“And on the seventh day, God rested.” I took full advantage today of God’s designation of Sunday as a day of rest. For some reason last night I couldn’t get to sleep—almost never a problem for me. So this morning I felt justified in sleeping a bit past nine o’clock. But if I thought I slept late, the Burtons outdid me—except for Jacob who was up and out the door about ten to go host at Joe T.’s. It was well after eleven before I heard a peep out of his parents, which meant Sophie did not get her shot this morning. The vet said it’s okay to miss once in a while but don’t do it too often. So this was once in a while.
That start to the day threw my
whole schedule off. I had intended to cook this morning, but I needed some
dishes from the house—and some bourbon. So I did an extraordinary thing: I cancelled
Sunday dinner. I was going to make sheet pan chicken with potatoes and carrots,
but I knew the Burtons had big dinners (they went to two separate dinner
parties) last night and were out late, and I had a vision of fixing that only
to hear, “I’m not really hungry.” Plus I wanted to do the cooking that I hadn’t
done in the morning. I was making two appetizers for a celebration happy hour tomorrow
night, and once I decide when something is to be done, I am a bit compulsive
about it. I wanted to cook today, so that I could work at my desk tomorrow. Besides,
Zenaida will be here cleaning, and I can’t cook when she’s here—the cottage
just isn’t big enough. I hide at my desk while she cleans.
Last night Jean came for
supper, and I splurged. I had intended to make tuna casserole—I have a standard
recipe I’ve used for years but somewhere found a new one I thought I’d try. When
Central Market had halibut on sale, they hooked me. I fixed roast halibut with
crumb topping and creamed spinach—Jean liked it so well she insisted we split
the tiny bit left in the pans. And I agree—it was a really good dinner. Topped off
by chocolate bonbons.
I need to add a PS to my
thoughts on aging, posted in this blog last night. Not that I want to talk
about me and my health a lot, but I have several chronic conditions—A Fib,
hypertension, and chronic kidney disease, once advanced but now moderate. Plus I
cannot walk without assistance. But I am determined not to let those conditions
dominate my life. I will not go to the doctor constantly to have my blood
levels checked, my heart studied on an echocardiogram, and so on. I go
dutifully when scheduled, and, praise be, I get a clean bill of health on those
visits. But those conditions are not front and center in my daily thoughts. In
fact, I rarely think about them. I feel healthy, pretty energetic, and I am
determined to live life as normally as I can for as long as I can.
I did talk to my brother
tonight, for whom health is more of a problem. He’s pretty much bedridden—weak as
a kitten as he tells it. When I had hip surgery, someone convinced my children
I would need an electric wheelchair and should get it with Medicare aid while I
could. It sat as a great obstacle in my closet for several years, but about six
months ago we got it transferred to John at the ranch, and he gets up to sit in
it for a while most days. Today we had a great conversation with lots of
laughter, and I thought how wonderful it is that he, in his condition, has an
intact sense of humor.
And then I realized again: it’s
because of our mother. She taught us to be tough doctors’ children, never to
cry “Wolf,” to soldier through whatever happens, to pay attention to our health
but never take it too seriously. And until dementia took her mind, she had a
marvelous sense of humor. My dad’s family, by contrast, went into a panic if he
sneezed, and I think she was trying to counterbalance that. Bless you and
thanks, Mom.
It all comes back to positive
thinking, at least in my mind. Sweet dreams and positive thoughts to each of
you!
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