Sunday, March 09, 2014

Crack In My Skull and Other Adventures

A few years ago I met a woman from Spain who studied Phrenology or Craniology. I never knew which one exactly. All I know is that she ran her fingers over my skull and she was supposed to learn something about my health. I don't remember anything that she told me except one thing. She ran her fingers over the dent my forehead and asked me about it. I personally had never noticed the dent until I got married and my husband pointed it out. He would always tease me and tell me I had a crack in my skull.

Photo from Wikimedia Commons.

I told her I didn't know why I had it but that my husband had noticed it. She told me that it was a scar from the forceps when I was born. My older sister was there too and she confirmed that forceps had been used on me because I had the umbilical chord wrapped around my neck. I knew the umbilical chord story but not about the forceps. It was weird to find that out at almost 30 (or maybe I was older) that this was in fact a scar from what must have been a traumatic birth..

It made me wonder about how many things I won't know because my mother died when I was 30. I still had so many questions about so many things. The same way her mother died without telling her who people were in the many pictures that she inherited. Now my sister has those pictures all stacked in boxes and she doesn't really care about them. She's had them in boxes since she got them from my mother's house 14 years ago.

If she dies I fear that we won't ever get those family pictures back. At least not my sister and I who have children and specifically daughters who would care about our family pictures.

Life is weird. I'm not surprised that my father ended up with me in the last years of his life and I really shouldn't be surprised that I ended up being the main one to care for him. I'm not surprised that he's here because when I think about it he's lived with me the second longest time in his life. As odd as that sounds think about it. I lived with him 27 years before I got married, a year after I was married we lived in my back apartment, two years after my mother died we lived with him again to transition him to living alone. All this equals 30 years! He lived with my mom 53 years and 30 years with me. He only lived with his parents and family around 23 years.

So that means he's lived with me the second longest. Of course he's more accustomed to me and more comfortable with me. And honestly, he never had a great relationship with my 2 older sisters. He's always gotten along better with me and my sister who lives in California. California being the operative word here. She doesn't live in Houston so the person who gets to take care of him daily is me.

Thank goodness my sister cares enough about him and that she works for American Airlines that she can come to Houston when I need her to help care for my dad, which she's doing this week. Not everyone who has a sibling living in another state can say that.

Next weekend is the beginning of Spring Break. I'm taking the kids to our usual Surfside hotel on the beach. My sister is coming to stay with my dad so we can do this.

My daughter is inviting a couple of her friends and they're having a sleep over in the room next to ours the first night. It may be too cool to get in the water but we will have a great time sitting on the beach and sipping drinks. It will be a nice little vacation.

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