Category: Life

Some Things Just Never Go Away….


It may have been precipitated by sharing war stories with Sylvia, in between plays, at our sons’ football game. I hadn’t seen her since she graduated, and it was interesting hearing her take on things, especially since she ended up on a cardiac floor, where I, too, spent my first year in nursing. It was amazing to hear how little had really changed in the last, twenty-plus, years.

She finds the work less than stimulating, and the politics, driven by a matriarchal dominated hierarchy, maddening. I suggested a change of venue, as it had taken me almost ten years to find my niche in maternal-child medicine. She countered, by sharing that she had told her husband she didn’t know how much longer she could help make ends meet by emptying bedpans, to the accompaniment of a whining baby-boomer showing no compassion for the octogenarian occupying the neighboring bed. Many of her patients are there for open-heart surgery, and she cares for them before, and after.

“The older ones are quiet and appreciative. It’s the younger ones; you know, the forty-year-olds, who whine all the time.”

“The kick is up,,,,, and, it’s good!”

As I listened, I envisioned the floor I had worked on, so long ago.

Most graduate nurses drew the night shift. The lighting was soft, and respectful, against rust carpeting that covered every available surface, in an effort to muffle the sound of crash carts rolling, and the inevitable herd of rubber soled feet running towards the door of a patient “in trouble”.

Our environment called for lowered, softly feminine voices, which I always imagined offered extra comfort to a predominantly male population.

The patient load has not changed. Like my friend Sylvia, I usually cared for four or five every night. But, I remember one, in particular.

He was young. I suppose Sylvia would have thought of him as a complainer. I remember him as large; large and dark, almost bear-like. I can’t remember his reason for being there, but I’ll never forget his presence.

Working nights, if you are lucky, you see your patients only twice; once at rounds, when you begin your shift, and next, as you turn your wards over to an older crew, who have earned the right to sleep at night.

I entered his room on the third night of his stay. He lay, as always, hulking, and wide-awake, on a bed made tiny by his mass. As I padded inside, he turned; reaching for the chair his wife must have occupied only hours ago.

“Hey…” Gravel garbled his unused voice, as I rounded the opposite side of the bed.

I stopped, and bent forward to find his brown-bearded face in the swath of light provided by the door, left ajar for this purpose.

“Yes?”, I whispered.

“Take this.”, he offered.

Laboriously, he maneuvered his bulk in my direction. I struggled to make out a mass of fabric swinging from his outstretched hand. Taking it without speaking, I moved towards the door, and light.

Folds of Carolina-blue knit fell about my hands, as I struggled to shape the mass into a form I could recognize. Not until I saw the tiny, green, alligator emblem, did I understand what I held.

I turned, startled, away from the light to face him sitting amongst a web of tubes and wires.

“No!” My whisper was strident. “No, I couldn’t!” And, as I turned, my hands, without direction, began to fold the valued garment, reverently, in preparation for placement back in the chair. It was 1980, and Izod was king…

“But, you’re always so cold! I want you to have it!” The energy it took to whisper the words seemed to have sapped him, as he sunk back against the pillows, where his distended abdomen rose and fell, rapidly. One meaty hand rose to brush his curly, dark mane off his brow; and he sighed.

I stood in the cylinder of light for several seconds, feeling the expensive weight of the sweater in my hands, before I turned, and, observing his frustration, made the decision.

It was easily four sizes too big. Stretched to it’s full capacity, it encircled me, more than once. And I gave thanks, repeatedly, for ribbing on the end of the sleeves that kept the voluminous knit above my hands, and out of my way, as I entered data on patients that came after him.

Today, as I left the office, Don met me, circling cubicles in an effort to assure himself that all our computers were detached from the main-frame.

“You might want to check the ultrasound computer!”, I called as I turned the corner.

Realizing my blunder, I stopped, and turned to see him looking at me, quizzically.

“I guess some things just never go away!”, I said with a laugh and a wave, as I hefted my bags onto my shoulder, and headed for the door.

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll

http://www.thewriterslife.net

>Some Things Just Never Go Away….

>
It may have been precipitated by sharing war stories with Sylvia, in between plays, at our sons’ football game. I hadn’t seen her since she graduated, and it was interesting hearing her take on things, especially since she ended up on a cardiac floor, where I, too, spent my first year in nursing. It was amazing to hear how little had really changed in the last, twenty-plus, years.

She finds the work less than stimulating, and the politics, driven by a matriarchal dominated hierarchy, maddening. I suggested a change of venue, as it had taken me almost ten years to find my niche in maternal-child medicine. She countered, by sharing that she had told her husband she didn’t know how much longer she could help make ends meet by emptying bedpans, to the accompaniment of a whining baby-boomer showing no compassion for the octogenarian occupying the neighboring bed. Many of her patients are there for open-heart surgery, and she cares for them before, and after.

“The older ones are quiet and appreciative. It’s the younger ones; you know, the forty-year-olds, who whine all the time.”

“The kick is up,,,,, and, it’s good!”

As I listened, I envisioned the floor I had worked on, so long ago.

Most graduate nurses drew the night shift. The lighting was soft, and respectful, against rust carpeting that covered every available surface, in an effort to muffle the sound of crash carts rolling, and the inevitable herd of rubber soled feet running towards the door of a patient “in trouble”.

Our environment called for lowered, softly feminine voices, which I always imagined offered extra comfort to a predominantly male population.

The patient load has not changed. Like my friend Sylvia, I usually cared for four or five every night. But, I remember one, in particular.

He was young. I suppose Sylvia would have thought of him as a complainer. I remember him as large; large and dark, almost bear-like. I can’t remember his reason for being there, but I’ll never forget his presence.

Working nights, if you are lucky, you see your patients only twice; once at rounds, when you begin your shift, and next, as you turn your wards over to an older crew, who have earned the right to sleep at night.

I entered his room on the third night of his stay. He lay, as always, hulking, and wide-awake, on a bed made tiny by his mass. As I padded inside, he turned; reaching for the chair his wife must have occupied only hours ago.

“Hey…” Gravel garbled his unused voice, as I rounded the opposite side of the bed.

I stopped, and bent forward to find his brown-bearded face in the swath of light provided by the door, left ajar for this purpose.

“Yes?”, I whispered.

“Take this.”, he offered.

Laboriously, he maneuvered his bulk in my direction. I struggled to make out a mass of fabric swinging from his outstretched hand. Taking it without speaking, I moved towards the door, and light.

Folds of Carolina-blue knit fell about my hands, as I struggled to shape the mass into a form I could recognize. Not until I saw the tiny, green, alligator emblem, did I understand what I held.

I turned, startled, away from the light to face him sitting amongst a web of tubes and wires.

“No!” My whisper was strident. “No, I couldn’t!” And, as I turned, my hands, without direction, began to fold the valued garment, reverently, in preparation for placement back in the chair. It was 1980, and Izod was king…

“But, you’re always so cold! I want you to have it!” The energy it took to whisper the words seemed to have sapped him, as he sunk back against the pillows, where his distended abdomen rose and fell, rapidly. One meaty hand rose to brush his curly, dark mane off his brow; and he sighed.

I stood in the cylinder of light for several seconds, feeling the expensive weight of the sweater in my hands, before I turned, and, observing his frustration, made the decision.

It was easily four sizes too big. Stretched to it’s full capacity, it encircled me, more than once. And I gave thanks, repeatedly, for ribbing on the end of the sleeves that kept the voluminous knit above my hands, and out of my way, as I entered data on patients that came after him.

Today, as I left the office, Don met me, circling cubicles in an effort to assure himself that all our computers were detached from the main-frame.

“You might want to check the ultrasound computer!”, I called as I turned the corner.

Realizing my blunder, I stopped, and turned to see him looking at me, quizzically.

“I guess some things just never go away!”, I said with a laugh and a wave, as I hefted my bags onto my shoulder, and headed for the door.

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll

http://www.thewriterslife.net

Intangible Losses

A cacophony of muffled beats filled the room as the probe glided across her bulging belly, revealing two separate, but equal, beating hearts.

At 4 foot, 11 inches, she hadn’t much space to offer. But, she gave what she had, and the three of them grew, together.

When the time came, she birthed them, one blonde and slight; the other dark, and burly.

And, she suckled them.

She diapered them, and offered a supporting finger to clasp, as they took their first steps.

She applied tissues to runny noses and bandages to skinned knees, and sent them back out to play, with a pat to their denim covered behinds.

And, still, they grew; together and apart, as she had, by now, broken the cycle of addiction and abuse with a single act of love that meant absence from their home, but not their hearts.

As adults, they manifested as they presented; small, light, and slight would remain so, in body as well as spirit, while dark and burly became their rock.

Long past the age when anyone could have considered them accident prone, she lost them both,

in separate incidents,

years apart.

And, I was there…

I watched, impotent, as she integrated her new reality and did what she had to do, and survived. I offered tangible assistance out of the realization that as a mother of four living children, I could not understand the intangibles.

Through it all, I am painfully aware that all she has left of the lives she nurtured is a cherished box of ashes, a slideshow of memories, complete with sound, and love that longs to be expressed. And, my own mother’s voice rings in my ears, “Life is not fair!”

As her closest and dearest friend, I never speak of them.

She talks of them often; relating humorous anecdotes, or bemoaning the lack of a male to attend to the mechanics of her life. I listen quietly, or laugh, and comment where appropriate.

More importantly, I allow her time with them. I watch as she pulls them to her breast when she feels the need to hold them close while searching their faces for answers.

Today would have been their birthday. Had they lived, they be facing the agnst of middle age.

And, for the first time since her loss, when the pain became too much to bear alone, she called. She talked, and she cried, and she shared, while I listened without questions.

Because, a friend doesn’t conjure the pain.

A friend absorbs it.

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll

http://www.thewriterslife.net

>Intangible Losses

>

A cacophony of muffled beats filled the room as the probe glided across her bulging belly, revealing two separate, but equal, beating hearts.

At 4 foot, 11 inches, she hadn’t much space to offer. But, she gave what she had, and the three of them grew, together.

When the time came, she birthed them, one blonde and slight; the other dark, and burly.

And, she suckled them.

She diapered them, and offered a supporting finger to clasp, as they took their first steps.

She applied tissues to runny noses and bandages to skinned knees, and sent them back out to play, with a pat to their denim covered behinds.

And, still, they grew; together and apart, as she had, by now, broken the cycle of addiction and abuse with a single act of love that meant absence from their home, but not their hearts.

As adults, they manifested as they presented; small, light, and slight would remain so, in body as well as spirit, while dark and burly became their rock.

Long past the age when anyone could have considered them accident prone, she lost them both,

in separate incidents,

years apart.

And, I was there…

I watched, impotent, as she integrated her new reality and did what she had to do, and survived. I offered tangible assistance out of the realization that as a mother of four living children, I could not understand the intangibles.

Through it all, I am painfully aware that all she has left of the lives she nurtured is a cherished box of ashes, a slideshow of memories, complete with sound, and love that longs to be expressed. And, my own mother’s voice rings in my ears, “Life is not fair!”

As her closest and dearest friend, I never speak of them.

She talks of them often; relating humorous anecdotes, or bemoaning the lack of a male to attend to the mechanics of her life. I listen quietly, or laugh, and comment where appropriate.

More importantly, I allow her time with them. I watch as she pulls them to her breast when she feels the need to hold them close while searching their faces for answers.

Today would have been their birthday. Had they lived, they be facing the agnst of middle age.

And, for the first time since her loss, when the pain became too much to bear alone, she called. She talked, and she cried, and she shared, while I listened without questions.

Because, a friend doesn’t conjure the pain.

A friend absorbs it.

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll

http://www.thewriterslife.net

A Feminist’s Viewpoint on Palin


I’ve tried.

I’ve tried long, and hard.

When Hillary announced her candidacy, I tried.

I love Bill. And, I love him with full knowledge that the stage was already set for most of the gains he afforded us. I love him anyway.

I love him because he cared.

And, I love him because he tried.

And, I love him because he projected an image that most of the world could love along with me.

I love him because he is me.

So…Hillary announces.

I should say, at the forefront, that her handling of Bill’s promiscuity left me with a bad taste in my mouth. President or not, a philanderer is a philanderer, and should be handled as such.

That said, as Hillary announced, I realized the historic repercussions of her candidacy. A woman was running for President of the United States of America! The simple fact that she could do so, was testament to all those who came before her. It was historic! It was histrionic! It was catastrophic!

She was shrill. She was lame. And, most obviously, her husband could not bring himself to support her. Said simply, watching her upset me.

Turn now to our third (Lest you forget Geraldine!) female candidate, Sarah Palin.

I watched her acceptance speech, and as I watched, I became entranced. I listened, as did most Americans, to her tough talk, and her folksy phrases, and I smiled. The day after, I sang her praises to my Republican colleagues, and they smiled, knowingly, smugly.

And, then I read.

I read about the “Bridge to Nowhere”, and the funds that where allocated, elsewhere. I read about her daughter’s pregnancy, fed by Sarah’s unrealistic no-tolerance policy, and the young father, whose future, and theirs,will most certainly, be determined by his decision to forego education for income.

I watched interviews, in which she invoked kitchen window views, in an effort to explain foreign trade policies, and, yet, was unable to name the title of a book or a magazine.

I listened as she tried to tie an opponent to subversive activities which took place when he was eight years old, and as she promised to correct record deficits in a matter of days.

But, here’s what will surprise you…

As damning as all of the above is to a candidate’s ability to serve, it is her absence as a mother that disturbs me, most of all.

At the age of forty-four, Sarah Palin, Governor of Alaska, and staunch anti-abortion advocate, chose to have a baby with known genetic defects.

Now, a little over a year later, she has shirked her responsibility to that child, and the others born before him, for the sake of ambition.

Any, and all, scientific studies support the idea that parental involvement makes the difference for children with disabilities. Sarah Palin is shirking that, and in my opinion, her God-given responsibility to all of her children. Because disabilities, however severe, do not affect only the children carrying them, they affect us all.

She is female.

She is attractive.

She is a gifted speaker.

She is also a wife, and a mother; and those contracts were cemented many years ago….

As she struggles to answer the most inane questions, I am embarrassed; not just for her, but for us all!

This is the face we will put forward to the rest of the world! Sure, we can rely on good looks. But, for how long?

My father, a proud independent, accused me of being jealous. He pointed out her rise; Hockey Mom, PTA Mom, Governor of Alaska, Vice-President.He likened her experience to mine.

I’m a football Mom. I’m a PTA board member. But, I can promise you, before I run for a higher elected office, I will prepare. You will have your answers. I will not rely upon my stilettos, designer glasses, and form-fitting suits to win you. I will study, and not just for an upcoming debate…

Before I accept your nomination for vice-president, I will be sure that I have a handle on the issues; domestic and foreign.

But, first, and foremost, I will make sure that the contracts I have executed before…before…when I was nothing but a Hockey Mom, or a PTA Mom…Those contracts will be fulfilled, because, by doing that, and just that, I can be the best example I can be, and I will give back, and somebody will pay attention, and we will matter….

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll

http://www.thewriterslife.net

>A Feminist’s Viewpoint on Palin

>
I’ve tried.

I’ve tried long, and hard.

When Hillary announced her candidacy, I tried.

I love Bill. And, I love him with full knowledge that the stage was already set for most of the gains he afforded us. I love him anyway.

I love him because he cared.

And, I love him because he tried.

And, I love him because he projected an image that most of the world could love along with me.

I love him because he is me.

So…Hillary announces.

I should say, at the forefront, that her handling of Bill’s promiscuity left me with a bad taste in my mouth. President or not, a philanderer is a philanderer, and should be handled as such.

That said, as Hillary announced, I realized the historic repercussions of her candidacy. A woman was running for President of the United States of America! The simple fact that she could do so, was testament to all those who came before her. It was historic! It was histrionic! It was catastrophic!

She was shrill. She was lame. And, most obviously, her husband could not bring himself to support her. Said simply, watching her upset me.

Turn now to our third (Lest you forget Geraldine!) female candidate, Sarah Palin.

I watched her acceptance speech, and as I watched, I became entranced. I listened, as did most Americans, to her tough talk, and her folksy phrases, and I smiled. The day after, I sang her praises to my Republican colleagues, and they smiled, knowingly, smugly.

And, then I read.

I read about the “Bridge to Nowhere”, and the funds that where allocated, elsewhere. I read about her daughter’s pregnancy, fed by Sarah’s unrealistic no-tolerance policy, and the young father, whose future, and theirs,will most certainly, be determined by his decision to forego education for income.

I watched interviews, in which she invoked kitchen window views, in an effort to explain foreign trade policies, and, yet, was unable to name the title of a book or a magazine.

I listened as she tried to tie an opponent to subversive activities which took place when he was eight years old, and as she promised to correct record deficits in a matter of days.

But, here’s what will surprise you…

As damning as all of the above is to a candidate’s ability to serve, it is her absence as a mother that disturbs me, most of all.

At the age of forty-four, Sarah Palin, Governor of Alaska, and staunch anti-abortion advocate, chose to have a baby with known genetic defects.

Now, a little over a year later, she has shirked her responsibility to that child, and the others born before him, for the sake of ambition.

Any, and all, scientific studies support the idea that parental involvement makes the difference for children with disabilities. Sarah Palin is shirking that, and in my opinion, her God-given responsibility to all of her children. Because disabilities, however severe, do not affect only the children carrying them, they affect us all.

She is female.

She is attractive.

She is a gifted speaker.

She is also a wife, and a mother; and those contracts were cemented many years ago….

As she struggles to answer the most inane questions, I am embarrassed; not just for her, but for us all!

This is the face we will put forward to the rest of the world! Sure, we can rely on good looks. But, for how long?

My father, a proud independent, accused me of being jealous. He pointed out her rise; Hockey Mom, PTA Mom, Governor of Alaska, Vice-President.He likened her experience to mine.

I’m a football Mom. I’m a PTA board member. But, I can promise you, before I run for a higher elected office, I will prepare. You will have your answers. I will not rely upon my stilettos, designer glasses, and form-fitting suits to win you. I will study, and not just for an upcoming debate…

Before I accept your nomination for vice-president, I will be sure that I have a handle on the issues; domestic and foreign.

But, first, and foremost, I will make sure that the contracts I have executed before…before…when I was nothing but a Hockey Mom, or a PTA Mom…Those contracts will be fulfilled, because, by doing that, and just that, I can be the best example I can be, and I will give back, and somebody will pay attention, and we will matter….

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll

http://www.thewriterslife.net

An Unlikely Cheerleader…

“Baby? Could you go get my A-1 out of the glove compartment?”

The incongruous words were bellowed in a voice that could belong to only one person, so when I turned to look in the direction of the blast I was not surprised to see Jim struggling to remove himself from the metal folding chair he had encompassed. Rhonda smiled benevolently, and stretched one meaty arm across the corner of the table in an effort to hold the uncompromising metal still, while slamming the other on the table itself, as Jim’s girth competed for space in close quarters. A nearby dinner companion steadied a tent pole, as Jim finally extricated himself and headed towards the parking lot, and the coveted A-1.

The woman sitting to her left made a comment. Rhonda threw back her massive head and let forth a laugh that, once again, threatened to upset our picnic as her abdomen beat a rhythm against the uncertain, metal rim of the folding table.

“No one but you Rhonda!”, I shouted down the length of the table. “No one but you!”

Several pairs of hands grabbed for their plates as she laughed again before answering.

“Honey,” (She always calls me “honey” or “baby”. There was a time when I wasn’t sure she knew my name.) “Honey, I came to this thing last year. Fool me once, you know? I mean, who the hell eats a steak without steak sauce, huh? Ever since, I’ve carried a bottle in the car. Where is he?” And with that, she grabbed the opposite corner of the table to pull her mass towards the parking lot, and those who had not secured their plates earlier, did so.

“You’re doing a great job, you know…” I offered loudly, as she scanned the baseball diamond-turned-picnic-spot for signs of her devoted husband.

“Oh, thanks, honey!” As she turned, I made the decision to remove my plate to my lap. The odds just seemed better.

“And what about this?”, she asked while plucking up the shoulders of her dri-fit shirt between thumbs and forefingers. As she cocked her head, one end of the large, orange, and white, polka-dot bow securing her ponytail covered one dancing brown eye.
“Men’s sizes!” She exclaimed. “They finally got men’s sizes! This baby needs a Triple X!” Another explosive laugh, and several diners followed my lead.

The only time I see her other than football season is during girl-scout cookie sales, when she pilots her mini-van into the driveways of everyone she knows, and bellows “Hey, girl!” behind a jiggling, waving arm, as we make our selections. Her efforts have won her daughter “Salesperson of the Year” awards for three years running.

This year, she coaches our cheerleading squad. That’s right; a loud, brazen, 300 pound cheerleading coach! And, she does it well.

In years past, our squads were anemic, at best. The largest squad we carried was comprised of six girls, whose paltry pre-pubescent voices got lost amidst the yells of an admittedly rowdy group of Moms. Protests were made by the cheerleading parents, and we tried to accommodate by cheering along, but this is hard to do when you can’t hear the cheer.

“Cheer-offs” were painful, at best. As parents in the stands strained to hear their daughter’s voices over blaring hip-hop spewing from conspicuously placed loud-speakers, mother’s hands covered disappointed mouths while they planned ways to put a positive spin on utter embarrassment.

But, this year is different. This year under the phenomenon known to the girls as “Miss Rhonda”, it is not just the size of the coach that has doubled. There are twelve girls on the squad. Their voices are loud and clear, and their cheers sleek, sophisticated, and difficult.

As they practiced before the game, the sprite at the top of the pyramid began to sway, and the larger girls below responded by catching her as best they could; arms and legs splayed, body unnaturally twisted, but safe, above ground, and safe.

I leaned in towards my friend and remarked, “Oh, good. I’m actually glad I saw that. I mean, you know it happens. Now we know how they handle it!”

“Yeah,” she responded. “I guess it does.” And then, “Do you think Rhonda was a cheerleader in high school?”

We sat in silence for several seconds before noticing the ball sailing through the air over our son’s helmeted heads, and we joined the others in jumping to our feet, hands hand high, adding our voices.

With the game in the bag, and another victory under our collective belts, the stands emptied in the direction of our sons and the after-game speech.

I met Rhonda at the bottom of the stairs.

“Hey, girl! How you doin’, honey?”, Perpetual laughter propelled her words towards me, as orange and white polka-dots danced above cheeks made even plumper by a wide smile.

My arms around her shoulders left at least a foot of uncovered dri-fit as I hugged her and then drew back, leaving my arms in place.

“You are doing such a great job! We were wondering…”, I began. “Were you a cheerleader?”

“Oh, honey, you know, I was right there. Didn’t have the grades…”, her laughter shook both of us, as her girth rested upon my abdomen, while I watched her chocolate eyes dance in merriment, and something more.

Here was a woman who was comfortable in her own body, all 300 pounds of it. She embraced her strengths, and understood her frailties, and she endured. No, more than endured, she thrived. And, she paid it forward…

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll

http://www.thewriterslife.net

>An Unlikely Cheerleader…

>

“Baby? Could you go get my A-1 out of the glove compartment?”

The incongruous words were bellowed in a voice that could belong to only one person, so when I turned to look in the direction of the blast I was not surprised to see Jim struggling to remove himself from the metal folding chair he had encompassed. Rhonda smiled benevolently, and stretched one meaty arm across the corner of the table in an effort to hold the uncompromising metal still, while slamming the other on the table itself, as Jim’s girth competed for space in close quarters. A nearby dinner companion steadied a tent pole, as Jim finally extricated himself and headed towards the parking lot, and the coveted A-1.

The woman sitting to her left made a comment. Rhonda threw back her massive head and let forth a laugh that, once again, threatened to upset our picnic as her abdomen beat a rhythm against the uncertain, metal rim of the folding table.

“No one but you Rhonda!”, I shouted down the length of the table. “No one but you!”

Several pairs of hands grabbed for their plates as she laughed again before answering.

“Honey,” (She always calls me “honey” or “baby”. There was a time when I wasn’t sure she knew my name.) “Honey, I came to this thing last year. Fool me once, you know? I mean, who the hell eats a steak without steak sauce, huh? Ever since, I’ve carried a bottle in the car. Where is he?” And with that, she grabbed the opposite corner of the table to pull her mass towards the parking lot, and those who had not secured their plates earlier, did so.

“You’re doing a great job, you know…” I offered loudly, as she scanned the baseball diamond-turned-picnic-spot for signs of her devoted husband.

“Oh, thanks, honey!” As she turned, I made the decision to remove my plate to my lap. The odds just seemed better.

“And what about this?”, she asked while plucking up the shoulders of her dri-fit shirt between thumbs and forefingers. As she cocked her head, one end of the large, orange, and white, polka-dot bow securing her ponytail covered one dancing brown eye.
“Men’s sizes!” She exclaimed. “They finally got men’s sizes! This baby needs a Triple X!” Another explosive laugh, and several diners followed my lead.

The only time I see her other than football season is during girl-scout cookie sales, when she pilots her mini-van into the driveways of everyone she knows, and bellows “Hey, girl!” behind a jiggling, waving arm, as we make our selections. Her efforts have won her daughter “Salesperson of the Year” awards for three years running.

This year, she coaches our cheerleading squad. That’s right; a loud, brazen, 300 pound cheerleading coach! And, she does it well.

In years past, our squads were anemic, at best. The largest squad we carried was comprised of six girls, whose paltry pre-pubescent voices got lost amidst the yells of an admittedly rowdy group of Moms. Protests were made by the cheerleading parents, and we tried to accommodate by cheering along, but this is hard to do when you can’t hear the cheer.

“Cheer-offs” were painful, at best. As parents in the stands strained to hear their daughter’s voices over blaring hip-hop spewing from conspicuously placed loud-speakers, mother’s hands covered disappointed mouths while they planned ways to put a positive spin on utter embarrassment.

But, this year is different. This year under the phenomenon known to the girls as “Miss Rhonda”, it is not just the size of the coach that has doubled. There are twelve girls on the squad. Their voices are loud and clear, and their cheers sleek, sophisticated, and difficult.

As they practiced before the game, the sprite at the top of the pyramid began to sway, and the larger girls below responded by catching her as best they could; arms and legs splayed, body unnaturally twisted, but safe, above ground, and safe.

I leaned in towards my friend and remarked, “Oh, good. I’m actually glad I saw that. I mean, you know it happens. Now we know how they handle it!”

“Yeah,” she responded. “I guess it does.” And then, “Do you think Rhonda was a cheerleader in high school?”

We sat in silence for several seconds before noticing the ball sailing through the air over our son’s helmeted heads, and we joined the others in jumping to our feet, hands hand high, adding our voices.

With the game in the bag, and another victory under our collective belts, the stands emptied in the direction of our sons and the after-game speech.

I met Rhonda at the bottom of the stairs.

“Hey, girl! How you doin’, honey?”, Perpetual laughter propelled her words towards me, as orange and white polka-dots danced above cheeks made even plumper by a wide smile.

My arms around her shoulders left at least a foot of uncovered dri-fit as I hugged her and then drew back, leaving my arms in place.

“You are doing such a great job! We were wondering…”, I began. “Were you a cheerleader?”

“Oh, honey, you know, I was right there. Didn’t have the grades…”, her laughter shook both of us, as her girth rested upon my abdomen, while I watched her chocolate eyes dance in merriment, and something more.

Here was a woman who was comfortable in her own body, all 300 pounds of it. She embraced her strengths, and understood her frailties, and she endured. No, more than endured, she thrived. And, she paid it forward…

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll

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