Small smiles and a pet peeve

 

Sophie waiting for happy hour

Several things yesterday and today gave me small smiles—I like moments like that. Last night it was far too chilly for happy hour on the patio so Jordan, Mary, and I gathered in the cottage. Sophie sat on the deck and stared at the cottage for the longest time. We couldn’t figure out what she was doing. Much later it dawned on me—she was trying to figure out why we were inside and not outside with her. She loves happy hour when there’s a guest!

Some time ago, Dean Jones, who bills himself as the Well Seasoned Librarian, interviewed me for his podcast. The interview covered the whole of my career and gave me a chance to talk about some of my books and how they came about. Today, I finally got the link and listened. At first I thought my voice quavered, like an old woman (hold those comments, please!) but as the interview progressed I must have felt more at ease because my voice got stronger. A couple of times my mind went blank, and I couldn’t remember  simple fact or a title, but I think that was just on-the-spot nerves and not failing memory.

The ”well seasoned” in Jones’ moniker comes from the fact that he has a special interest in food and food writing. He apparently was attracted to my work by the Blue Plate Café Mysteries, but then we had a good talk about Gourmet on a Hot Plate, the book and the blog, and I told him my story about seeking a publisher for a biography of Helen Corbitt, the Neiman Marcus food lady who really was a fascinating woman aside from her career at Neiman’s.

You apparently have to sign up for Spotify to listen, and that took me a chunk of time this morning. But now I have a Spotify account I will likely never use again. If you’re interested, here’s the Spotify link: https://open.spotify.com/episode/2nGkxjM8qFsbuE44nUDGJ6?si=-2pgSQ8TSnu24ja1yuZryg. The interview runs twenty-nine minutes.

A pet peeve I’ve only recently developed: It is slowly dawning on me that when Jordan and I go to my medical appointments, everyone from the doctor to the receptionist talk to her about me, as if I weren’t there or were incapable of understanding. I didn’t really catch on to it yesterday in the endodontist’s office, probably because I was so relieved to have the procedure done with. But last night, talking about it, I realized he told her that I should eat soft foods, nothing crunchy. He explained the medications (none of which I took) to her and showed her the x-ray of my tooth. When I complained about it—to Jordan, after the fact, she said, “The screen was behind you. You were still in the dental chair.” Maybe so, but if I’d be alone, he’d have gotten me out of that chair, into my transport chair, and wheeled me to the screen.

By contrast, Monday I went to the eye doctor alone—Jordan dropped me off and picked me up, but I was in the doctor’s exam room alone. The young doctor carefully explained to me three options for surgery that might improve my vision. Without them I see well enough to drive, if I were still licensed, and certainly well enough for my daily routine. I told the doctor that I didn’t want any surgeries that were not absolutely necessary, and he accepted that saying, “You seem to have a good grasp of the condition of your eyesight and the options open to you. We’ll do nothing and check again in a year.” I loved the words, “You seem to have a good grasp.” Of course I did. My mind still works, just not my legs so well.

I think it is a common misconception among those in the health care professions. If they see an elderly patient with a walker or a wheelchair, they automatically, though probably unconsciously, assume some degree of dementia. Every time I mention it, Jordan says I’m imagining it, but it’s happened too often.

I resolve as of today to take more direct charge of office visit with physicians. After all, I’m the one that schedules appointments and deals with the physician’s office (I am blessed to have several docs that I can communicate with by email), and pays the bills. I don’t mind if they call me “Judy” instead of “Mrs Alter”—in fact, I prefer it. But I want to be talked to, not about.

As you can tell from this post, dementia is an ongoing concern with me. My mom developed it, from a series of TIAs or small strokes, when she was about the age I am now. I think my ongoing involvement with the writing world and my active voice about politics and current affairs helps keep that wolf from the door. But I loved it when Christian said the other night, “Well, you certainly don’t have dementia.” Wish I could remember what the conversation was about.