Scenes from a Surgical Ward

Apparently every hospital patient is treated to a pair of non-skid socks. I did not realize I'd be given such lovely footwear. You might not know this about me (few people do) but I was quite the sock queen in my younger years. I owned multi-colored toe socks and loved to buy socks with strange color combinations: ruffles, stripes, polka dots, any crazy pattern to suit my many sock moods. One night I even won a "Most Unusual Socks" contest at a local bar where I was celebrating with my brother, his wife, and a few friends. I don't remember what I won, maybe a free drink? Winning the contest was memorable, the reward was not.

Anyway, I was happy to get my neon yellow MediChoice® hospital socks. I loved the color and found them to be the most fashionable of the hospital garments I was required to wear. They were accompanied by a tired old gown with ties in the back, and a pair of white surgical compression hose that squeezed my legs so tight I nearly fainted, plus they looked like something you might find underneath the skirt of an 1890s spinster school marm. By those standards, my yellow socks made me look downright stylish.

Well, that is if you don't count the huge stitching on the ankle announcing my sock size: "XX – LARGE" which reminded me of renting roller skates or bowling shoes with a gigantic number on the heel that displayed your shoe size for everyone to see. Being a big, tall girl, mine was always a much larger number than all the other petite darlings at the roller rink or bowling alley.

But I digress...

In the recovery room, I had a very cool nurse who probably had a name but due to my drug-induced state I could not possibly tell you what it was. She was inspecting the enormous scar on my lower back when I asked her whether I looked like Frankenstein back there. Her reply? "Oh no honey, we use super glue now!" Of course I thought she was just making this up and told her so, but apparently she was totally telling the truth. No stitches, no staples, just some weird kind of surgical-grade Gorilla Glue holding my skin together. I was hoping they didn't keep duct tape in the surgery room, too. That would freak me out.

The surgical center had all private rooms and I got some pretty nice digs, including a walker in a hot rust-red color. The nurses and aides made a point of telling me that I scored the best room: the one with the red walker. Everyone else on the ward was stuck with your basic silver metal walker. Lucky me!

Eight hours after surgery I was ready to take my first walk. Mollie, the day nurse, tied up the back of my lovely gown. Before we ventured from the room, she assured me that all was quite discreet and there was no hint of my backside hanging out. Mollie held tightly to my gown as I plodded along, much like a baby taking their first steps in mom and dad's living room. At that moment, I was so grateful for my non-skid neon yellow socks.

You spend a lot of time in bed at the hospital and it's really not much fun. One of the nurse aides, Stuart, helped me get out of bed later on. I wanted to watch TV sitting up so I could feel like a normal person. It's not easy getting out of bed and into a chair when you're attached to a multitude of tubes and lines. Stuart carefully guided me to the chair, and we giggled about how if someone walked by, they might think we were engaged in a slow-motion ballroom dance.

The night nurse, Hans, was a fun fellow. One of his primary duties was to ensure that all of us made it through the night with minimal agony. Much of his evening was spent assisting my next-door neighbor, Charlie, who was in a horrible amount of pain. I felt so bad for Charlie after I heard Hans tell him that he couldn't have more pain medication for another 25 minutes, did he think he could manage that long? Then there was the elderly woman two doors down calling out in the middle of the night, "Hello? Hello?" with no response, then she began crying. I wanted so badly to get up, go straight to her room, hold her hand and comfort her. But I simply could not move.

Have you ever noticed that doctors and nurses have this fixation with numbers? In the hospital, it drove me crazy when they insisted you assign an identifying number to your level of pain. For instance, 1 = You're ready to shout out a James Brown version of "I Feel Good!" 10 = Well, honestly I never want to know what 10 feels like. Hans visited my room regularly with his rolling computer stand to check on me. "How are you doing? Do you hurt?" Well, yeah, Hans, actually I do hurt. A lot. "Give me a number," he'd say. Umm, 6, maybe 7? What kind of drugs do I get for a 7? It all seemed so silly, so subjective.

Then came my second night on the ward. I wanted to sleep on my side, not my back, so the aides accommodated my request with lots of pillows and shuffling about to get me in just the right position. Later I awoke in agonizing pain. All I wanted, a simple thing really, was to turn over onto my back, and discovered it could not be done. I pulled and tugged at the pillows, and attempted to move the mechanical bed but pushed all the wrong buttons. It was then I realized my lovely yellow socks were dangling off the foot of the bed. Now, I'm not good at asking for help, never have been. But obviously it was time to hit the buzzer.

Along came Cliff, the night aide. When Cliff asked what I needed, I burst into tears, like a little girl lost in a great big department store who couldn't find her mommy. And that's what I really wanted to tell him, I need my mommy! Through the sniffling and blubbering I managed to explain my predicament and tell him also that I was in a great deal of pain. "When was the last time you had meds?" he asked. I struggled to remember but decided it was about seven hours ago.

Hans showed up soon after, surprised to find me crying. "My Deb is in pain?" he asked, incredulous. I had worked so hard to be a low-maintenance, easy-to-care-for patient so that the nurses and aides had extra time for the patients who really needed them. "Tell me your number right now," Hans asked. Without hesitation, I told him it was a good, solid 8, maybe even flirting with 9. Hans administered the most wonderful drugs ever and the pain subsided quickly. He and Cliff moved me into a more comfortable position, then asked me questions like, "Do you want the light on or off?" or "Should I leave the door open?" -- questions that seem nearly impossible to answer after a heaping dose of pain medication.

But what I want to say more than anything is that these people are angels. In spite of the cheerful disposition I maintained during my stay, I spent a rough two days in that hospital and many of the other people on my floor were in much worse shape. The nurses and aides did their level best to make sure that our experiences were as good as they could possibly be, given our circumstances. They were our heroes. So if you know someone who is a nurse or nurse aide, be sure to give them an extra thank-you from me. I'm sure they don't hear it nearly often enough.

Oh, and I got to keep my neon yellow socks. I love them and had them on the other night, just because my toes were kind of cold. They keep me from slipping on our hardwood floors. I wish they had given me more than one pair. You know what, I just might wear them the next time I go out dancing! (which probably won't be for a while yet...)

Balloon-a-rama

Two weeks ago, shortly after my surgery, a sweet co-worker sent me an Edible Arrangements as a get well gift. It was filled with strawberries and red grapes, plus plenty of chocolate-covered strawberries, apples, and even some flower-shaped pineapple slices dipped in chocolate. What a treat! Attached to the bouquet of fruit was a brightly-colored "Get Well" balloon.

After the typical flurry of activity over the doorbell and associated worries about strangers approaching the castle, the dogs then became intrigued not with the food, but with the rather unorthodox object attached: that crazy balloon, which bobbed and weaved and spun around unnaturally.

Tonka sounded the first alarm soon after the Edible Arrangement was placed on the dining room table. Hackles immediately began to rise along the ridge of his back and he began growling at the cheerful helium interloper. He moved carefully behind the object and sniffed, inspected, sniffed, then commenced with barking. Loudly. Repeatedly. The balloon didn't care, it had landed in a fun location where the ceiling fans kept it perpetually in motion. It was happy there, dogs be damned.

Daisy, ever the coward, let Tonka take the lead in ensuring our safety. She did sneak a peek or two at the balloon but mostly cowered behind the recliner, just in case. You never know when one of these things might explode, after all. Daisy managed to let out a few half-hearted barks in support of Tonka's efforts. Eventually we could no longer stand the commotion. We untied the balloon and let it find a high point behind the pantry door, then commenced with the eating of chocolate-covered fruit.

The next day, Dave decided to bring the balloon back out where it could serve its rightful purpose: to cheer me up. He tied it to the back of a dining room chair where it looked gloriously happy and fulfilled. For nearly two weeks, it bobbed and weaved with the breezes coming in through the window, and later in the day it spun in circles, performing a cheerful dance accompanied by the whirring of the ceiling fans and the air conditioning vent located just underneath the window. Later a new bouquet of flowers that perfectly matched the balloon's colorful exterior arrived to share this prime location, directly across from my favorite chair. By now the dogs had grown bored with the balloon; it had become nothing more than an additional piece of furniture.

Until yesterday.

Slowly over time the balloon grew flatter. Just like we all do, as time takes its toll on our outer layers, its skin was no longer tight, it drooped and sagged a bit more with each passing day. Then on Saturday morning we woke to find the balloon resting, weary and exhausted, against that beautiful bouquet of flowers, nearing its death throes.

With this turn of events, the balloon again drew the interest of Tonka and Daisy. What the heck is wrong with that thing? they wondered. Tonka approached the balloon carefully, cautiously, as it was no longer in its lofty perch and was now bobbing wearily into his territory, which posed a problem. The rest of the tale unfolds in the video attached below.

We finally decided to put the balloon out of its misery with a quick poke in the belly. Its job was done; the cheerful design made me happy each time I glanced its way, I am getting well, and the poor, sad balloon needn't be harassed by our crazy dogs any longer.

Surgical Interlude

This weekend Dave and I took the dogs on a drive to our favorite little mountain town, Salida. The weather was hot, the sun was bright, and the river was full of happy people enjoying a dip in the icy rushing waters of the Arkansas River.

For me the trip was much like those last few days of summer before school, a last getaway, a chance to enjoy yourself before the hard work begins anew. Because tomorrow we will rise early in the morning and head to the Denver neurosurgical center where I will undergo spinal fusion surgery.

Over the past six months, I've learned that many people know someone who has gone through this surgery. For the most part, with a few exceptions, the patients have been pleased with the results and had positive outcomes. I am hoping for the same.

When I was first told this might be the last option available to relieve years worth of pain, several somewhat legitimate but irrational fears crossed my mind. What if I don't survive the operation? What if I'm paralyzed? I do understand that my fears have little basis in fact. After all, that's what makes them irrational, isn't it? Nevertheless, I indulged them anyway.

Here's why: My family does not have a good track record in terms of longevity. Two of my closest uncles were lost at age 47 and 53. A cousin died at the young age of 52. My eldest brother passed away shortly after his 55th birthday. In secret, I've long told myself that if I could just get through my fifties, I'd be home free. Then along came this problem and it was decision time. What to do?

Dave reminds me that I do not share the same health and lifestyle issues as my uncles, my cousin, or even my brother. Thankfully Dave is more rational and logical than me. Since he gives more credence to science than emotional arguments and--unlike me--is not prone to overly dramatic interpretations of fact, he is usually able to talk me down from the high ledges I seek when I'm afraid.

So off we go as I begin this surgical interlude in my life, a challenging time between the first act--in which I suffered more than was really necessary--and the future scenes yet to be written.

The past few months have put a dent in my journaling. An unpleasant running commentary has taken control of my thoughts and virtually silenced the writer within. However, my inner wordsmith assures me that once the softly lilting intermission music has ended, she stands at the ready, poised to write the second act. And she is prepared to write scenes for an actor not at all in pain.

Stay tuned…

Up Close and Personal

Just found this picture of our sweet boy Tonka. Dave took it a few months ago but this is the first I'd seen it. How I love this dog! He has such an expressive face and a clever, intense border collie mind. Looking into those eyes makes me want to discover what he's thinking. Talk to me, Tonka.

Tribute to a Friend

Her name was Carol, although at first I knew her only as "Lark" -- a pseudonym she created to conceal her identity online. I met Carol exploring an early version of social networking on AOL. We both shared a passion for computers and were intrigued by this brave new digital world still in its infancy. Carol served as an online mentor to me and we became fast friends. Eventually we decided to meet in real life.

In the southwest suburbs, Carol lived in a small tri-level home she and her husband purchased long ago. Don died at a young age, only 46, leaving her a widow at an equally young age. Their only child, a son, chose a difficult road; he drifted in and out of her life occasionally.

One of the sweetest, most kind and deferential people I have ever met, Carol was not one to put herself in the limelight. She felt more comfortable in the role of counselor, offering common sense advice, lending a sympathetic ear, or providing solace and empathy.

During a difficult year of my life, after losing both my brother and mother, Carol took me under her wing and became a comforting source of support. She confided in me a familiar set of tragedies: the loss of her mother at an early age, plus the dual sorrow of dealing with the unexpected death of her husband on the heels of losing her sister and only sibling to cancer.

Our deepest, most profound conversations took place in her hot tub on the back porch, Celtic music playing in the background, sipping exotic drinks whipped up in a kitchen whose cabinets were painted a lively shade of lime green. Carol was fascinated with European and Celtic culture, extraterrestrials, pagan rituals, and the Druids. She had a special affinity for the natural world.

I enjoyed spending time with Carol, strolling through her gardens, feeding pea pods to her lop-eared rabbit, watching her fingers work a giant loom in the dining room, admiring her latest silk flower creations, trying in vain to catch a glimpse of the near-feral cat that moved in constant stealth mode throughout the house.

Carol was thrilled when I met Dave. She found him quite handsome and felt we were well-suited, a good match. As often happens with a new relationship, I spent more time with Dave and less with Carol. In the meantime her life had changed dramatically; she discovered that like her sister, she too had cancer.

Not wanting to burden her friends with the news, a long time passed before she told any of us. The cancer progressed quickly, leaving her partially paralyzed. After a brief stay in a rehabilitation center she returned home; her sister-in-law moved in to help Carol during the last months of her life.

Carol was too weak to visit or talk on the phone as the end neared. I called to wish her happy birthday a week before she died but never had the chance to speak with her. She came to me in a dream about the same time she left this world. Not long after I heard the news that she was gone. According to her wishes, no memorial service was planned, just a small gathering of friends to share stories and raise a toast.

When I first saw her grave marker, I was surprised to see her birth date etched in stone: the nineteenth of August. All those years I believed her birthday was the ninth of August. How silly I felt right then, knowing I called her every year on the wrong day! Still, I smiled to myself. How very like Carol to not correct me, sparing me any embarrassment.

Dear Carol, although you are missed, I want you to know that my memory is long and remains fairly accurate. I'm sharing one of your glamour shots in this journal. I know you felt they were frivolous and extravagant, but I always thought you looked beautiful in them. They captured an essence that maybe you could never see in yourself.

When someone talks about Las Vegas, I'm reminded of our fun-filled whirlwind visit that Memorial Day weekend so many years ago. When I hear the song of a meadowlark, see pictures of Stonehenge, read about crop circles, or listen to Celtic music, I think of you.

Thank you for being such a good friend. Most of all, thank you for sharing your generous heart with so many. I miss you...

Channeling my Mother

A few weeks ago I was clearing up the evening dishes. Distracted by conversation and news coverage, I let the hot water run a bit too long and nearly scalded my hands under the steaming faucet. Without hesitation I hollered out a saying: "Hot! Burn the baby!" then started to laugh.

There I was, channeling my mother again.

When we were little, that was mom's phrase to warn us about hot surfaces or boiling water. "Hot! Burn the baby!" was her way of teaching us to use caution around the stove, coffeepots, toasters, or a sink or bathtub filled with hot water. Even when we were older, she would continue to remind us of impending burns with the same phrase.

Mom used a heaping portion of idioms and colloquialisms in her daily life, with a side order of old wives' tales thrown in for good measure. These phrases were a natural part of her language; she had a saying suitable for nearly every occasion or circumstance.

As I began piecing together this journal, I discovered that I remembered much of the vernacular--some I use to this day--but had lost track of the more obscure bits and pieces that were standard fare in the colorful and interesting expressions used by my family. A quick internet search helped refresh my memory. Some of my all-time favorites are contained in this story.

One of mom's least favorite family members earned the nickname, Old Fuddy-Duddy. I can't imagine why she was like that, except possibly she was one of those people who seemed to get up on the wrong side of the bed nearly every day. However, you wouldn't dare tell the old fuddy-duddy what you really thought of her, because that would surely go over like a lead balloon.

Our neighbors who brought home a color television long before anyone else could afford one were living high on the hog, no doubt due to the fact that the husband had lucked into a new job where he was In Like Flynn. With a seemingly frivolous display of new wealth, the wife was frequently spotted in town all dolled up, prancing around like she was Astor's Pet Horse.

Mom wanted to make sure all of us were careful not to bite off more than we could chew. Apparently dad didn't need to worry about that particular problem because he had a cast iron stomach. Not long after finishing a meal, dad was likely to doze off... sometimes in the midst of a large family gathering. Word has it that he loved to nap so much he was capable of falling asleep on a picket fence.

My oldest brother Rich was often accused of making up cock and bull stories to explain his violation of curfews and other parental rules. Sometimes those stories were wildly fantastic scenarios that included everything but the kitchen sink. Fortunately, they were usually sufficient for him to get off Scot-free.

No one ever worried that middle brother Ted, the most responsible and studious of the bunch, would ever put all his eggs in one basket or lose his head. As such, he was voted most likely to go from rags to riches in his lifetime. Ted could usually be found toiling over his homework or art projects and never wavered from his goals, well, at least not until the cows came home.

Because of my proclivity to question everything and remain skeptical after otherwise acceptable explanations had been presented, mom had long ago dubbed me her Doubting Thomas. In my teenage years she warned against my tendency to go through life with a chip on my shoulder and pointed out that I was guilty of wearing my heart on my sleeve, a problem that plagues me to this day.

In winter, mom would lecture me about leaving the house with wet hair; you're just asking to get sick, she would say with a cluck of her tongue. But should that dry winter air make my palms itch, turns out there was a fifty-fifty chance some money might be coming my way. Unfortunately, I could never seem to remember which palm signified money in and which meant money out.

Many times I heard I was the spitting image of my mother in her younger years. I never could see it until I started getting a bit long in the tooth myself. One thing we do share is our housekeeping philosophy: If you don't have time for a thorough cleaning, just give the house a lick and a promise.

This past winter, Dave and I were at our favorite brewpub enjoying a drink at the bar. All day long my nose had been itching like crazy. As I sat there scratching the tip of my nose, I told Dave that according to my mother, this meant I was about to kiss a fool. Right then Dave leaned over and gave me a great big smooch. I can't remember if my nose stopped itching but I can report that my heart swelled in my chest.

Now, it's entirely possible that I'm pulling your leg about some of these situations. Because although I may remember the lingo, I don't always recall specific instances when they were used.

I bet most people have similar memories. What are your favorites?

Tonka vs. Mr. Ribbits

Tonka has become a little bit obsessed with the motion-activated frog I brought home from work.

On the other hand, Daisy is totally confused and unsure why Tonka seems to lose his mind over something so incredibly annoying.

So tomorrow, Mr. Ribbits is going back to the office, where he may resume his lazy days of peace and solitude.

And then Tonka can get some rest.

The Color of Pain

Kutsuu--the Japanese symbol for pain

Recently my youngest niece took a nasty spill while snowboarding. The Ski Patrol evacuated her from the mountain to a nearby medical center where they determined she had suffered from badly torn ligaments, an injury that will require reconstructive knee surgery. Julie is a resilient and strong young woman; I have no doubt that she will be a trooper throughout her surgery and therapy, and that she will soon find her way back to the sport she loves.

When I heard of Julie's accident, it took me back to an April evening thirty-three years ago when my life changed. Barely 21, I was on my way to meet a friend for a night of dancing when something went terribly wrong. I had some sort of mysterious seizure while driving, and plowed my beautiful new chocolate-brown Camaro right into a tree.

To this day I have no memory of the accident. It took me several months to even remember the events that preceded my ill-fated trip to the local disco parlor. I regained consciousness in the hospital where I found myself hooked up to multiple tubes, a white gauze turban wrapped around my head, ice packs and bandages on my legs and arms, a pair of hand-wringing parents right by my side.

I must have looked quite a sight but insisted I was fine because it didn't hurt all that much. Morphine, I was told, was keeping the pain at bay. Still, since I felt almost no pain, it couldn't be that bad, right? It was then I was told about the damage my body had endured.

The impact had thrown me forward so that the steering column was thrust into the center of my chest, breaking several ribs. My head broke the windshield and I sustained multiple cuts on my skull, an eyelid, and down one cheek. The ashtray sliced my knee open, requiring nearly 100 stitches. Both my right leg and arm were twisted horribly as my body was then propelled backwards, like a blonde Crash Test Dummy, until it landed in an unnatural position between the bucket seats.

No, I was not wearing a seat belt and yes, I realize I would not have been hurt so badly had I done so. Not only was this in the days before mandatory seat belt usage laws, but I was also 21 and as often happens, thought myself invincible.

After three days in the hospital's intensive care unit, I was moved to a regular room. The morphine was taken away and at last I had to face the pain, a sensation with a hue I can only describe as bright, hot, searing red.

My broken ribs produced the worst misery, aggravated and prolonged by the use of crutches. Eventually, slowly, my body began to heal and I was walking again. But I never felt as though I walked correctly, and my back has never been right. Over the years, each new tinge of pain and odd sensation has been absorbed and made part of my new reality. It may take a few weeks to adapt and then on you go, pushing ever forward.

Once many years ago, a massage therapist told me, "Pain must be a beautiful thing, because we have so much of it in our lives." Maybe she was right, I don't know. Personally I could do quite nicely if I were to lose a big chunk of the pain I have acquired since that dark April night.

A new pain arrived on the scene a few years ago and I finally met my match. After acupuncture and chiropractic treatments, physical and massage therapy, and even electronic nerve stimulation, this is one affliction I find myself incapable of incorporating into my world.

Its color is every bit as bright red as the color of pain I remember experiencing in that hospital room long ago. So I have chosen to undergo a radical elective surgery this summer, hoping that it will provide relief.

Pain, the old saying goes, toughens the soul. What I've decided, however, is that I believe my soul is already tough enough.

Say Hello to Daisy

Our newest family member is Daisy, a cattle dog/corgi mix. We adopted her from the Longmont Humane Society.

She's about 4 years old, a sweet little girl but scared of her own shadow!

She loves Tonka a whole bunch and, well, Tonka is still trying to decide if he loves her (not when she steals his favorite toys, that's for sure!).

They are getting along really well so far.

Stay tuned...

In Like a Lion

Let's talk about the weather.

Do you remember having discussions about the weather when you were young? I certainly don't. My parents did, all the time. Now I'm not sure if this is more a function of aging, or if weather-related topics are a passion for some people more than others.

I’ve heard that in distant times the weather was thought to be an easy topic of conversation because it was not at all controversial, a subject you could discuss without fear of inciting rage or riots, acceptable even for delicate feminine sensibilities.

The British people are often accused of having an obsession with weather. Since I seem to have a newfound fascination with weather, I’m guessing some dormant Anglo gene has finally bubbled to the surface. Or maybe it’s nothing more than a deep longing to become a meteorologist.

I'll even admit to enjoying The Weather Channel. I love the maps and charts, and sometimes there’s nothing better than watching a weather reporter share a live story from the scene of Mother Nature’s latest upheaval.

Weather delights abound here in Colorado. I find myself awestruck by the swirling clouds above us, and marvel at the clash of weather events that cause a typical storm cloud to turn a sickly grayish-green color before unleashing a tornado. You might even relish a rare but delightful clap of thundersnow, or be amused by tiny pellets of graupel—a wintry mix of snowflakes that freeze into a softer, squishy version of hail. And winter trees painted a shade of antique white with hoarfrost are incredibly beautiful, magical, bordering on divine.

Yet for the past week what I find rattling around in my head, like so many leaves scattered by a strong March wind, is my own birthday weather tradition sparked by an old English proverb:

If March comes in like a lion, it will go out like a lamb.

Edging closer to the end of our shortest month, I look forward wistfully to the forecast for my birthday. Will there be snow? Will it be a warm day? Will this year's birthday come in like a lion, or a lamb?

On Friday, the first day of March 1957, a terrible blizzard roared along the eastern seaboard. Uncle Ted, mom's older brother and a Merchant Marine, was in port and staying with our family. When mom went into labor, Uncle Ted called my father at work to report the news, then headed outside to begin shoveling. And shoveling. And shoveling.

Uncle Ted was panicked. Dad was taking too long getting home and the snow kept falling. He was scared to death, stranded during a blizzard with a woman about to give birth, terrified of being called upon to help with the delivery. What a sight: a tall, strapping, swaggering sailor working up a lather of sweat shoveling wet, heavy snow from the back staircase, down the narrow side walkway, all the way out to the street.

Dad finally arrived, pulled up to the curb and wouldn't you know it? He missed the sidewalk by a few feet. Uncle Ted was furious! Here he had worked frantically to make sure mom had a clear pathway to the car, and she ended up having to step in a snowdrift.

All was well. I was born in the hospital, as planned, and Uncle Ted stayed home to care for my brothers. The next day he visited a niece fresh from the heavens, the first time he had seen a newborn. It was then he confided to his sister that although everyone says men are the stronger sex, after seeing firsthand what a woman could bring into this world he no longer believed that to be true.

Most of my Colorado birthdays seem to have been temperate, seasonal days, with a healthy dose of nasty storms thrown into the mix. Yet sometimes when I recall the blizzard story, I project my thoughts forward and imagine the day I will leave this wonderful place I call home. A warm, sunny, beautiful, mild day it will be, because I am absolutely convinced that I will go...

...out like a lamb.

So each and every boy and girl
Should watch as March comes in;
We'll know the way the month might end
If we know the way it begins.