What I Learned About God From SAGE Testing

This post, contrary to what you may think, is not about standardized testing.  It is not about the pros and cons of SAGE.  Nor is it about Common Core, public schools, charter schools, government conspiracies, or why you should home school your child.  It is about life, and how I am understanding it more deeply the longer I teach.

Last week, in addition to Valentine's Tea, the Teddy Bear Picnic, AND Parent Teacher Conferences, we had SAGE testing.  (And we did it all in four days, very fairly earning the four-day weekend that followed.)

For those who are unaware of what SAGE testing is, let me explain briefly.

Because education is a state right, states are given the ability to choose how they will assess their children.  Utah has adopted a test called the SAGE test.  Remember the old bubble sheet tests we used to take?  It's the computerized version of that.  It has several parts, and as part of the Language Arts portion of the test, 3rd graders are asked to write 2 essays on a computer and submit them.

That is what we were doing last week.  (Before the sugar and teddy bears hit.)

Without going into anything too nitty-gritty, the general idea of this writing test is that kids are given a scaled score based on what they write.  A proficient score is about a 406.  About. ;)

So, hoping everyone had eaten a good breakfast last Tuesday morning and hadn't played Minecraft until 2:00 am the night before, I got all of the students logged in a let them begin their tests.  They all had slightly different prompts, and began writing.

I walked around, glancing at the papers they were furiously writing on (or staring blankly at).  Some looked at the test before them and examined it carefully.  They made plans on paper and revised them before beginning to type.  Others plowed straight in, typing like mad chickens. (My old computer teacher, Mr. Asbury, called that "hunt-and-peck typing.")

Soon, hands began to go up as students whispered to me, "I'm done!"

One boy, who has honestly won every genetic lottery known to the human race from looks to money to athleticism, pointed a finger at his screen and said, "I'm finished."  I peeked at the screen.  There were three lines.  Three.  From the child who has been reading and writing since HE was three.  A child who reads about 500 pages a month.  A child who is writing an entire book in his little journal at school.  And he writes three fairly pathetic lines and says he's done?

I don't think so.  I stared at him hard.  "Is that your best?" I asked in my serious business voice.  And he and I both knew that he would not be submitting quite yet.

Why?  Because I know him.  And I know he is capable of so much more than that.  And deep down, he knows it too.

A few minutes later, another hand shoots up.  It is a student that keeps me awake at night.  He is a child I worry about every single day.  Does he have sufficient food?  Is someone putting him to bed at night?  Is there anyone to read him a story? Does he even own books?  I know in my heart that if life is a lottery, somehow this child--through no fault of his own--has already lost.

I glance down at his computer screen.  There, typed in the space for the answer, I see three lines.  Three cohesive, full sentences that actually have something to do with the prompt.  It feels like a miracle.

I ask, "Do you have anything else you want to add?"

Proudly, he shakes his head no.  "I put everything," tell tells me, and then goes ahead and submits his piece.

I imagine this test from the children's view.

I am a terrible teacher.

I am horribly unfair.

I have just high-fived one student for writing three lines while giving another a soul-searing stare for the exact same thing.

I admit, I do not treat children equally.  I never will.  Because equal does not help any of them become who they are capable of becoming.  But I do believe in being fair.  And part of fairness involves knowing and loving a person enough to do what I feel is best for him or her.

Children like the first student are--metaphorically speaking--born at a score of 220.  So when they hit my room, scoring something in the 500s, I may be tempted as a teacher to think I hit a home run.  I didn't. That kid was on third base when I got him, already stealing toward home.

Children like the second student, however, may still be at the plate, just trying to get a hit.  And if they barely make it to third, I may think that because they didn't score a run, I have clearly failed.

Both counts are entirely wrong.

Of course, we do care about the score.  Developmentally, 406--that magical SAGE number--is a benchmark for a 3rd grader.  But upon learning more about testing, I discovered there is much more to this test than the overall number.  A large majority or the test is simply about progress.

I know each of my students, and I know what they are capable of.  I also know that they cannot progress unless they reach to their own limits.

And so it is with each of us.

The test we go through are not simply to see where we are as people, but are also to recognize how much we've grown.  Whether we are trying to get to first base or are rounding our way to home plate, whether we are a 90 or a 560 on the rubric-ed scale, we are expected to progress, so grow, to somehow prove that everything we've been learning has stretched us into someone different than the person we used to be.  We have changed.

And yet, as an educator, I am compelled to recognize that education is not solely about progress.  Being a third grader with a score of 90 is not sufficient.  It is not passing. It is not proficient.

But a child will never get to 406 or 560 or 700 without first improving, and a 90 may be his or her first step on that journey.  Sometimes the realization of how far we have yet to go is overwhelming, to the point of being crushing and we feel that we will never arrive--we are already too far behind.  However,  "…a critical message of hope...is that each of us will receive the necessary time to work out our salvation." (Allan D. Rau, "Be Ye Therefore Perfect": Beyond the Perfectionist Paradigm," in Religious Educator 12, no. 3 (2011): 37-57.) 

It is simply not a race against time or against each other.

As I have contemplated this over the last several day, I think I understand a little more now than I did last week about how God must feel about us.

He knows us.
He knows what blessings and privileges and helps we have or haven't had.
He knows perfectly what we are capable of--what we have mastered, what we have previously achieved, what we have learned since then, and what we still need help with.
He doesn't expect us to be the kid in the chair next to us.
He doesn't expect us to get a 406 three months after we got a 105.
He doesn't shame us when we have given the best of whatever is in us, even if it is still nowhere near what is expected for where we "should" be or where everyone else is.

The beautiful thing about God is that he doesn't hold us up against everyone else.  He holds us up against ourselves and helps us in every way He can to make the progress necessary to be able to return to him.  And while we struggle and progress, one line or sentence at a time, He always loves us.

“He is not waiting to love you until you have overcome your weaknesses and bad habits. He loves you today with a full understanding of your struggles. He is aware that you reach up to Him in heartfelt and hopeful prayer. He knows of the times you have held onto the fading light and believed—even in the midst of growing darkness. He knows of your sufferings. He knows of your remorse for the times you have fallen short or failed. And still He loves you.”

“He knows everything about you. He sees you clearly—He knows you as you really are. 

“He loves you not only for who you are this very day, but also for the person of glory and light you have the potential and the desire to become.

“More than you could ever imagine, He wants you to achieve your destiny—to return to your heavenly home in honor.” (Dieter Uchtdorf: “Live the Gospel Joyful”)

As we muddle through this life, students stuck together, side-by-side through our individual journey, each facing our own exams and test, it is critical to remember that we are not the Master Teacher.  We do not know, truly, who our fellow test takers are, what they have been through, what they have experienced, what they have already brought to the table, and what they are capable of.

Rather than judge each other, let us help each other progress, recognizing that we are each in different spots on our journey.
Let us worry more about making our own progress--whatever that may be--than in pointing out how "unfair" our lives may seem.
Let us not become so pleased with how much "better" we are than others that we become complacent and stop progressing ourselves.

We all must take the tests of life. We can crawl under our desk and cry hysterically about it (yeah, that happened…), we can give a half-hearted, pathetic effort that we convince ourselves will be "good enough," or we can give everything we have (without being concerned by what everyone else around us is doing), thereby realizing that we have learned and grown and become better.

Thank you, SAGE testing, for so vividly reminding me of what this life is all about.

Redemption

As a child, I was somewhat obsessed with fairness.  I wanted a fair world, where good was always rewarded and bad was always punished.

It was all so simple to me back then: Everyone should get the same amount of dessert, have the same bedtime, and get to do the same fun things (spoken like a true second child).

Always following my complaints about some type of unfairness, I would inevitably hear my dad's calm voice echoing the oft-said phrase, "Life's not fair, Melissa."

Eventually my crusade got to the point that my dad, unable to take my declarations of, "It's not fair!" anymore, threatened to fine me $1 every single time I used that phrase.  For a child who was even more obsessed with money than fairness, it did the trick fairly quickly.

This past year, there have been days that have echoed with my cries of, "It's not fair!' and a Father's replies of, "Life's not fair, Melissa." (At least not yet.)

See, sometimes I expect a world where people find true love just because they're looking for it and people who "deserve" babies will be the ones who have them and honest people who work hard will get hired and only nice people will be promoted.  I subconsciously expect people who take care of themselves not to get sick and people who are still needed not to die.  I think people with faith should always have their prayers answered how they'd like and that miracles should come to all who believe.

Frankly, with subliminal expectations like that rolling around deep down inside of me, life will never cease to let me down--because a perfectly fair world is just not our Earthly reality.  No one EVER said it would be fair.  In fact, the more I learn about life, the more life confirms that no one is exempt from what feels terribly unfair.

Responsible, capable people who have been wanting children for years struggle with infertility.  Wonderful parents die from unexpected diseases or accidents, leaving young children behind.  Innocent children are abused.  People in under-developed countries die from hunger while their first world peers eat at buffets.  Diligent students fail finals.  Lonely people struggle to find companionship.  Planes go down in storms.

All of us who pass through life will learn something about the word "unfair."

In the last few months, I read the biographies/autobiographies of three exceptional, successful people who all had one thing in common--they experienced "unfair" firsthand, and recorded their accounts.

There was a famous neurosurgeon--who became the youngest director at Johns Hopkins, an Olympic athlete who was likely to be the first man to run a four minute mile, and a successful businessman/religious leader/father who was preparing to welcome another child into his family.

Despite this, all of them suffered.

They suffered from abandonment, imprisonment, and death.
They suffered from rage and hate and despair.
They suffered from bullying and loneliness and PTSD.
They suffered at the hands of circumstances beyond their control.
They suffered at the hands of other people who chose to hurt them.

And they suffered in ways that were completely and entirely unfair.

Ben Carson, one of the most respected pediatric neurosurgeons of all time--revered for his work separating craniopagus Siamese twins--was abandoned by his drug-dealing father as a young boy. His somewhat illiterate mother, who had only a third grade education, struggled to raise him and his brother against the economic and racial challenges of the day.  In addition to these challenges, Ben fought the demons of his terrible, uncontrollable temper that often led him to physical aggression.

Louis Zamperini, an Olympic athlete who went on to be an inspirational speaker and run a camp for troubled youth, had been taken as a prisoner of war following the crashing of his plane during his WWII Air Force service.  During the course of the war, he went through four Japanese prison camps where he endured horrific abuse, suffering, and disease.  In addition to the battle of imprisonment, upon returning home he also fought the demons of alcoholism, PTSD nightmares, and the obsessive need for revenge.

http://www.army.mil/media/278989 

Chris Williams, a devoted father of four-soon-to-be five, had everything he knew taken from him in front of his eyes when, without warning, a drunk driver hit him head-on, killing his wife, his unborn baby, and two of their children.  In a matter of seconds, he was left a single father of two grieving children.  Courageously, he fought the demons of loneliness and anger that would try to engulf him.

As I reflected on these three stories--a Black neurosurgeon, an Italian runner, and a White businessman--I first thought that these were stories of survival.  

We celebrate and read about these men because they are survivors.

But, in one way or another, are we not all survivors?  What is surviving more than continuing to wake up each morning, breathe, and just keep living?
That is surviving.

The 2009 census concluded that 63% of Black children grow up in a home that does not have two parents. (http://www.census.gov/prod/2011pubs/p70-126.pdf) Yet most of them still make it to adulthood.  It appears that they are surviving single parenthood.

Records show that 67% of American prisoners of war held by the Japanese did not die in Japan, but eventually returned home.  They, indeed, survived the war.

And despite what people continue to say about dying of a broken heart, anyone who has lost a loved one (or several) knows that we, in fact, continue to wake up day after day and survive.

No, the stories of these men were not stories of survival, because there is nothing innately remarkable about surviving itself.
Rather, they were stories of redemption.

Each of these men--a Seventh Day Adventist, a Catholic turned born-again Christian, and an LDS Bishop--were, through faith in Jesus Christ, redeemed.  At a low point each of them heard or read the word of God, prayed, and exercised faith in the healing power of Jesus Christ.

And He healed them.
Not just made them feel better.
Not just made them forget for a moment.
He healed them.
He changed them.

Ben Carson recalls that his temper went away, never to return.  Louis Zamperini's nightmares stopped entirely--for the rest of his 97 year life.  Chris Williams felt an overpowering forgiveness for the boy who had taken his wife and children and was able to, in his words, "Let it go."

“Remember, remember that it is upon the rock of our Redeemer, who is Christ, the Son of God, that ye must build your foundation; that when the devil shall send forth his mighty winds, yea, his shafts in the whirlwind, yea, when all his hail and his mighty storm shall beat upon you, it shall have no power over you to drag you down to the gulf of misery and endless wo, because of the rock upon which ye are built, which is a sure foundation, a foundation whereon if men build they cannot fall.” ^{(Helaman 5:12)}

I am not sure I have words to express how powerfully their messages of Christ and His power touched me.  I only know that these are real people who discovered that Christ "bind(s) up the brokenhearted, open(s) the prison to them that are bound…and give(s) unto them beauty for ashes."  (Isaiah 61:1, 3)

Without fail, each of these men had experiences that led him to know that he was known by God.  That  he was not alone.  That God remembered him.

Among the ashes of their once-standing hopes and dreams, He gave each of them back beauty.  They felt his promise:
"Yet will I not forget thee.  Behold, I have graven thee upon the palms of my hands; thy walls are continually before me." (Isaiah 49:16)

As we celebrated the birth of Jesus Christ this December, I was able to vicariously feel through their journeys what redemption is all about.
Jesus Christ redeems us not from our circumstances, but rather from ourselves. 
We can be redeemed from hurt and pain, anger and frustration, despair and addiction.
We can be redeemed from what hasn't been and what may never be.
We can be redeemed from the burden of our unmet expectations and the shattered pieces of our souls.
And as we are redeemed, we can literally be changed into new people.
#Because of Him.

"All that is unfair about life can be made right through the Atonement of Jesus Christ."  (PMG pg 51)

A new year is beginning, and with it will come so many things beyond my control.
I am certain there will also be many things that won't be fair.
After all, life isn't fair.
And finally I understand.
Life wasn't meant to be fair.  It was meant to be redemptive.
Truly, "we are helpless without the Atonement of Jesus Christ."  (PMG pg 51)

Rather than looking to this year as another year of "survival," I instead want to write my own story of redemption, through my faith in Jesus Christ.  And that, at least, is something that (even in an unfair world) I can control.

Happy New Year!

Moving: I Might Need That Some Day!

I love my grandma. 

I love the legacy that she left me. I love how she pretended she invented Oreos and how she snuck downstairs every afternoon with a Diet Pepsi and bag of microwave popcorn to watch General Hospital.  I love that she could create anything she put her mind to and do it well.  I love how she used to take me to yard sales during the summer.  I love how she took us to plays and musical events.  I love the parts of her that I see in me.

But, despite all that, there was at least one thing I was determined not to carry on when she passed away. After cleaning out her house room by room, closet by closet, drawer by drawer, and shelf by shelf, I vowed I would never hold on to anything I didn't really need ever again.

Cleaning out a house can change a person.  Especially if said house was lived in by two people who both lived through the Great Depression.  Even more especially if at least one of those people loved yard sales, clearance racks, and deals.  (At least I can now say I come by it honestly, right?)

I was quite sure that the life-altering mission of cleaning out a person's house entirely (I mean, down to the carpet and walls) had changed my own hoarding life drastically.

Upon returning home from my last trip cleaning out the house, I went on a giant purge of our one-bedroom basement apartment, organizing everything and giving things away to charity that--if I were to really be honest with myself--I knew deep down would never fit again.
(I convinced myself that if by some miraculous parasite or other disease/miracle they ever did fit again, they would be so out of style that it wouldn't matter anyway.)

Bottom line: I let a lot of things go.

I think it was the happiest week of Paul's life.

So, I felt relatively unconcerned when it came time to move.  I mean, how much stuff could there be? (I feel like there should be some type of ominous mood music that should come on right about now.)

We decided to start early to avoid the typical last-minute crisis I usually find myself in upon moving.  I got boxes.  We started packing.  We got online and rented a truck.  Just to be safe, we chose U-Haul's "Two Bedroom Apartment" option--you know, just in case.

The day drew closer and the boxes piled up more and more.  We got a call from U-Haul telling us that every single truck in that size had been taken and that we were going to have to go all the way to Santaquin to get a truck.  But, because of the inconvenience, we would be upgraded to a truck for a small house.

I know, it's big.  You don't have to tell me...

Everything seemed to be coming together flawlessly.  The boxes were packed.  People were coming at 6:00 pm to help us load the truck, and we had an even larger truck than we'd planned, so there was no need to worry.  All we had to do was get the truck and be home by 6:00.  I would clean the apartment while everyone packed, and we would be on our way to the land of the Aggies.

I should have know it was too perfect.  There should have been more foreboding.  Something should have whispered, "It gets worse before it gets better."  Because, oh…it got worse.

As we left to get the truck, Paul asked which car we should take to get it.  I said that we should take his, because it was the one we would be hooking up to the back of the U-Haul.  We could drive his car down together, hook it up to the moving truck, and he could drive us back to our apartment.  We rode down to Santaquin, speculating about the move, talking about the nostalgia we were feeling, and wondering about the next chapter in our lives.

We arrived at the U-Haul place and not more than a few minutes later were ready to go.
"You don't have to, like, learn how to drive these?" I whispered to Paul.  "I mean, this thing is a beast.  You could kill someone with this."

"I guess not," he whispered back.

I feel like I should have had one of these.
Except it probably shouldn't have said "John."

It was then we discovered the first glitch.  Santaquin didn't have the piece of equipment needed to tow Paul's car.  Because of that, we would have to drive to Provo and pick up the car towing dolly there.  Which, I quickly decided in my head, meant there were two vehicles (Paul's stick shift car and the moving truck) and two licensed drivers: one capable of driving either vehicle, and the other a potential hazard to all human-kind in either of them.

I think we all know who the hazard was.

"Which one do you want to drive?" Paul asked me.

"I'll take the truck," I said.  "It's just to Provo, and then we can hook up your car and you can drive home."

And just like that, I was behind the wheel of an enormous vehicle designed to carry an entire small house.

I felt like I was driving a school bus.  I held my breath every time I changed lanes, praying I hadn't ended the life of some poor person on a motorcycle who had snuck into my blind spot.  As my sweaty palms gripped the steering wheel and sweat began to bead on my forehead, I looked probably looked like my fourteen-year-old self trying to think of something clever to say to my crush, who had just asked me to dance.

I reminded myself if would all be over in just a few miles.

I still wish it had been.

We pulled into the Provo U-Haul, signed the paperwork, and got the car dolly hooked to the moving truck.  However, for some reason (that I can't remember now) we didn't end up hooking up Paul's car.  I think it was because he was going to need to unhook it as soon as we got home so that we could load the back of the moving truck and that just seemed like extra work to all of us.

I toyed with the idea of driving Paul's car home rather than the truck (which, of course, now had a car dolly attached), but considering I had killed his car at least 7 times in the U-Haul parking lot while trying to move it (oh the shame!), my pride relegated me back to the driver's seat of the U-Haul with my heart beating even more rapidly than before.

I mentally went through the route, trying to find as few turns as possible, unsure how wide my turns would be. (Can't you just see those "Wide Turn" signs they plaster all over the back of semis which show them turning and taking out three other cars?)

I chose a route home, knowing I would only need to make two main turns--one out of the U-Haul place, and one left-turn onto State Street.  From there, I would slowly take State Street's right lane all the way home.

Had that worked, we would have driven home, packed, and moved with both our marriage and our sanity still intact.  

Of course, that would have required me realizing that there were not two turn lanes.  By the time I realized that, it was too late.  I was already in the lane going straight.  The light turned green, and I headed down the wrong road, desperate to find a place to turn around.  I pulled into a neighborhood, thinking I would just--you know--flip around, head back to State Street, and continue with my original plan.

Have you ever tried turning a U-Haul with a car dolly completely around?  Well, if not, let me tell you a little secret--it's not quite the same as driving a car.  While back up, my concentration was jolted as I heard a frantic honking and saw Paul right behind me.  I put the truck into park and jumped out into the middle of the street yelling, "What?!"

"You're about to break the hitch off!" he said.

And that was the moment when the stress and the worry and the anxiety and the massive truck got to me.

And I snapped.

"Fine--You drive it!"  I said.  I threw the keys at him in front of at least three cars who were now blocked by my running U-Haul parked diagonally in the middle of the road.

I understand it was not my best move.
You don't have to tell a crazy person they're crazy.
I think irrational people know they're irrational.
But when you snap, you snap.

So, Paul carefully got the truck out of the precarious situation I had put it in and began driving.  Which left me alone with his little, Dodge Neon stick shift.

But, not to panic.  I know how to drive stick shift.
Sort of.
On one vehicle.
That I drove a few times when I was 16.

Which, unfortunately, turned out to be a volatile combination for a person during rush hour traffic in Utah County.

I killed it…and killed it….and killed it again.

Every alternate route I tried to take only led to bigger roads and multi-laned intersections.  Despite my frantic prayers, I hit nearly every light red.  And I killed it about 14 times every time it turned green.  Every turn felt like a left turn.

I have never seen so many people yell, wave, or honk.
I could have set a record.
Maybe I did set a record.

Yes, Google Images.  It was kind of like this.
http://ericpetersautos.com/2013/12/18/americans-dont-drive-2/angry-driver/

It was so bad someone behind me turned their hazard light on (I couldn't find Paul's) while still managing to simultaneously yell at me.  I could read her lips in the rear view mirror.

Backed by a throng of angry drivers, I lurched all the way to Orem where I finally pulled into a church parking lot and yelled into my phone at Paul, "Come….Get….Me…."

In the end, I was the one who drove the U-Haul home after all.

6:00 came, but no one showed up.

7:00 came, and still no one.

My saintly aunt and uncle came and began to work.

Finally, some men showed up.  I came out and things looked packed.  I came back and the van was nearly empty.  I came out an hour later--repacked.  Thirty minutes after that, they were unpacking again.

Apparently, despite my adamant declarations that I was NOT a hoarder (I only kept things I needed), I had somehow accumulated what U-Haul considered to be more than a house worth of stuff.  And so, the game of "Montoya Furniture Tetras" continued until after 11:00 pm, lit by the headlights of cars, shining into the jam-packed truck.  Bless all those men, who most definitely cursed me. They even packed our mattress.  As I lay on the bare carpet that night, I was too tired to even complain.

I would love to say that the next morning we closed the door to our first apartment and drove blissfully off into our future, but...we didn't.  Paul drove away and I stayed behind, waiting for my parents to rescue us by bringing their truck to take one last load.

The rest we gave to D.I.

I have now had four months to reflect on how two newlyweds can have that much stuff--all of which (at least at the time) was deemed "necessary."

1. U-Haul is not founded by someone LDS who believes in food storage or by someone who at least believes in being prepared for the end of the world via zombie apocalypse.  It obviously wasn't founded by anyone whose in-laws kindly gave them about twenty #10 cans of food storage and 50 pounds of wheat.  And I'd be willing to bet that the founder doesn't have two 50 gallon water drums.  Or 5 cans of powdered butter.

Let me say one thing: When the world ends, I will be here, sprinkling powdered butter on my wheat and thinking of you.  Then we'll talk about "necessary."

Yes, I have over 1,000 servings of powdered butter.  

2. U-Haul has never met a teacher who is moving her classroom.  Especially a classroom with a theme.  Charlie, the three-foot tall mascot/class pet had to come.  The bookshelves had to come.  The giant stars and lasso?  They had to come.  The books, the chair, the files, the filing cabinet?  It was sort of a BYOB type classroom (Bring Your Own Bookshelves, that is.)

Really, it was for the children.  Remember my motto?

Anything for the children….

Stars? Mailboxes?  Organizers?  Oh, it all had to go!

Of COURSE the books came.  And the bins.  

Yeah, I even had to bring a filing cabinet!

3. U-Haul doesn't plan on someone to try to recreate a TLC home makeover show for a family member while they are in the process of moving.  I'm fairly certain that people who are moving from a small, one-bedroom apartment probably don't think it's a great time to begin collecting an entire extra living and dining room's worth of furniture for someone else, because we all know that's just crazy.

In fact, the little boy who lived by us said to me one day in a puzzled voice as I was bringing a coffee table home, "Wait…Aren't you supposed to be taking things out of your apartment when you move, not bringing more things in?"

Ha!  That's what you'd like to think, isn't it?

Well, I only have one thing to say to that.  When I saw the look on my sister' face, it was worth it.  Totally.

"Everything but the kitchen sink?"  Close.
More like, "Everything but the couches."

4. U-Haul doesn't realize that Facebook now has yard sale pages.  Or that some people are genetically predisposed to love a great deal.  Or to stock up on things that they will need.
Maybe.
Someday.

My co-worker wanted to buy me a bumper sticker that said,
"I brake for yard sales!" 

I'm working on it.  Really, I am.

So, the good news is that we made it.
We are here.
It all fit just fine.
And we love it.

Charlie the horse loves it too.  Somehow, I knew he would.

Look how happy he is!  The kids LOVE him!

Unremarkable, for $1000

I think based on past posts it has been made clear just how I feel about doctors.

I love them.  I really, really love them.  With all of my heart.  And I trust them implicitly.  And sometimes, I lie.

The truth is I don't like doctors, hospitals, or anything related to medicine, and I make my husband Paul surprisingly irritated every time I talk about it.

But what can a person expect?  I mean, is it my fault that I'm always the person who has highly unusual experiences that professionals can't seem to diagnose?  Like the virus a couple years ago that bewildered Instacare and a dentist finally solved by pulling out his college textbook?

Yeah, that was awesome.

Really, I am certain that the medical professionals who attend to me are much more competent than my atypical cases make them appear.

So, in keeping with my history of strange incidents (having metal drilled out of my eye, having a jawbone that grew too long on one side, the second worst orthodontic case Dr. Haymore had seen second to the girl with no front teeth, a virus that leveled me, two root canals following a history of perfect dental health), life--seeming to know my love for storytelling--continues to provide me with more than my fair share of these "experiences," and this year has been no exception.  My knee must have decided that life was getting a little too boring and it was time to spice things up.

It's shocking how spicy one little knee can turn out to be.

I will give you a somewhat brief synopsis of the last year-and-a-half of my life.  And by brief, I mean it will only be slightly better than living through the entire 16 months yourself.

It all began last August.  Paul decided to surprise me and take me on a hike to Timpanogos Cave for my birthday, which should have been a great idea.  Unfortunately, it wasn't.  Soon after the hike, my knee began to swell up.
Really swell up.
People at work began to become concerned.  ("Do you need…a rolley chair to push yourself around?"   "Have you been to a doctor?"  "Should I call a doctor?")

I, however, was convinced that medical intervention would do nothing for me.  Everything I knew, had read, and had discussed with people who actually knew about knees told me that unless I had torn or broken something (which I was quite certain I hadn't), there was nothing I could do but RICE it (rest, ice, compression, elevation) and give it time.  Which I did.  Four whole months worth of time.

Finally, when my sister started telling me around Thanksgiving that it looked like rising bread dough and that it wasn't normal (Can't you just hear her?  "Uh….I don't think that's normal….") I decided it may be time to seek help.

This pretty well sums it up.

I went in to a well-known knee doctor who took an X-ray, told me to never do any physical activity again, and then mercilessly drained my knee and injected it with cortisone using a needle that felt like it could be related to the Seattle Space Needle.  The whole time the doctor talked about how December was the "Black Friday" of knees and he'd done over 20 injections just that day, as though this were the most normal thing in the world.

Although he was somewhat concerned his "bandaid approach" wouldn't work for long and he'd be seeing me again, I, in Pollyanna-like fashion, crossed my fingers, hobbled out of his office, and resumed life--now with a medical excuse for my lack of exercise (Which, frankly made me much less guilt-ridden about my sloth-like lifestyle).

And so, life moved on a things went fairly well…
Until this October.

Paul and I went to a Pumpkin Walk here in Logan near Halloween for one of our dates.

Note the key word "Walk" in "Pumpkin Walk."
Yes, folks, we took a nice autumn stroll, admiring pumpkins, squash, and zucchinis that created delightful characters and scenes, but in the days following--before I could say "Happy Halloween" to 113 Elsas--my knee had swollen again.

My old co-workers should be happy to note that this time I did not wait four months before going in. I found a new doctor (And by that, I mean Paul found a doctor, made me an appointment and let me know when I'd be going, because really--of the two of us, he makes a much better adult) and within days I was back on an examining table, puffy knee ready to be drained.

I felt a bit of deja vu as fluid was removed, cortisone was injected, and I was on my way.

Don't be deceived, however, at how simple and easy I make it sound.  When the doctor told the PA, "Could you grab me an 8?"as though it were no big deal, I should have run.  One-legged.

Perhaps the medical community is simply trying to pacify wimps like me and had me in mind when they created their needle numbering system.  You see,  the larger a needle is, the smaller its number is.  Diabetics use needles in the 30's.  When they put an IV in my hand, that needle was a 20.

So when the doctor leans over and says, "Could you grab me an 8?" as nonchalantly as he orders a burger and fries, what he really means to say is, "You see that sharp PVC pipe over there?  Grab that for me, would you?  Yeah, we're definitely going to want one of the largest needles available for human use to drain this knee here."

This, my friends, is a 20.

Do you know how large the largest needle used on humans is?  A six.  That's right.  SIX.  And they used an eight.

It wouldn't have been so concerning except for the high school girl who was shadowing my doctor.  The look on her face told me things couldn't be good.

While draining the knee, the doctor informed me that perhaps my knee cap was crooked and some physical therapy would get it back into place, solving whatever was wrong with my mysteriously problematic patella.

A few days later, I spent 90 minutes being shocked, iced, stretched, and massaged.

When I woke up the next morning, my knee was the size of Rhode Island.  

I'm starting to see why they were thinking my knee cap was in the wrong spot...

So, I spent all of Thanksgiving break on my parents' couch--except when I would get out of the house via the neighbor's crutches and then (once we got to a store) would make it to a wheelchair or one of those really awesome Jazzy-type scooters they advertise during every commercial break of The Price is Right.  I am so glad I ran into someone from my graduating class while driving it.  I've come a long way in eleven years.

That's right--From high school senior to senior citizen in just 11 years.
I've always been a bit of an over-achiever.  

If I'd known the driver was included,
I would've gotten a wheelchair years ago!

Eventually, Thanksgiving break ended and I went back to the doctor.  He had only one thing to say: MRI.

I had only one thing I heard: One thousand dollars.

Bless you, high deductible insurance plan.  Bless you.

And so I debated. Should I have it done?  Or should I just buy a Jazzy scooter and live out the rest of my life in peace?

It was a tough call.  The Jazzy was pretty amazing.

My biggest fear was that they would do the MRI and find nothing, leaving me without money or answers.

"That is highly unlikely," Paul told me over and over.  "You can barely move.  Your knee is huge.  It will definitely show something."

So, I got an MRI.

It was a strange experience to be lying in a tube that made noises like a rocket ship preparing for take-off while in the background Karen Carpenter's voice calmly crooned, "Merry Christmas Darling…"into the headphones they'd provided.

Don't worry--Just preparing for my future flight to outer space.

An MRI is not painful.  It's not scary.  It's just terribly nerve wracking because right before going in, a nice medical person will say something like, "Now remember, this is an extremely sensitive machine and any movement will cause the images to be blurry."

So all I could think of for twenty minutes--every time I itched or needed to sneeze or got terribly uncomfortable--were blurry pictures of ancient ancestors and Abraham Lincoln on a Civil War battlefield who had clearly missed the memo about staying still, and how much it would cost if my MRI was blurry and had to be redone.

Needless to say, I stayed perfectly still.

Upon reflection, I think had I been buried alive (which likely would have felt similar to an MRI) I would have at least been allowed to sneeze.

After the MRI, I was desperate to know what was wrong with me.  (Or at least what was wrong with my knee….)  When I got to the doctor's office the next week, the woman reading the report pulled out a white sheet of paper, scanned it and declared, "Well, it looks…completely unremarkable."

Unremarkable?

UNREMARKABLE?!
There are few things in the world worse than paying $1,000 to find out you are completely and utterly unremarkable.
I have a list of people who willingly would have told me that for free!

My meniscus was fine.  My ACL was fine.  My cartilage was fine.
Yet somehow, I was clearly not fine.

I had two options:
1. Be a gimp for the rest of my life
2. Get a scope and hope they could find and fix something.

I called my old doctor to get a second opinion.  He was out of town for over a week, but his nurse said the note he'd made on my chart said he was afraid my knee was severely deranged.

From unremarkable to deranged in the same week?  No wonder I couldn't trust doctors!

What was I to do?

Life is full of tough decisions.  I decided on Thursday to go with the scope.

Unfortunately, this picture was PRE-drugs.
Clearly, I am not unremarkable...

By Monday, I was lying on an operating table fading away as anesthesia coursed through my body.

My next conscious memory was repeating to Paul over and over, "I'm doing great!  I even told the doctor 'Merry Christmas.'  How long was my surgery?  Oh, an hour?  I feel so much better than the last time I went under.  I'm so with it.  I even told the doctor 'Merry Christmas.'  Was my surgery thirty minutes?  No?  An hour?  Oh.  Did I tell you I told the doctor 'Merry Christmas'?  Do you know how long I was in surgery?"

"Merry Christmas!"

During the hour-long surgery, it was discovered that I have a tissue disease which makes my tissue grow too much.  The tissue in my left knee grew delightful little "fingers" that snuck into places they shouldn't have been.  The photos they gave me (as a fabulous souvenir, I assume) make my knee look like an underwater adventure teeming with coral.  Coral, that--of course--had to be sliced, drilled, and vacuumed away (At least that's how the 37 seconds of the video of my surgery that I actually stomached watching made it look).

So, the good news is, I will not have to pay $10,000 to continue my life as "Unremarkable."  I may have been "Unremarkable" for $1,000, but for only $9,000 more, I have moved up in the ranks to "Unusual" and "Uncommon."

I'll take it.

That's what I'm going for here: Not bigger, just better.
Once I start exercising again, that is.  

I'll also take the punch card I was pushing for in the doctor's office.  You know?  Tenth visit free? Buy-one-get-one-free physical therapy? Or at least a surgery t-shirt that says "I Survived."  Because so far, all I've gotten are a DVD of the surgery, a Dove chocolate bar, and a bottle of Lortab that helped me set a new personal-best record for number of times I've thrown up in one day.  (Word to the Wise: "Norco" is code for "Another horrible form of Lortab."  When they ask how your pain is after one pill, don't say five.  Five will only get you more nausea-inducing drugs.)

I had a hard time taking them seriously
when all I could think of was Brian Regan.

So, if you see me hobbling on crutches sometime during the next few weeks, don't feel bad for me.  I hobble with pride.  I am part an elite group of people with freakish knee tissue--which is infinitely more interesting than "Unremarkable."

Happy Holidays!
God bless us, everyone.

Me?  I'm playing Tiny Tim
for Christmas this year.  

You're from Iowa?

Dear America,

I am about to say something shocking.
Prepare yourself.

Idaho is a state.

And it is not the same state as Iowa.
And we don't grow corn.
And we actually do grow more than potatoes.

I know.  It's hard to wrap your mind around.
Everything you've been told your whole life may have been a lie.

If you're from Idaho and you've ever traveled out of state (hard to leave such a magical place, I know, but assuming you did leave for any amount of time and go somewhere else) you have probably been asked where you are from.  It could happen anywhere--on an airplane, as an angry driver is speeding past you--making an obscene gesture and screaming, "Where are you from?" or even at a college social.    You will respond casually, "Oh, I'm from Idaho."

Which will be followed by at statement like this:
"Iowa?  Wow.  So…you grow a lot of corn?"
(This is anyone East of the Mississippi.  They somehow never learned all the rectangularly shaped states and their neighbors when they were 5th graders, so they haven't realized yet that there even is a state out West named "Idaho.")

Apparently, we are not the only state with this problem...

"No, IDAHO."
Which is then followed by, "Oh, you-da-hoe?" and a giggle as the person talking pats him or herself on the back for being so incredibly witty.  After all, junior high wit is so irresistible.
(This is anyone under the age of 35.  Anyone else may not even understand why this is offensive.  I was relating it to an adult after I had heard it roughly 346 times on a high school trip to Florida and she said, "Oh, because we're farmers and we hoe our gardens?"
Yes.  That's exactly it.)

Would you look at that hoe?

Or then there's the, "Oh…Idaho.  Is your dad a potato farmer?" (This is generally anyone in the Western US.)

I adore potatoes.  I really do.  And I absolutely insist on being a potato snob and only buying the ones grown in Idaho.  (Imagine me, in the middle of the grocery store: "Paul!  Did you check those?  Are they grown in Idaho?  What?  They're not?  Put them back!  Seriously.  We don't buy Canadian potatoes!")

Nevertheless, I have to admit I only know one potato farmer.  All the rest are sugar beet farmers, alfalfa farmers, bean and grain farmers.  In fact, I spent all of high school working in wheat and barley fields.  (Don't even get me started on awned and awnless grains…)

And, although I'm from Idaho, neither one of my parents is even a farmer at all.

Then there's the, "Idaho.  Oh, that's pretty much just Mini-Utah."
Read my lips: You.  Are. Wrong.
Granted, Brigham Young settled over 300 towns in the West (in Utah, Arizona, Nevada, Colorado, Wyoming, Idaho) and many of them have commonalities.  But Brigham Young did not settle Idaho.  And Idaho is not Utah.  They don't even wish they were.

Don't get me wrong, Brigham.  I love the quadrant system almost as much as I love you.

One of my very favorite responses ever, though, was this:
"Idaho?  You're from Idaho?!  That is the worst state in the entire United States.  Seriously.  The worst.  I would rather live in North Dakota!"
(That was a fabulous date.  Part of what made it so delightful was that the preceding sentences were uttered in the first three minutes of the date when we asked all those awkward get-to-know-you questions.  I hope that someone somewhere told that boy something about personal filters.  Besides--he just offended two states.  And I know some very nice people from North Dakota.)

Welcome to North Dakota

However, the one that tops the charts was this one:
"Where are you from?"
"Idaho."
"Idaho?  I hate people from Idaho!"

Thank you.  We hate you, too.

Okay, maybe "hate" was too strong of a word...

So, though I'm not exactly Idaho's spokesperson, I'd like to clear up a few common misconceptions:

1. Idaho is a state.  Out West.

2. Idaho does grow potatoes.  Fabulous ones.  They also grow many other things.  And they mine.  And they manufacture.  And they log.  And they do all the jobs that everyone else does to keep things running.

3. Idaho--surprising though it may be--does have running water and electricity.  (It was such an exciting day when we got our first indoor bathroom in 1998.  That was the year!  Now we just use the old privy out back for time-outs.)

4. Most people from Idaho do not like their homes, property, families or anything else to be described as "rustic."  ("You have a clothesline?  That's SO rustic!  My grandma had one of those!  Oh, it's just so cute!")

Soooooo rustic

5. Idaho has radio stations, stores, and even television.  Hello, Idaho had Philo T. Farnsworth, the inventor of TV himself. (Ignore what Utah says.)

So, the next time I get asked, "Where are you from?" and I politely answer, "Oh, I'm from Idaho," please keep the:

 "(Gasp!) I never would have guessed that!"
(Translation: "Really?!  I've never even seen you wear overalls!  And you have a full set of teeth!")

No, this is not my house...

"Well you don't talk like you're from Idaho,"
(Translation: "…because I can actually understand what you are saying and you speak with correct grammar…")

or the

"Oh…you're from…Idaho… (awkward silence)"
(Translation: "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all.")

to yourself.

Thank you.

*This Public Service Announcement Has Been Brought To You In Partnership With the "Idaho Is More Than Just Potatoes" Campaign.  Thank You For Reading.

Perrine Bridge.  One of the few places you can legally BASE jump.

Couponing Distaster, Aisle 9….

Today felt like Monday.

I got up early and ate breakfast…and then crawled right back in bed, certain I really only needed ten minutes to get ready for the day.

When I got to school, I discovered that we had a drug prevention assembly right during math.  Over the course of the day, three parents stopped in to chat or get something.  Four kids were absent.  We started science rotations with a brand new class.

Exhausted, I returned home this evening and found an empty fridge staring back at me.  It does that after I go out of town, almost without fail.

Okay, not quite, but it was pretty empty….

I knew I would have to go grocery shopping after work, but at the last minute decided to do something brilliant.  Something that would save me money and make me feel good.  I looked down in my hand at the ads that had just come in the mail.

I would price match.

I had never price matched before in my life, but had been stuck behind enough other people in Wal-Mart who ensured that it took a full forty-five minutes to buy my six items that I had a pretty good idea how it worked.  You show up.  You hand them your ads.  You get cheap stuff.  Easy.

A friend had told me that I didn't actually even need the ads.  I could just say, "I'm price matching this broccoli that was in the Smith's ad for $0.98 a pound."

Of course, being new to all this (and a bit of an overachiever), I decided to really go above and beyond and clip the ads.  (Really, it was mostly because I would never remember all the ads and prices).

So, I sat down and carefully made a list.  I clipped each little ad, put them all in order, and stapled them together.  I even put at star by each item I'd be buying and wrote the name of the store the ad was from on the top.  In addition to the ads, my shopping list was even divided into price matched items and things I just needed to buy but wasn't using an ad for.

Feeling terribly proud of myself, I decided to check my email before I went.  I saw an email from Macey's--my absolute favorite grocery store.  (I try to tell Paul it's the happiest place on earth.)  I scanned the mail and quickly found that if I wrote what I liked about the store, I could be entered to win  a $250 gift card!  Quickly, I raved about how Macey's is a local business, they give back to the community, their employees are always friendly, and they have great ice cream.

Macey's--The Happiest Place on Earth

And then, in true hypocrite fashion, I walked out the door with my coupons to price match at Wal-Mart (or "That Bad Place" as my grandma would say).

In a hurry to get home in time for some dinner, I got my items fairly quickly.  Wanting to make the check-out as painless as possible, I divided the things in my cart into items that would be price matched and those that wouldn't.  Trying not to be that lady in line, I even arranged them on the belt in the order I had stapled the ads.  This was going to be soooo easy.  My six boxes of whole wheat pasta were lined up neatly, waiting to be scanned at $0.50 each.  Life was good.

As soon as it was my turn, I quickly announced, "I'm price matching today," in a confident voice, and then handed my neat pile over.

At first, it wasn't so bad.  She looked at them and then said, "Uh…the next time you want to price match, I need you to make sure you have the store name and date with you so I can make sure it is from the same week."

"Okay," I said calmly.  That made total sense.  You wouldn't want any of these crazy people using the same coupons week after week or anything.

What?!  There's a GUIDE to this?  Sigh….

However, as she starting to ring up each item, the woman got more and more angry.  "You really should have clipped the store name," she said, her voice rising.

"It's okay…if it doesn't work, we can just put the items back," I volunteered.  I tried not to make eye contact with the people behind me.  This was supposed to have been so easy.  The woman didn't respond.  She kept searching the ads, scrutinizing them.  "I don't even know where these are from!" she said, exasperated.

"Smiths," I replied, showing her in the corner where you could still see the "Smit" in red ink.

"There's no date!  You need a date," she glared.

"Really, I can just not buy the price matched items," I said, hoping we could just pretend it had never even happened.

When I looked back up, she was gone.  She vanished.  Just like that.  I looked around, wondering how many people were watching me.  I had become that crazy mom in Walmart.  Except I wasn't even a mom.  Or a hoarder.  Or an extreme couponer.  I just wanted my produce and the six boxes of whole wheat pasta and sauce to go with them.  That's it.  (Or I wanted to run all of it back to the shelves where I found it and pretend the whole thing never happened.  It was a toss up.)

Just as I was contemplating the possibility of fleeing, my cashier returned, waving a Smith's ad and looking through the pages, confident that I was some sort of coupon scammer.

I had already made it clear that the ads I had used had just come in the mail today.  I could see from the ad that it was what Smith's had sent out last week.

"Um…is that last week's ad?" I asked sheepishly.

"Yes!" she replied.  "It's the ad that goes until the end of today."

"Uh…the ad I used just came in the mail today." I repeated again.

"Well this is that ad that goes through today," she replied.

I took a deep breath and said, "It's okay.  We can just put the items back.  If it is a problem, I won't buy them."

And then, mysteriously, as though the customer always is right (although after at least four jobs working with the public I know better), she grabbed the items and terrifyingly punched them into her keypad with so much force I was afraid she would break the little keys.  She slammed the items into the bags, giving me a death glare as she did it.

I was swiping my card as she went, planning my speedy escape--all the while talking to myself in my head, letting me know that I was not a coupon scammer or a terrible person.  I just wanted four peppers,  five roma tomatoes, and six boxes of pasta for a cheaper price.  And the ad really did start today.  And it really was from Smith's.  And I really didn't know the rules for price matching.  (Clearly, I had been misinformed.)

As I got ready to run for my life, I heard a terse, "Run your card again.  It didn't read it."

Now I was waiting for the police to show up, feeling that I was not only some major scammer, but I probably was using a stolen card or had no money in my account.  I ran it again, crossing my fingers it would go through.

It did.

At least there is some mercy on this planet.

I grabbed my bags and was making an Olympic speed exit when I heard, "Ma'am…." in a voice that I now knew only too well.  "You forgot your bags."

Turning back, I looked apologetically at the poor woman who'd been standing behind me who was--yes, still waiting--grabbed my last two bags, and pushed that cart with all my might out the door, never looking back.

Don't worry Macey's.  I don't think I'll ever step out on you again like that.
Or if I ever do, I will at least bring evidence of the stores and dates that have pushed me to do it.

But that could be awhile…

After all, it takes a strong person to price match and I may not have what it takes.

But that's just me.

If by any chance you need some peppers, tomatoes, or at least six boxes of whole wheat pasta this week, you can get them price matched at Walmart.  Go ahead.  You should, however, take the ad.  The WHOLE ad.

But don't take my word for it.