I had been looking forward to this sale for nearly a year. Last October Steve and I went plant hunting for the yard, after finally getting the water-wasters dug up and gone, with mixed results in finding things we liked. One of our stops had been the gift shop at the Garden, where a few lonely specimens remained from the sale which had just ended.
We were too late.
However, the staff gave us assistance in choosing likely plants, along with the information that they held plant sales twice a year. Coming down a couple weeks earlier would enable us to shop this year's fall sale. The spring sale we ruled out since nobody planned on staying the summer to water newly establishing plants. We started planing our shopping list.
My priority, after seeing one in a friend's sister's garden, was a palo blanco tree. I added a palo verde to the list, loving that smooth green bark. With a third space in the back where a dead citrus tree had been removed, I kept my mind open for something to attract wildlife, particularly hummers. Steve and I planned on establishing a series of clumps of ocatillo along the east backyard fence. It would be multi-purpose, part privacy screen, part source of blooms in season, part cover/shade to maybe entice the quail into our yard. More aloes and agaves were on the list, of unspecified varieties. The plan was to look them over and get what we could agree on, adding as much variety to the yard as possible.
We had planted aloes and agaves last fall, only to discover to our anger that the local rabbits found them exceptionally tasty, leading to our finding them exceptionally gone the next morning. The few remaining were hastily protected with chicken wire, which remains as a garden accent to this day, and for a couple years to come at least. I read somewhere that it's the rich soil the plants are grown in at the nurseries which attracts the rabbits, and after a couple years the nutrients wash away, no longer tempting the predators.
The plan on sale day, aka this morning, was to leave the house at 6:00 AM, arriving by 7:00, the start of the sale. It turned out that coffee, showers, and dressing were starting at 6:00, and arrival at the sale was much closer to 7:30, including assembling our scooters for leisurely perusal of the goods.
It was early enough.
A volunteer assisted in emptying the car and in scooter assembly, followed by directions to the section of the parking lot covered by plants. Another volunteer helped with a flatbed cart, selecting trees, and loading. There were, alas, no palo blanco trees. It seems growers didn't bother much with producing those this last year. A well-branched palo brea substituted for an ordinary palo verde, and its miniature leaves will be much easier to ignore as they litter the landscape. For a wildlife-attracting tree, he recommended a variety of desert willow, and seeing one in bloom convinced us to go with it. It will produce seed pods, and if the critters don't scarf them down, at least they will be easy to rake up. Both trees, once established, can be mostly ignored, water-wise: a major point to us.
We found a spot out of the way to park the flatbed while doing more shopping. I grabbed a couple more aloes while Steve detoured over to some goat-milk fudge. (He shared: YUM!) We found some baby ocatillas, selecting the four best from the large patch of pots. An agave finished the selections, as well as the budget for this year. Besides, some of these still needed holes dug, meaning now that the kids had gone back north, that Steve and I have the upcoming thrill of putting the strain on our own knees for the process.
Paying and arranging delivery for the lot put the finishing touches on our trip. We already knew that the trees would require delivery rather than hanging out the back of the car and being blown to shreds on the freeway, and with no extra cost for the rest of our pots, we opted for simple in loading the car back up for the trip home. Once back at the car, the same volunteer who helped unload the car assisted in dismantling scooters and reloading the car.
All of the volunteers we encountered were more than helpful. They had information we needed for our choices plus planting tips (prune or no? how deep? shade, sun, or mix?) and when one plant I really liked had somehow missed being cataloged by light requirements, brought in all sorts of resources, written and breathing both, until the question was answered. With all that help so promptly offered, we were done and out of there in time to go have breakfast on the way home, and plan where exactly the unanticipated plants would go.
I am probably a tad sunburned, but that's my own fault for no hat and open neckline, ignoring the need to prevent burning that early in the morning just because the air was comfortably cool. (Note to self: this is Arizona, not Minnesota. Duh!)
I am also beginning to think about next year's fall sale. There were, after all, hundreds of varieties we didn't pick from... this time.
Saturday, October 11, 2014
Monday, October 6, 2014
When Do I Write My Blog?
I just responded to an email from a good friend who located a new blog posting about 3AM and sent me the above query. I answered her, and brought her up to date on what's happening, then decided to mostly copy it and do the same for everybody. Yes, it's the lazy way, but you'll begin to see why as you read:
"The simplest answer - and the least helpful - is whenever I need to.
Been really busy, both with company and getting house stuff done. Jordan flew back Saturday, Rich and Brenda tomorrow afternoon. We're scrambling to get the last stuff off my wish list done before they leave. There's a bit of painting still, Rich crawling through the attic to put in proper support above the ceiling for the two fans that pulled off when tall heads bumped them - or if not off, then loose enough to fall if used in the case of the master bedroom fan - digging holes for planting, including two trees yet to be purchased (Desert Botanical Garden plant sale this weekend) and replacing the dead dead dead ponytail with what I'm calling a curly-haired agave, real name unknown because it was too cheap to label, apparently. There's been cleaning (yes, we packed dirty laundry to move down, now hanging in closets and no longer dirty), some picture hanging and Rich will put the insulation skirt around the water heater because we can feel the heat through the door vent as we pass it in the hall.
The really awful motion-sensor light fixture over the patio has been replaced with a modern, non-motion light, and some decorative dragonfly lights in a X-mas-like string were hung as well for very minimal lighting there as an alternative. Imagine sitting enjoying the darkening evening when an arm motion starts a glaring light to ruin night vision, followed by sudden departure of light, usually when eating out there, because nobody moved in exactly the right way. What idiot installed that?
Then just for fun and reward for the workers there was a two day trip to the Canyon and nearby scenic/historical spots, shopping for Brenda and Jordan at Navajo stands along the road into the Canyon, and a day off to visit some giant 55-acre flea market for Rich and Brenda yesterday topped by a visit to her uncle and aunt in Mesa. (I stayed home for that one.) And where ever did I pack my camera before the move?
I haven't hunted for any more of your drapes or curtains because everything in both extra bedrooms is covered in drop cloths for the painting, and right now nothing is findable. Steve can't even locate his Kindle! What I have found is a great color match for the living room, and I'm looking forward to their addition to the decoration scheme.
I'm also looking forward to feeling retired, eventually. Oh yeah, plus sitting down and sorting through the bills, of which there currently is quite a stack. Now is the first month with the imposed budget, so I need to see just which medical bills, for example, get paid how fast. And those don't stop just because of the move, unlike the second house bills. In fact, I meet my new cardiologist Monday, along with seeing how my coagulation levels have or haven't changed in two weeks of a higher dose of Warfarin.
Whee.
So back to your first question, I blog when I must, because then I take time for it. Eventually too I plan on sitting down to turn on the TV at news time and beginning to catch up with the rest of the world. I heard there was an Ebola thing happening in Texas. I imagine, without any more information than that, that it must be 1: overblown, 2: Obama's fault, and 3: well, it's Texas, so maybe they deserved whatever it is with all their opposition to regulations which might control outbreaks and to taxes which might help pay for medical infrastructure necessary to help its citizens and other residents. But of course I spout off from a point of knowing nothing. OMG, I'm turning Republican!!!
LOL.
Hope you are feeling better, and yes, we need to get together for our endless conversations sans phone bills.
Hugs, Heather"
Note: I see the drapes comment is confusing out of the context of knowing the rest of the story. She replaced hers when redecorating and thought I might be able to use the old ones, still in excellent shape, and as it turns out a good color match. They were dropped off over the summer, as they have the key to the place and check on it for us periodically. In all the chaos, some were misplaced.
"The simplest answer - and the least helpful - is whenever I need to.
Been really busy, both with company and getting house stuff done. Jordan flew back Saturday, Rich and Brenda tomorrow afternoon. We're scrambling to get the last stuff off my wish list done before they leave. There's a bit of painting still, Rich crawling through the attic to put in proper support above the ceiling for the two fans that pulled off when tall heads bumped them - or if not off, then loose enough to fall if used in the case of the master bedroom fan - digging holes for planting, including two trees yet to be purchased (Desert Botanical Garden plant sale this weekend) and replacing the dead dead dead ponytail with what I'm calling a curly-haired agave, real name unknown because it was too cheap to label, apparently. There's been cleaning (yes, we packed dirty laundry to move down, now hanging in closets and no longer dirty), some picture hanging and Rich will put the insulation skirt around the water heater because we can feel the heat through the door vent as we pass it in the hall.
The really awful motion-sensor light fixture over the patio has been replaced with a modern, non-motion light, and some decorative dragonfly lights in a X-mas-like string were hung as well for very minimal lighting there as an alternative. Imagine sitting enjoying the darkening evening when an arm motion starts a glaring light to ruin night vision, followed by sudden departure of light, usually when eating out there, because nobody moved in exactly the right way. What idiot installed that?
Then just for fun and reward for the workers there was a two day trip to the Canyon and nearby scenic/historical spots, shopping for Brenda and Jordan at Navajo stands along the road into the Canyon, and a day off to visit some giant 55-acre flea market for Rich and Brenda yesterday topped by a visit to her uncle and aunt in Mesa. (I stayed home for that one.) And where ever did I pack my camera before the move?
I haven't hunted for any more of your drapes or curtains because everything in both extra bedrooms is covered in drop cloths for the painting, and right now nothing is findable. Steve can't even locate his Kindle! What I have found is a great color match for the living room, and I'm looking forward to their addition to the decoration scheme.
I'm also looking forward to feeling retired, eventually. Oh yeah, plus sitting down and sorting through the bills, of which there currently is quite a stack. Now is the first month with the imposed budget, so I need to see just which medical bills, for example, get paid how fast. And those don't stop just because of the move, unlike the second house bills. In fact, I meet my new cardiologist Monday, along with seeing how my coagulation levels have or haven't changed in two weeks of a higher dose of Warfarin.
Whee.
So back to your first question, I blog when I must, because then I take time for it. Eventually too I plan on sitting down to turn on the TV at news time and beginning to catch up with the rest of the world. I heard there was an Ebola thing happening in Texas. I imagine, without any more information than that, that it must be 1: overblown, 2: Obama's fault, and 3: well, it's Texas, so maybe they deserved whatever it is with all their opposition to regulations which might control outbreaks and to taxes which might help pay for medical infrastructure necessary to help its citizens and other residents. But of course I spout off from a point of knowing nothing. OMG, I'm turning Republican!!!
LOL.
Hope you are feeling better, and yes, we need to get together for our endless conversations sans phone bills.
Hugs, Heather"
Note: I see the drapes comment is confusing out of the context of knowing the rest of the story. She replaced hers when redecorating and thought I might be able to use the old ones, still in excellent shape, and as it turns out a good color match. They were dropped off over the summer, as they have the key to the place and check on it for us periodically. In all the chaos, some were misplaced.
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
Miracles at 34,000 Feet
And on the ground as well. Not sure which was more impressive. One was ordinary, if you happened to be in the right place at the right time, though spectacular. The other was... well, rare enough and so contrary to what I've seen of human nature that it may as well have been a miracle.
The two were different enough that you might not think they were connected, but the first led to a chain of events that ended in the second.
Monday Jordan and I flew down to Phoenix together. She had the window seat, I had the middle. A bit past midway through the flight the captain's voice came over the intercom, letting us know that while we lifted off on time, we were going to be about 45 minutes late landing. We'd had to detour south to the Texas panhandle before heading west. The reason was visible out the window on our side of the plane, a thunderstorm over Tucumcari. Also over whatever else we flew past for the next 25 minutes or so at about 500 mph. We were just about level with the cloud tops, and while it was late enough that the sky was pretty dark, just enough definition to tell the line of the top of the clouds, the nearly continuous lightning lit the clouds enough to keep us entranced while the show lasted.
Jordan had her smart phone with her and shot several sections of video of the displays, posting them on her Facebook page before we even left the plane. Those of you who know her should enjoy watching them. Please note that her phone camera shot a pretty wide angle so the view on the screen severely minimized what we were really seeing.
The "real" miracle came later. Because we were running late, several passengers would be challenged in making their connecting flights that evening. We were requested to please remain in our seats so they could depart as quickly as possible. Those needing quick exit were asked for a show of hands, and the flight attendants noted that several were from the back of the plane.
If you fly enough, you have heard this request before on a late-arriving flight. I have. It's never made a difference in my experience. Before the plane hits the gate half the passengers are standing in the aisle, hauling down their carry-ons, blocking anybody else's motion until they've gotten off themselves.
Not this time. That was the miracle. We all sat, politely waiting for those in need to get off. We waited for the flight attendants to ask if anybody else needed to catch a connector and finally inform us that all who needed to had now left. I don't know if any of them made their flights, but they were given the opportunity.
The flight crew told us we Phoenix people were awesome.
I agree. Mind you, not on my own behalf. I would have been waiting for a cleared aisle before standing anyway, so I could actually get out of there once my knees unkinked after sitting nearly 4 hours. By then my scooter would have been brought up to the walkway near the plane exit door and I could ride to the shuttle bus. It's the rest of the passengers who were awesome.
The two were different enough that you might not think they were connected, but the first led to a chain of events that ended in the second.
Monday Jordan and I flew down to Phoenix together. She had the window seat, I had the middle. A bit past midway through the flight the captain's voice came over the intercom, letting us know that while we lifted off on time, we were going to be about 45 minutes late landing. We'd had to detour south to the Texas panhandle before heading west. The reason was visible out the window on our side of the plane, a thunderstorm over Tucumcari. Also over whatever else we flew past for the next 25 minutes or so at about 500 mph. We were just about level with the cloud tops, and while it was late enough that the sky was pretty dark, just enough definition to tell the line of the top of the clouds, the nearly continuous lightning lit the clouds enough to keep us entranced while the show lasted.
Jordan had her smart phone with her and shot several sections of video of the displays, posting them on her Facebook page before we even left the plane. Those of you who know her should enjoy watching them. Please note that her phone camera shot a pretty wide angle so the view on the screen severely minimized what we were really seeing.
The "real" miracle came later. Because we were running late, several passengers would be challenged in making their connecting flights that evening. We were requested to please remain in our seats so they could depart as quickly as possible. Those needing quick exit were asked for a show of hands, and the flight attendants noted that several were from the back of the plane.
If you fly enough, you have heard this request before on a late-arriving flight. I have. It's never made a difference in my experience. Before the plane hits the gate half the passengers are standing in the aisle, hauling down their carry-ons, blocking anybody else's motion until they've gotten off themselves.
Not this time. That was the miracle. We all sat, politely waiting for those in need to get off. We waited for the flight attendants to ask if anybody else needed to catch a connector and finally inform us that all who needed to had now left. I don't know if any of them made their flights, but they were given the opportunity.
The flight crew told us we Phoenix people were awesome.
I agree. Mind you, not on my own behalf. I would have been waiting for a cleared aisle before standing anyway, so I could actually get out of there once my knees unkinked after sitting nearly 4 hours. By then my scooter would have been brought up to the walkway near the plane exit door and I could ride to the shuttle bus. It's the rest of the passengers who were awesome.
Friday, September 19, 2014
Retired! Kind Of...
It has finally happened. YEEEE_HAAAAAAA!!!!! I am a free woman, as I informed Steve last night, just not inexpensive. I officially dropped my last run and logged off the last time around 6:00 PM, then swung by HQ to drop off all the stuff that needed to be turned in to them. Farewells were said, hands were shaken.
This is as opposed to the morning stop-off, where the morning dispatchers both offered hugs. They have been around as long as I have, meaning close to 29 years, and this was the first time I got close enough to Brian to know what his after shave smells like. No really: after the hug, I was wearing it myself! For hours!
NOT my choice of a nice fragrance! Sorry Brian.
I'm trying to figure out how I'm feeling. It's been a mix these last weeks, part relief, part celebratory, part loss. I'm still a bit too busy to sort it all out. I have to shower in a few minutes and head out to the clinic for another finger stab to check blood coagulation levels, now that I'm finally out of denial about needing warfarin. Those needles are way nastier than what I use for testing blood sugar. Then I come home, pick up Paul and head to the attorney to finalize the house sale legally. After that, go and early vote at the county courthouse, do a last bit of grocery shopping, partly for the trip, partly for the retirement+ party Sunday, and partly because I'm working the auction tomorrow.
Yeah, me. Retired. And yet working.
Then Monday is getting the rental, supervising the packing of both vehicles by Rich and Brenda who will also be coming along, catching up on unwatched programs on the DVR (got into the Roosevelts, which makes 7 2-hour stints), getting the last minute packing/moving out of the bedroom done, plus whatever else comes up that we've forgotten or not gotten to. Then Tuesday is hitting the road early, like 7-ish. Tuesday night is Emporia, Kansas. And Wednesday is Albuquerque, Thursday is home, or what will then be home, and settling in, unpacking the rental, repacking my stuff for the return, Friday making it to Tucumcari, Saturday to Lexana,KS, Sunday to Paul's house (funny twinge there), Monday picking up Jordan, returning the rental at the airport, and waiting for the flight back home. Then another two weeks of fixing up the house, touring AZ with family, sending them back to the airport, and finally, on October 8th, settling back with my feet up and taking time to wonder just what retirement really is.
I will, of course, let you know.
This is as opposed to the morning stop-off, where the morning dispatchers both offered hugs. They have been around as long as I have, meaning close to 29 years, and this was the first time I got close enough to Brian to know what his after shave smells like. No really: after the hug, I was wearing it myself! For hours!
NOT my choice of a nice fragrance! Sorry Brian.
I'm trying to figure out how I'm feeling. It's been a mix these last weeks, part relief, part celebratory, part loss. I'm still a bit too busy to sort it all out. I have to shower in a few minutes and head out to the clinic for another finger stab to check blood coagulation levels, now that I'm finally out of denial about needing warfarin. Those needles are way nastier than what I use for testing blood sugar. Then I come home, pick up Paul and head to the attorney to finalize the house sale legally. After that, go and early vote at the county courthouse, do a last bit of grocery shopping, partly for the trip, partly for the retirement+ party Sunday, and partly because I'm working the auction tomorrow.
Yeah, me. Retired. And yet working.
Then Monday is getting the rental, supervising the packing of both vehicles by Rich and Brenda who will also be coming along, catching up on unwatched programs on the DVR (got into the Roosevelts, which makes 7 2-hour stints), getting the last minute packing/moving out of the bedroom done, plus whatever else comes up that we've forgotten or not gotten to. Then Tuesday is hitting the road early, like 7-ish. Tuesday night is Emporia, Kansas. And Wednesday is Albuquerque, Thursday is home, or what will then be home, and settling in, unpacking the rental, repacking my stuff for the return, Friday making it to Tucumcari, Saturday to Lexana,KS, Sunday to Paul's house (funny twinge there), Monday picking up Jordan, returning the rental at the airport, and waiting for the flight back home. Then another two weeks of fixing up the house, touring AZ with family, sending them back to the airport, and finally, on October 8th, settling back with my feet up and taking time to wonder just what retirement really is.
I will, of course, let you know.
Thursday, September 4, 2014
What Else Has Changed
This, not New Years, is my time of year to pause and reflect. School starts, another birthday looms, milestones like Medicare - last year - and Social Security/ retirement - this year - mark the emotional calendar. Some years nothing changes noticeably. That's not the case this year.
The biggest thing is not that I am retiring later this month, years earlier than planned. The big thing, the thing changing my world view, is why.
Last year the big thing was getting health insurance again - finally. I got lucky, slipped through the holes in coverage periods with nothing major happening to bankrupt me. Now there wasn't just coverage but affordable coverage. Some call it an entitlement program. Yes, I'm entitled, having paid into the program for nearly all of my working life, just like I'm entitled to withdraw my own funds from the bank or be compensated by my auto insurance or homeowners insurance when something happens. Qualifying by age for that coverage lifted a burden of fear from my future, nebulous as it was.
And just in time. I spent last year's birthday in the hospital. There've been medication adjustments after each of the following ER visits this year for the same thing. There have been tests finding little, lists of dos and dont's which pretty much haven't changed my life any since I already don't smoke, limit caffeine, get plenty of sleep, don't do drugs like coke, get moderate exercise but not heavy, etc.
It's all come with a cost, and I'm not just talking about the after-Medicare bills that keep showing up. I'm talking about how I see myself and my future.
I used to look at my folks and judge my lifespan by theirs. Since Mom made 90 and Dad made 97, the thought was that I was likely to have a similar lifespan. True, medical issues are creeping up, but medicine has advanced. It might be a wash. Or at least close. I planned on having to save for a long retirement, and as soon as the kids were grown, I did. Being a single parent without financial help post-divorce put a crimp on those savings plans, but I did what and when I could. I invested conservatively, avoiding the ups and downs of stock markets for the security of smaller but guaranteed investments. The only devaluing that occurred was in home value, but that doesn't count when you're not selling until the market recovers anyway. Plus you can't be underwater when the mortgage is already paid off.
The one thing that bit was when the company I contract with dropped everybody's commission percentages. Because they could. I was busy eliminating that pesky credit card debt until then. My inability to keep doing that as quickly led me to adjust retirement age to 70. It was going to be a sacrifice, spending winters away from Steve, but I'd be much better set for retirement.
Then the heart problems started. Each time another episode of A-Fib hit, I lost a bit more optimism, a bit more ability to stay in denial. And they kept hitting. Everything I read, internet to ER handouts, said to seek medical attention, and since I was always away from home, on the road, inconvenient to anything but an ER, that's where I went. It gets costly. It shouldn't be how medicine is practiced, especially with insurance. Tests showed little. Everybody just said to me, "Learn to live with it."
Nobody said how, exactly. Coping seemed like just another revision of my life expectancy downward. And again. Plus piling the bills upward. And of course, facing my need to get out from behind the wheel. A little investigation after bout two left nothing but pessimism about any chances to pass another DOT physical. Retirement, then, ready or not, at the end of my grace period before the next physical was due. The last round left me calling Paul to come meet me at the ER, pick up my last package, and deliver it for me. I did of course clear it with dispatch, but she was just grateful she didn't have to try to track down an available driver in the Forest Lake area late on a Friday night. Luckily the drop was a regular one, and I could describe to Paul just where to take it.
Each time it happens, my meds get changed, the metoprolol dose gets doubled, in hopes of stopping the next time. Obviously, that is not working. The last time added in the complication of what they call paroxsysmal A-fib. That means throwing in a flutter of rapid heartbeats every so often. My pulse would go dub dub du-du-du-du-du dub dub ... dub dub.... dub du-du-du-du dub and so on. I could feel it in my chest, besides getting light-headed from improper oxygenation. But the road I was on had wide paved shoulders, allowing me to pull over a couple times to allow the light-headedness to pass, and continue till the next time, until I pulled into the ER parking lot. And yes, if you must know, no matter how bad I was feeling, my first stop inside the door was the bathroom. No need for another complication, eh?
The treatment in the ER was, as usual, more IV doses of metoprolol. After three, and no conversion to normal sinus rhythm, they decided to send me to the ICU overnight. The nurse I had then started showing me what nobody else had bothered to yet: ways to maybe stop the A-fib myself.
Wow! What? Something I can do besides take daily pills and wait for the next bout? First was abdominal pushing, like if you had constipation and needed to force a bowel movement. Of course, you didn't actually have one. Just kept pushing. No dice.
Then there was coughing. I had hopes for that, because sometimes I've felt a single little flutter, now that I know what that feels like, and I involuntarily cough and it goes away. Only now I was to cough-cough-cough-cough fast and with many repetitions. Alas, again no dice.
Another option is dunking the face or head into icy cold water. We didn't actually try that. She got busy with a trauma patient, other staff popped in and out, and somewhere in there, about three hours after walking in, I converted.
It was noticed. I was informed that they would keep me another couple hours on the monitors, so they could tell for sure that it was going to take. Then I could go home instead of to the ICU. One nurse asked me what I converted to? Was I now Jewish? Catholic? I just told her cheerfully that this as a free country and I didn't have to tell her. Luckily she had the right sense of humor. Doubly so in that I was struggling to keep mine.
No longer able to keep in denial, I made my appointment to start with the coumadin clinic, something I've found excuses to avoid for nearly a year. The side effect of A-fib that everybody keeps warning me about is stroke. The blood pools when the heartbeat is wonky (technical term, eh?) and can clot, making stroke likely. Blood thinners are standard as preventative, but need monitoring regularly for the rest of your life.
My annual physical was due a week later. I decided I had questions. Just what was "live with it" going to entail? Were there any other options? Was this going to kill me in a year or two? How did I stay out of the ER? Since they dosed me with metoprolol, could I just stay home, pop extra pills myself, and wait for it all to go away again?
My primary doc listened and decided I needed another visit with a cardiologist. Only this time I got sent to one down in Edina, primarily because the move is coming up and time was to short to get an appointment with the guy I'd been seeing.
I got really lucky, starting with an appointment the very next morning. But it got better. I found out that even cardiologists have sub-specialties. This guy's expertise was in the electrical system of the heart. In other words, exactly what I needed. And, boy, did we talk.
I could, next attack/s, just stay home, relax with my feet up, and ride it out. Not driving was a good idea for the duration. As to dosing with extra metoprolol, that was a bad idea. Really bad. It slows down the heartbeat, potentially useful with the fast flutter, but too much slowing down is, well, just way too much. (I had noted that my new pulse rate on the increased dose was 54 the day before. Not bad for a prime athlete, perhaps. Not so good for an out-of-shape geezer.) He thought it likely I converted despite the ER meds, rather than because of them.
He added a new med and halved the metoprolol. The combination would do a much better job of controlling the A-fib. I just needed an EKG in a week to make sure my rhythm was doing what it should, and note whether side effects like headache or skin rash occurred.
And long term, there is a possibility of a surgical procedure called abladement (I think) where they send a catheter up a vessel to the heart and cauterize/kill the cells that are sending the wrong signals to the heart as to when to beat. It sometimes needs to be done twice, but is about 90% successful.
WOW! HOPE! I left the ER the week before completely discouraged. I left his office optimistic again. What a change in such a short time!
Oh, and what else has changed, is the retirement date got moved up a day. When I cancelled my commercial drivers policy, I told them I would be working through the 19th. They cancelled it on the 19th. My new AZ policy starts the 20th, so I've got one day uninsured.
I won't be driving.
There'll still be packing to do.
The biggest thing is not that I am retiring later this month, years earlier than planned. The big thing, the thing changing my world view, is why.
Last year the big thing was getting health insurance again - finally. I got lucky, slipped through the holes in coverage periods with nothing major happening to bankrupt me. Now there wasn't just coverage but affordable coverage. Some call it an entitlement program. Yes, I'm entitled, having paid into the program for nearly all of my working life, just like I'm entitled to withdraw my own funds from the bank or be compensated by my auto insurance or homeowners insurance when something happens. Qualifying by age for that coverage lifted a burden of fear from my future, nebulous as it was.
And just in time. I spent last year's birthday in the hospital. There've been medication adjustments after each of the following ER visits this year for the same thing. There have been tests finding little, lists of dos and dont's which pretty much haven't changed my life any since I already don't smoke, limit caffeine, get plenty of sleep, don't do drugs like coke, get moderate exercise but not heavy, etc.
It's all come with a cost, and I'm not just talking about the after-Medicare bills that keep showing up. I'm talking about how I see myself and my future.
I used to look at my folks and judge my lifespan by theirs. Since Mom made 90 and Dad made 97, the thought was that I was likely to have a similar lifespan. True, medical issues are creeping up, but medicine has advanced. It might be a wash. Or at least close. I planned on having to save for a long retirement, and as soon as the kids were grown, I did. Being a single parent without financial help post-divorce put a crimp on those savings plans, but I did what and when I could. I invested conservatively, avoiding the ups and downs of stock markets for the security of smaller but guaranteed investments. The only devaluing that occurred was in home value, but that doesn't count when you're not selling until the market recovers anyway. Plus you can't be underwater when the mortgage is already paid off.
The one thing that bit was when the company I contract with dropped everybody's commission percentages. Because they could. I was busy eliminating that pesky credit card debt until then. My inability to keep doing that as quickly led me to adjust retirement age to 70. It was going to be a sacrifice, spending winters away from Steve, but I'd be much better set for retirement.
Then the heart problems started. Each time another episode of A-Fib hit, I lost a bit more optimism, a bit more ability to stay in denial. And they kept hitting. Everything I read, internet to ER handouts, said to seek medical attention, and since I was always away from home, on the road, inconvenient to anything but an ER, that's where I went. It gets costly. It shouldn't be how medicine is practiced, especially with insurance. Tests showed little. Everybody just said to me, "Learn to live with it."
Nobody said how, exactly. Coping seemed like just another revision of my life expectancy downward. And again. Plus piling the bills upward. And of course, facing my need to get out from behind the wheel. A little investigation after bout two left nothing but pessimism about any chances to pass another DOT physical. Retirement, then, ready or not, at the end of my grace period before the next physical was due. The last round left me calling Paul to come meet me at the ER, pick up my last package, and deliver it for me. I did of course clear it with dispatch, but she was just grateful she didn't have to try to track down an available driver in the Forest Lake area late on a Friday night. Luckily the drop was a regular one, and I could describe to Paul just where to take it.
Each time it happens, my meds get changed, the metoprolol dose gets doubled, in hopes of stopping the next time. Obviously, that is not working. The last time added in the complication of what they call paroxsysmal A-fib. That means throwing in a flutter of rapid heartbeats every so often. My pulse would go dub dub du-du-du-du-du dub dub ... dub dub.... dub du-du-du-du dub and so on. I could feel it in my chest, besides getting light-headed from improper oxygenation. But the road I was on had wide paved shoulders, allowing me to pull over a couple times to allow the light-headedness to pass, and continue till the next time, until I pulled into the ER parking lot. And yes, if you must know, no matter how bad I was feeling, my first stop inside the door was the bathroom. No need for another complication, eh?
The treatment in the ER was, as usual, more IV doses of metoprolol. After three, and no conversion to normal sinus rhythm, they decided to send me to the ICU overnight. The nurse I had then started showing me what nobody else had bothered to yet: ways to maybe stop the A-fib myself.
Wow! What? Something I can do besides take daily pills and wait for the next bout? First was abdominal pushing, like if you had constipation and needed to force a bowel movement. Of course, you didn't actually have one. Just kept pushing. No dice.
Then there was coughing. I had hopes for that, because sometimes I've felt a single little flutter, now that I know what that feels like, and I involuntarily cough and it goes away. Only now I was to cough-cough-cough-cough fast and with many repetitions. Alas, again no dice.
Another option is dunking the face or head into icy cold water. We didn't actually try that. She got busy with a trauma patient, other staff popped in and out, and somewhere in there, about three hours after walking in, I converted.
It was noticed. I was informed that they would keep me another couple hours on the monitors, so they could tell for sure that it was going to take. Then I could go home instead of to the ICU. One nurse asked me what I converted to? Was I now Jewish? Catholic? I just told her cheerfully that this as a free country and I didn't have to tell her. Luckily she had the right sense of humor. Doubly so in that I was struggling to keep mine.
No longer able to keep in denial, I made my appointment to start with the coumadin clinic, something I've found excuses to avoid for nearly a year. The side effect of A-fib that everybody keeps warning me about is stroke. The blood pools when the heartbeat is wonky (technical term, eh?) and can clot, making stroke likely. Blood thinners are standard as preventative, but need monitoring regularly for the rest of your life.
My annual physical was due a week later. I decided I had questions. Just what was "live with it" going to entail? Were there any other options? Was this going to kill me in a year or two? How did I stay out of the ER? Since they dosed me with metoprolol, could I just stay home, pop extra pills myself, and wait for it all to go away again?
My primary doc listened and decided I needed another visit with a cardiologist. Only this time I got sent to one down in Edina, primarily because the move is coming up and time was to short to get an appointment with the guy I'd been seeing.
I got really lucky, starting with an appointment the very next morning. But it got better. I found out that even cardiologists have sub-specialties. This guy's expertise was in the electrical system of the heart. In other words, exactly what I needed. And, boy, did we talk.
I could, next attack/s, just stay home, relax with my feet up, and ride it out. Not driving was a good idea for the duration. As to dosing with extra metoprolol, that was a bad idea. Really bad. It slows down the heartbeat, potentially useful with the fast flutter, but too much slowing down is, well, just way too much. (I had noted that my new pulse rate on the increased dose was 54 the day before. Not bad for a prime athlete, perhaps. Not so good for an out-of-shape geezer.) He thought it likely I converted despite the ER meds, rather than because of them.
He added a new med and halved the metoprolol. The combination would do a much better job of controlling the A-fib. I just needed an EKG in a week to make sure my rhythm was doing what it should, and note whether side effects like headache or skin rash occurred.
And long term, there is a possibility of a surgical procedure called abladement (I think) where they send a catheter up a vessel to the heart and cauterize/kill the cells that are sending the wrong signals to the heart as to when to beat. It sometimes needs to be done twice, but is about 90% successful.
WOW! HOPE! I left the ER the week before completely discouraged. I left his office optimistic again. What a change in such a short time!
Oh, and what else has changed, is the retirement date got moved up a day. When I cancelled my commercial drivers policy, I told them I would be working through the 19th. They cancelled it on the 19th. My new AZ policy starts the 20th, so I've got one day uninsured.
I won't be driving.
There'll still be packing to do.
What Free Water?
I'm scratching my head over the idea of people thinking they should be able to get free water at their homes without paying any bills. It's some sort of "right".
Perhaps in some kind of perfect world, some place where water is evenly distributed over the planet, always fresh and unpolluted, people don't worship bluegrass lawns, no sewage returns to the system to be processed, no testing is needed to ensure potability, no people need to be hired to manage all that, no pipes, pumps, holding ponds, labs or anything like that is required, and, hey, no idiots flush weird things down their toilets to clog up the system and require expensive repairs - then maybe water is free to all.
I don't live there. Detroiters who haven't paid their bills and complain about shut-offs don't live there. Spokes people from the UN who blather on about human rights don't live there either.
Do you?
Didn't think so.
So everybody shut up and pay your bills, conserve water sensibly, and treat the system as if you owned it. Because you do. The only alternatives are a policy of anarchy where the rich are the only ones with any water access and you become their slaves in order to "earn" your necessary share, or taxes are raised so everybody supports the system regardless of usage or income.
Perhaps in some kind of perfect world, some place where water is evenly distributed over the planet, always fresh and unpolluted, people don't worship bluegrass lawns, no sewage returns to the system to be processed, no testing is needed to ensure potability, no people need to be hired to manage all that, no pipes, pumps, holding ponds, labs or anything like that is required, and, hey, no idiots flush weird things down their toilets to clog up the system and require expensive repairs - then maybe water is free to all.
I don't live there. Detroiters who haven't paid their bills and complain about shut-offs don't live there. Spokes people from the UN who blather on about human rights don't live there either.
Do you?
Didn't think so.
So everybody shut up and pay your bills, conserve water sensibly, and treat the system as if you owned it. Because you do. The only alternatives are a policy of anarchy where the rich are the only ones with any water access and you become their slaves in order to "earn" your necessary share, or taxes are raised so everybody supports the system regardless of usage or income.
Thursday, August 28, 2014
Hello Kitty and Ring-Come-Ditty
Stories out of two news reports on the same day:
This morning the shocker was that the head of "Hello Kitty" announced that she isn't a cat. She's a little girl. From London, even.
Silly us. How could we not know? After all these years, yet.
Wait a minute: check the calendar. Nope, not April 1st. Maybe a publicity stunt? How's the corporate bottom line been doing lately?
Let's examine the product again. Hmmmm.... whiskers on each side of the mouth... perky ears on top of the head... yep, looks like all the little London girls I've ever seen all the many times I've been over there. Oh wait: I've never been. Somehow I have managed to live my entire life imagining that all the little girls in London looked exactly like little girls here and elsewhere, resembling cats only on special occasions like Halloween. Apparently, between myself and the head of the Hello Kitty company, one of us seriously needs to get out more.
The other story comes from MPR. It's state fair time. Translation: every media conglomeration in the state is reporting from inside the fair, the number one absolutely mandatory story to cover being fair food. After a panel discussion this noon on good and bad foods, favorites and hates, one speaker opined that we all have one food from our childhood that may not have been good but the nostalgia makes up for it and we continue to enjoy eating it throughout our adult lives.
He got it half right. There is a food from my childhood that - no may about it, simply was not good. The part about nostalgia and continuing to eat it, well, forget that part.
Mom called it ring-come-ditty. Or at least that's how she pronounced it. No clue where the name came from. I have my suspicions where the actual dish came from though: the depression. A lot of Mom's cooking came from there. A breakfast staple, for example, was a slice of white toast on a plate covered with a sprinkle of sugar (a spoonful if we could get away with it) and a bit of milk poured over it, called Yankee Pudding. A few decades ago I heard it referred to as Depression Pudding. But hey, sugar!
Mom's cooking had a lot of hallmarks that I believe hail from the depression. It was cheap, usually had many ingredients from cans, had little flavor, and tended to be seasoned only with salt and pepper. Not too much, though! The only spices in the house were a few basics used in baking: vanilla, cinnamon, and cloves, nutmeg and ginger for pumpkin pies. Sage came out once a year for turkey stuffing. Words like basil, rosemary, thyme, garlic, peppers, may all have been a foreign language. Onions were occasionally present, not as a spice but as a vegetable, battered and deep fried in rings when there was also fresh-caught fish to go with it. That she did very well.
Ring-come-ditty was a simple dish, carefully prepared. There were four ingredients, evenly layered in a casserole dish before baking in an oven. The layers were crumbled saltines, stewed tomatoes, cream style corn, and bits of fried bacon. They were repeated, and covered with a final layer of cracker crumbs. Lest you think, "Bacon, yummm!" just be aware that she could manage to do the whole hotdish with at most 4 slices, or almost enough to actually taste. All the liquids would soak into the bacon, eliminating flavor and crispness, before sogging up the cracker crumbs.
Somehow we ate it. It wasn't spectacularly bad or disgusting, just completely blah. She usually cut the stewed tomatoes into small enough bits that I could choke them down without having to actually chew, and thus taste, them. I guess we were hungry - enough, anyway. Certainly we'd been taught to eat whatever was put before us with no waste and few complaints, a rule that held with only one major exception. Ask me someday about boiled potatoes. They, like ring-come-ditty, are neither served nor eaten any more. And nobody suddenly comes upon hiding places with old dried boiled potatoes, such as the framework under the kitchen table.
This morning the shocker was that the head of "Hello Kitty" announced that she isn't a cat. She's a little girl. From London, even.
Silly us. How could we not know? After all these years, yet.
Wait a minute: check the calendar. Nope, not April 1st. Maybe a publicity stunt? How's the corporate bottom line been doing lately?
Let's examine the product again. Hmmmm.... whiskers on each side of the mouth... perky ears on top of the head... yep, looks like all the little London girls I've ever seen all the many times I've been over there. Oh wait: I've never been. Somehow I have managed to live my entire life imagining that all the little girls in London looked exactly like little girls here and elsewhere, resembling cats only on special occasions like Halloween. Apparently, between myself and the head of the Hello Kitty company, one of us seriously needs to get out more.
The other story comes from MPR. It's state fair time. Translation: every media conglomeration in the state is reporting from inside the fair, the number one absolutely mandatory story to cover being fair food. After a panel discussion this noon on good and bad foods, favorites and hates, one speaker opined that we all have one food from our childhood that may not have been good but the nostalgia makes up for it and we continue to enjoy eating it throughout our adult lives.
He got it half right. There is a food from my childhood that - no may about it, simply was not good. The part about nostalgia and continuing to eat it, well, forget that part.
Mom called it ring-come-ditty. Or at least that's how she pronounced it. No clue where the name came from. I have my suspicions where the actual dish came from though: the depression. A lot of Mom's cooking came from there. A breakfast staple, for example, was a slice of white toast on a plate covered with a sprinkle of sugar (a spoonful if we could get away with it) and a bit of milk poured over it, called Yankee Pudding. A few decades ago I heard it referred to as Depression Pudding. But hey, sugar!
Mom's cooking had a lot of hallmarks that I believe hail from the depression. It was cheap, usually had many ingredients from cans, had little flavor, and tended to be seasoned only with salt and pepper. Not too much, though! The only spices in the house were a few basics used in baking: vanilla, cinnamon, and cloves, nutmeg and ginger for pumpkin pies. Sage came out once a year for turkey stuffing. Words like basil, rosemary, thyme, garlic, peppers, may all have been a foreign language. Onions were occasionally present, not as a spice but as a vegetable, battered and deep fried in rings when there was also fresh-caught fish to go with it. That she did very well.
Ring-come-ditty was a simple dish, carefully prepared. There were four ingredients, evenly layered in a casserole dish before baking in an oven. The layers were crumbled saltines, stewed tomatoes, cream style corn, and bits of fried bacon. They were repeated, and covered with a final layer of cracker crumbs. Lest you think, "Bacon, yummm!" just be aware that she could manage to do the whole hotdish with at most 4 slices, or almost enough to actually taste. All the liquids would soak into the bacon, eliminating flavor and crispness, before sogging up the cracker crumbs.
Somehow we ate it. It wasn't spectacularly bad or disgusting, just completely blah. She usually cut the stewed tomatoes into small enough bits that I could choke them down without having to actually chew, and thus taste, them. I guess we were hungry - enough, anyway. Certainly we'd been taught to eat whatever was put before us with no waste and few complaints, a rule that held with only one major exception. Ask me someday about boiled potatoes. They, like ring-come-ditty, are neither served nor eaten any more. And nobody suddenly comes upon hiding places with old dried boiled potatoes, such as the framework under the kitchen table.
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