Excitement, sort of

It doesn’t take much these days to make a day exciting, so I had an exciting day today—sort of. Actually got out of the house and off the property. Had t go have another ultrasound to see why my fat leg is still swollen. That in itself is not exciting—ultrasound is not painful or difficult, just kind of boring as you lie there wondering how much longer it’s going to take. This after we sat in the car a long time waiting to be called inside.

But oh the sights I saw on the way there—a house that I’d always admired, mostly because I could see through the window that it had terrific, packed bookcases, is suddenly gone, to be replaced by a McMansion I’m sure.. Another house on our route had disappeared but I couldn’t remember what was there. Crepe myrtles are in bloom, lawns still look mostly green—not yet brown from the heat though this last week may do it—and the city seemed pretty.

After the appointment, Jordan wanted to go to the cardiac vet’s office to pick up medication for June Bug. It’s way out on the south side of town, and she follows a devious route which I couldn’t trace if I had to. But it’s mostly on access roads, so when I said, ‘Jordan! My hearing aid is gone!” there was no way she could pull over. I called the imaging office and asked them to look—they even went through the trash, checking the paper that had been on the bed. Nothing. Jordan was thinking replacement cost; I was thinking difficulty in hearing, although I get along okay with one aid.

Finally, at the vet’s, we stopped under a wonderful and huge canopy that covers most of the parking spaces. I stepped out and we patted and poked at my clothes. Nothing. Then Jordan found it in the car seat. It had apparently fallen out when I took off my mask. It’s the one that does tend to slide out of the ear. Anyway, it was a great relief after a moment of panic.

I wanted to stop at my favorite sandwich shop on the way home and get something to take home for lunch. But Jordan looked online. They’ve only recently re-opened and now for take-out you have to call a day ahead. Who knows a day ahead that they’ll want a sandwich for lunch? Big disappointment.

All that excitement! When I got home, I was exhausted and had to have a nap. Sophie had other ideas, and then the lawn guy called to answer my questions about my new grass, which is lush and lovely and very shaggy—apparently, they don’t mow for two weeks after they put it in. He says he can take care of the nut grass scattered throughout..

Jean came for happy hour. Patio is maybe a bit warm but really not unpleasant, what with the fan going and the umbrella blocking that one bit of evening sun my shady patio gets. We talked of mice and men, of politics and masks, and all kinds of things. It’s so good to have a friend with whom I can say almost anything and who most of the time supports and agrees with me—and tells me when she doesn’t. We know each other’s families and concerns and joys. I’m the richer for her friendship.

With Jacob out of town, Jordan and Christian are having a “date night” tonight. With the pandemic, they can’t go out, so they’re grilling steaks at home. I planned to make myself a black bean casserole I’ve been wanting to try, until Jordan said, “Well, if you prefer black beans to steak. . . .” They had gotten a steak for me, so I’m enjoying it as I type. Made myself a small salad and that’s dinner. The steak is large, so I expect to have it for lunch tomorrow too.

‘Night all.

The ongoing saga of my car

Thidaughter, s was when I first started to drive again

after two years away from the wheel

As many of you may know, I drive a 2004 VW Beetle convertible that I adore. It’s my “I’m-not-your-typical-grandmother” car, and I adore zipping around in it—or I did. For almost two years, when I had so much trouble with my hip and the surgery, the car sat—first outside my cottage and then outside my son’s house in Tomball, where I thought they would drive it. They didn’t, and when I finally was able to drive again, I had to do a lot of expensive repairs.

I had such a sense of release and freedom. I drove with a joy and confidence I never had before. Lately though that confidence has been replaced by uncertainty and a slight tendency toward panic. Long story short, I’m not enjoying driving much, and it’s a real dilemma for me. For one thing, it’s a pain when I am alone to get the walker and then me into the car and reverse the procedure whenever I get where I am going. And Jordan doesn’t want me to get in or out alone. She’s afraid I’ll fall or get mugged. So lately it’s been easier just not to drive.

But cars don’t do well just sitting. I’ve had to have the battery jumped twice, mostly because I didn’t park it in such a way that Christian could get a car next to it to use jumper cables. Garages have those handy little things they carry around and don’t need cables. Jacob has been good about going out to start it, but it still doesn’t last long. So today, Christian jumped it—we had parked deliberately the last time we started it—and Jordan and I drove to get gas and to get eggs and milk at Braum’s.

My beloved daughter turned into a back-seat driver. “The gas station is on the left”—I know that. I’ve lived in this neighborhood over fifty years. “Slow down. There are people walking in the street”—I see them and am being careful. As I drove in the driveway, “Wait for the gate to open”—I’ve been driving in this driveway with that gate for about twenty years. “Why won’t your windows go all the way up?” Because the door is still open. Sheesh! I can see the handwriting on the wall, the point at which my kids will think I should no longer drive, though after my two-year hiatus, each one had to drive with me to check me out, and each one had different objections. Truth is, I’m a  pretty good side-street driver, not so much on busy streets, and not at all on freeways..

Christian was quite stern with me: I will have to drive it frequently; we can’t keep jumping it. And I can do that, albeit it’s a bit of a pain. Next dilemma: my driver‘s license comes up in July, and at my age I will have to appear in person and take the test, the thought of which gives me the nervous willies. Sometimes they require that you wear your hearing aids and not drive after dark—I’m okay with that. I would like to keep my license, if for no other reason than in another year Jacob will have his learner’s permit, and I can let him drive as long as I am in the car as a licensed driver. I’d probably give him the car, but he doesn’t much like it, and Christian supported him by saying, “It’s not a very masculine car.” What kind of nonsense is that? When I drove it a lot, women came up to me to say, “My husband would kill for that car.”

So here I sit, pondering all these variables. At least, it’s not a decision I have to make tomorrow, and it’s a good distraction from worrying about the corona virus.

Flotsam and jetsam

It’s pretty much been a shipwreck kind of a week. But the high point is Jacob’s birthday—tomorrow, his thirteenth. He turns into a teen. But. he got his “Juju” present early because who can disguise a fishing pole when it comes in a long, skinny box. Yes, he has other poles, but this was a special one that he was excited about. He brought the package out to the cottage to open, and I’m sorry to say that I wasn’t quick enough to grab the phone and capture a picture as he pulled the pole (protected in a fabric sheath) out of the box. The happiness on his face was magical. He took it fishing that day and caught one small fish.

Today he came out to the cottage to ask, “Did I tell you I caught a fish with he pole you got me?” I assured him he had. I am so delighted with his absorption with fishing—it gets him out in the great outdoors and away from TV, iPad, and phone. I haven’t heard a word about “Fortnight” in months. But as Christian pointed out to me, fishing is not an aerobic exercise.

Otherwise it’s been a week of checking things off the to-do bucket list. The pest control people sprayed the back yard with what they assure me is an organic mixture, mostly eucalyptus and rosemary. It’s the remaining ingredients I should have asked about, but the deed is done and supposedly good for ninety days.

Next to check off the lists was the dentist. The hygienist cleaned my teeth and turned to her computer to write up her notes, but her keyboard was dead. She protested she’d just put a battery in it the day before, but it was clearly dead. I came home, booted up my computer—and my keyboard was dead. I called the dentist’s office and asked them to tell Stephanie, the hygienist, that she’s a jinx. Then I ordered a new keyboard. I have no idea what Stephanie did.

Jacob and I went to pick up dog food at the vet’s, with him pointing out one-way streets to me and prodding me to go the second a light turned green. I finally told him I am sure he’ll be a good driver because he’s had so much experience telling me what to do. “It doesn’t seem very complicated,” he replied with assurance.

Tomorrow, before the birthday celebrations begin, he will help me take Sophie to the vet for her annual checkup and then we’ll scoot out to Central Market to pick up groceries for dinner. He’s requested shrimp, mashed potatoes, and asparagus. No cake, though his mother baked one. “We have to have a cake for us,” Christian explained.

A week of storms too. Unexpected, unpredicted rain on Monday, a sprinkle on Tuesday when we were told it would be clear and dry all day, and then a thunder-rumbling storm in the night that had Sophie cuddled as close to me as she could get. Tonight they predicted violent storms with large hail—so far, sunny blue skies.

I’ve gotten a bit of work done, an anonymous mystery synopsis and sample critiqued for a program of Sisters in Crime and a manuscript read and recommendations submitted to an academic press. I missed some blogs because of the keyboard problem, although tonight, knock on wood, I find I can do pretty well on the laptop keyboard. Every once in a while, for no reason, it wipes out whatever I’ve just done. I need to get back to my major work in progress, but I am waiting—and hoping—for inspiration to strike. Perhaps I’ve just let it sit idle for too long.

It’s also been a week of ethnic meals—sushi for lunch at my favorite Japanese place the other day and, tonight, enchiladas at a Mexican place I’ve never been to. I was impressed that when we asked for boxes, the waiter not only boxed our leftovers but brought clean flatware to transfer it. And he worked hard to clean the floor under a table near us where teenagers had made a holy mess with chips.

All in all, an odd week but not really a bad one.

I am a wimp driver, or the saga of my groceries

Maybe I was not destined to get groceries from Central Market this week, or at least not easily. I called Friday to place an order and requested five o’clock pick-up. Never got a notice that my groceries were ready, so I checked. Seems I forgot to finish submitting it. So I submitted, with noon pickup Saturday to avoid the storms. But noon Saturday the storms were not gone—instead we had a tornado watch. So I called to ask if they could keep my groceries until Sunday. I’ve got to say every time I call, they are polite, cheerful, and agreeable. So I said 10:30 Sunday morning

Come Sunday I remembered our Texas blue laws and called. No, they could not let me have wine until noon. So just before noon I headed down the zoo road, my usual back way to half the world. Wrong move! It was impassable—they weren’t even letting cars turn onto that road but were ushering them on a back road behind the zoo. After waiting forever at a stop sign behind a monster truck, I came to a place where I could scoot into a driveway and turn around,

I went the long way, headed this time for the road behind the Log Cabin Village and through the park. But the Colonial golf tournament, which has another name these days, begins tomorrow, and all roads were blocked off. I knew that University would be a mess between the zoo and golf people. I contemplated my options, the best of which was not appealing—to turn left onto University and go to Vickery.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m a good driver. I learned to drive in Chicago and spent one summer commuting from the south side to Evanston via the crowded Outer Drive. But anxiety came with age. When I returned to driving, after a two-year absence due to health, I put anxiety behind me and was fairly fearless. But lately I’ve reverted to my back-road ways—I don’t do freeways and heavy traffics bothers me. I like to know where I’m going and have my route planned out.

Suddenly, I anticipated getting disoriented. That old panicky feeling came back. I cut to the right, turned right on University, made a left onto Park Hill and came home. Jordan, Christian, and Jacob were headed to lunch, and I asked them to get my groceries after their lunch, which they did. So after five missed tries, I got two bags of groceries and three bottles of wine.

Tonight, lamb meatballs, tzatziki sauce, corn salad, and green salad, as we head into a long and busy week.

Going camping—or I apparently thought I was

This brightens our dull days for me

Colin had a minor surgical procedure today, one of those where they tell you to bring a licensed driver who will not leave the premises. So I was his designated driver—since I didn’t drive for two years and there was great family concern about my getting behind the wheel again, just the idea of me as a designated driver is enough to strike fear into some hearts in my family. But I was determined to meet the challenge—and to plan ahead.

Anticipating a long, boring morning in a sterile waiting room, I packed a bag. My purse wasn’t big enough, so I got one of those recyclable bags every other store gives you these days. Into it went a bottle of water (unnecessary—they had water available in the waiting area); a buttered biscuit and a half a bar of dark chocolate with peppermint (unnecessary because I wasn’t there long enough to get hungry though I was anticipating a pre-lunch famine); two pairs of glasses in their cases—sunglasses and readers (unnecessary because it wasn’t  sunny  and I never had time to read more than email and Facebook). By the time I got the bag loaded, it was so heavy I could hardly manage it with the walker. But I felt like I was going on a campout.

And all my preparations were unnecessary because everything went smoothly and quickly. We got to the one-day surgical center at eight-thirty and left at ten-forty-five. I was called back to see Colin twice—once before the procedure and once when he was in recovery. In between I visited with a woman who has three adopted children through the Edna Gladney international program. I saw her T-shirt with “Gladney” on it, and when she kindly asked if she could get me water, I mentioned the shirt and told her I am the proud mother of four Gladney babies, although they’ve long since grown past the baby stage. So then we had a wonderful talk about Gladney and adoption and big families and all that’s entailed. Time passed so quickly that I never even got to read the two books I had on my Kindle just in case.

And then we were off to Carshon’s. Colin does not consider a trip to Fort Worth complete unless he has a Rebecca sandwich at Carshon’s—hold the Russian dressing, please. We visited with staff who have helped us for years—after all, Colin’s beating eating there at least forty-five years.

Tonight we had Doris’ casserole for supper, at Colin’s request. I’ve told that story so many times I’m sure you all know it, but here goes. When my ex was a resident, we went to a small dinner party at another resident’s home. The wife, named Doris, served this casserole called American Beef Casserole that had won a Mrs. America cooking contest or something like that. We loved it, and the wives who were there have cooked it over the years. One calls it American lasagna, because it’s basically a meat and tomato sauce layer, a noodles and cream cheese/sour cream layer, and grated cheese. I’ve even had the catering department at TCU cook it for a luncheon. It’s ubiquitous and delicious-and I ate too much tonight. After residency, I never saw Doris much but once, when I did, I mentioned the casserole—and she didn’t even remember it!

At dinner, Colin, Christian and Jacob got to reminiscing about past family holidays and looking at videos—and I thought what wonderful memories my grandchildren will carry through life. Like the Thanksgiving they hunted for Big Foot on my brother’s ranch and actually found his foot prints (don’t ask!).

Nine-thirty, and my “big baby,” (nearly fifty), is asleep on the couch, and I’m ready to go to sleep. A long but happy day.

Gratitude

After two years of not being able to drive and another six months of “supervised” driving while the kids made sure I still knew how to do it, it’s a great joy to take off on my own and run errands—and save Jordan some bothersome trips on my behalf. Today I went to the podiatrist—seems like every time I go to the doctor there’s some new wrinkle, something “that is concerning” or “we just have to check it out.” So it was a delight to go to a doctor who said, “You’re doing so much better than so many people I see.” When asked if my shoes were okay, he countered with “Are they comfortable.” I said yes, and he said “Then wear them. All you need is something to cushion the bottom of your feet.” What a lovely man!

Next, I went to the only gas station around that does full service. I’m sure the attendant thought I was a dotty old lady—I couldn’t find full service, and when I did it had a cone in front of it. So I pulled up to the cone, and this nice young man said, “Ma’am, you’re going to have to pull up farther—the hose won’t reach your gas tank.” I said, “But the cone,” and he advised me to pull up next to it. By then I guess I was a bit flustered—he had to patiently ask me to turn off the engine, unlock the gas cap. I didn’t really need gas, but I got it, so I could get my tires checked which someone told me looked soft. The attendant gently said, “Just so you know, ma’am, we have a $20 minimum on full service.” I assured him I’d pay $20 for my $15 worth of gas, tire check, and clean windshield, but he brushed it away. Next time I go back there, I’ll be much smarter about the protocol.

Finally, I went to pick up a sweater at the cleaners. The owner himself brought it out and said, “Hey, Mrs. Alter. Written any new books lately?” So we talked a bit. He went to school with my oldest son.

So my gratitude is for people who are so kind about my wanting curbside service and for living in a neighborhood where people are so friendly. How lucky am I!

Finally baked that gingerbread today and learned a toaster-oven lesson—things with baking soda that rise don’t do well. The gingerbread rose beautifully—and burned the top. But we cut away the burned and doused it with the ginger/brown sugar whipping cream I’d made—delicious. And not too hard. Because I get mixed up on ordering spices by weight, however, I now have a lifetime supply of ground ginger. Anybody?

Neighbor Mary Dulle brought fresh homemade applesauce tonight, and I discovered that it too goes wonderfully with gingerbread—complimentary flavors. And she brought dried morel mushrooms—I will have to research to find out what to do with them.

And should you want to watch an interview with me, here’s a link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ndFlUpusk88 .  This was done this fall by the marketing manager at TCU Press—she came to the cottage, and I cleared my desk, as you can see.

Whoosh! What a day

My day started early with an appointment to be fitted for new hearing aids. I’m excited about this, especially since I have a difficult time hearing on my cell phone. I don’t even want to talk about how old the ones I have are, but the new ones will be about a third the weight and half the size. Sound quality is dramatically better, and I’m told I will be able to talk on the phone without holding it to my ear. Noisy restaurant? No problem. I’ll just put my phone in front of you, and then both the phone and my aids will transmit. Can’t wait.

And after all the fuss I made about getting my car back, I don’t get to drive it often, so it was a treat to go all by myself to the hearing clinic. Made me feel like a grown-up girl. Also made me sad, because even close to our neighborhood I discovered new houses, new condos, buildings that have sprung up overnight. Development is destroying what was a neighborhood of modest charming bungalows, particularly around the university, and replacing them with condos and the dreaded stealth dorms. I am so dedicated to preserving the inner city that this destruction hurts.

After that, the day was a mess, though mostly in a good way, I guess. The mowers who couldn’t come last week because of rain came today and plowed through about five inches of weed growth—fungus killed much of our grass. What excites me is that they leveled off the ground cover, so now it should grow thicker instead of leggier. But they were noisy folk. And then the air conditioner guy came and was here for two hours. Don’t get me wrong—I’m as grateful as can be, but it was my nap time. 

While he was working, I was struggling with computer problems, one of which I finally resolved but not to my total satisfaction. The other, an email glitch that keeps me from communicating with two groups I value, continues to plague me. Most frustrating.

A bad day too because it started with Jordan delivering the news of a neighborhood tragedy, a family who lost a grown daughter in a wreck. Later in the morning I heard her ordering a large sandwich tray, fruit bowl, tea, etc. and I asked who we were feeding. It was of course for the bereaved family. It struck me that the custom now of assigning different nights to different people to provide a full meal in such a situation is a good solution, but I was raised to believe you cooked for the bereaved. I have made and delivered a lot of casseroles in my day, and somehow the idea of “store-bought” food seems a little less personal. You used to take a ham, or a big bowl of potato salad, or a cake. I remember once taking a batch of blueberry muffins (homemade of course) in a pretty basket. The times, they are a-changing.

Daughters

June 23, 2018

One of my sons is, as I write, researching some stuff for me to help me with investments and a medical alert band of some kind. Since he’s devoting part of his Saturday to that, I’m hesitant to diss on sons, and yet this week I’ve thought several times of that old refrain, “A son is a son/ Until he takes a wife/A daughter is a daughter/All of her life.” I’ve so enjoyed having both my daughters around this week.

Of course, Jordan and I see more of each other than probably either one of us need, though it’s a good relationship. Oh, we have our moments, but mostly we laugh and share, and I am blessed that if I need a caretaker, she’s it. But Megan’s visits from Austin are a treat. She was here from Saturday to Wednesday, flew to Houston Wednesday night and back Friday night to retrieve her youngest child. This morning they left for Austin to celebrate older son, Sawyer, and his fourteenth birthday. Fourteen? Really? I remember when she oh so tentatively told me she was pregnant. My first clue? We were at my favorite upscale Italian restaurant in Austin, and she declined a glass of wine. What, I wondered, is wrong with that child?

A confession that my daughters may not welcome. It takes me a day or two to adjust to having them here together. I so delight in their company, and they shower me with love and caring. But there’s also a bit of criticism—why is your hair towel in the kitchen (because I wash my hair in the sink), that’s not the way I cut an avocado (well, it’s the way I do it). Little things. They don’t amount to jack. But I’m sort of aware they’re watching me, looking out to make sure I’m stylishly dressed, stuff like that. And so I’m straining to be on my best behavior, showing them how great I am for my age. It’s like there’s an unspoken elephant in the room (that darn elephant sure gets around).

Driving was part of it this time. Megan was comfortable with my driving but worried about my getting in and out of the cottage and the car by myself. A legitimate worry. So one day she watched, and I did fine. Friday, Jordan agreed that I could pick up a friend for lunch—big adventure. I drove us to a restaurant, parallel parked on a busy street, did just fine. Baby steps but I felt good about it.

We didn’t get the lunches out that I enjoy this time, nor the closet cleaning that Megan is so good at (Jordan is too but she doesn’t have the time). Megan, with a new law firm, had to work at her computer all day every day. But we had lovely dinners and evenings.

In July my whole family will be here (big birthday), and my kids and I will be together in Chicago over Labor Day. So I can’t complain I don’t see them much. But I am particularly grateful for Megan’s fairly frequent visits.

And, of course, for Jordan’s constant and steadying presence. How lucky, blessed, whatever I am.

Tonight I settled down with a good book and a wonderful dinner—zucchini cut in wedges and sautéed in butter, a sautéed lamb chop doused with anchovy butter. Delicious, but a bit sloppy to eat.

A bit of food trivia I just learned: do you love the wasabi at a sushi place? It’s probably (we hope) made from a root vegetable. But what you buy in a tube in the grocery has none of the root. It’s basically horseradish, mustard, and green food coloring. And oh my! Is it potent! I about killed myself with a cheese spread last night. I put wasabi in the middle of a log of goat cheese, rolled the reconstructed log in toasted sesame seeds, and splashed it with soy. But the wasabi burned my throat, my nose, and my eyes. Whew! And I usually love it with sushi.

That’s the kind of trivia or hint you’ll find in my forthcoming cookbook, Gourmet on a Hot Plate, due out in early November so you can use it for Christmas gifts.

Night, all!

Jacob is twelve

What can you say about twelve-year-old boys?

Jacob was up early on his twelfth birthday to open his gifts. Sweet boy did not open mine but brought it out to the cottage to open with me. Nothing remarkable—a “collar” shirt he can wear to church and school (I had promised I would not get underwear even though his mom had put it on his list). But he got a gaming system as his “big” present, and I have promised to buy a game.

Tonight, the birthday party—a game truck parked outside the house and a bunch of boys (and

, I think, at least one girl) swarmed out for two hours of games, though they kept sneaking back into the house for more pizza. Then, back in the house for cupcakes. Meanwhile, while they  were playing, adults ate snacks and a large pasta salad I made today. I asked how many I should count on and was told anywhere from five to fifteen. Throwing my hands in the air, I used a large package of fusilli (those twisted spirals) and a whole rotisseries chicken breast (I am so glad you can now buy the breast and not the whole bird—makes it easier and less wasteful but I still hate boning and dicing it). Threw in halved cherry tomatoes, diced celery and scallions (the hostess rejected my suggestion of green peas).

Of course, Jacob’s birthday made me nostalgic. I have favorites among my grandchildren—this one is the favorite for one reason, that one for another. But Jacob is the one I am closest to because I’ve seen most almost every day of his life. Fun to go throw various stages with him—the cuddly toddler, the slightly apprehensive kindergartner, the kid who was my dinner pal and slept with me until he was ten, and now, the slightly blasé, slightly sophisticated young man. Waiting for the next phase—so much excitement around the corner for him.

Another biggie today—my first solo adventure in the car. My daughters tell me my driving is fine, but they worry about my getting in and out of the car without someone there. So today, with Megan at home working, I went to a local mechanic’s shop to have coolant added. A small, insignificant trip but another of those baby steps. It struck me how comfortable I felt about driving, without someone watching my every move. I am investigating a wrist alarm that I can wear, which is probably a good idea anyway.

I heard the story yesterday of a woman in her late eighties who refused to have someone live with her, to use a walker or even a cane, to wear an alarm. She fell between her garage and her house and apparently died of results of the fall. I promise not to let my pride make me foolish. My doctor says if I fall again I might well be bedridden. I am grateful for all the concern and intend to take care. But I want my freedom and independence.

Everyone has a handicap—mine’s just obvious

I used to be depressed when I went to a certain assisted living facility in town. Everywhere I turned, people wandered the lobby and halls on walkers or oxygen. Not for me, I thought smugly. Now I’m on a walker.

Acquaintances who don’t know my story try to encourage me that I’ll eventually walk unassisted. “Baby steps,” said one friend recently. I’ve gotten so I bring the truth right up front: my surgeon says the walker is my friend for the rest of my life. My balance is not good, and he’d rather have me protected than risk another fall that might do irreparable damage. He tells me I don’t have to explain that my surgery was way different than an ordinary hip replacement, so I’ll spare you that tale. Just take my word for it, please.

Yes, it’s a nuisance. I can’t jump up from my desk and run to get something from the kitchen. At parties, I can’t mingle and meet. I’m relegated to a seat where I hope people will come to greet me. It leads to some wallflower moments. There are places that I cannot go because they are inaccessible, and some public bathrooms are a real problem with tiny stalls. If I get me and the walker in, then I can’t close the door.

I so far have not been allowed to drive, though I think that’s just around the corner. I did prove that I can go from house to car, stash the walker in the back seat, and get into the car. To prove to my kids that this is all okay, I’ll have to check in with the rehabilitative driving program at Baylor. But driving should free me of my dependence on others to some extent.

I don’t think I’m being over-sensitive when I say I notice a change in some people’s attitudes toward me. I have become the old lady who can’t get around much, who is content in her cottage. But I am blessed with friends and family who see me differently and, with the help of others, I have a fairly active social life. As a friend said to me the other night at a party when I said my piece about being on the walker forever, “At least you’re here.” I agree. It’s not the end of the world.

I can still keep y cottage fairly neat, dress myself, work at my desk, and cook—all big parts of my life. It’s not as though I retired to a recliner to watch TV all the livelong day.

Before this happened to me, I did not have good balance. Never. In my whole life. Steep stairs, for instance, made me nervous—now people kindly help me up and down them. Open spaces made me uncomfortable—now I have a cage around me, so I know I won’t lose my balance. In short, I don’t have to stretch myself to do things that bothered me before, though I do try to stretch just on general principles.

I don’t know how to explain it without sounding like a wimp, because I try never to trade on being “handicapped” and yet in some ways life is easier. I do try to be as independent as possible, but still….not sure where to go with this, so I’ll quit.

Just please don’t pity me. And don’t treat me differently. And don’t call me old. Thanks.

Food, friendship, and the doctor

Let me start with the doctor. I had a good appointment with my surgeon today—lots of praise, but I came away feeling a little let down. I asked if I was where I should be, given what my condition was pre-surgery, and he said “Absolutely.” Pointed out my hip had been deteriorating for a long time, I had a major bone deformity, and I hadn’t really walked for six months before surgery. He was, he said with restraint, pleased with my progress. As we left, he, not an effusive man, said, “You’re beautiful today,” and I know he wasn’t referring to my looks. He was saying I’ve made beautiful progress.

But I think I went in there thinking I was healed, this surgery stuff could be behind me, and it’s simply not so. He said he expects full recovery for me to take at least a year—and I’m only six months in. No, I cannot cross my legs. If I bend from a sitting position, I am to do it slowly, with my left hip bent open, because I’m still in danger of dislocating it (x-ray shows it is perfectly in place right now).

And the biggie: he was lukewarm about letting me drive, especially since I drive a VW Bug, with a lower seat than a traditional car. He demonstrated how I’d have to get in and out, a technique I don’t really remember. On the way home, Jordan said every instinct in her was opposed to my driving, so I will wait.

I guess I’m not as invincible as I thought. Lesson learned

Other than that, a pleasant day of working and eating, mostly the latter. My daughters and I went to Pacific Table for lunch. A splurge lunch of crab salad (with avocado, Manchego, tomatoes, sautéed shallot, and a good vinaigrette) plus a dessert of sinful ice cream sandwiches  

Tonight, a friend from the seventies came for happy hour with me, Jordan, and Megan. Nancy’s three children and mine grew up as family friends, so it was great for my girls to get to visit with her. Turns out Megan often distance-works with the husband of one of Nancy’s daughters—small world.

Jordan fixed a magnificent spread, which was our dinner. My contribution was the salmon spread. We talked about everything from kids and surgery to murder and had a delightful time.

Now two boys are out here practicing their cursive writing. I never knew it would be the occasion for such hilarity—old-fashioned, uncontrollable giggles.

29.00

Oops. There goes my lifestyle, changed again—for what? The fourth time within a year? There was the broken ankle/leg with non-weight-bearing which finally morphed into weight-bearing in that black boot; then there was the whole huge change of moving out of the house and into the cottage—which I absolutely adore.

Today I saw the orthopedic surgeon, proudly showing off my new, lightweight brace. He approved, showed me where and how it is supporting the ankle. Of course I had questions? May I go to the bathroom barefoot in the night? Yes. You have no idea what a relief that is. Struggling into either the boot or the brace is a pain in the middle of the night when all you want is to answer nature and then go right back to sleep. Besides, sometimes there’s a certain urgency to my night trips.

Next question: may I drive? Yes, if I practice in an empty parking lot and find that I can stop in time and control the car. My right foot is, he told me, a clumsy foot. But unless I make a miraculous mobility recovery, the car presents problems. It’s a VW Bug convertible, and the walker won’t fit. I love my car. I’ve had it eleven years. It’s my sporty car to keep from being a stodgy grandmother. I don’t want to sell it (probably $500) and buy a new car. Dilemma, but at least I don’t have to solve it today.

Then the kicker question: how long do I have to wear the brace? As long as I’m walking. “The rest of my life?” I queried, and I’m sure my voice went of the chart for squeakiness. He, a taciturn man, nodded and said yes. I’m still processing that in my mind. First of all, there go all my cute shoes, and I am sentenced to wearing orthopedic shoes with ankle socks. Second of all, it isn’t at all like running carefree through the grass. I will always be awkward, which I guess is better than not being able to walk. I’ve actually wondered how much that was a sentence to the walker, whether sitting in it or walking.

We will be getting an electric wheelchair, but I thought of it as something in the far-off future. I don’t want to put myself in a wheelchair now, because of that old adage, “Use it or lose it.” Spend 24 hours without walking and there’s a strong possibility that you’ll never walk again.

The physical therapist should be here in a day or two, and I’ll run some of these questions by him. I know however that I have to get serious about exercising and recovering the strength I’ve lost.

Another piece of good news in all this is that the doctor says the brace should help alleviate the terrible ache and pain in my left hip, though, as he emphasized, it takes time. But if that pain lessens, I’ll be more willing to walk and do exercises. Right now, it hurts. And yet, I guess I have to walk to heal the hip. Seems to me I’m caught in several circular dilemmas.

Who thought, the night last spring that I fell, that I was triggering all these changes in my life?