SHATTERED GLASS

The boxes arrived via UPS. I had been awaiting them; wringing my hands with worry they would not be here before Christmas. I was thrilled when my doorbell rang announcing the delivery. Two boxes, one a bit larger than the other. They were both fairly heavy. My kids lugged them here into the study where I have been wrapping gifts.

Early last nite during another wrapping frenzy, I opened the boxes to prepare to wrap the contents. I am especially pleased with these particular gifts. They are wood serving trays with handles. The part I like so much about them is they are keepsake trays. There is a layer of glass over a black velvet-like board where mementos such as photographs, tickets, cards, and the like can be safely displayed. Spilled liquids cannot harm them.

Each tray was packed well inside yet another box. Three trays were in one package; two trays were in the other. A feeling of relief washed over me. Yes, all five I had ordered were here in my home waiting to be covered with festive paper and ribbons. I carefully took them out one by one and set them on the floor. It was the fifth one that caused my eyes to fill with tears. Lifting it out of the large box, my ears were filled with the sound of shattered glass shifting about inside.

I felt sick inside. And I stood there not moving for quite some time as I held it; deceived by the perfect condition of its box. Finally, I set it down. I reached inside the shipping box for the packing slip and phoned the company. The woman who answered was pleasant. She was sorry the tray was broken, and she was glad I had not opened it and risked shards of the glass escaping and possibly cutting me. She was putting a rush replacement order through, so I would quickly receive another tray. I was appreciative of her helpfulness, and I told her so.

Maybe that ordeal set up my mood for the rest of the evening. I stepped away from the wrapping paper and gifts. My mind shifted to some unhappy thoughts. I had earlier in the day discovered during a phone conversation with my mother that a man whose children I used to babysit is in the hospital. He is faring poorly. Very poorly. A back operation had been performed, and he was seemingly fine. He returned to his home, but became sicker and sicker. He was sent back to the hospital where it was determined he has a wicked infection. He cannot speak. Tubes are everywhere. It does not look promising. Of course I have to go visit him. I would not dream of not making the time for him. He and his wife always treated me wonderfully during those years I watched their children. And he is the reason I write birthday letters annually to each of my kids; he did that for his kids, and it impressed me so much that at the age of 12, I decided I was going to do the very same thing for my children when I had some. He also visited my father regularly during Daddy's years in the nursing home. Such a particularly sad time of year to spend in the hospital. I pray he will make it through this crisis. I worry for his family, too.

Then, I focused my thoughts on my dog. During the past three weeks, she has had two eye surgeries for a corneal ulceration. Our vet is coordinating his treatment of her with a vet who specializes in ophthalmology and has recently completed and is in the process of publishing her findings regarding the treatment of ulcerations. Even with the seven doses of eye medications I have been daily giving my poochie, there is no improvement. None. Her eye has become infected, too. That is a new development. Knowing the doctors have said how extremely painful these corneal ulcerations are has further upset me. Thank goodness I was given pain medication to give her twice daily. She hid from me today when I tried to get a close look at her eye. She has never done that. So, a phone call will be placed to the vet on Thursday asking for help. Never too far from my mind is the confirmed possibility she will end up losing that eye. Yes, she is blind, but she does seem to see shadows. I am heartsick.

I am hearing a lot of glass shattering around me.

Oh the nerves, the nerves; the mysteries of this machine called man! Oh the little that unhinges it, poor creatures that we are! Charles Dickens