The Phone Call

     He was late again. So, I served him his dinner alone at the family table as the children had already gone to bed. It was a long day of homework, errands, and sports activities on my end and strenuous office work on his. Words were inconsequential. He grunted a thank you. I grunted a welcome and headed back to the kitchen to finish cleaning up. I reached into my pocket as the phone started ringing.

    “Hello,” I grumbled at the caller, not enthusiastic to be receiving a phone call at nearly 9 pm.

    “Good Evening, Mrs. Holler. This is Janet with ABC Life Plans. We are sorry to hear about the passing of your husband. We would like to extend to you and your family a burial location in our prestigious cemetery-,” recited the caller.

    I froze. An icy chill ran down my spine. I have heard creepy scary stories that started like this. “I'm sorry. I think you have the wrong number. My husband is right here.” I look around the corner to see him eating his dinner. He glanced up and raised his hand in acknowledgment. I recalled placing my hand on his shoulder as I placed his plate in front of him. Amusing, I thought to myself.

    “Oh…. I am very sorry, ma’am. I-”

    I hung up the phone, more annoyed she wouldn't just say goodbye.

    Ten minutes pass, The dishes are done, the counters wiped down, and as I am sweeping the kitchen floor, my phone rings again.

    “Geez, hon. Popular tonight?” he bellows from the dining room with a mouth full of food. Mr. Holler has been a man of few words lately, and easily annoyed. It hasn't been the only issue with him either. The bed was as cold as his dinner was when he drove into the driveway. It’s enough to make any loving housewife disgruntled.

    I grunt in his direction and then answer.

    “Hello?” I say exasperated.

    “Hello, Mrs. Holler. This is Janet again. I was wondering if you were ready for that plot information?”

    “What is your deal? Stop calling me!” I hold the phone out so she can hear. “Say hello, hon.”

    “Hi,” he says. Having caught him off guard, he starts choking on his food.

    “My husband is home. He is fine and alive. Stop calling me.” I hang up again and turn the ringer to vibrate. How annoying. I have enough problems to deal with. Angrily, I grab the vegetable knife and cutting board to prepare tomorrow’s lunches. Susie has soccer practice in the morning and Little Billie plays baseball right after lunch. It was going to be another day of going, going, going. On my own. Without any help.

    “What was that about, dear?” he asks.

    I turn the corner to have a proper conversation with an adult. He is wiping his mouth with the napkin I had supplied him. My eyes slowly look him over.

  
 “Nothing. Just some woman trying to sell me….” My gaze pauses at his neckline.

    “Your burial….” Smudged red curved prints of two lips trail down from his hairline to his collar.

    “Plot.” I raise my hand unaware that I’m still clutching the knife. 

    The phone begins to vibrate loudly in the sudden silence that has filled the house. Everything turns red.

Don't Mess with My Heart

    Yesterday I had to go to the cardiologist again. For the second time, I had a nuclear stress test performed. For the fourth time, a doctor attached a Holter monitor.

    I woke up at 6:30 in the morning so I could begrudgingly chomp on a couple of granola bars before taking my morning medications. Once I did that, all food and drink were prohibited until the physician permitted me to eat. This means that my precious morning coffee and all other caffeine were not allowed. Being a hater of mornings, I went back to bed afterward. My faithful alarm rang at 8:30, and I was, again begrudgingly, awake for the day. Thankfully, the man guy was home "studying," so I took a long shower to wake up. I left the house as the children ate their warm cinnamon oatmeal at the table and talked about what goals they wanted to accomplish for the day. My oldest, 12, ran to me as I opened the car door.

               "Bye, mom. Love you. Good luck." She gave me a quick hug in her awkward, teenager-like manner.

               "Yeah, yeah. Help out with the littles. I should be back around 2, maybe." I gave her a brief peck on the forehead, grateful that she still puts up with my mothering ways.

    Having heart issues that the doctors cannot figure out is not fun. Some doctors have told me: "This is just the way it is for the rest of your life." "I am only prescribing you these medications to make you feel better. I don't think you need them at all." "Sometimes there isn't an answer. Your body just decided to do this." "I wouldn't count on finding a cause or even a solution." "I've seen worse, so you'll be fine." While those might be good enough reasons for some people to "just deal with it," it has not been "good enough" for me.

    In July 2021, I went to the emergency room with reoccurring heart palpitations, chest pains, dizziness, and weakness on my left side. After sticking a footlong cotton swab through my nose to my brain, it was quickly determined through testing and ultrasounds that I was NOT having a heart attack. YAY me! Sound the trumpets! So.... what were the heart attack-like episodes that were progressively getting more frequent and intense?

    Additional testing and ultrasounds ruled out stroke and blood clots - a possibility due to spraining my ankle a few months previously. Vials and vials of blood were drawn. Ultrasounds, EKGs, Echoes, and X-rays were all performed within a few short hours. Oh, and through it all, I was alone (thank you, COVID). With heart attack-like episodes. In a hospital. In a foreign country. Whose language I did not speak at a professional level. Yeah... The good news is that the doctors were fluent in English, but the nurses - not so much.

    On day 2, the doctor confirmed premature ventricular contractions occurring at a rate of 20% along with swelling and inflammation on the left side of my heart. Not clear on his explanation of this diagnosis, I turned to our lovely internet friend, Google. I learned that premature ventricular contractions, or PVCs, are when extra heartbeats are in one of the lower chambers of the heart that interfere with the heart's natural rhythm. Most people who have PVCs don't know it. It feels like a skipped beat or a flutter in the chest - the kind of thing we pass off as too much caffeine or nerves. Typically, when PVCs occur at a rate of 20% or higher, it is due to heart disease or scarring in the heart. Typical recreational stimulants such as drugs, alcohol, and caffeine can also be culprits. These weren't the cause for me. Additional testing commenced. Heart disease was ruled out. Scarring was ruled out - though they did find a small hole in my heart between the top two chambers. I saw the ultrasound and pressure testing with my own two eyes. To this day there is absolutely nothing in any of my medical records about that.

    Anyways, I did a gambit of genetic tests and was asked odd questions like "Are you a bodybuilder?" and "Do you drink a lot of protein shakes?" At the end of day 3, the doctor was completely baffled as to why I suddenly had these PVCs and why they were increasing. Medications to control the arrhythmia and blood pressure were administered and the waiting game started again.

    The medications were able to slow down the PVCs and I was released on day 4 with instructions to follow up in two days. This led to a whole other gambit of tests including Holter monitors, exercise tests, more blood tests, EKGs, and Echoes. I was referred to Rheumatology for possible autoimmune diseases, Fitness Physician for weight loss, and Gynecology for possible perimenopause. Funny thing - I have never heard back from that last one.

    Answers never came and most doctors threw their hands up and told me that I may never have an answer. And that is the life I am living in now. I have been my own advocate by writing down what I observe and when episodes happen. I watch my caffeine intake and monitor my food because I noticed a correlation. I read research papers and recently published studies on 40somethings with PVCs. If I take my medications faithfully, 95% of the time, I am PVC-free.  

    Recently, I moved to a new state and so I must go through the testing gambit again because there is a new doctor and a new cardiologist who are not understanding why a forty-year-old is on such medications with no history of heart problems or heart disease. It is another chance to find answers. And so, here I am. This is the new Zio Holter monitor.

 

            

The Piano

 

Squealing laughs and mismatched notes,

Memories often forgotten. 

The feeling remains and 

Lets us think back in fondness.

Tomorrow is another battle

Or another stall along 

Our journey to wherever we try to go.

Practicing through minutes and hours

Teasing out the tune and soul

I want to hear.

Dedication, perseverance.

Words that feel 

More than they speak. 

Deep breath, it’ll come. 

Practice fingers, get it right.

Practice all night until dawn. 

Silence. Still keys. Sadness.

With eyes glued to screens

It sits against the wall-

Out of tune, covered in dust.

It becomes a better shelf than a centerpiece.

Simple joy set aside

To chase endorphins for a momentary high. 

~By Tara Varney

My Writer's Schedule

     Many people who know me are reading this post and wondering - how in the world are you gonna do this on top of every other thing you do? I only know this because I have already been asked several times. So I wanted to dive into the day of a typical (maybe atypical) SAHM trying to build a writer's life while holding down the fort. I must confess - I am a night owl. 🌙 My mother is a night owl. 🌙 My grandmother is a night owl. 🌙 I have tried to be a morning person, but it's not a fight I'm participating in anymore. 🎉

    8 A.M. - While the man guy is up and at it in the wee hours before the sun shines, the rest of the house doesn't start moving until about 8 A.M. Yep. I said it - 8 A.M. Sometimes evil things require us to awaken earlier, but those things are few and far between. Typically a cup of coffee is ready or soon ready, depending on if the man guy left some for me or if the oldest had to make some. The oldest will start breakfast. She loves baking, and breakfast guarantees her that daily opportunity. ☕

    9 A.M. - By the time breakfast is served, I have checked the weather and the day's agenda, fed the cats, and started laundry. 😼😼😼

    10 A.M. - Group subjects are started - science, history, bible study, art/music, and play. This year we are studying American History - early Native Americans through modern times in North and South America; Anatomy of the human body and plants; Chemistry; Prophetic Books of the Bible; relevant artists and musicians; and team-building sports. We do two subjects a day, rotating however we/I feel like, 3-4 lessons a day if the boys can keep focus. 🔬💀

    12:30 P.M. - Lunch & Clean-Up, laundry switched/hung. 🍴🍞🍎

    1:15 P.M. - Some days I run errands after lunch; most days the children dive into individual subjects- math, writing/typing & language arts, and foreign languages/instruments. Often, I need to help the boys or answer a question for the girls, but many days I can scribble a couple of ideas in my notebook. After reviewing history and science and letting the day's lessons marinate, a few story ideas will pop up. 📝

    3:00 P.M. - The children are released to play outside, board games, or read. I'll sit in my comfy chair in the library or my wicker chair on the front porch and open my laptop. Some days I can write chapters. Some days I can scribble random sentences. I like to watch the kids and write whatever comes to mind. The point of this writing time is not necessarily for a purpose. It's more to purge my thoughts and anxieties of the day. 💻

    Between four and five o'clock, the man guy comes home, unwinds, and gets ready for dinner. He cooks half of the week, and I cook the other half. 🏠🍝

    6 P.M. - Dinner together at the table. We eat dinner together at the dining table 99% of the time. This is important to us as a family. We check in with each other. The children tell the man guy about what they did and what new things they learned. We talk about things we need to work on, things we are proud of doing, and things that are important to us. Everyone speaks and gets a turn to say his or her piece. It's one of my favorite times of the day. This is, of course, followed by evening chores and reading or quiet play - think coloring, Legos, or quietly crashing toy planes into each other. 📖💥

    8 P.M. - The man guy and I trade nights for putting the boys to bed. If it's not my turn, I get to escape right away to my writing room. Otherwise, I must wait until the endless barrage of questions from the two most inquisitive minds in the world stops, and silence abounds. And so, between navigating preteen emotional angst and a wave of cat memes from the other parental unit, I try to type out a few words nearly every night. 😹🙀

    10:30-11:30 P.M. - When I am ready, I call it quits. I take a quick shower, do my face stuff, get in bed, and either watch a show or read a couple of chapters to wind down. I try to lie down around midnight/12:30 and fall asleep somewhere around 1 A.M. maybe. 💤💤💤

    Some days are more productive than others. Once or twice a month, I "take a day off" and let the kids play video games while I escape to my writing room to get a story out that is brewing in my head. There are eight to twelve writing hours available on most weekends. 👀🏃📝

    It's not always easy, but my whole family is adjusting to make my dream work. As the children continue to grow and pursue their own paths, I will have more opportunities to dedicate time to writing. The delicate balance between family and writing will topple to one side or the other now and again. And that's okay. 💣😎

My First Book

Once upon a time, a 10-year-old girl was told that her stories were remarkably interesting and well-detailed. An English teacher encouraged her to write again and again. The girl was often given back papers covered in long red lines like dragons flying across a cloudy sky. The last sentence in that Christmas red pen often read "I'm interested in reading more!" or "Excellent Story!" Sometimes, the paper looked like a murder scene, and it took the girl a considerable amount of grit and patience to read the words the teacher had written. The sight of those papers left her feeling insignificant and stupid, but through the tears, she saw that the last line in red always said, "Tell me more." This continued with the next English teacher and the next, all the way to high school. She was published in school-sponsored booklets and newspapers. She found something she loved, and it filled her days, her nights, and even her dreams. But in the middle of her high school years, this fantasy world she had created came crashing to an end, and real life took its place. There was no room for make-believe stories full of magical fairies, singing swords, and dragon rides. And the girl stopped writing.

        That girl was me. And though there are times I sit back and wonder what could have happened, I never wish that anything different would have happened. When you wish for something to be different from your past, you risk what you have now and in this life's future. Now, I have a beautiful family, an amazingly supportive husband, a home, and a community at my fingertips. Nothing I have today would have been possible if my life were different in any aspect.

        Based on those earliest life-altering experiences- the good, the bad, and the very ugly- I have written my first picture book, The Me I See: The Ever-Changing Sea with the exceptionally talented help of a longtime friend,
Barry Williams. When I first thought about writing again three years ago, I knew I wanted to write something that could resonate with all ages. I wanted something that was like Dr. Seuss, like Shel Silverstein, like an Aesop Fable, but still rang out in my own voice and in my own way. It is my first attempt at a new dream. I do not have delusions of instantaneous grandeur, but what I can say with confidence is that I wrote a story. To completion. That I like. And my friend likes it enough that he wanted to illustrate it.

Barry is completing the last pages of my story this month. Soon, I will see if anyone is interested in supporting and publishing it. I do not know where this path will lead me, nor do I have any expectations of where it should go. As for most writers, writing fulfills something deeply personal and gratifying. So, for today, I take joy in knowing that I can write and that I want to write, again.