Every so often I get a kick out of contemplating weird things that have happened to me. Not scary weird stuff, just interesting weird. Sometimes there are coincidences which are downright otherworldly, too.
Mike and I were watching a movie the other night called Flipped, which was a good movie to show a teen or tween, because it's about a boy and girl who are neighbors and who gradually develop a friendship. (I know it doesn't sound promising but it was an excellent film, trust me.) One of the minor characters was described as mentally impaired because when he was born the cord was wrapped around his neck and it caused a lack of oxygen. Less than a week before we watched that, the same thing was mentioned when I was talking to Roger, my boss, about a medical malpractice case.
I know, you're thinking BIG DEAL, Dee. Here's the thing, though. I had the cord wrapped around my neck at birth. I only survived and thrived because the doctor figured it out and unwrapped the cord. It was 1962 and I don't think they had the extensive medical equipment they have now like fetal monitors to know when an infant is in distress.
I was fortunate to be a "Watson baby" - delivered by Dr. Curly Watson, who was not just a doctor but a friend of my parents' and the next door neighbor of my aunt and uncle. He knew Mother had had a very difficult pregnancy and he gave her something to slow her labor, and he somehow figured out about the cord. I could very well have been born at his house, because Mother and Dad were there for a barbeque on the 4th of July and Curly just happened to notice Mother didn't look well and figured out she was in labor. She was waiting to go to the hospital after she had her dinner. (With my brother she was in the hospital for a week, in and out of labor, and she didn't want to repeat that ordeal.) Curly insisted she go to the hospital.
I am a bit absent-minded and fat, of course, but otherwise unimpaired.
How sad to think there are individuals who didn't have a Dr. Watson to come to their rescue, and have paid a lifelong price.
So that's one thing. Here are a few more.
I remember weird things. They just stick with me.
I was telling Michael just yesterday that the brain is an amazing thing - what one person finds unforgettable, another person forgets quickly.
Case in point: when I was in 8th grade, my Social Studies teacher, Mr. Simpson, always pitted the girls against the boys at test time. He'd average up the girls' scores and the boys, and post the winning average the next day. The "winners" got some sort of privilege; I can't remember what.
There were a couple of really smart boys in that class, and some really slow girls. It was so humiliating to me that he did that, because Social Studies was my best subject and I always made close to 100 on every test. Anyway, Simpson was a jerk. I think he actually hated women, even little 13 and 14 year olds. One day he asked a little girl in the class who was a tiny bit chubby [not me, another girl] if she wanted to lose 8 pounds of ugly fat. We'd been chatting about diets and poring over the latest issue of Seventeen magazine. The girl, who was sort of bewildered by the question, said "Yes, I guess so?" and Simpson drawled "Well then, cut off your head!"
The boys laughed. The girls, me included, didn't.
Nowadays, I like to think Simpson would likely be disciplined or even fired.Back in 1976, kids didn't question teachers much.
I've always remembered that, because I thought it was so cruel of him to say that. The girl was already horribly self-conscious about her looks, like most adolescents.
I got back in touch with her not too long ago, via the magic of Facebook. She has no recollection of the remark. None.
Did she block it out?!? Who knows.
Most of you long-time readers know that I adopted my daughter Alesia from Russia when I was 41, and I saw her in a dream the night before I met her. I have very vivid dreams every once in a blue moon, and I know they are some sort of psychic or medium communication. I don't know how else to explain these dreams. (You may just say DEE'S CRAZY, and that's true, but in a good way...)
Anyway, after my dad died in 1996 I felt bad because I wasn't there with him when he died. I meant to be. He had cancer. I figured we'd all know it when it was his time. As it turned out, though, he was in a light coma for a few days, then just died, rather unexpectedly. I couldn't get home in time to be there with him. My mother and brother were there, and one of dad's brothers, so he was surrounded by people who loved him, which is the best one can hope for in that type of situation.
Three days after Dad died I had an incredibly vivid dream. I was standing in what looked like a train station, except there were no trains. It was very very clean, and there was beautiful pearly light all around me. Dad came striding up to me with his jaunty walk, looking healthy and handsome, and I was so thrilled to see him there. He gave me a hug, and said "Everything's going to be OK." That was it, the whole dream. It gave me a lot of peace and comfort.
We were watching the new Harry Potter movie the other day, and there's a scene at the end where Dumbledore and Harry are together in heaven - or the other side, or The Great Beyond, or whatever you want to call it. It looked just like in my dream, except a bit less detailed. There was also some fog swirling around and there was no fog in my dream. Harry remarks that it looks like a clean version of King's Crossing train station. My dream felt like it took place in a train station.
When Mother and I were looking for a house to buy that met both our needs, in early 2005, it was so tough to find the right house. We wanted something in the right school district, in our price range, with a comfy room and bath on the ground floor for Mother, and at least 3 bedrooms upstairs for me and Alesia and Child #2. We looked and looked. We switched real estate agents. Nothing was quite right.
FInally our agent John called me one day at work, and I'll never forget what he said. "I'm standing in the family room of your house." I thought he was being a bit overly dramatic, but I went along with it, even going out at lunch to see this house. It took some convincing, but we finally decided it would do.
We moved in, and I quickly realized there were some strange coincidences about the house which made it seem destined to be for us. My dad's mother was a Henderson. We now live right off Henderson Mill Road. Grandmother Cordelia's sister Annie married a man named Embry. We live 5 minutes from an area called Embry Hills. My best friend, and third cousin on the Henderson side of the fmaily, is named Lesleigh, like our street. The house was built in 1968, the same year as my first car, a Plymouth Fury. The house has a JennAire range in the kitchen, which is a really nice stove that my mom had always wanted to use. We later learned that a cousin of mother's lived in the neighborhood many years ago and was a founding member of the Lesleigh Beach Club, where my son spends most summer days swimming and/or playing tennis.
Despite the fact it's an old house and has needed a lot of work, this was meant to be our house, and we've had some very happy times here.
This didn't happen to me, but it happened to Mother, which is close enough. Years ago, Mother was going through a period of great stress. I don't remember why. Bruce and I were kids, and Dad was probably running her crazy, and she was very stressed out. She found a book in the library about an angel. She read the book. It gave her great comfort. She turned it in, but later decided she wanted to buy the book. She went to find it at the library and they said they didn't have it. They didn't even know of such a book. They searched and searched, but the book was never found. I've always thought that was a profoundly interesting/weird thing.
Before I adopted Michael, I was in the stage of knowing he was out there, but not able to figure out a way to pay for the adoption, plus of course convince Mother and Alesia to go along with it. I wondered if I should persevere, or try and find a different child.
In January of 2006 I recorded this entry in my journal:
Last night, I had a strange dream. I don’t remember the details of where I was, but there were a lot of annoying people around. Then my father walked into the room, and I ran to hug him. I got up to him, and he had only one arm. He gave me a good hug, and it was reassuring. His face looked like somebody had beaten him up though – so scary. He didn’t say anything. I woke up. I think he was trying to tell me I should adopt Igor, the little boy with one hand. My rational mind is arguing with me. Then again, Alesia was shown to me in a dream. Maybe this is prophetic.
Here's where the story gets weird. I didn't know when that was written how Michael had lost his hand. He lost it after being beaten up by a gang of boys when he was 5 years old. Frostbite claimed his hand after he was left unconscious overnight in an unheated cellar. So he lost his hand due to a beating, and in the dream Dad looked like he'd been beaten. I think my dad was trying to tell me, this is the boy for you. Figure it out. Go GET him!
Not long ago I was getting really depressed about my lack of employment, and I was about ready to give up. Then I got the job I have now.
Throughout the past couple of years, when I've been about ready to mentally throw in the towel, God has sent help, sent relief. Whether it was an unexpected amount of money, a contract job, or just a call from an old friend who was willing to listen to my troubles, God always sent help. Always.
I think God speaks to me in a lot of different ways. I think he speaks to everyone, actually, but not everyone pays attention. Or maybe folks who are not believers just poo poo the ways God speaks to them, and consider them coincidences. I don't know.
However many weird things happen to me, I don't get too freaked out. If I can just relax and breathe deeply, I can remember the Big Guy Upstairs is in charge, not me. Sometimes I think he sends weird stuff just to keep me from being bored...
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