast and fearless without the snow. In the snow, he still drove as if there weren't anything on the road. My brother talked about spinning and sliding in the truck as if he were on skis that he couldn't control. However scared he had been and relieved to make it home, he was ready to hop back in the truck, because it was more fun than anyone could ever imagine.
We've heard stories of Roger sledding on the roads at midnight, and I can close my eyes to this day and see him laughing so hard as he headed down a hill at breakneck speeds - his favorite way to ride.
When I was 8 years old, Roger came to our house to sled with me. My parents had bought the last green, metal disc slide at the hardware store and we had gotten a lot of snow. We would start out at the top of the hill next to my neighbors' house and sled to the bottom of the hill in our yard which was separated from my poppa's farm by a wire fence. We were sledding for a while, my uncle taking his turn with my brother and me, so the snow was packed down like a solid sheet of ice.
It was my turn. I got on my metal disc, held onto the white plastic handles and began what would be my last ride for the day. My uncle, Roger, was standing about halfway between to help me, "just in case." I'm pretty sure I knew my destiny when I passed him going 150 mph, because he told my mother, "Her eyes were this big around (making hand gestures as big as tires)." I was headed for the creek, trees, I think even a cow, and then, I came to an abrupt stop.
Remember that fence I mentioned earlier? You know, the wire one that separated our yard from the farm land. Let me try to paint you a mental picture...wire fences, the BARBED wire fences that are used for farming, typically have large squares...I was on the disc, I stuck my arms and legs out in front of me to stop, and I did stop...but each arm went through a square and each leg went through a square. My face and torso were stopped by the wire on the fence. I even have a scar in my eyebrow to show for it. I ran, bleeding, into the house and crying. My uncle followed trying to help me, and after seeing that I was okay, threw his head back and laughed that familiar laugh...the one that makes me wish I could go outside and sled down the hill, run into the fence, and hear all over again.
Oh, the prospect of snow...so, I went to buy a sled today. When I walked into the hardware store, I saw the familiar metal disc with the white plastic handles. As tempted as I was to buy one, I was drawn to a bigger sled...one that I can pile both girls in with me and race down the streets at breakneck speed. I'm not sure how we'll stop, because there aren't any fences...but I'm hoping in my mind there will be a familiar ringing of laughter from the daredevil I loved so much.
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