Judging a book by its cover

Perceptions are powerful.  We are drawn to certain colors and textures, to certain people, but avoid others, often without a conscious thought.  Our brains make a split second decision on whether we want something or dislike something.  Have you ever met a three-year old who has a wavering stance on something?  Nope, didn’t think so.  Our brains are wonderful adaptive masses of tissue and fibers.  Through experiences we learn that appearances and perceptions can be deceiving.  Like that delicious dark purple jellybean.  You were expecting a sweet grape, but no, it is that villain of all flavors, licorice.  You either love it or you hate it; there is no middle ground.

Books are no exception to this rule.  I am a big fan of books with a good summary, a brief bio about the author, and a good cover design.  I don’t pay much heed to the reviews from a major newspaper or periodical, or another famous author.  My perception is more impacted by a great picture with a nicely worded title in a font that is appealing or different.  I like bright colors; I guess that goes to my magpie roots. 

The Little Bookstore is located in a historic home in downtown Big Stone Gap.  To the locals the building has always been “that old house behind the liquor store.”  One of my fellow local coworkers, and dear friend, was unaware of the treasures inside the bookstore until one day I needed to go buy some gifts and she tagged along.  It is hard to change the perception of things that we have known for a very long time.  They become sort of permanent fixtures in our minds.  But when presented with new information, that image is no longer the same.  There is a sense of newness, a small light in a dim room that grows brighter as we really see what is present.  This is the same thing that happens when we realize “that old house behind the liquor store” is really a treasure trove of learning, adventure, and wonder.

What happened to change this perception came from books;  many books.  When we really think about what a book is, it is merely a simple organization of the 26 letters of the alphabet and a few (hopefully correctly placed) punctuation marks.  Yet the power that is contained within that binding is limitless.  They creep into those hidden recesses of the mind, in that deep part that is our self, and grow roots.  Some roots are more troubling than others, especially if it is a horror or thriller that grabs our attention.  Maybe the roots become intertwined with our thoughts and begin to influence our perception of the world.  Like scales falling off our eyes, revealing a new and different picture.   Books change who we are. 

Books can change spaces too.  That “old house behind the liquor store” is now a quaint little bookstore.  But it is more than that.  It’s a local meeting spot, a safe haven for intellectuals to bemoan,  a quiet place to meditate and engage in a cuddle with a soft kitten, a place to weave and knit, a place to laugh and talk, a place to challenge ideas and engage in political banter, and a place to grow.  Wendy and Jack have created their own oasis in the desert with the Little Bookstore.

The Great Liver Explosion of 2012

Regular readers will remember Shelley (mother of Holly, the girl who asked Santa to autograph her copy of “Night Before Christmas”). Here’s her guest blog on what life-and-death means when it’s real.

As many of Wendy’s readers know, I suffered a major health scare a few months ago. After facing death, Wendy blogged about my recovery and now you’re getting the rest of the story.  

It’s funny how the universe is always conspiring to bring the right people and circumstances into our lives. The GGGs all came to me serendipitously. One I met through our local paper, one through our passion for school consolidation, one works with my brother, and another’s husband coached baseball with mine. Since becoming part of this “secret society,” I always have someone that lets me know when to hunker down. One  member also needs to quit her medical practice and be my private physician. And then there’s Wendy and the bookstore……She’s the glue that keeps us together. Always planning a new adventure or just giving us a place to chat about life, politics, or small town drama. The friendship, support, and encouragement from this group have given me great joy and hope during the worst time of my life.

Before the great liver explosion of 2012, I had a storybook life-a loving husband, beautiful, healthy children, a successful business, and more sparkle than a Porter Wagner suit. Everything always seemed to work out in my favor. I never questioned why or how, I just rambled through life without a care. I became accustomed to a relatively worry free existence.

Then it happened. I decided to have liver surgery to correct a genetic condition. I did my homework and found the best liver surgeon in America at the Mayo Clinic.

Ahead of surgery, I saw everyone I wanted to see and said everything I wanted to say, except for one certain GGG. I had lingering worries about what would happen if things went sour. There were so many things I needed to tell her, but I never got the chance. I tried to pass it off as unnecessary concern, but thoughts of her haunted me.

As usual, everything was going smoothly. Pre-op appointment- GREAT. Date night before hospital check in-GREAT. Surgery-GREAT. Discharge from recovery-GREAT.  Suddenly, out of nowhere, everything wasn’t great. As a matter of fact, things were bad. VERY, VERY BAD.

My ammonia level skyrocketed. This is an indicator of liver failure and it also makes one delirious, confused, and not of sound mind. Next, I developed a blood clot in my liver followed by the explosion of a spontaneously formed bleeding ulcer. Back to surgery I went.

Since I can’t remember any of this, I have to say my surgeon has the hands of God. He repaired everything inside of me and left me with an almost unnoticeable scar.

Eleven days after this dramatic turn of events, I began to wake up and take in what had transpired. I had been on every form of life support available, received enough blood to satisfy a village of vampires, and more IV’s than any human should have to ever receive.

My tiny body was desperately trying to heal, but I couldn’t walk and speaking was not going so well either. For a moment, I imagined my children with no mother, my husband with no life & business partner, my mother losing her firstborn so soon after losing my dad. Then I did the only thing I knew how to do. I put on my big girl panties and I got over it.

After a few days, I could stand. After standing, I was able to walk a few steps. Within a week, I could walk down my hallway with a walker. My speech slowly came back. I started to believe I would taste food again. I dreamed of eating a Popsicle and oatmeal.

It took several long, scary months to regain my strength and some semblance of normalcy. When I finally felt like things were going to be okay, I realized the biggest healing hadn’t been my liver or my mind; it was my heart. This ordeal taught me to love bigger and deeper and to actually mean it.

During my recovery, my GGs gave me love, brought me food, lit candles for my healing, prayed, begged, pleaded, and did everything possible to make sure I could return to the ranks. One in particular sacrificed her scare and precious free time to keep me company and bring me homemade food and even a rescue puppy to snuggle.

As for my certain GGG, I will be in her wedding one year to the day of my life saving surgery. Ironic? No. It’s exactly as it should be. That day will be a sweet reminder of the blessing of friendship and second chances to say what needs to be said

Paul Simon has some very appropriate lyrics for my new lease on life.

“I’ve been working on my rewrite, that’s right. I’m gonna change the ending, gonna throw away the title, and toss it in the trash.”

So that’s what I’m doing. I’m working on my rewrite. I guarantee my storybook will end with, “She lived happily ever after.”