Written in a hurry

Emmy woke up on a fine Fall morning, looked out the front porch door at the mountains rolling away at her feet and thought 'a person could get real lost out there if they wanted to.'

Her Daddy's done it, so she knew it was true.

Just a few steps into the forest, up a hill, follow an old indian path to a flat spot where they used to camp before they got run out, and never light a fire in the daytime. There you were, lost. Except you know where you were, and it didn't have to be far into the mountains either.  Likely, if you were good at being lost, you could still take a midnight walk to steal a hen from the coop that still stood in what used to be your farmyard. A chicken is good for a few meals, at least.

All the while he was lost, though, Emmy knew where he was.  As sneaky as he thought he was, he'd taught her all along how to navigate the mountains and how to lose yourself in them yet find your way home before dark.

He just stayed out after dark once and never made it back home.

His choice.

As the sun set over the farthest ridge and the world turned blue for a moment, the flash happened down on the second ridge from home. A strike on the flint, a hush of tinder glowing, the beginnings of the same fire that happened every night once it started getting cold.

He didn't cook in summer. Corn and beans and tomatoes and such were ripe for the picking, and she always sowed more than the family really needed.

Yep, she knew how lost he was, and it wasn't by geography. He got lost in his own mind, his dreams, his grief, his disappointment, his weariness, and he just left it all behind. Unburdened. Building little fires while his daughter watches, opening the curtains three times fast so she can see him flashing his firelight in the frypan's bottom back three times.

 He's not lost, but only she and he know that.

 

Took a one-way train the wrong way

 This time, on The Misadventures of Tiff and Biff:

 We are just back from a short weekend trip to see grandchild #3, a darling wee 1-week-old baby girl who is very very good at snoozing (during the daytime anyhow). 

She lives with her parents who live about 4 hours away, so naturally Biff and I drive to see them, because she cannot drive yet and it's a long walk to our house but she can't walk yet either.  

It was a nice time with great weather, so those who were interested in the hotel pool had a vigorous splash about while the ladies stayed on land and chatted about things hither and yon.  We went to dinner, ate some tortilla-related things, and bid adieu for the night, dangling the promise of s delish hotel breakfast in front of them to tantalize the group into visiting us in the morning.

Some of them came by. Baby and mama rousted themselves up and over for waffles and coffee (granddaughter ate formula from a bottle, as would be expected) while the gentlemen remained home abed, still charging their depleted batteries from the day before's shenanigans.

('Day before's looks odd.  Is that correct?)

A plan was made to go up to Charlotte, NC, The Queen City, and visit a few of the things that the youngins had experienced a few months ago while they were waiting for the library to re-open so they could drive home.  Yes, you read that right.  They recommended a park down in the 1st Ward as a starting point, after which we were going to ride the Blue Line around for a bit to experience what Light Rail means to a city center, then get lunch before heading home. 

So, the park was nice.

Eventually one of us needed coffee, so we went over to the City Market and bumbled around there for a bit, stopping for coffee (of course), ice cream, and smoothies. I can recommend the "I have 5 on that" from HipHop Smoothies if you like peanut butter and bananas.  Grandson had the ice cream, granddaughter chugged down a large portion of the potion that is currently her only source of sustenance. We were then ready for the next leg of our journey: lunch.

 The youngins decided to walk to the established eatery, while Biff and I opted to take the Blue Line a few blocks to save me from having to walk too-too much.

Fine.

We procured tickets while the first train pulled into and out of the station.

 We then were struck with the notion that we really did not know which way we were supposed to go, because down is up and over is here in that city that is NOT built on a North-South grid so everything is angles and ridiculous for a newcomer. A compass was utilized at one point.

We switched over to the other side of the tracks, convinced that now this was the way to go instead of the first way. It's one way, or the other, to paraphrase The Pretenders, but NOT both, not on the Blue Line.  One way per track.

The train pulled in.  We were about to get on. The grandson, who should have been long gone by this point, comes running up behind us screaming "don't get on the train, Grampy" and his dad approached telling us they'd misconstrued the direction 'our' train was supposed to go and we need to switch back to the original track and go the way we thought we should go in the first place.

 We switched tracks again.

We got on the train, expecting a trip of just a few blocks.

First stop, 9th street. Two blocks away.

Second stop, way way WAY past 9th street.

We had gone the wrong direction.

On a one-way train.

We got off, switched BACK to the train that went the way we were supposed to go in the first place, rode it ONE stop back to the 9th street station (by the nice park we were at earlier) and drove our car to where we were to meet the youngins for lunch.

Only that place was too crowded according to their recon, so they picked another place.  All we had to do was park (ha!) and find out where the place was we were supposed to meet, which was not evident from Google maps at ALL, so needed mama and grandson to go out to the street corner and flag us down to take us to the Red Eye Diner right there in downtown Charlotte.

Look it up and tell me if you could find it from the street. No cheating with Google maps.

Yes, it was a lot of folderol, and it took some patience on my part to not demand we just skip lunch already and go home, but of course it was worth spending time with family,  eating a meal in the best seat in the house (a comfy circular booth with bright red cushions!), and ogling a wee tadpole of a human from time to time.

Today, on this Labor Day, we will celebrate by purchasing a new microwave, because sometime over the last 3 days it decided to stop laboring for more than 3 seconds in a row which is no way to heat up your breakfast risotto.

And that's my story.  

Birthday times again (#61)

 

Well, it's baseball, and it's now my age, so...it works? (I have never heard of this movie, it must be noted)

 

Y'all.  I will commence my 62nd year of age at approximately 2:20 this afternoon.

My Mom reminds me every year of my birth time, and sometimes the methodology of my arrival into the world of air and breathing.  Look up 'frank breech,' or as the nice Irish obstetrician said to Mom once she came out of the twilight anaesthetic, 'she was born ass-to!' All 9 pounds 10 ounces of me, 1 pound of which was poop, so you say that from the very beginning I was 'full of it.'

I'm very very fortunate to have made it this far.  So many times, had I not been born into a world of modern medicine, I should or could have died from one malady or another. 

Case in point, my paternal grandmother, who as a young child contracted diphtheria (this was in the early 1900s). It might just be my imagination, but I'd bet that pretty much the whole village was sick with it as this was in the days before antibiotics or most vaccines.  The treatment, as I recall it being described to me by her, was that the doctor came to their house, got the affected persons to open wide, and then through some torturous means stripped their throats of the coating/film of bacteria that trying to kill them through poisonous exudates.  I recall she said that what came out of her throat looked like 'a liverwurst skin.'  

You can understand then why I applaud the development of things used to combat the necessity of stripping liverwurst skins from the throats of young children. It seems nicer just to poke their chubby lil' arms or thighs with a needle once and have that worry taken care of.

More: As a kid I had part of my colon removed - thank God for that because life would have been potentially much shorter and more brutal than I've enjoyed.  Look up Hirschprung's disease if you want a notion of what went on there and how very lucky my folks were to have a pediatric nurse who paid attention in a seminar back in 1966.

Also more: As an adult I had pneumonia twice.  Don't recommend it.  Could easily have done me in if the z-pack hadn't been invented.  That was the second worst sick I've ever been.

Extra more: Had the breast cancer a few years ago.  That one was pretty bad, and it doesn't need mentioning how things would have most likely gone for me a hundred years ago or so.  Again, grateful for surgeon's hands, the poison that is chemotherapy, the breathtaking horror that is filgrastim, the painful em-effing drawn-out torturous miracle of radiation treatment, the follow-up I've received, the wonderment of all the means by which body parts can be scanned and examined, etc etc.  

Ultimate more: The COVID.  If I hadn't been twice-vaxxed by the time we got it in early 2021, I'm certain I would have been much sicker than I got.  Now, while I'm convinced I also had it back in late 2019 (right as COVID was making its way around the world and I was in the very early stage of chemo), it can't be proven that I did, but that 3 weeks after my first infusion was the worst sick I've ever been and no infusion thereafter made me even a tiny bit as poorly feeling as that first one did.  I did think I would have rather died at at least one point in that whole mess, therefore, why I believe I've had that nasty thing twice.

My intent of this post is not to make it a 'poor me' sad sack pity party, but instead celebrate the fact that here, at 61, I have the chance to thrive and be thankful for everything made available to me in the moments of these challenges.  One point: I have had good health insurance my whole life, which puts me in a special group of citizens.  I also recognize that I grew up in a different time and had perhaps more or better opportunities afforded to me in my professional life that makes it possible for me to be able to achieve positions in which that good insurance was made available and affordable.  That bit doesn't escape me.

But anyhow, here I am, closing out year 61 and headed into year 62 with  a shoulder that I somehow injured while sleeping, a bum toe throbbing with arthritis, spaghetti and meatballs and a family gathering to look forward to this evening, and the great good fortune to have many wonderful friends and family to share life with.

Grateful for every day, I am.  Challenges be damned.

Tiff out.

Memorial Day sits heavy (and it should)

 

Today is a day of reflection and remembrance of those who died while serving in the U.S. military, according to the Congressional Research Service. The holiday is observed in part by the National Moment of Remembrance, which encourages all Americans to pause at 3 p.m. for a moment of silence. 

A couple of things that might make it to that 3 p.m. moment of silence and reflection:

 In Flanders Fields with a powerful reminder of our responsibilities to never forget.

 The Poppy Wall, ephemeral and powerful.

There are many many other resources to engage with to understand the impact of this 'holiday' and why we should note it, perhaps not just in the United States but in every country that has lost in-service military to acts of war.  It's not just one country's story to tell, not one country's perished to mourn, not one country's potential and future that is diminished by murder in times of battle.

It's difficult for me to understand any festivity to fully replace our solemn obligation to recognize Memorial Day's meaning.  Sure, picnics are wonderful, playtime is totally underrated especially for those over about 9 years old, and togetherness creates stories and, well, memories.  I don't begrudge that, but do wish that the meaning of Memorial Day isn't lost in the slip-n-slides and beer pong and wafts of smoke from the grills of this fair land  UNTIL the real intent behind this day off is recognized and meaningfully given its moment.

Maybe at 3 p.m.

Tiff out.

How to fit into shoes

 

I have reached an age that isn't quite retirement (dang it) but definitely qualifies for a smattering of 'senior citizen' discounts.While I have yet to take advantage of any of those discounts, because I don't go to the stores that offer them for someone my age I guess, I COULD save money on a cup of coffee at McDonald's if I wanted to.

Among the things that accompany the onset of aging is the realization that stuff just doesn't work in your body they way it used to.  Jump up out of a chair?  Nope, not now, not anymore, look for something to push up on. Tie that lush head of hair into an adorable messy bun?  Uh, no, as it gets crunchy and dry well before the bun-making length is achieved.  Live life free of medicines designed to keep you alive?  That's way in the past, darling, because the thyroid quit and the blood pressure started to rise, better get your pill-taking regimen established.

But...shoes.

More particularly, FEET.

Sometime in the last couple of years my feet have been mounting an effort to expand well beyond what my shoes have been able to accommodate.  OK, my feet have always been a LITTLE bit swollen (like, since I was a young adult), and I think have a raging case of varicose veins (thanks Dad) have something to do with that, but lately this edematous state of being has become an issue, even beyond the feet.

My knees were in near-constant pain, as were the ankles.  One wrong move and I'd be hurtin' for certain. Living was starting to suck kind of badly, and I was beginning to worry about my future and the ability to move around.  Hobbling was becoming my mode of ambulation, and I was mad about it.

When Biff and I were at the beach a few weeks ago, and walking around quite a bit, you might have thought that the swelling would decrease by the end of the day, no?  All that movement and motion should have gotten stuff circulating, right?  Wrong.  By the end of the day when I took off my shoes, the tops of my feet looked like half-risen bread rolls, with an indent where the adjustable velcro strap cut across the instep.  Awful, and when accompanied by shooting pains in calf and thigh, made me very keenly aware that something needed to be fixed.

Cut to my doctor's office a couple of weeks later.  The PA is new-ish to me, and so naturally she is looking me over pretty carefully which of course I appreciate.  She gets to my feet and remarks 'Oh! You're very swollen here' and pushes a couple of divots into my shin with her thumbs to illustrate.  Yes, nicely pitting edema, thanks for the demonstration.  This normally indicates a kidney problem, but my eGFR is fantastic, thanks, so some other issue is keeping all this water in my system.  Whatever it is, she put me back on a diuretic (I'd been on HCTZ before but thought it might have been giving me the gout so we stopped it a couple of years ago).

OK, but it's not HCTZ this time.  It's LASIX, the big dog.  Furosemide, but the low dose.  Once daily.  Remember to stay hydrated. Go get 'em, tiger.

After just a week of dosing, I noticed a few things: my knees no longer hurt, my ankles no longer hurt, the bottoms of my feet no longer burned, my hips moved less stiffly when walking, and my feet fit into shoes.

Also, my ankles looked cute.  As in, I actually HAD ankles, not cankles, for the first time in a very very long time.  As in, those adjustable velcro straps on my 'regular' shoes aren't hanging on by a thread at the 'fattest' setting but instead wrap right over to the factory pre-set bend.  I can slip into my slippers (!) without having to tug.  I can get into sneakers that I gave up trying to get into 5 years ago.

I think the furosemide is working.

No matter that an hour after I take it I'd best be near a bathroom for a good bit (think about it), I feel better and my shoes fit.  That, to me, is plenty good enough.

Here's to better days ahead.

Tiff out.