Having a pity party

It’s fashionable these days to style oneself as a victim—trump does it all the time, and so do his thug followers who are now crying about the process they wrote in the House rules. So I’ve decided today to call myself a victim, though I can’t quite identify the evil  villain.

Surely, it’s not the nurse who gave me two shots yesterday—flu and pneumonia. She’s someone I’ve known and respected for years, and her injections are always smooth. She said one in each arm, so I asked which one would get less sore. She said pneumonia, so that one went in the right arm. Wrong call.

About midafternoon both arms ached at the injection site, but by early evening those aches had faded, only to be replaced by severe pain in my right shoulder. I probably would have decided in a panic that my arm was about to fall off if it weren’t for the friends who had come by for a glass of wine. He said he’d had the same thing—and it was all in the shoulder, not at the injection site. Thanks to Phil for suggesting heat.

I’ve treated myself with short periods on the hot pad (my physician brother advises against extended heat) and Tylenol and wished I could take aspirin. I think I felt two tiny, tiny twinges at the injection site of the flu vaccine and nothing in the other arm. But my shoulder is still unbelievably sore and sensitive. Makes is really hard to function, so I just kept going back to bed. Perfect day for it, with the cold wet weather that makes you want to burrow in the covers. At least I don’t have to remind Jordan to water the new grass seed—that irritates her, and it’s getting watered by the heavens today.

One minute I tell myself I’m being a wimp and to straighten up. Then I remember that I was pretty stoic about severe hip pain before the doctors decided what to do about it, so my pain tolerance must be okay. Not my imagination--the shoulder really does hurt. I also tell myself I am not one to have those vague “I don’t feel well” days—going back to bed throughout the day is unusual for me, so my body must need the rest. Isn’t it funny that we feel guilty about not feeling well?

Sophie, probably affected by the weather and maybe sensing I’m not myself (dogs are pretty good about that), has slept all day, after one brief trip outside early in the morning. I just invited her to go again by opening the door, but she stood immobile and stared at me.

I am reminded of my sweet mom, who throughout my childhood had migraines—infrequent but severe. And she took to her bed for the day. When anyone asked about her, I would cheerfully tell them, “She’ll be all right tomorrow.” And she always was. So that’s where I am—I’ll be all right tomorrow and get back to the work I meant to do today.

Cookies, memories and an exciting look ahead

My Mothers Day flowers

courtesy the Frisco Alters

How did I miss it? Today was National Chocolate Chip Cookie Day, and several places offered free cookies. I am truly distressed that it passed me by and I got no free cookies. If you keep up with “national days” your head will spin. Every day has three or four things assigned to it----but chocolate chip cookies are so special. I guess now I have to bake the last ones left in my freezer, a product of one of Jacob’s school campaigns.

Looking backward, today I reviewed my blogs from two years ago, with an eye to a possible new project. I was astounded to read my accounts of my broken ankle, the pain I was in, the depression I felt. It was eye-opening and made me so grateful for my recovery. And I hadn’t yet gotten to the really bad parts. Don’t know if and when I will. But it’s so instructive to look back at ourselves from a different emotional place.

There were some wonderful memories in those blogs too—the Mothers’ Day card Jacob gave his mom that said, “I love you the yellowest”; all the many things Jordan did for me—I hope her caretaking chores are less now; the week that Colin came and took Jacob and me to Tomball to give Jordan a break—we laughed, explored restaurants, sat by the lake and sipped wine at night, and generally had a wonderful time.

I tried to be upbeat in those days, but I was astounded at how many days I didn’t feel well, hurt too much to walk, really wasn’t keeping up with the house and daily chores. Jordan cooked most of my meals and finally moved in with me because she didn’t trust me alone at night. I don’t quite know how to sing her praises—all she gave up, the effort to run two homes at once.

Jacob was nine in those blog posts—an entirely different kid than the “grown-up” almost-twelve he is now. All the sweetness, none of the angst. There were nights when he and Sophie both slept in my bed with me. I think nostalgically I miss those nights; in practical reality, not so much.

I may not have gotten much actual work done this morning, but it sure was eye-opening and instructive, and made me grateful for the physical and mental health I enjoy today.

A funny bonus: recently I ran across a recipe I wanted to try for the family Reading the old blogs, I realized I had tried it two years ago and found it good but not quite what I expected. It was for a whole roast chicken—what I did two years ago was chicken thighs. Tonight, I defrosted a boneless thigh and did it for myself. Again, good but not great.

Looking ahead: Jordan, my personal travel counselor, came home with the brochure and itinerary for our Great Lakes Cruise in August. It looks wonderful, though I worry that I will be able to do the excursions or that my inability to walk will handicap Jordan in her enjoyment of those outings. But who wouldn’t want to go to Sault Ste. Marie, or Mackinac Island, or Muskegon/Holland where I have friends.

Jordan and I have already talked about packing and planning. She is so efficient about all that. It’s a relief to put myself in her hands. Last night we ordered the kind of visor hat she thinks I’ll need, the water bottle, and I can’t remember what else, but whoosh! I spent $100 at Amazon. Still I am so excited about this trip. Lovely to have something to look forward to so much.

Who are you?

The other day someone on Facebook asked when people knew what they wanted to do with the lives. I thought it sort of an existential question. I don’t think there was any one specific epiphany when I thought “Aha! That’s it!” My life and career gradually evolved, and I’m sure I was well along in adulthood before I realized that being a mom was my most important and satisfying role, following by being a writer and then a publisher.

Last night friends brought up an even more difficult existential question. As one friend used to put it, how do you know when you’re “at yourself?” As most of you know, I have been on a long journey with a broken ankle, a fractured hip that I walked on way too long, a difficult surgery, and what seems to me a slow recovery but probably isn’t. Somewhere along the way I apparently lost myself. On much of that journey I was in a great deal of pain and my life was complicated by hallucinations, induced by medication. I wasn’t myself, but I didn’t realize it.

Oh, I know pain makes you short-tempered, impatient, crabby. I tried to control that, particularly with daughter Jordan who was my primary caretaker and got the burden of all I couldn’t do. And yet we clashed, more than once. I regret that to this dayand will sing her praises forever. But I didn’t know that my friends found me different—not necessarily difficult, just not me.

Last night at dinner, three close friends said, in essence, “Welcome back. You’re you now, and we’re glad to have you.” I’m left wondering where the line is between me and not-me, what was different, how could they tell? Yet I feel an inkling of this because I have more energy, I’m much more interested in my writing and career, and I’m doing a lot of small things that used to make me throw up my hands and say, “I can’t do that.” They’re so trivial I’m embarrassed to share them and won’t.

But I think the upshot is that gradually, day by day, I’m becoming again the woman I was a year ago, and I must have reached some milestone in recent days. So thanks to those friends for alerting me, to family and loved ones for putting up with me. There’s a lesson in this for both caregivers and patients. Several books have been published about caregiving—I think someday I should do one about being the recipient.

Thanks, too, to readers who’ve stuck with me. My gratitude knows no bounds.

A Writer’s Awakening

January 8, 2017

I feel like I’ve just woken up, and I’m reminded of the Yeats’ poem, “Speech After Long Silence.”. I haven’t written anything new, except blogs, for at least nine months. I haven’t had the instinct. I had four mss..with “starts” and no idea how to go any further with any of them. When people asked what I was working on, I replied, “Managing my career.” I was stalled.

One of the things that happened to me was common to “elderly” people—my meds were fighting with each other. At one point I had hallucinations—fascinating people had soirees and picnics and art exhibits in my back yard. When I told my neighbor, he asked, “Why don’t they invite us? We’re fun.” But it wasn’t a joke. My kids and the surgical team jumped in and got it straightened out—I take fewer meds these days, and no wine, and my head is much more clear.

The other thing happening to me was that I was in pain. My leg hurt and my hip hurt. That’s been sorted out too—the leg has healed, and the end of hip pain is in sight with hip surgery scheduled.

With all this “cleaning up my act,” I’ve had a resurgence of interest in writing. I spent the last week reading the 40,000 words I had on a new mystery (I can’t imagine I abandoned something that was at least 2/3 done) and today I wrote a thousand new words. I find I’m wildly enthusiastic about getting back to it, and last night when I went to bed I was plotting what I’d write today. Other writing chores—those “managing my career” things seem to intrude.  But I have older titles to make available as e-books. I’m sending one to a formatter, which requires some preparation on my part, and will post others to a site where I can do it myself—except that I couldn’t do it Friday and have written for help. And on down the line I think I have a publication possibility for a novella. My desk is piled high and I couldn’t be happier about it.

The manuscript I’ve returned to is a sequel to The Perfect Coed with college English professor Dr. Susan Hogan. This time she’s trying to foil a group of open-carry advocates (but it turns out there’s more to their story). And she’s trying to protect Aunt Jenny and her new dog, Lucy. I like it so far, and I hope you will too.

Meantime I’m in a wheelchair with 24-hour help—mostly Jordan but different folk at night. It’s a funny feeling to wake in the morning to an unvaried routine—work, eat, sleep, work, eat and go to bed at night, sometimes unsure who will answer if I wake in the night. I’m glad it’s temporary. Surgery is January 19—yes, it looms on my mind—and two weeks from now I expect to be yet another new person—a writer. Whoopee!                                                                                                                                                                                                     

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?

A Justified Lament

What a way to start the merry month of June—in doctors ‘offices. I wrote my family physician on Sunday that my ankle was in incredible pain. He didn’t respond until Tuesday because of the holiday. He suggested I come in for a “nurse check” of the boot. Neither of the nurses liked what they saw but were uncertain where to go next. As luck would have it, the doctor came in on his day off—didn’t like what he was seeing. Verdict: boot was too tight, causing swelling and inflammation. Solution: back to the boot place for a refitting. Meantime, they had me try to walk, and it gave me excruciating fits. I understand there’s probably an MRI of the ankle in m future too. So ready to be through with this ankle business and walking about normally. I’ll never take normal for grant again.

So Christian, my caretaker for the day, and I went off to the boot place, got a larger boot, and I think maybe tonight it’s a skosh better, But I’m not willing to test it far yet. We came home and Christian brought me the other half of my Panera turkey sandwich from Jamie’s visit last night and a huge (my request) glass of wine. I napped—sure did.

Jordan woke me up in time to greet Julia, her longtime friend who’s getting married this Saturday. Jacob will be an usher, acolyte, and guardian of the cakes. So wish I could be there but I don’t see any of it happening for me.

Then my Wed. nght dinner pal arrived with supper—steaks and mashed potatoes from their café on the North Side. I adore cold steak, and this was delicious. The golden lining in all this domestic woes is that they bring out friends and family and all I treasure about life in Fort Worth.

God compensates

Reality is the leading cause of stress among those who are in touch with it.

—Lily Tomlin

The quote above is something I liked well enough that I wanted to share it. My mom would have liked it. She was fond of such sayings as “The mills of the gods grind slowly, but they grind exceedingly fine,” or “God works in mysterious ways his wonders to accomplish.” The latter is sort of what’s on my mind tonight.

Between Jordan and me, we have a fairly constant stream of visitors to this house, usually at happy hour. Since the discovery of my broken ankle, most of them make a beeline for me to ask, “How do you feel?” My answer is that every part of me feels perfectly fine except for my ankle which hurts like sixty. A month ago I would have cheerfully said I felt fine when I really didn’t, but now I do. I think it’s one of God’s mysterious ways.

As many of you know, I’ve struggled with anxiety, balance problems, fear of falling, even some insecurity. Now that there’s something in my body that actually hurts badly enough to focus all my energy, those neurotic (my term) ailments have all gone away. Sure, there are some logical explanations—I’m on a new anti-anxiety medication, and it works wonderfully, makes me feel like a new person. I’m also on my new bright red walker, and I have no fear of falling. I sleep well and pain free at night, and during the day I sit at my desk and think all is well and I can conquer bear. But when I stand up and walk, I am indeed in touch with the reality of pain. It’s as though God said, not unkindly, “You want something to worry about? Here’s a real something.”

The fracture, as I understand it, is not exactly a hairline but almost. No displacement of bones. If I’ve got it right I sprained the ankle, and the sprain pulled the ligaments apart until the bone broke. That’s why it hurts worse now than it did a few days after I fell. The fracture is at the bottom of the fibula, the lesser bone in the leg, and not weight-bearing.

So tomorrow I go in the morning to have my puffy hand x-rayed (it doesn’t hurt but has an ugly bruise) and to have a bone density test I should have had several years ago. Then I go to be fitted with a walking boot that I will wear night and day for at least four weeks. I hope that will lessen the pain by supporting the ankle better and also begin the healing process.

The Dean DeLuca Golf Tournament is this weekend (nobody in Fort Worth calls it anything but the Colonial) so Jordan and Christian will both be working. I’ll have Jacob at least one night but pretty much I’ll be home alone for four days. I can either mope and have a pity party or I can get a lot of work done. I have invited all the non-golf people I know to stop by for coffee or wine, so I’ll probably have visitors. Life ain’t so bad.

Whining again

 After vowing not to whine anymore, because it made me feel like a wimp, here I am complaining. My right ankle—the one I twisted when I fell two weeks ago—was getting much better. Until the last two or three days. This morning I decided I didn’t want to wait to the weekend and have it become an emergency situation so I called the doctor’s office. I could hardly walk and was lurching around the house holding on to furniture and walls. They gave me an appt. with a PA at 2:30, saying my doctor was completely booked.

The morning was brightened because friend Carol brought a used-book dealer to look at my books, and she took 40 books, most for her business but a few for her personal reading. Carol was a great salesperson, pointing out one title after another. Carol estimates I have about 500 books left, not including the ones I wrote. Maybe books are like spaghetti or salad that grow in the bowl as you eat.

Made a peanut butter sandwich for lunch, grabbed a small glass of wine, and then a small nap before Jordan came. I told Jordan I feared the diagnosis would be “You’re clumsy” and my sweet daughter said, “Well, you are.” The woman examined the new bruise and swelling on my hand and asked if I bruise easily. I truly wanted to reply, “No, I’m clumsy.” I have no idea what I did to my hand and arm but it sure does look ugly.

Sent for x-rays. The site said two-hour wait, so I voted for waiting till tomorrow, but Jordan went in and came back to get me. Honest, we were out of there within half an hour or less, and the doctor’s office sent the report before five: small fracture of the fibula just above the ankle joint. I’ll see the doctor, not the PA, Monday morning. Meantime I’m trying to stay off my feet and using a neighbor’s walker—I’ve resisted the latter for a long time, but it really does help. I feel more secure and there’s a more even distribution of weight.

So Jordan and Jacob are here tonight, though she has gone to a birthday party at the Wine Haus down the street for an hour. Tomorrow night, Colin will be here with Morgan and Kegan so that will brighten my weekend a lot.

I don’t mean to sound like Joe Bftsplk, but it seems it’s always something. In a sense I’m relieved to know there is a diagnosis and I wasn’t just being a wimp; on the other hand, all those people who keep warning that I’ll fall and break a bone can now say, “I told you so.”