If they said it, it must be true. Right?

It was 1997. My mom had been in the cardiac care unit for over six weeks following complications after heart surgery. When you spend that kind of time in the trenches with nurses, doctors, therapists and the like, you become a sort of family.

Being the relational type, I had gotten to know all their names and began to care about each of them as they cared for my mom. I just assumed, or presumed, they were invested in me to some level as well. So, when we would leave the hospital to grab a bite or run an errand or whatever, we would return and press the little intercom button that accessed the nurse’s desk in the CCU so we would be buzzed back in to the unit.

This was my sister:

“CCU – Sandy.”

“We’re here to see our mom, Virginia, in Room 2.”

Buzz

This was me:

“CCU – Sandy”

“Hey Sandy! It’s Virginia’s daughters. We just got back from having dinner at The Olive Garden. Will you let us back in so we can spend the evening with our mom? Thank you!”

Buzz.

My sister would say something like, “Can you not just say we’re here to see Mom? They don’t need all the extra information.” My sister and I are very close, so this wasn’t a mean-spirited criticism. I received that kind of teasing or critique from a lot of people. As a result, I always felt self-conscious. I always believed I was talking too much, being unnecessarily “newsy” or relational, and others did not need or care when I provided what I thought was meaningful context. Even so, it wasn’t enough to stop me, and my wordiness didn’t keep us out of the CCU, but I was acutely aware that I was probably the reigning Queen of TMI.

With that belief ingrained in my brain, it followed me wherever I went. And it became abundantly clear one night at my local grocery store.

I was attending a friend’s home housewares party. The kind where you can buy a garlic press or a tube pan for baking bread, or the apparent staple for everyone’s kitchen at the time – a pizza stone. My friend had a fruit tart prepared as part of the presentation and realized she had forgotten the vanilla ice cream to go with it, so I told her I’d run out to the store and grab some for her.

Once I arrived at the store, I figured I would redeem my trip and dash over a couple of aisles to pick up some contact lens fluid since I knew I was running low. With that in hand, along with the vanilla ice cream, I proceeded to the express checkout. Keep in mind this was 1997 and there were no self-checkout options.

I was in line and I noticed that the woman in front of me was slowly, methodically, inexplicably removing the items from her cart one by one, looking at each item, as if it were the last of its kind she would ever purchase. Then she would set it down on the checkout stand and reach for the next one. It seemed to be taking forever and I was in a hurry. I had a crucial pint of ice cream to deliver, so I hustled over to the next lane and with a hurried, exasperated breath, I dropped my two items on the belt and said by way of explanation, “My friend is throwing a home goods party and she forgot the vanilla ice cream.”

The checker looked at me and said, “And I care?”

Instantly the reigning Queen of TMI was ashamed. Again I had offered up too much useless and unsolicited information. Of course, I said to myself, she didn’t care why I was in a hurry. I could feel my soul shriveling a little on the inside. With my head bowed, my downcast eyes on my checkbook as I began to write one out, I said to her, “No, I suppose you wouldn’t.” I was embarrassed and more than a little mortified.

All of a sudden, it was quiet. I went to hand her my check, then my eyes floated up to see the ice cream and my contact lens fluid waiting to be bagged.

My contact lens fluid.

 My contact lens fluid!

Eye care.

And EYE care!

I immediately looked up at the checker’s face. She was looking at me with this confused, “What are you talking about?” expression.

My smile beaming, I exclaimed to her, “And EYE CARE! As in vanilla ice cream and EYE CARE!”

The look on her face went from confusion to incredulity. She said, “Yes, and eye care, as in the contact lens fluid. You didn’t think I meant, “And I care…did you?” To which the reigning Queen of TMI explained the whole story of how she had earned her crown.

The ice cream made it to the party intact. And I did not buy a pizza stone.