We have one of the last barns standing in the Spokane Valley (just west of Millwood) and a field that lays beside it, which is mowed about once a month just to keep it from getting wild looking. But a little wild is a good thing. There is a family of quail that live in the field, by one of the trees that Mechanic Man has to mow around. He’s very careful in his efforts because the Quail Family will roust itself up and away from the tree and scatter to another corner of the field, while he passes by, Mama, Papa, and several babies. When he would get far enough away from the home ground, the Quails would lift their heads up, and scurry across the grass back to their “home.” This would go on every time he circled – getting further away from them to the point they figured he was finally over his rampaging of their homeland.
That was in the spring time. Mr. and Mrs. Quail raised their little ones, sent them off into the world, and this weekend we chanced upon them crossing our road and scurrying past our car and into the field and to the same home tree. This time with half a dozen NEW little ones, all little puff balls, flitting to and from among the blades of grass. So they have had two sets of families this summer, which means our little space for them is quite perfect.
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8.18.2009
8.11.2009
Over Thinking
Don’t you just feel like Winnie the Pooh sometimes? I go around mumbling to myself, “Think. Think. Think.” And then I realize that I’m thinking too much and overanalyzing something that should be very simple.
Like some recipes. I was making my first batch of cinnamon rolls from scratch. Everything went perfectly until the recipe said “place cut side down.” I had my dough rolled up and I had sliced the roll into one-inch pieces and all the pieces were standing up side by side waiting for further instructions. And now it said “place cut side down.” And I thought and thought and thought. I pondered the book from a distance, hands on hips, wondering why they would put this particular instruction in and that I must be missing something. Something really important. I decided that the book was trying to talk to some moron idiot simple-minded twit that didn’t know a cut side down from a cut side up. I’m looking at the roll of pinwheels thinking (because of that silly instruction, that was put in there for SOME good reason, surely) that there must be a “right side” and a “left side” and they want one of those sides down. But which one? It was way too much thinking. The idiot is the person who puts the pinwheel standing up in the pan, hoping that by some miracle it will flip itself on the flat side (either side will do) of the pinwheel. Good grief!!!! In fact, the idiot was the author. How ELSE would you put a cinnamon roll in the pan??? I ask you?
Or those tags on pillows and mattresses that say something like “under penalty of law do not remove this label.” I used to ponder that one too when I was little and sent to my room for my naps because I was tired. This commandment was said by my mother who promptly fell asleep on the couch totally exhausted after I don’t know what while I was still burning with energy after beating pans all morning long, and then finding Mom’s matches and lighting them one by one and dropping them in the dog food to see if the dog food would catch fire. How tiring is THAT? So I’d go to my room and contemplate the tags on my pillow and then after further scrutiny and research would find the same tag on my mattress and I had to really work to rip that tag off to see what a penalty of law was.
I’m still waiting.
And then there’s the form from the State whose first question was: Can you read this? (with a Yes or No box)
How do you answer that?
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Like some recipes. I was making my first batch of cinnamon rolls from scratch. Everything went perfectly until the recipe said “place cut side down.” I had my dough rolled up and I had sliced the roll into one-inch pieces and all the pieces were standing up side by side waiting for further instructions. And now it said “place cut side down.” And I thought and thought and thought. I pondered the book from a distance, hands on hips, wondering why they would put this particular instruction in and that I must be missing something. Something really important. I decided that the book was trying to talk to some moron idiot simple-minded twit that didn’t know a cut side down from a cut side up. I’m looking at the roll of pinwheels thinking (because of that silly instruction, that was put in there for SOME good reason, surely) that there must be a “right side” and a “left side” and they want one of those sides down. But which one? It was way too much thinking. The idiot is the person who puts the pinwheel standing up in the pan, hoping that by some miracle it will flip itself on the flat side (either side will do) of the pinwheel. Good grief!!!! In fact, the idiot was the author. How ELSE would you put a cinnamon roll in the pan??? I ask you?
Or those tags on pillows and mattresses that say something like “under penalty of law do not remove this label.” I used to ponder that one too when I was little and sent to my room for my naps because I was tired. This commandment was said by my mother who promptly fell asleep on the couch totally exhausted after I don’t know what while I was still burning with energy after beating pans all morning long, and then finding Mom’s matches and lighting them one by one and dropping them in the dog food to see if the dog food would catch fire. How tiring is THAT? So I’d go to my room and contemplate the tags on my pillow and then after further scrutiny and research would find the same tag on my mattress and I had to really work to rip that tag off to see what a penalty of law was.
I’m still waiting.
And then there’s the form from the State whose first question was: Can you read this? (with a Yes or No box)
How do you answer that?
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8.10.2009
The Piano and the Exes
My parents gave me a piano when I was 11 years old. Yeah. Wow. I mean, it was a HUGE deal to me. And kind of a heavy burden to bear. It meant I felt like I should practice way more and really study at my lessons in order to “earn” the right to have a whole piano to myself. Oh, I shared it with my brothers and sister – and lessons were paid for all around, but I was the only one who continued with it.
So, when I was divorced, my parents helped me move and in one of the truck loads to my new apartment was “the piano.”
I loved that piano. I would play on it for hours. When I was growing up, I would play on it for an hour before school, again after school for several hours. I played and played and played. Actually the reason I did this was, one, well, I enjoyed it, but two, after a meltdown in college where I majored in music, I had to perform in front of a panel of four judges and I suddenly could NOT remember a note of music and had to slither back out to the hallway and gather up all my music books and bring them back to the studio piano and play by reading the music instead of by memory. Ever since, I have not been able to memorize music and have to have it in front of me all the time. I would play a piece over and over, and eventually I would play by memory but only if I had the sheet music right in front of me – just in case.
I had several moments while being a single mother that I just did not have one dime to spare for food or for the light bill. I would scrounge in the cupboards until they were bare. And one day I spiraled down to desperation and I sold my piano for $400 to my piano tuner. $400.
I left the house the day they picked up the piano. I couldn’t bear to watch it leave. It was winter and snow was on the ground. I remember coming home and seeing the tracks of the people who slid it down the sidewalk to their moving van. I cried for a week.
Months went by, holidays went by, a couple boy friends went by, and then one day an ex-boyfriend called, knowing how I felt about my piano, and said he had a friend (the girlfriend before me) who needed to store her piano for a couple years until she got settled. If I could get another set of muscles and a truck, he would help me get the piano. And it just happened that my boys’ Dad was in town and he offered to help.
So, I’m driving my car behind the truck being driven by my ex-boyfriend, carrying his ex-girlfriend’s piano in the back, with my ex-husband bracing it along the way. There’s a moral here, I just can’t quite peg it.
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So, when I was divorced, my parents helped me move and in one of the truck loads to my new apartment was “the piano.”
I loved that piano. I would play on it for hours. When I was growing up, I would play on it for an hour before school, again after school for several hours. I played and played and played. Actually the reason I did this was, one, well, I enjoyed it, but two, after a meltdown in college where I majored in music, I had to perform in front of a panel of four judges and I suddenly could NOT remember a note of music and had to slither back out to the hallway and gather up all my music books and bring them back to the studio piano and play by reading the music instead of by memory. Ever since, I have not been able to memorize music and have to have it in front of me all the time. I would play a piece over and over, and eventually I would play by memory but only if I had the sheet music right in front of me – just in case.
I had several moments while being a single mother that I just did not have one dime to spare for food or for the light bill. I would scrounge in the cupboards until they were bare. And one day I spiraled down to desperation and I sold my piano for $400 to my piano tuner. $400.
I left the house the day they picked up the piano. I couldn’t bear to watch it leave. It was winter and snow was on the ground. I remember coming home and seeing the tracks of the people who slid it down the sidewalk to their moving van. I cried for a week.
Months went by, holidays went by, a couple boy friends went by, and then one day an ex-boyfriend called, knowing how I felt about my piano, and said he had a friend (the girlfriend before me) who needed to store her piano for a couple years until she got settled. If I could get another set of muscles and a truck, he would help me get the piano. And it just happened that my boys’ Dad was in town and he offered to help.
So, I’m driving my car behind the truck being driven by my ex-boyfriend, carrying his ex-girlfriend’s piano in the back, with my ex-husband bracing it along the way. There’s a moral here, I just can’t quite peg it.
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8.05.2009
Attitude Schmattitude
It really is all in the attitude. How you look at things reflects back to you and “becomes.” It’s like what The Secret tells you – that you attract what you think about.
See, I’ve been going through a whole lot of soul searching and introspection about my progressing illness with kidney disease.
Now – I am a strong believer in positive thinking and in the tenants of The Secret. But then I get all muddled up with 1) thinking positive thoughts and 2) being realistic about what is happening to me. So – if I think about my kidney disease and my failing kidneys and start visualizing me on dialysis and then go further into the type of dialysis (tube in stomach, solution feeds through at night for eight hours) or (surgically installed fistula (extra strong vein) in my arm and going to a center every other day for four hours a day), then according to The Secret I will fulfill my “wish” and be on one of those two types of dialysis.
If I DON’T think about that and visualize me staying fit and healthy just like I am now on less than 10% kidney function (which is hardly noticeable at all!), then am I sticking my head in the sand and not being realistic???
I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t. Oh, what to do, what to do, what to do.
I’ve got little tapes in my head of Dad’s experience on dialysis (horrible at best), Mom’s viewpoint of Dad’s dialysis (worse than horrible and probably why it WAS horrible), my sister’s experience of passing on dialysis and going directly into a living donor kidney (not great experience if you count the bi-monthly trips to the hospital because of this infection and that infection, losing her house because she couldn’t afford the anti-rejection drugs after the three-year Medicare period was done for), and then my brother’s experience of both dialysis and cadaver kidney transplant (both successful – the dialysis being an annoying inconvenience and dealing with impersonal stoic staff and the continuous, never-ending, always going on, needles.
I’ve been playing these tapes over and over repeatedly (too much) in the last six weeks. I have dreaded dialysis because of my Dad’s experience and I’ve worried about a kidney transplant because of my sister’s experience.
Then I spent the day with my brother on Sunday. What a difference a positive person makes!!
It’s in the attitude. Always. It goes back to that very simple concept – attitude. As my sister-in-law said, dialysis is just another little thing you do in your life, like getting up, brushing your teeth, eating breakfast, hooking up to dialysis, going to work, relaxing and watching TV. It just slips in there and becomes a routine deal. For sure, not a small deal but not a BIG deal either. And one day, you will get “the call” and a new kidney and it will be a perfect match because I’m way more like my brother than I am like my Dad or my sister. And I especially am not like my mother, who seemed to drill into all of us the doom and gloom and death-to-all attitude.
I can do this. I just have to burn those tapes.
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See, I’ve been going through a whole lot of soul searching and introspection about my progressing illness with kidney disease.
Now – I am a strong believer in positive thinking and in the tenants of The Secret. But then I get all muddled up with 1) thinking positive thoughts and 2) being realistic about what is happening to me. So – if I think about my kidney disease and my failing kidneys and start visualizing me on dialysis and then go further into the type of dialysis (tube in stomach, solution feeds through at night for eight hours) or (surgically installed fistula (extra strong vein) in my arm and going to a center every other day for four hours a day), then according to The Secret I will fulfill my “wish” and be on one of those two types of dialysis.
If I DON’T think about that and visualize me staying fit and healthy just like I am now on less than 10% kidney function (which is hardly noticeable at all!), then am I sticking my head in the sand and not being realistic???
I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t. Oh, what to do, what to do, what to do.
I’ve got little tapes in my head of Dad’s experience on dialysis (horrible at best), Mom’s viewpoint of Dad’s dialysis (worse than horrible and probably why it WAS horrible), my sister’s experience of passing on dialysis and going directly into a living donor kidney (not great experience if you count the bi-monthly trips to the hospital because of this infection and that infection, losing her house because she couldn’t afford the anti-rejection drugs after the three-year Medicare period was done for), and then my brother’s experience of both dialysis and cadaver kidney transplant (both successful – the dialysis being an annoying inconvenience and dealing with impersonal stoic staff and the continuous, never-ending, always going on, needles.
I’ve been playing these tapes over and over repeatedly (too much) in the last six weeks. I have dreaded dialysis because of my Dad’s experience and I’ve worried about a kidney transplant because of my sister’s experience.
Then I spent the day with my brother on Sunday. What a difference a positive person makes!!
It’s in the attitude. Always. It goes back to that very simple concept – attitude. As my sister-in-law said, dialysis is just another little thing you do in your life, like getting up, brushing your teeth, eating breakfast, hooking up to dialysis, going to work, relaxing and watching TV. It just slips in there and becomes a routine deal. For sure, not a small deal but not a BIG deal either. And one day, you will get “the call” and a new kidney and it will be a perfect match because I’m way more like my brother than I am like my Dad or my sister. And I especially am not like my mother, who seemed to drill into all of us the doom and gloom and death-to-all attitude.
I can do this. I just have to burn those tapes.
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Disgusting Bugs
I am just not a bug person. I know, I know – every living creature has their place and purpose. And spiders should be placed outside where they came from. But there are a couple bugs that defy all logic. What are they good for, anyway??? Tell me what good a mosquito is. Give me ten good reasons why I shouldn’t try to wipe them off the face of the earth.
And earwigs. Earwigs are the scourge of the earth. Did you know that they lay 100 eggs at a time? They take only two weeks to incubate and about a week to mature. I’m surprised they don’t cover the earth from end to end.
Who named them earwigs? It’s a horrible name. I spent many years as a child, terrified that they would find my ears and crawl inside and hibernate and lay eggs (100) and then frolic and cavort inside my brain until I was totally insane. The bug version of mad cow.
I have a covey of earwigs in my lettuce. Not just a covey – a planet, a solar system, a whole universe of earwigs hiding in the dark places of lettuce leaves. I told MechanicMan that I will Not Ever Bring THAT Lettuce Inside The House. Ever. He finally pulled them up and threw them away. And then later told me he spent about an hour killing earwigs that followed him into the house. Rampaging earwigs out for revenge for the screaming deaths of their children, cousins, aunts, uncles, great grandparents. Later I was getting something out of the fridge and there on the front panel of the fridge was an earwig. Totally absolutely grossed me out and I called to MechanicMan to rescue me. We both got back to the fridge and the villainous earwig had vanished. Where did it go???
So, tell me – in the Biblical sense – is there any thing good about mosquitoes and earwigs? Do they make a beneficial difference by their existence. I think not.
Worms are good for bait. Lady bugs are pretty little creatures that clean the earth of aphids. Who cleans the world of mosquitoes and earwigs?
You should be very pleased (and relieved) that I didn't put up the picture I found of an earwig - actually two earwigs, one female and the other male. Be glad. Be very glad.
Well, there’s my thought for this Wednesday. I’ll ponder it awhile.
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And earwigs. Earwigs are the scourge of the earth. Did you know that they lay 100 eggs at a time? They take only two weeks to incubate and about a week to mature. I’m surprised they don’t cover the earth from end to end.
Who named them earwigs? It’s a horrible name. I spent many years as a child, terrified that they would find my ears and crawl inside and hibernate and lay eggs (100) and then frolic and cavort inside my brain until I was totally insane. The bug version of mad cow.
I have a covey of earwigs in my lettuce. Not just a covey – a planet, a solar system, a whole universe of earwigs hiding in the dark places of lettuce leaves. I told MechanicMan that I will Not Ever Bring THAT Lettuce Inside The House. Ever. He finally pulled them up and threw them away. And then later told me he spent about an hour killing earwigs that followed him into the house. Rampaging earwigs out for revenge for the screaming deaths of their children, cousins, aunts, uncles, great grandparents. Later I was getting something out of the fridge and there on the front panel of the fridge was an earwig. Totally absolutely grossed me out and I called to MechanicMan to rescue me. We both got back to the fridge and the villainous earwig had vanished. Where did it go???
So, tell me – in the Biblical sense – is there any thing good about mosquitoes and earwigs? Do they make a beneficial difference by their existence. I think not.
Worms are good for bait. Lady bugs are pretty little creatures that clean the earth of aphids. Who cleans the world of mosquitoes and earwigs?
You should be very pleased (and relieved) that I didn't put up the picture I found of an earwig - actually two earwigs, one female and the other male. Be glad. Be very glad.
Well, there’s my thought for this Wednesday. I’ll ponder it awhile.
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7.30.2009
Ten Sucks
I started the week out so well, with my Ten Things About Monday
And then Tuesday came and I thought I would do Ten things About Tuesday, but the first thing I did was see the Kidney Transplant Center in the morning and that kind of got me stuck on the number “ten.”
So, Ten Things Tuesday went like this:
Ten – the number of my blood count, which has improved from 7, but would be best at 12
Ten – the percentage of my kidney function.
Ten – the length in inches of my kidneys. Yeah – read that again. Ten inches. Let’s see. I’m 5’2” tall; that’s just under 1/6th of my entire body.
You know what? I really don’t like the number ten. It’s too blunt and short. Its numeric form is a silly dinky “one” followed by a zipless “zero”. 10. Nope don’t like 10.
I think I’m not going to do 10 list items anymore.
For more on this delirious subject, http://www.spokesman.com/blogs/commcomm/2009/jul/30/calling-all-organ-donors/
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And then Tuesday came and I thought I would do Ten things About Tuesday, but the first thing I did was see the Kidney Transplant Center in the morning and that kind of got me stuck on the number “ten.”
So, Ten Things Tuesday went like this:
Ten – the number of my blood count, which has improved from 7, but would be best at 12
Ten – the percentage of my kidney function.
Ten – the length in inches of my kidneys. Yeah – read that again. Ten inches. Let’s see. I’m 5’2” tall; that’s just under 1/6th of my entire body.
You know what? I really don’t like the number ten. It’s too blunt and short. Its numeric form is a silly dinky “one” followed by a zipless “zero”. 10. Nope don’t like 10.
I think I’m not going to do 10 list items anymore.
For more on this delirious subject, http://www.spokesman.com/blogs/commcomm/2009/jul/30/calling-all-organ-donors/
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7.27.2009
Ten Things About Monday
1. You get to start over in the work week and fix last week’s goofs.
2. On the other hand, your building’s air conditioner was turned off all weekend, and Monday is going to be hot, hot, hot.
3. There is no filing to do because you did it Friday (for those who know me, please don’t faint)
4. It is a doubly good Monday if your boss did NOT come in over the weekend; otherwise you can’t find your desk for all the piles he cleared from HIS desk because he wanted a fresh clean slate on Monday.
5. You don’t have to really look to find something to wear because everything is cleaned, ironed, and hung up – you just need to decide if today is a Pink Monday or a Blue Monday. I choose Pink.
6. The work fridge is empty and you can place your food anywhere you want and know that you’ll find it at lunch; by Friday, several unidentified “to go” boxes will be crowded in there with no takers.
7. There are no series of email requests from your boss for this and that and the other thing (yet).
8. You start out the day so organized (savor the moment)
9. You *know* the coffee is fresh and hadn’t been sitting there since yesterday afternoon because anyone who comes in on the weekend doesn’t bother to even make it because their secretaries always make it for them. They don’t know the coffee pot from the sugar bowl.
10. You know it’s going to be a good day when the elevator goes right to your floor without stopping. (Be sure to check that it really is Monday and not Sunday, like what happened the last time you didn’t stop at any of the other floors and the office was dark and empty).
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2. On the other hand, your building’s air conditioner was turned off all weekend, and Monday is going to be hot, hot, hot.
3. There is no filing to do because you did it Friday (for those who know me, please don’t faint)
4. It is a doubly good Monday if your boss did NOT come in over the weekend; otherwise you can’t find your desk for all the piles he cleared from HIS desk because he wanted a fresh clean slate on Monday.
5. You don’t have to really look to find something to wear because everything is cleaned, ironed, and hung up – you just need to decide if today is a Pink Monday or a Blue Monday. I choose Pink.
6. The work fridge is empty and you can place your food anywhere you want and know that you’ll find it at lunch; by Friday, several unidentified “to go” boxes will be crowded in there with no takers.
7. There are no series of email requests from your boss for this and that and the other thing (yet).
8. You start out the day so organized (savor the moment)
9. You *know* the coffee is fresh and hadn’t been sitting there since yesterday afternoon because anyone who comes in on the weekend doesn’t bother to even make it because their secretaries always make it for them. They don’t know the coffee pot from the sugar bowl.
10. You know it’s going to be a good day when the elevator goes right to your floor without stopping. (Be sure to check that it really is Monday and not Sunday, like what happened the last time you didn’t stop at any of the other floors and the office was dark and empty).
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7.24.2009
Giving v. Taking; Transplant 101
Hey all! I am back from my round of medical tests - you would not even believe all the places on my body that were xrayed, sonogrammed, echoed, CT'd, scanned, poked, pricked, and prodded. I am going to start journaling something like, Kidney Transplant Procedures 101.
One thing that happened throughout the day was that everywhere I went, one diagnostic room after another, each technician asked “are you a giver or a receiver?” It gave me pause to think about donors. I've been thinking about deceased donors - but there are living donors out there too. A lot of them are officially known to the transplant center as “altruistic” donors. Amazingly enough, these altruistic people simply call the transplant center and tell them they wish to donate one of their kidneys, just because. I find that absolutely totally amazing and “altruistic” doesn't even come close to defining such an extraordinary gift.
I also felt kind of selfish when I was asked if I were a giver or a receiver - interpreting the question as “I'm a TAKER.” Take! Take! Take!
I was simply amazed that there are people out there that think nothing about giving up one of their kidneys – they are willing to go through all the medical tests, the surgery, the follow-up, and living the rest of their life with one kidney.
From here, I have to wait for approval from the transplant committee (if any of the tests come back showing some other illness or cancer – things could change badly). I should be officially “on the list” in three weeks.
Here’s a little tidbit: there are three times the amount of people who NEED kidneys over the amount of kidneys available at any given time.
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One thing that happened throughout the day was that everywhere I went, one diagnostic room after another, each technician asked “are you a giver or a receiver?” It gave me pause to think about donors. I've been thinking about deceased donors - but there are living donors out there too. A lot of them are officially known to the transplant center as “altruistic” donors. Amazingly enough, these altruistic people simply call the transplant center and tell them they wish to donate one of their kidneys, just because. I find that absolutely totally amazing and “altruistic” doesn't even come close to defining such an extraordinary gift.
I also felt kind of selfish when I was asked if I were a giver or a receiver - interpreting the question as “I'm a TAKER.” Take! Take! Take!
I was simply amazed that there are people out there that think nothing about giving up one of their kidneys – they are willing to go through all the medical tests, the surgery, the follow-up, and living the rest of their life with one kidney.
From here, I have to wait for approval from the transplant committee (if any of the tests come back showing some other illness or cancer – things could change badly). I should be officially “on the list” in three weeks.
Here’s a little tidbit: there are three times the amount of people who NEED kidneys over the amount of kidneys available at any given time.
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7.22.2009
Will New Health Plan Cover Me?
So, I start the process of getting on a transplant list tomorrow. It’s a real big deal! I have a typed up schedule of all the different procedures I’m going to have, along with a map of all the locations these procedures will take place. In fact, I have four pages of maps of Sacred Heart Medical Center. I will be visiting one of the parking garages (that’s plural), the Women’s Health Center, Lower Level 1 on the west end, then Lower Level 2 on the east end, then center, then to Lower Level 3 and they’ll treat me to breakfast if I can find the cafeteria, then the 3rd floor in the Doctor’s Building which appears to be next to the garage I’ll aim for.
I’ll have a marathon bloodletting at dawn, and somewhere in there I will have “tissue typing.” Along with CT scan, ultra sound, chest x-ray, another ultrasound, skin tests, echocardiogram – all in one fun day. I am only worried about the “tissue typing.” I mean – “tissue.” Is that like scraping skin off of me??? What’s the difference between skin typing and skin tests? Or are the skin tests to see what happened with the skin scrapings earlier in the day?
I’m taking the day off – maybe I should take Friday, too. After all, I might have no skin by Friday. I’ll definitely be low on blood.
I have a questionnaire to fill out too. “Potential Kidney Donors.” And a big blank space to fill in all my friends’ names. It’s here where I hesitate. How deep and true must a friendship be to ask one friend to go under the knife for another and end up with one working kidney? Yikes. I’m afraid I’m leaving my space empty.
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I’ll have a marathon bloodletting at dawn, and somewhere in there I will have “tissue typing.” Along with CT scan, ultra sound, chest x-ray, another ultrasound, skin tests, echocardiogram – all in one fun day. I am only worried about the “tissue typing.” I mean – “tissue.” Is that like scraping skin off of me??? What’s the difference between skin typing and skin tests? Or are the skin tests to see what happened with the skin scrapings earlier in the day?
I’m taking the day off – maybe I should take Friday, too. After all, I might have no skin by Friday. I’ll definitely be low on blood.
I have a questionnaire to fill out too. “Potential Kidney Donors.” And a big blank space to fill in all my friends’ names. It’s here where I hesitate. How deep and true must a friendship be to ask one friend to go under the knife for another and end up with one working kidney? Yikes. I’m afraid I’m leaving my space empty.
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7.17.2009
Run Away With Me
O boy it’s Friday. 4:34. I’ve got my tennis shoes on and in the ready to run out the door at full blast position. I am tired of this week. Now on to the weekend.
I have garage sales to go to and things to poke around in and other people’s junk to buy as my new treasures.
Mechanic Man found me an old, old very tall book case to hold my thousands of books, and now it’s time to seek out more at yard sales and garage sales and estate sales. It’s in the shed that holds the freezer right now for want of space inside the house but I am seriously considering the few steps from the door to the shed could be considered exercise and I may put my books in the shed with the freezer. Except it is a nice old antique-looking book case that I would like to show off.
And more yard sales to find things to stuff in my book case because book cases are NOT just for books. So boring. No. Book cases are perfect for tea cup collections and glass animal collections and owl collections and old musty-smelling leather bound book collections about nothing I have ever read.
My sneakers are squeaking in anticipation.
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I have garage sales to go to and things to poke around in and other people’s junk to buy as my new treasures.
Mechanic Man found me an old, old very tall book case to hold my thousands of books, and now it’s time to seek out more at yard sales and garage sales and estate sales. It’s in the shed that holds the freezer right now for want of space inside the house but I am seriously considering the few steps from the door to the shed could be considered exercise and I may put my books in the shed with the freezer. Except it is a nice old antique-looking book case that I would like to show off.
And more yard sales to find things to stuff in my book case because book cases are NOT just for books. So boring. No. Book cases are perfect for tea cup collections and glass animal collections and owl collections and old musty-smelling leather bound book collections about nothing I have ever read.
My sneakers are squeaking in anticipation.
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7.13.2009
Reluctant Volunteer
How do you say no???? I need to learn this. I am a people pleaser big time. I want to please everybody around me, be it at home or work or in the store or, well, all the time. I never say no. Most times it’s a good thing and I walk away feeling just a little taller or kinder or gentler. It’s my little self boost. But sometimes, I should just say no.
I was standing at the bus stop downtown to go the short two miles to my home on the lower northwest side of Spokane.
A gal was standing next to me with a couple large boxes at her feet. As the bus arrived she turned to me and in very broken English, in a strong Russian accent, asked if I would help her with one of her boxes. It was more of a command than a request. “You carry box,” pointing at the box and then at me, nodding her head once as if that would seal the deal. I thought nothing of it and lifted up one of the heavy boxes for her.
As we got close to my stop she again said, “You carry box,” along with the curt nod. I asked her when her stop was and she indicated the one right after mine, so I nodded back, once, and then watched as my bus went past my [perfectly good car parked in front of my perfectly good little house] on the way to the next stop.
We got off and she curtly ordered “Carry box” and “Follow.” And I followed. The box got heavier and heavier, my legs got more lead in them, I moved slower and she hustled down the side street, her box on her head, marching resolutely along, every now and then curtly stating “Come.” She was plainly disappointed in my lack of speed. So there we went, a little mini-parade, marching down another side street back around the block until we were exactly across (but two blocks away) from my house.
I would have gladly driven her and her boxes from my house to hers. I couldn’t understand why she didn’t ask. Except for the fact that she probably assumed that since I was taking the bus I did not have a car. Probably a real luxury from where she lived in the Ukraine.
Made me think how we take for granted our material possessions while people from other cultures might consider them precious luxuries that few have.
.
I was standing at the bus stop downtown to go the short two miles to my home on the lower northwest side of Spokane.
A gal was standing next to me with a couple large boxes at her feet. As the bus arrived she turned to me and in very broken English, in a strong Russian accent, asked if I would help her with one of her boxes. It was more of a command than a request. “You carry box,” pointing at the box and then at me, nodding her head once as if that would seal the deal. I thought nothing of it and lifted up one of the heavy boxes for her.
As we got close to my stop she again said, “You carry box,” along with the curt nod. I asked her when her stop was and she indicated the one right after mine, so I nodded back, once, and then watched as my bus went past my [perfectly good car parked in front of my perfectly good little house] on the way to the next stop.
We got off and she curtly ordered “Carry box” and “Follow.” And I followed. The box got heavier and heavier, my legs got more lead in them, I moved slower and she hustled down the side street, her box on her head, marching resolutely along, every now and then curtly stating “Come.” She was plainly disappointed in my lack of speed. So there we went, a little mini-parade, marching down another side street back around the block until we were exactly across (but two blocks away) from my house.
I would have gladly driven her and her boxes from my house to hers. I couldn’t understand why she didn’t ask. Except for the fact that she probably assumed that since I was taking the bus I did not have a car. Probably a real luxury from where she lived in the Ukraine.
Made me think how we take for granted our material possessions while people from other cultures might consider them precious luxuries that few have.
.
7.09.2009
Tears for my Dad
I searched for him everywhere. I sought out his friends. I googled his name. I wanted to have him back. My Dad.
Dad went in for the umpteenth time for dialysis. At three times a week, four hours a day, six years – he had dialysis for 730 days of his life, 2,920 hours. And now he was being told they had run out of veins for his dialysis. It was Friday, December 10, 1993. It was my son’s 21st birthday; my Army child, stationed in South Korea. Dad decided not to go back to the center where he spent all those long grueling hours. He chose to die now rather than months from now, under all the same four hours a day, three days a week routine. He died on December 19.
I came home after spending the last week of his life with him and did mundane things, like shop at Albertson’s for milk and bread. All the while thinking that surely the clerks, the other shoppers, the children in the child seats, the baker, the butcher, the florist – would all see the pain in my eyes, the ache of my heart, the hole in my soul. Surely they noticed. I wanted to go up to each one and say “Did you know my Dad?” “Did you know he died?”
I went to his friends and would touch their hands, knowing that their hands had shaken my Dad’s hand. I knew that their hands had affectionately clapped my Dad’s shoulder or embraced him. And I would eagerly and breathlessly wait for anything they would say about my Dad. I wanted to confirm all the good things I knew about my Dad. I would stand there, soaking up his friends’ words like water on a parched throat.
Recently I have watched various news blogs about local people who have met untimely ends in freak accidents and what struck me were how many relatives who had never commented on these blogs, now were writing. They were writing in response to remarks made by various bloggers who didn’t know their lost loved one, and the remarks were sometimes hurtful, tacky, or erroneous. These loved ones have written from Ohio, California, Seattle – outside the scope of Spokane, Washington. And these loved ones have expressed the pain of reading these remarks when all they were doing was what I had done – they searched for anything about their child, their mother, my Dad. They googled their loved one’s name. They wanted anything about their loved one. Just like I did with my Dad. Any positive word to say he was loved by someone else. That someone else misses him as much as I.
Four months ago a good friend’s 24-year-old daughter passed away due to cystic fibrosis. I wrote about it on this blog – in a good way, in a positive way, highlighting what I knew about his daughter from my own experiences with her. I have a comment tracker and I have been amazed that every day, every single day, I have received hits to that particular post, from all over the world. Her friends started commenting to me – that it helped them so much to handle their grief over the loss of their friend. Her mother contacted me. She too wanted to hear that people loved her daughter as much as she did. The loss of her daughter took her breath away with its nearly unbearable anguish. She wanted comfort, she wanted to see her daughter through others' eyes. It confirmed for her that her daughter was vital to many, many people. That particular site gets two dozen hits a day. All because I said kind things about a person that was loved by so many people.
I wrote that story because I desperately wanted someone to write about my Dad in the same way. I wanted someone to say they loved him too. They missed him. They were sorry for my loss.
The empathy I get from others has healed the gaping hole I had felt for months after my Dad died.
Hopefully my treating others as I wish they would treat me makes a difference.
.
Dad went in for the umpteenth time for dialysis. At three times a week, four hours a day, six years – he had dialysis for 730 days of his life, 2,920 hours. And now he was being told they had run out of veins for his dialysis. It was Friday, December 10, 1993. It was my son’s 21st birthday; my Army child, stationed in South Korea. Dad decided not to go back to the center where he spent all those long grueling hours. He chose to die now rather than months from now, under all the same four hours a day, three days a week routine. He died on December 19.
I came home after spending the last week of his life with him and did mundane things, like shop at Albertson’s for milk and bread. All the while thinking that surely the clerks, the other shoppers, the children in the child seats, the baker, the butcher, the florist – would all see the pain in my eyes, the ache of my heart, the hole in my soul. Surely they noticed. I wanted to go up to each one and say “Did you know my Dad?” “Did you know he died?”
I went to his friends and would touch their hands, knowing that their hands had shaken my Dad’s hand. I knew that their hands had affectionately clapped my Dad’s shoulder or embraced him. And I would eagerly and breathlessly wait for anything they would say about my Dad. I wanted to confirm all the good things I knew about my Dad. I would stand there, soaking up his friends’ words like water on a parched throat.
“Your Dad was very kind.”All these words would bathe over me and sooth me.
“Gentle”
“Warm.”
“Intelligent.”
“He was so important to me.”
“Your Dad loved you kids so much.”
Recently I have watched various news blogs about local people who have met untimely ends in freak accidents and what struck me were how many relatives who had never commented on these blogs, now were writing. They were writing in response to remarks made by various bloggers who didn’t know their lost loved one, and the remarks were sometimes hurtful, tacky, or erroneous. These loved ones have written from Ohio, California, Seattle – outside the scope of Spokane, Washington. And these loved ones have expressed the pain of reading these remarks when all they were doing was what I had done – they searched for anything about their child, their mother, my Dad. They googled their loved one’s name. They wanted anything about their loved one. Just like I did with my Dad. Any positive word to say he was loved by someone else. That someone else misses him as much as I.
Four months ago a good friend’s 24-year-old daughter passed away due to cystic fibrosis. I wrote about it on this blog – in a good way, in a positive way, highlighting what I knew about his daughter from my own experiences with her. I have a comment tracker and I have been amazed that every day, every single day, I have received hits to that particular post, from all over the world. Her friends started commenting to me – that it helped them so much to handle their grief over the loss of their friend. Her mother contacted me. She too wanted to hear that people loved her daughter as much as she did. The loss of her daughter took her breath away with its nearly unbearable anguish. She wanted comfort, she wanted to see her daughter through others' eyes. It confirmed for her that her daughter was vital to many, many people. That particular site gets two dozen hits a day. All because I said kind things about a person that was loved by so many people.
I wrote that story because I desperately wanted someone to write about my Dad in the same way. I wanted someone to say they loved him too. They missed him. They were sorry for my loss.
The empathy I get from others has healed the gaping hole I had felt for months after my Dad died.
Hopefully my treating others as I wish they would treat me makes a difference.
.
6.29.2009
No TV for me!
Just got back from a totally relaxing week on the Oregon coast, south of Yachats, north of Heceta Head Lighthouse. I did absolutely nothing. I was totally unproductive. I vegged big time. I lay around in my pajamas and ate cereal for dinner, in the living room, watching bunnies out the front window and ever-watchful bald eagles from the back window. The eagles starved and the bunnies were totally oblivious.
I didn’t watch a clock. I took naps. I didn’t follow rules. I did, however, floss and took my vitamins. I ate whatever I wanted; got up when I felt like it; dressed when I felt like it (some days, never). I became civilized occasionally and dressed appropriately and blended in with other tourists in the quaint Old Town villages of Newport, Waldport, and Florence. I stopped at every wayside along Highway 101 from Lincoln City down to Florence, enjoyed the ocean and all her majesty from as many viewpoints as I could find.
I spent a wonderful full ten days with no phone, no tv, and lots of books. So, I was a little startled as I drove home and all that was on the radio were news items about Michael Jackson, Farrah Fawcett, Gale Storm, Billy Mays, and Ed McMahon. All dead. O my. Of all of these deaths, the one that bothered me the most was Gale Storm. She was one of my mother’s favorites. Perky, saucy, funny. Her death was lost amongst all the hype that went with particularly Michael Jackson, but Farrah Fawcett and Ed McMahon as well. All the loss, turmoil, pain, ups, downs, eccentricities, foibles.
Of all the things I didn’t have on my vacation – the television was the least missed. It brought to point for me that there really is nothing worthwhile on television that enhances my life in the tiniest way. I came home refreshed and revitalized – something that television just does not do for me.
.
I didn’t watch a clock. I took naps. I didn’t follow rules. I did, however, floss and took my vitamins. I ate whatever I wanted; got up when I felt like it; dressed when I felt like it (some days, never). I became civilized occasionally and dressed appropriately and blended in with other tourists in the quaint Old Town villages of Newport, Waldport, and Florence. I stopped at every wayside along Highway 101 from Lincoln City down to Florence, enjoyed the ocean and all her majesty from as many viewpoints as I could find.
I spent a wonderful full ten days with no phone, no tv, and lots of books. So, I was a little startled as I drove home and all that was on the radio were news items about Michael Jackson, Farrah Fawcett, Gale Storm, Billy Mays, and Ed McMahon. All dead. O my. Of all of these deaths, the one that bothered me the most was Gale Storm. She was one of my mother’s favorites. Perky, saucy, funny. Her death was lost amongst all the hype that went with particularly Michael Jackson, but Farrah Fawcett and Ed McMahon as well. All the loss, turmoil, pain, ups, downs, eccentricities, foibles.
Of all the things I didn’t have on my vacation – the television was the least missed. It brought to point for me that there really is nothing worthwhile on television that enhances my life in the tiniest way. I came home refreshed and revitalized – something that television just does not do for me.
.
6.10.2009
Yard Sale or Bust
I had my very first yard sale this last weekend. Suffice to say, it was a bust. So I’m making up a list of How to Have a Yard Sale:
1. Advertise! Toot your horn! Make sure the whole area knows that YOU are having absolutely a must see yard sale right in your own neighborhood. And put your ad in TWO days before, not one. Sign up on Craig’s List – and update your ad every morning under a different email account so it’s always towards the top of the list.
2. Signs. Signs are a must. About twenty signs on every intersection you can think of.
3. BIG PRINT. The sign must be readable from a car a block away as it is driving towards the sign at 30 miles per hour; if your sign is too small or too lightly written, and your drive by car has to slow down to read it, or even stop to read it, other cars get antsy and honk at you until you just say hell with it and drive on to the next sign that MAYBE you can read this time.
4. Print your address – don’t just say “yard sale that-away” with an arrow. Quite often the wind blows the sign and it ends up pointing a totally different direction, like down.
5. Anchor your sign. I didn’t have near enough signs and one of them kept falling over repeatedly until I braced it against a light pole. I worried about my sign incessantly until I thought I’d have to put a “stupid” sign on my forehead.
6. Balloons. Mark your territory and show the whole street that you are having a party!
7. Tell all your friends to stop by. Give them a schedule and have them just park their car at pre-appointed times. They don’t even have to get out. For some reason, a parked car at a yard sale begets other cars. Whenever one stopped, several stopped.
8. Have a tarp for every table and then you just cover them at night and hope nobody helps themselves to freebies in the middle of the night.
9. Don’t have a yard sale when something big might be going on like graduations from all the high schools in your area but they are celebrating downtown and aren’t even going to drive by any time soon to just happen upon your poorly advertised yard sale.
10. It is so true that what is one person’s junk is another person’s treasure. You think that little sole Tupperware lid all by itself is ready for the garbage and some old lady pounces on it because she has been missing hers since the last church picnic.
I’m going to read this list and check it twice and try this whole thing again in a month. O my God what a lot of work.
.
1. Advertise! Toot your horn! Make sure the whole area knows that YOU are having absolutely a must see yard sale right in your own neighborhood. And put your ad in TWO days before, not one. Sign up on Craig’s List – and update your ad every morning under a different email account so it’s always towards the top of the list.
2. Signs. Signs are a must. About twenty signs on every intersection you can think of.
3. BIG PRINT. The sign must be readable from a car a block away as it is driving towards the sign at 30 miles per hour; if your sign is too small or too lightly written, and your drive by car has to slow down to read it, or even stop to read it, other cars get antsy and honk at you until you just say hell with it and drive on to the next sign that MAYBE you can read this time.
4. Print your address – don’t just say “yard sale that-away” with an arrow. Quite often the wind blows the sign and it ends up pointing a totally different direction, like down.
5. Anchor your sign. I didn’t have near enough signs and one of them kept falling over repeatedly until I braced it against a light pole. I worried about my sign incessantly until I thought I’d have to put a “stupid” sign on my forehead.
6. Balloons. Mark your territory and show the whole street that you are having a party!
7. Tell all your friends to stop by. Give them a schedule and have them just park their car at pre-appointed times. They don’t even have to get out. For some reason, a parked car at a yard sale begets other cars. Whenever one stopped, several stopped.
8. Have a tarp for every table and then you just cover them at night and hope nobody helps themselves to freebies in the middle of the night.
9. Don’t have a yard sale when something big might be going on like graduations from all the high schools in your area but they are celebrating downtown and aren’t even going to drive by any time soon to just happen upon your poorly advertised yard sale.
10. It is so true that what is one person’s junk is another person’s treasure. You think that little sole Tupperware lid all by itself is ready for the garbage and some old lady pounces on it because she has been missing hers since the last church picnic.
I’m going to read this list and check it twice and try this whole thing again in a month. O my God what a lot of work.
.
6.03.2009
Kidney Update #2
Here's my sad soppy saga. I am starting to go through tests to get on a transplant list. (no cancer wanted - if I have cancer, they'll just throw me away). Anyway - went to see the kidney doctor today (saw the dentist last Thursday and this last Monday for what can only be described as roto rooter of the gums, with anesthesia and nitrous). So I'm already kind of whacked out of shape.
Then the doc tells me that my kidneys are functioning at ten percent of normal. Ten Percent. yeesh. I feel ok, really. The kidneys are shutting down but not telling the rest of my body - so my brain thinks I'm doing just fine thank you very much. But one of the things the kidneys do is "talk" to the bone marrow who talks to the blood who toils and turns out red blood cells - and the kidneys aren't talking, so I'm really low on blood. I'm getting what's called an EPO shot, once a week for three weeks and then once a month - if that doesn't work - it's a blood transfusion.
Are your eyes falling out of your head yet?
So - he said to watch for these symptoms: fatigue, feeling out of breath crossing the street, going up the stairs; itching skin; nausea; dry heaves; and anorexia (I wish). Well, as he starts clicking these things off, I'm still insisting I "feel FINE" but it's flashing through my mind - last night's itchy leg episode that about drove me insane; yesterday morning I didn't even want to brush my teeth because my gums still hurt and just the thought was making me feel like throwing up - and lately I don't just throw up - I do it repeatedly several times and then go into the dry heaves for several bouts; and I've started taking the elevator to get from the 15th floor to the 16th floor; and last night I gave Mechanic Man half of my hamburger - and no fries. I'm thinking, Jeanie you are so out of shape and need to diet and exercise. But Doc said that wasn't my problem. I have kidney disease related anemia. It's my uncommunicative kidneys again. Those silent buggers.
I went to Riverfront Square and then to Rite Aid over lunch. I was panting the entire way and just pooped by the time I got back. And I've noticed this before when I've gone to the Riverfront to get my hair cut - I'd start back and think, o boy, if someone would just carry me, it would be sheer bliss.
I'm beginning to think I'm SICK.
I’m still insisting I feel fine. I’m still trying to think positive thoughts and not dwell on this. I’m still trying to tell myself I’m not in denial. It’s a quandary. If I think about it, I’ll get worse. I’ll get worse if I don’t think about it. If I think positive thoughts, my kidneys just might go completely gonzo on me and turn out their lights because I’ve got my head in the sand. If I think negative thoughts, like, you’re-going-to-be-on-dialysis-for-the-REST-of-your-life (this is a litany I heard my mother sing to Dad for seven years until he finally pulled the plug on himself), then I’ll be on dialysis that much sooner. They’ll never find a donor kidney for me. I’ll have a permanent tube in my stomach or my arm, depending on what type of dialysis. What about sex? Bikini’s? (well, I wouldn’t be caught dead in a bikini – but what IF?) Slinky dresses? The too-sexy-for-my-jeans look?
.
Then the doc tells me that my kidneys are functioning at ten percent of normal. Ten Percent. yeesh. I feel ok, really. The kidneys are shutting down but not telling the rest of my body - so my brain thinks I'm doing just fine thank you very much. But one of the things the kidneys do is "talk" to the bone marrow who talks to the blood who toils and turns out red blood cells - and the kidneys aren't talking, so I'm really low on blood. I'm getting what's called an EPO shot, once a week for three weeks and then once a month - if that doesn't work - it's a blood transfusion.
Are your eyes falling out of your head yet?
So - he said to watch for these symptoms: fatigue, feeling out of breath crossing the street, going up the stairs; itching skin; nausea; dry heaves; and anorexia (I wish). Well, as he starts clicking these things off, I'm still insisting I "feel FINE" but it's flashing through my mind - last night's itchy leg episode that about drove me insane; yesterday morning I didn't even want to brush my teeth because my gums still hurt and just the thought was making me feel like throwing up - and lately I don't just throw up - I do it repeatedly several times and then go into the dry heaves for several bouts; and I've started taking the elevator to get from the 15th floor to the 16th floor; and last night I gave Mechanic Man half of my hamburger - and no fries. I'm thinking, Jeanie you are so out of shape and need to diet and exercise. But Doc said that wasn't my problem. I have kidney disease related anemia. It's my uncommunicative kidneys again. Those silent buggers.
I went to Riverfront Square and then to Rite Aid over lunch. I was panting the entire way and just pooped by the time I got back. And I've noticed this before when I've gone to the Riverfront to get my hair cut - I'd start back and think, o boy, if someone would just carry me, it would be sheer bliss.
I'm beginning to think I'm SICK.
I’m still insisting I feel fine. I’m still trying to think positive thoughts and not dwell on this. I’m still trying to tell myself I’m not in denial. It’s a quandary. If I think about it, I’ll get worse. I’ll get worse if I don’t think about it. If I think positive thoughts, my kidneys just might go completely gonzo on me and turn out their lights because I’ve got my head in the sand. If I think negative thoughts, like, you’re-going-to-be-on-dialysis-for-the-REST-of-your-life (this is a litany I heard my mother sing to Dad for seven years until he finally pulled the plug on himself), then I’ll be on dialysis that much sooner. They’ll never find a donor kidney for me. I’ll have a permanent tube in my stomach or my arm, depending on what type of dialysis. What about sex? Bikini’s? (well, I wouldn’t be caught dead in a bikini – but what IF?) Slinky dresses? The too-sexy-for-my-jeans look?
.
5.26.2009
Oscar, the Oven Mitt
I love names. I give names to everything – my car, my cat, my kids, spiders, clothes, and oven mitts. Actually, it’s my Mom’s doing. She started it.
When we were growing up, Mom acquired an oven mitt in the shape of an alligator (or a crocodile – I can’t tell them apart), and we were fascinated with “him.” We worried endlessly about how he would survive going into the hot oven to grab something with his teeth. Mom named him Oscar. Oscar was like a Mighty Crock who could withstand innumerous dunkings into the fires of hell, er, the oven. He was singed, and once even caught fire upon which my Dad heroically put out the fire by throwing Oscar into the dishwater and nearly drowning him. Once he actually made it into the laundry and all the little singed parts became little frayed holes. But he still managed to be the chief pot holder in the family, and the only one with a name.
We had a George, too, who was really all our hoodies for camping – only they weren’t called hoodies back in the cold age of camp fires, marshmallows, and ghost stories. They were plain old sweatshirts with hoods and pockets in the front. We each had an identical shirt and they were only used for camping – so at the end of the summer, Mom would make a show of putting the smallest hoodie into the next hoodie, into the next, until finally Dad’s sweatshirt was enveloping the whole family of hoodies. It looked like a torso and sat in the back of the closet. She named him George.
This was handy other times of the year because if we heard creeks or groans from the house, we all chalked it up to . . . . . . George.
And of course, spiders have names. According to my mother. They are all Fred. Fred lives outside – at least that is where he belongs. So she carefully picks Fred up with a tissue and puts him outside where he belongs. All of my siblings and I learned this very valuable skill very early in our lives. Spiders – all named Fred – belong outside as God intended.
However, if the spider happens to be a Black Widow – then all rules about Fred go right out the window – I mean to say – the Black Widow doesn’t get the same privileges as Fred. The Black Widow is killed by Mom at least 150 times until she is absolutely positive that there is no more Black Widow at all, not a single molecule.
So – I was dating a guy I considered pretty macho and we were sitting on the couch watching a movie when a centipede started marching along the wall behind the television. I thought nothing of it – a cousin of Fred – and grabbed a tissue and gently lifted the centipede and put “her” outside where she belonged. I turned back and here is macho man, with his knees up to his chest, looking like some monster had slithered along the floor under his feet. What? You don’t put your little critters out where they belong?
Anyway – Oscar grew old and frayed and finally was relegated to the back of the drawer of old towels and cleaning rags – the nursing home of oven mitts. I still put Fred out where he belongs.
.
When we were growing up, Mom acquired an oven mitt in the shape of an alligator (or a crocodile – I can’t tell them apart), and we were fascinated with “him.” We worried endlessly about how he would survive going into the hot oven to grab something with his teeth. Mom named him Oscar. Oscar was like a Mighty Crock who could withstand innumerous dunkings into the fires of hell, er, the oven. He was singed, and once even caught fire upon which my Dad heroically put out the fire by throwing Oscar into the dishwater and nearly drowning him. Once he actually made it into the laundry and all the little singed parts became little frayed holes. But he still managed to be the chief pot holder in the family, and the only one with a name.
We had a George, too, who was really all our hoodies for camping – only they weren’t called hoodies back in the cold age of camp fires, marshmallows, and ghost stories. They were plain old sweatshirts with hoods and pockets in the front. We each had an identical shirt and they were only used for camping – so at the end of the summer, Mom would make a show of putting the smallest hoodie into the next hoodie, into the next, until finally Dad’s sweatshirt was enveloping the whole family of hoodies. It looked like a torso and sat in the back of the closet. She named him George.
This was handy other times of the year because if we heard creeks or groans from the house, we all chalked it up to . . . . . . George.
And of course, spiders have names. According to my mother. They are all Fred. Fred lives outside – at least that is where he belongs. So she carefully picks Fred up with a tissue and puts him outside where he belongs. All of my siblings and I learned this very valuable skill very early in our lives. Spiders – all named Fred – belong outside as God intended.
However, if the spider happens to be a Black Widow – then all rules about Fred go right out the window – I mean to say – the Black Widow doesn’t get the same privileges as Fred. The Black Widow is killed by Mom at least 150 times until she is absolutely positive that there is no more Black Widow at all, not a single molecule.
So – I was dating a guy I considered pretty macho and we were sitting on the couch watching a movie when a centipede started marching along the wall behind the television. I thought nothing of it – a cousin of Fred – and grabbed a tissue and gently lifted the centipede and put “her” outside where she belonged. I turned back and here is macho man, with his knees up to his chest, looking like some monster had slithered along the floor under his feet. What? You don’t put your little critters out where they belong?
Anyway – Oscar grew old and frayed and finally was relegated to the back of the drawer of old towels and cleaning rags – the nursing home of oven mitts. I still put Fred out where he belongs.
.
5.13.2009
And so it begins. . .
I was blithely going through my day, the normal humdrum of filing, typing, cataloging, typing, time entry, bla bla, more typing, and arrived home to the mail:
A packet starting with the ominous "The Journey of Transplant Evaluation."
O boy.
It's several pages and forms to fill out to start the process of being evaluated to be placed on a kidney transplant list.
I'm half excited about this. Actually I feel too good to really be considered for a transplant. I'll probably go along like I do in sports - and be the last one on the list. Who knows? Evidently my doctor sent my name in to the transplant center - and also to social security. Did you know that I might be able to get Medicaid?
I'm half overwhelmed, too. I'll meet with a team of people - the transplant surgeon, transplant nurse coordinator, social worker, and dietitian. I'll have all kinds of tests done: dental, colonoscopy (well, I've kind of been looking for an excuse to have one done, other than having it done just because I'm "old"), EKG, ECG, Ultrasound, cardiology, vascular, CT, besides draining me of my blood for chemistries, serologies, microbiologies, and cancer markers. Heck, once I pass all of these tests with flying colors, I should be able to live totally free of kidneys - who needs a kidney when everything else is working so well! Well, maybe not.
But what if I fail these tests or it shows something else.
Anyway - here I go, off into the dark world of medical tests on every single cell in my body.
It beats dialysis any day!
.
A packet starting with the ominous "The Journey of Transplant Evaluation."
O boy.
It's several pages and forms to fill out to start the process of being evaluated to be placed on a kidney transplant list.
I'm half excited about this. Actually I feel too good to really be considered for a transplant. I'll probably go along like I do in sports - and be the last one on the list. Who knows? Evidently my doctor sent my name in to the transplant center - and also to social security. Did you know that I might be able to get Medicaid?
I'm half overwhelmed, too. I'll meet with a team of people - the transplant surgeon, transplant nurse coordinator, social worker, and dietitian. I'll have all kinds of tests done: dental, colonoscopy (well, I've kind of been looking for an excuse to have one done, other than having it done just because I'm "old"), EKG, ECG, Ultrasound, cardiology, vascular, CT, besides draining me of my blood for chemistries, serologies, microbiologies, and cancer markers. Heck, once I pass all of these tests with flying colors, I should be able to live totally free of kidneys - who needs a kidney when everything else is working so well! Well, maybe not.
But what if I fail these tests or it shows something else.
Anyway - here I go, off into the dark world of medical tests on every single cell in my body.
It beats dialysis any day!
.
5.11.2009
Take Me Out of the Ball Game
I have found my household glued to the TV lately, watching the Mariners’ games. I’m not a real enthusiast. I only know that my presence is a hindrance to winning games, whether I am watching in the bleachers, or totally at a distance from the hidey-hole of my living room. And I have mystical, magical powers of doom.
If I leave the room, the team scores. If I stay, the other team will get a three-base hit and run. Never fails. So I try to occupy myself elsewhere and give the Mariners a fair chance. :)
All this baseball drama has brought memories of the one summer I was on a softball team for the City. I won’t say when because I think I’d get tarred and feathered. You see, I have the same effect if I am actually on the team. Worse.
I could not hit a ball to save my soul. I couldn’t catch a ball either. Or throw. But I’d try, try, try!!!!
Once, I was thrown the ball to 2nd base, where the runner was flying down from 1st. I just closed my eyes tight and held out the ball towards the runner and, damn! if she didn’t run smack into it with her left boob. She said she was going to go around again and try for the right – so at least they (the boobs) would be even.
I was a terrible but extremely earnest player. I never did make it to a base – so no need to worry about stealing 2nd or 3rd – I never got to 1st.
The legend of my lack of prowess got to be so bad, that BOTH teams would root for me. I caught a ball, playing shortstop. I mean, I actually caught a fly ball. I’m hopping up and down and shouting, “I caught it! I caught it!” and then realized that every one on both sides is doing the same thing. All jumping up and down and screaming “She caught the ball! She honestly caught the ball!” The game stopped so we could all regroup. Even the people on the bases stood still instead of running for all they were worth. Oh, maybe you can’t do that if I caught the fly ball. What do I know. . . .
Sigh.
When we got to the finals and there were several teams playing, I showed up, loyally and diligently, in my uniform, with my mitt, ready to Play Ball. The coach met me at my car and told me he was benching me right off the get go. No hard feelings – we just needed to have all players actually hitting the ball and catching it. You know, we’d like to actually win a game here.
.
If I leave the room, the team scores. If I stay, the other team will get a three-base hit and run. Never fails. So I try to occupy myself elsewhere and give the Mariners a fair chance. :)
All this baseball drama has brought memories of the one summer I was on a softball team for the City. I won’t say when because I think I’d get tarred and feathered. You see, I have the same effect if I am actually on the team. Worse.
I could not hit a ball to save my soul. I couldn’t catch a ball either. Or throw. But I’d try, try, try!!!!
Once, I was thrown the ball to 2nd base, where the runner was flying down from 1st. I just closed my eyes tight and held out the ball towards the runner and, damn! if she didn’t run smack into it with her left boob. She said she was going to go around again and try for the right – so at least they (the boobs) would be even.
I was a terrible but extremely earnest player. I never did make it to a base – so no need to worry about stealing 2nd or 3rd – I never got to 1st.
The legend of my lack of prowess got to be so bad, that BOTH teams would root for me. I caught a ball, playing shortstop. I mean, I actually caught a fly ball. I’m hopping up and down and shouting, “I caught it! I caught it!” and then realized that every one on both sides is doing the same thing. All jumping up and down and screaming “She caught the ball! She honestly caught the ball!” The game stopped so we could all regroup. Even the people on the bases stood still instead of running for all they were worth. Oh, maybe you can’t do that if I caught the fly ball. What do I know. . . .
Sigh.
When we got to the finals and there were several teams playing, I showed up, loyally and diligently, in my uniform, with my mitt, ready to Play Ball. The coach met me at my car and told me he was benching me right off the get go. No hard feelings – we just needed to have all players actually hitting the ball and catching it. You know, we’d like to actually win a game here.
.
5.06.2009
Joys of Camping
This is for Cindy, who thinks camping is for the birds, in response to my post on Camping at http://jeaniespokane.blogspot.com/2008/07/time-to-go-camping.html.
Ten reasons you can enjoy camping:
1. You can throw your dirty dishes in the campfire with no guilt. (Well, paper plates, unless you are a true camper phobic and have to bring along your good China – then have your sons wash the dishes for you – in a kettle of water they drew from the lake and heated up over the open fire).
2. You can stay up as long as you like and tell ghost stories around the campfire after the sun goes down – no need for tv, radio, or books
3. If it rains during the day – you get to do jigsaw puzzles with your kids
4. If you go camping with your mom, you get to go to bed before the sun sets because she doesn’t like sitting outside in the dark by herself
5. If you go camping with your dad, you get to get up first thing in the morning because the fish are jumping, the fire is going, the eggs are frying, the cold fresh air is invigorating, nature is calling.
6. Those little black thingies in your eggs – that’s just pepper. Really.
7. You can lay in the sun and have absolutely nothing to do but bake (bring sun screen).
8. You can prove your warrior strength by standing over your children so horseflies as big as basketballs don’t carry them away.
9. You experience the Zen of sleeping on the hard ground and waking up energized and ready for a dawn swim in the icy cold river.
10. You love building a fire with twigs you and everyone else gathered when you first set up camp, after you found a fairly flat piece of ground, raked away the rocks, tree limbs, and pinecones, set up the tent, pounded the stakes in the ground so the tent wouldn’t blow away, and if it is really windy, you built a windbreak just for the fire. The fire never goes out because you feed it and feed it and feed it and feed it.
Camping is just so much FUN!!!
.
Ten reasons you can enjoy camping:
1. You can throw your dirty dishes in the campfire with no guilt. (Well, paper plates, unless you are a true camper phobic and have to bring along your good China – then have your sons wash the dishes for you – in a kettle of water they drew from the lake and heated up over the open fire).
2. You can stay up as long as you like and tell ghost stories around the campfire after the sun goes down – no need for tv, radio, or books
3. If it rains during the day – you get to do jigsaw puzzles with your kids
4. If you go camping with your mom, you get to go to bed before the sun sets because she doesn’t like sitting outside in the dark by herself
5. If you go camping with your dad, you get to get up first thing in the morning because the fish are jumping, the fire is going, the eggs are frying, the cold fresh air is invigorating, nature is calling.
6. Those little black thingies in your eggs – that’s just pepper. Really.
7. You can lay in the sun and have absolutely nothing to do but bake (bring sun screen).
8. You can prove your warrior strength by standing over your children so horseflies as big as basketballs don’t carry them away.
9. You experience the Zen of sleeping on the hard ground and waking up energized and ready for a dawn swim in the icy cold river.
10. You love building a fire with twigs you and everyone else gathered when you first set up camp, after you found a fairly flat piece of ground, raked away the rocks, tree limbs, and pinecones, set up the tent, pounded the stakes in the ground so the tent wouldn’t blow away, and if it is really windy, you built a windbreak just for the fire. The fire never goes out because you feed it and feed it and feed it and feed it.
Camping is just so much FUN!!!
.
5.03.2009
Perspective
Age is all from perspective, I have decided. This weekend alone I have witnessed the whole continuum. I stopped and chatted with a man I didn’t know, who was on oxygen. He started telling me about the ailments of old age. He said, “You turn 60, and it’s all downhill from there, in a rush! You turn around and there’s another birthday. And then another. And another! All downhill from 60.” And when I told him I just turned 60, he remarked that I look good for my age and maybe that downhill race won’t happen to me.
Then a little friend came over. She’s 11, almost 12, going on know-it-all 30. She saw my birthday cards and upon asking how old I was, her mouth turned into a perfect O and stunned silence for about 30 seconds. The usually chatter silenced in speechlessness.
Just now a young mother with two toddlers in a stroller came by and stopped to talk to me. I’ve never seen them before and they both readily told me “I’m four.” (Twins) They told me their names and asked me for mine. And then chatted nonstop about their adventures in the playground and that they have to go home now because they were sopping wet from jumping around in puddles. And treated me like I was a playmate or at least a doting aunt with an ear for listening. Age meant nothing to them. I still hear the cheerful humming as they both sang “Bye Jeanie” in unison and went on their way.
From young whippersnapper to ancient crone to best pal in 24 hours.
.
Then a little friend came over. She’s 11, almost 12, going on know-it-all 30. She saw my birthday cards and upon asking how old I was, her mouth turned into a perfect O and stunned silence for about 30 seconds. The usually chatter silenced in speechlessness.
Just now a young mother with two toddlers in a stroller came by and stopped to talk to me. I’ve never seen them before and they both readily told me “I’m four.” (Twins) They told me their names and asked me for mine. And then chatted nonstop about their adventures in the playground and that they have to go home now because they were sopping wet from jumping around in puddles. And treated me like I was a playmate or at least a doting aunt with an ear for listening. Age meant nothing to them. I still hear the cheerful humming as they both sang “Bye Jeanie” in unison and went on their way.
From young whippersnapper to ancient crone to best pal in 24 hours.
.
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