Ginger ale and other memories—a brief update

 

Sophie and her empty bowl

Yesterday I was talking to Megan, my Austin daughter, and mentioned that I wished I had some ginger ale because that’s what my mom always gave me when I was sick. In a slightly amused tone, Megan said, “That’s why my mom gave me too!” Couldn’t believe I’d forgotten that. She went on to remember that I gave them Lipton’s chicken noodle soup from a packet. I don’t have the soup, but either Christian or Jacob got me some ginger ale, and I’ve been guzzling it.

Sophie still rules the roost and doesn’t understand that I’m not following my routine. I usually go to bed about 11:30 and give her a snack of kibble then because it’s a long time for a girl from dinner at five to breakfast at seven. The other night I fell into bed at nine-thirty, completely forgetting the snack. At 11:30 promptly, she woke me up. I opened the door for her to go out, but she wasn’t interested. So I fed her two little treats. That didn’t satisfy her either, and she went to the kitchen corner where she usually eats. It dawned on me she wanted her kibble. Gave it to her, and she trotted happily off to bed. Sophie has a most accurate internal clock.

She has always disliked my being in bed—will sometimes wake me, just to get me up. So she’s doubly unhappy these days when I go back to bed several times a day. I don’t let her have access to the back yard when I’m not up and keeping an eye on her, so that adds to her frustration.

I’m glad to report I have apparently (knock on wood) had a mild case of Covid, like a really annoying head cold. But now I’m on the mend—ate a little bit today (not quite up to the tuna salad in the fridge but had cottage cheese and later a buttered potato), slept soundly, coughed less, and generally felt better. Jordan is not feeling as much better but has no fever (I never did have). Two more days of quarantine! Not that I expect to rush out into the world.

Have a good week, everyone.

Healing

Every day Jordan says to me, “You look so much better today.” It’s affirming to have her say that, and maybe her positive attitude does speed up my healing. This picture is me two weeks after my great face-plant on the bathroom floor. What looked bad enough that morning two weeks ago got worse as the bruises migrated around my face, following facial planes or the lymphatic system. I only landed on one side of my face, and we were surprised that the bruising jumped my nose to give me another black eye and then, a couple of days later, made slight line across the bridge of my nose. One friend looked at me and exclaimed, “You’re bilateral now.”

I’ve kind of stuck close to home so as not to raise curiosity, but I have gone out to eat a few times. Sometimes no one notices, but at Carshon’s deli the other day I got lots of attention, first and foremost from the staff who know me well. But then a woman across the room smiled at me in such a friendly way I had a moment of panic, thinking do I know her and not remember? No worries. She came over and said, so kindly, “You’ve had a bad fall, and I’m so sorry.” We chatted for a bit, with details of my fall and how lucky I am, and she ended with a story that made me hoot. A woman sprayed hair spray into the toilet (I’m not sure why—odor control?). Her husband came along, sat on the toilet, and threw his cigarette into it. The whole thing exploded, leaving him I’m sure with unmentionable injuries. That lady really brightened my day.

But a few minutes later I looked up and saw a table of four men, their heads all turned to stare at me. My friend Carol said they were probably imagining some lurid tale of a jealous lover who beat me. I think I’m a little old for that.

Today, when I realized I do look better, I tried to take selfies to show that. I absolutely give up. I look awful in any selfie I’ve ever taken—old, saggy flesh, gray stringy hair. I even went and powdered my face, but there was no improvement. Jordan came along and took the picture above, and while I’m no raving beauty I look a hundred times better than the selfies I took.

I had a friend once who commiserated with me about the fact that I am anything but photogenic. Bobbie, now passed on and much missed by me and my family, was half mother figure half friend, a real soulmate. My kids used to say, “Bobbie tells it like it is.” In this case, she said something to the effect of  “Bless your heart, you don’t look nearly that bad in real life.” Thanks a lot. My children, on the other hand, are all terrifically photogenic. Makes me want to slap them upside the head.

A day of contrasts

Weather: Yesterday I awoke to gray drizzle, thunder, and occasional heavy rain. A day to stay inside. But about noon, the sun came out and stayed, as though it had just discovered the world. It made me itch to be outside, but I had no opportunity, nowhere to go. Reinforces my longing to have my car back—just driving around would get me out of the cottage for a welcome break.

Today, the sun shone all day, but I sensed that we were not going to church. Jordan had someplace to be by twelve or one, and the Cowtown marathoners ran right by our house. Only the laggers came by at ten-thirty, when we would have gone to church, because we’re fairly early in the course. But I didn’t point that out. I watched the livestreaming service at nine. With hearing aids, livestreaming, and only half the choir at the early service, the music is not as glorious as it can be, but the message was strong.

Healing: The Lenten theme is strong at the broken places, playing on the Japanese art of Kintsukuroi in which broken pottery is mended with lacquer mixed with powdered gold. Last week, the sermon was on broken relationships; this week, on broken bodies.

I was inspired enough to have a much more positive attitude about the sight in my bad eye. It will heal. Right now, I can distinguish light and dark—a window, a door, the computer monitor—and I can see motion if I wave my hand in front of my eye (even can recognize that it’s a hand) but everything is blurry. Doctor said, “We’re just going to ride this one out,” and of course I was skeptical. But after this morning’s sermon, I’m determined Waiting for positive results

Food: Yesterday, my lunch consisted of rare Mediterranean roast beef (not sure what was Mediterranean about it, but it was so good), artichoke hearts, and a bit of creamed spinach; dinner was a delicious crab cake and a potato croquette with goat cheese. Today I slipped into what you might call the vernacular: bbq sandwich for lunch and chili for supper.

But tonight, I had sweet Jacob for company. As I write he’s absorbed in an iPad on the couch. I must get up and do the dishes.

And off we go into another week. Hope it’s a happy one for everyone.

With a whimper, not a bang

Here’s last night’s blog. I opted in favor of sleeping the clock around, when I should have had an all-caps headline shouting the news: CONSTRUCTION HAS BEGUN! After trying since early February, we finally got a work permit. We had waited so long and applied so many times, only to have some new objection pop up, that I thought when we finally got it there should be a celebration—cameras flashing as the Bundocks posted the permit on the door, bubbly flowing, lots of clapping.

Instead Lewis Bundock came in one morning, patted his pocket, and said, “Got it.” When I asked about posting it, he said roofing permits get posted. He and his brother, Jim, have to have this one on them at all times.

And there was no swarm of busy-bee workers. The plumber came one day and they took the old tin shower out of the apartment so they could see what’s underneath it; the a/c guy came another day. Building inspector is due Tues., and Wed. they will dig a trench in the yard to bury electrical wires—first real sign of construction.

At this point, it’s hard for me to imagine a fully furnished apartment out back and me living cozily in it. I am focused on my foot and its inability to bear weight though this too shall pass. Every day I think I see a bit of improvement—less swelling, less pain when I step on that foot briefly. Christian is coming for lunch today and I want him to look and compare swelling to Wed. when he took me to the doctor.

Meantime, if I learn patience from waiting for my foot to heal, perhaps I can use it in watching the daily progress of construction on Judy’s Cottage. I’ll either take pictures or commission Lewis to do it.