False alarm and other matters

Thanks to all for good wishes, but my dental emergency disappeared—does that happen to emergencies? I am crediting it to either the power of prayer or magic—take your pick. This morning, there was no tenderness, no sign of all the unusual stuff going on in my mouth yesterday. Dutifully, being an obedient girl remembering the dentistry of my young years, I called the dentist office. The assistant who answered didn’t seem too interested in making me an appointment. “Well, if you really think . . .” I decided I didn’t really think I needed to see the doctor immediately. I am not fooling myself. I know that it could flare again, but for now, it’s okay.

When I was young, twelve or thirteen, I had a lot of cavities, for which I credit my father. Like him, I  had poor enamel on my teeth. Dentistry then was not what it is today, and the drill was a slow, cumbersome, excruciating thing. My family dentist was a family friend—outside the office he was Uncle Walt—but he was taciturn, which didn’t help my discomfort during many many procedures. Later, I learned to appreciate him with some affection, but to this day I remain sort of dental phobic. Today, at least temporarily, was a huge relief.

So I stayed home, worked, and in a fit of energy, prepared the chicken filling for pocket sandwiches for a lunch guest tomorrow. I’ve had this recipe in my untried repertoire forever, always wanted to try it, decided this was the time. But all the while I thought it was chicken salad in a puff pastry dough. Not until I got into making the filling did I realize it was not salad—it’s a meat filling, like an empanada, only chicken and with more Anglo spicing. By that I mean butter, onion, garlic, mushroom, and thyme. It made the cottage smell incredible, and when Jordan came out hours later, her first words were, “It smells good in here.” So tomorrow I fight with the puff pastry. More wishes of good luck are appreciated.

Tonight, I went to dinner with Jean and good friend Betty Boles. We haven’t seen Betty in a while—she fell, had hip replacement surgery, and various other things, including covid precautions, have kept us apart. But it was good to be back together again. We ate at the newly redesigned Tavern. I’m still not sure about some aspects of the redo, but I love the tile floor—a hostess told us it is marble, which made my mind boggle at the cost. As usual, the food was really good—I had been wanting their meatloaf, and it didn’t disappoint. Besides the mashed potatoes, with a reduction sauce from the meatloaf, were delicious. I ordered knowing I wouldn’t eat it all and came home with a generous doggie bag.

Talk at the dinner table ranged over many subjects. For some reason, Jean and I reminisced about our childhood homes. We moved on, of course, to politics and Beto O’Rourke’s announcement today that he is in the governor’s race. I’ve been waiting months for that word, fearing Abbott was getting the drop on him in campaigning. But I think Beto is wily, knew what he was doing. All evidence now suggests he has a well-thought-out campaign planned and is jumping right into it. An Austin columnist I read tonight quoted an Abbott press-release with fear rhetoric about how all Texans must fight against the dangerous liberalism that Beto represents. No specifics, no policy talk, just vague generalities about threats. Beto on the other hand is already talking about the missed opportunities for expanded medical care for our citizens because Abbott would not accept increased Federal help, the dangers of ignoring the grid and the possibility of another power failure this winter, the danger of having an unlicensed, untrained population carrying  guns anywhere and everywhere, the failure of Abbott to deal efficiently with the pandemic which has resulted in the loss of thousands of Texas lives. Beto has specific talking points; Abbott has vague looming threats of “dangerous liberalism.”

A confession: I took a Pew Research Council survey, and the results showed that six percent of the American population is more liberal than I am. That, of course, leaves ninety-four percent on the other side of the line. Christian said, “That’s about right.” But I think there must have been a mistake. As I rant and rave about injustices and blind stupidity in this world, I think there must be more people who agree with me. If not, please don’t burst my little bubble.

Y’all have a good night. As my mom always said, “Tomorrow is another day.”

Crying Wolf!

 

Me in the dentist's chair

Years ago, when I was young and green, I dated a man who used to tell me he was “trying to take a cold.” I always wanted to tell him not to try so hard, and maybe he wouldn’t get that cold. Today I have to eat those words: I am trying to develop a toothache, or maybe what I want to say is I’m hoping a toothache won’t develop.

I woke this morning with a swollen jaw in the lower part of the left side of my face. Nothing hurt, but it felt stiff. Over the morning the stiffness went away but I have a tender spot on my jawbone, and if I make a moue just right, I feel a twinge or tightness (see, I’ve spent too much time with Irene, and I’m now sprinkling my language with French). So the dentist is on my list for tomorrow, first thing in the morning.

For one who was raised to take a positive attitude toward health, I have in recent years suffered more than my share of the joys of aging—a hip joint that simply disappeared, atrial fibrillation, an implanted lens that broke loose and wandered around my eye, kidney failure. In each instance, I waited so long to say I thought something was wrong that the problem became much worse, and my Stoic attitude became the subject of concern from my doctor and my family. My brother spoke to me about it, said my kids had spoken to him.

“But you know why I’m that way,” I said. “Mom raised us not to complain over little things.” He agreed it was true but faulted my failure to distinguish little things from major problems. She taught us the story of the little boy who cried “Wolf!” so often that when he did spy a wolf, no one believed him. As a doctor’s wife, Mom knew how impatient doctors get with people who take every small pain as a reason to run to the doctor. Being doctors’ kids, we were expected to do better. Mom’s philosophy was, “It will be better in the morning,” and I grew up believing that.

Today, we are torn by two contradictory philosophies: the school that advocates patient responsibility urges us to question our physicians, not to accept treatment or prognosis blindly, seek a second opinion when necessary. Ultimately, we are responsible for our own health. Ah, but then, today we have the folks—particularly politicians—who think they know as much as doctors, most of whom have had a minimum of eight years medical training.

This is of course particularly evident with the anti-vaxx people who distrust the vaccine despite lengthy lab trials followed by clinical trials and now by apparently successful use in a huge segment of the population. These same people, with what some call a Facebook medical degree, believe in hydroxychloroquine or ivermectin. Some believe in the medial impossibility of the implantation of tracking devices, cameras, etc. through that tiny needle. But there are also those who deny the medical realities of the abortion debate and, presumably, believe all pregnancies left to complete the nine-month term naturally result in a happy baby and a healthy mother. They brush aside medical complications that are too frequent and of great concern.

We all know people who seem to “doctor up,” spending much of their lives in doctor’s offices. Where do you draw that line? When can you treat yourself and when do you need medical advice? How do you know when the doctor is right? Is your questioning based on an intellectual need to know or a blind belief from your childhood, your church, your uncle who always knew best?

I’ll be darned if I know, but I do know I’m calling the dentist in the morning.

 

COVID-19 creeps closer

When the pandemic first started and we were all strictly quarantined, the change in our lives was very real—but to me, in my bubble in my cottage, the disease seemed distant. I remember a friend who thought my family was being over-cautious asked, “Do you know anyone who has had it?” I didn’t, although I heard that a neighbor a block away had been hospitalized and recovered.

But now it’s coming closer. The wonderful woman who helps me with the housework I can no longer do called to say her son had been diagnosed. One woman he worked with in a small team refused to wear a mask, although the others were all properly masked. Now all five team members have the virus. Shows you what one noncompliant person can do. And I worry that she and other family members may get it.

And the other night a friend of Jordan’s called. Her daughter had seen her boyfriend over the weekend, before Jordan and the friend went for a long walk together. Because they were outside and staying six feet apart, neither wore a mask. (A doctor friend has since told Jordan that when you exercise outside you should stay twenty-five feet apart, because with exercise you exerting more energy and expelling more air.) In effect, Jordan was exposed to a person who was exposed to someone who was exposed to someone who came down with the virus. See how distant the connection can be? It was enough to send Jordan yesterday to be tested. Our doctor’s office told her that the instant test has an accuracy rate of ten percent; the longer test, where results don’t come in for twenty-four hours, has an accuracy rate of eighty percent. So although we’re quite sure Jordan is all right, she and I are keeping a distance until she get confirmation.

Seems like it’s always something. This morning I woke with the sure conviction that those shooting pains on the left side of my face had organized and settled into a toothache. Fearing it would worsen over the weekend, I called the dentist’s office—haven’t had a call back yet, but I’m not supposed to get in a car with Jordan until she’s cleared so I have no way to get there. Life can get complicated.

And yet another complication—Wednesday night I placed a curbside pick-up order with Central Market, to be picked up at eleven yesterday morning. The day went south because of Jordan’s COVID test, and it was five o’clock before Christian went to pick it up. They had no order. I booted up my computer and found a three o’clock message confirming cancellation of the order. I thought maybe they had a new policy and automatically cancelled if you were late, but no—they told Christian the cancellation came from my computer. Here’s the rub—at three o’clock, when I supposedly cancelled the order, I was sound asleep. All I can think is that a poltergeist got to my computer. Hoping the order will be there this afternoon.

Today wasn’t through with me yet. I got an email from the organization that manages my TCU benefits, asking that I deposit the check they recently sent me. I do not keep checks lying around—if I got it, I deposited it. There were directions for fixing it online. But the web site “couldn’t locate my records” and I couldn’t log in. So I called. Of course, they had to transfer me two times; the woman I ended up talking to didn’t seem to understand what I was saying, told me to hit “Forgot my password.” The site promised an email, which never arrived. We played this game for a while, until I bowed out and decided my aching tooth and I needed a nap Tried again later, and the web site was down. Color me frustrated.

But there is good news tonight, Charlie Brown. Jordan’s COVID test came back negative, the groceries were waiting at Central Market, and I sent off the files for an audio version of Saving Irene. Proud of myself for figuring out the submission process to ACX—it wasn’t easy. As for Jordan, she confesses in retrospect that she’s much relieved—although she had assured me she was not concerned. I will get my hair cut tomorrow morning, which will make me feel much better, and while I may have a bad weekend, my tooth will be treated early next week. I’m looking on the bright side!