In my mind, I'm five years old having a high old time wandering and wondering. In reality, I'm now in my late 60s, wowza! I tell you a lot of creativity is still to be found in this old young self. In you, too, whatever your age. Welcome to my barefoot world!
Hey, ya. Hi, ya. How ya? Imagine a Lilo smile (Lilo, as in Lilo and Stitch , a 2002 Disney movie). That is how I'm feeling. Also a bit foggy brained and weary boned from all the week-long fun of turning 65! years old. That, dear blogging friends, is why I have been quiet in my corner of the world. For my birthday gift, the Husband and I rented a car to travel beyond 25-year-old Eliza Does-alot's comfort radius, as well as drive after sunset, if need be. Eliza's headlights do not compete with today's head beams, which blind me into a panic. The Husband doesn't even try driving at night, thank goodness. We drove the rental, a silver 2019 (oh my!) Nissan Sentra we called Sedgwick, on narrow mountain roads, unpaved back roads, smooth freeways, and bumpy highways. And, I was able to drive home at night, without using my high beams. I felt like a younger self. Spontaneity. Go with the flow. I discovered that I can still do both. Hurrah! We spent my birthday
Two nights ago the Husband and I felt chilled so we turned on the heater. Is this the beginning of getting older for us? Older bodies feel the cold more, I've been told. In the Mama's last weeks of being able to haul herself out of bed and tumble towards the wall thermostat, she cranked it up as far as it could go. She still didn't find sufficient warmth. Sigh. I swerved in thought, oh well. Today is h-o-t! It's supposed to get into the 90s for the next two days. I feel a breeze kicking up right now, hurrah. Watering the yard is the Husband's job, which he likes to do it in the early evening. Fearing for the front yard plants, I let the Husband snore away and did some watering early this morning. No big deal. Watering gives me a chance to look at how all the plants are faring, and I discovered that some roses have dried on their stems. See the white edges on the roses in the photo. Those roses are dry. Isn't it amazing how they held their color? If I
My eyes, even with the glasses on, are still seeing blurry images. The ophthalmologist dilated them about four hours ago so she could see clearly into them. And, what did she see? Sufficient level of cataracts to merit surgery for which the health insurance company would be willing to pay. The cataracts are worse in my left eye. On my arbitrary scale of 1-10, the doctor says 5 or 6. My right is 4, but a 5 when she factors in the glare of lights I see when I drive at night (which is the reason I don't like to drive at night). I've known for seven years or so that cataracts have been developing, but I thought I would be in my 70s, maybe 80s, before I had to start considering cataract surgery. Booo. Hisssss. Bummer. The Daddy had cataract surgery in his left eye when he was. . .gee. . .about my age. He hated wearing the contact on his other eye, which either the Mama or I had to insert. That was always an ordeal. Blink, blink. Eventually, he went back to the comfort of we
I got my first piece of advertisement for a Medicare advantage plan in the mail yesterday. It wished me Happy Birthday! That was last month. It stated that it is time for me to think about Medicare, even though I won't be eligible until the end of the year. The mailer did give one two piece of valuable information. Namely, I can enroll for Medicare three months before I turn 65, nine months from now. Unless things change between now and then, the only reasonable and, thankfully, affordable option for me is the Medicare advantage plan that the Husband is already on. Five Facts about Medicare Medicare, established under Title XVIII of the Social Security Act, was signed into law by President Johnson in 1965. President Truman and Mrs. Truman were the first Medicare beneficiaries, receiving the first Medicare cards. In 1972, President Nixon signed a bill to expand coverage to persons under 65 who have long-term disabilities. In 1982, hospice services was added as a Medicare
Can knees cry? That's what I feel my right knee is doing right now. Plain out bawling its tears. If there is no longer any padding within our kneecap, does that mean the bones are grating against each other? I know the answer. It's what the doctors have been telling me lately,"You're rubbing bone against bone." Grate, grate, grate. Shudder. The specialist bone doctor, who I shall call Looking-Mighty-Tired, told me on Friday that knees like mine have four options for improvement. Medications, shots, physical therapy, and surgery. Hahaha, Guess what? I achieved without trying. I went straight to the top of the class. Bingo! Surgery! Ouch. Slowly by slowly, since Friday, my brain is understanding the impact of my (without trying) achievement. Half an hour after the appointment, I had said to the Husband, "I wonder if this is outpatient surgery. I forgot to ask." Hahahahahaha. Right, silly me. To be continued.
"Are you ready?" "Me?" "Susan?" "Yup. That's me." I pushed myself off the bench and grabbed the Mama's cane. "Take your time," the X-ray lady said. "No hurry." "I finally think of myself as old," I said, trying not to grimace as I stiffly walked into the inner room of the X-ray laboratory. "Is that why you gasped when I gave you the form to sign?" the office lady asked, as I walked behind her desk. "I wondered what it was on the form that made you hesitate." "Seeing my age, yes," I said. "I don't think of myself as being that old. 62!" "I don't think of myself as old either," said the office lady, who may have been a few years younger than me. The X-ray lady, who looked to be in her late 40s agreed as well. I felt like the three of us gave a invisible collective sigh. Since the beginning of August I've been hobbling alon
Old age realizes the dreams of youth: look at Dean Swift; in his youth he built an asylum for the insane, in his old age he was himself an inmate. ~ Soren Kierkegaard When I was a youth, I dreamt of hiking mountains, pedaling bicycles, paddling boats, crafting words for a living, seeing wondrous sights, traveling to distant lands, hanging out with great friends, and sharing life with an honest, respectful, kindly, compassionate, intelligent, and funny gentle man. I have realized, and continue to realize, my youthful dreams. How about you? Youth has no age. ~ Pablo Picasso It's the letter Y at ABC Wednesday . Click here to read other Y posts and/or to join in at the fun weekly meme.
Molly the Cat and the Mama got a set of killer wheels the other day. Neither responded well to their portable travel wheelchair. Of course, who really wants to use such a chair much else actually own it. "You think the cat will like that?" asked the Mama when she saw what new tool we brought into the house to help her get around safely. The day before it was a bedside commode, and the day before that a walker. Each purchased just in time for its suddenly urgent need. When the Mama was too tired to inch her way forward any further, she sighed and allowed herself to sit in the chair and be glided to the other room. Settling on her couch, she said, "Give the cat a turn." I think Molly the Cat sighed too when she sat on the seat. She allowed herself to ride for a few feet. The killer wheels came into the house only two days ago, but it seems more like weeks. Sigh. In my imagination, I see the Mama, the Husband, and I charging out of the house and down the sidewalks
We are on a new adventure—the Mama, Molly the Cat, the Husband, and I. The Mama's body is failing. Thank goodness, her spirit is not. She's stubborn. That's a positive. Yesterday afternoon, she faced reality. She fell! "You need to use the walker," I exclaimed. "No! The dead people used it," she said, referring to the walker gathering dust in the garage. She used it once upon a time when she was healing from a broken hip. Somewhere along the line she let a friend borrowed it, which his wife returned after he died. "We will get you another one," I said. It was 5 o'clock in the afternoon. Fortunately, for us, we found a bare-basic walker, without the sparkles and whistles, at the pharmacy. Thankfully for us, the Mama allowed herself to use the walker. I loved that at one point, as she slowly made her way down the hallway, she stamped her feet and scolded her legs for not working with her. Last night, Molly the Cat gave the M
"Are my teeth over there?" asked the Mama, as she slowly shuffled towards the kitchen. Hence, began an all-day search for the Mama's dentures. We went through her clothes pockets, looked behind and under things, moved things from here to there in her bedroom and bathroom, the kitchen, the hallway, and the living room. Several times. The fortunate thing was that the Mama had not gone outside into her garden that morning. The plus side to the Mama misplacing her dentures was that she found her cute, green hand towels and she reorganized her bathroom. I also think she was mentally stimulated by the challenge. I thought I could see her brain cells tightening as she recalled more of her path between the kitchen and her bedroom. So, where did the Mama finally find her dentures? Precisely where she put them. In her vest pocket, which was on her bedroom closet floor. The one piece of clothing she normally wears that we had not thought to look through. Oh well. I&
Just before we turned off the lights last night, the Husband and I were talking about something that reminded of something else that I thought would be fun to write about today. I always like when that happens. This morning, I woke up thinking about what I wanted to write. But, I couldn't recall. The Husband couldn't remember either. I figure the thought would pop up by lunchtime. It didn't happen. Nor, did the thought reveal itself after lunch. Still, I wrote about something. Ha! See you tomorrow.
Hurrah! The Husband and I found a market yesterday in Santa Cruz that sells beef liver and beef soup bones that I can trust. The Mama has been wanting soup-bone soup lately, too. We bought three half-pound frozen containers of liver. Two containers went into the freezer, while the liver in third one was cooked with onions, garlic powder, salt, and soy sauce for the Mama's and my dinner last night. The Husband does not eat liver, no matter how much I tell him I cook so he'd think it was steak. He won't bite. So, he got leftover Chinese food to eat. This morning, I asked the Mama if she liked the liver. "Yes," she said. "I feel stronger." Yay!
My ABC Wednesday theme: The Mama and Her Authentic Green Thumbs . . .and Fingers In the late 1990s, when the Mama was in her mid 70s, her doctor prescribed her one and only medication -- a pill for low thyroid. The doctor started her with .05 mg, a very low dosage. But, in the Mama, woooo-weee! It made her run the marathon, jump over the moon, and lift several 100-pound bags of soil every day. Essentially, taking the medicine made her tired. And, of course, after awhile she stopped taking it. A few months went by before I discovered she was not taking her medication. While visiting her one weekend, I noticed she was looking very tired so I checked her bottle. She was very good at not refilling prescriptions. The bottle was the one I had ordered months ago and it was still full. The Mama admitted that she stopped taking it. Sigh. "Why?" I asked. She shrugged. Her usual answer to questions to which she was not ever going to respond. "That's why you
Plod, plod, plod. I jogged nonstop all the way around the block. Nearly one-quarter of a mile that first day. Yes, it was tough. On my lungs. On my knees. On my whole body. Lumber, lumber, lumber. The second day, I jogged, gasping, but nonstop, for half a mile. When I got home, I told the Husband that my jogging went from plod, plod, plod to lumber, lumber lumber . The Husband asked, "How is plodding different from lumbering?" The sound is different. It is. Pad, pad, pad. My gait sounded like Molly the Cat's when she scoots across the kitchen floor in search of something mischievous to do. I went three-quarters of a mile that third day. I remembered to breath in through my nose and not my mouth. I tried not to think of the twinge in my right knee. The fourth morning, I laid in bed thinking which route around the neighborhood would make one mile. And I thought about whether I ought to run at all. Maybe I ought to pay attention to the twinge that was now t
Lately I've been hearing this phrase a lot— the elephant in the room . For example, a character says, "We can't ignore the elephant in the room anymore." That said, I shall address the elephant that has been showing itself the past few days on my blog. The drawings. Rather, the doodles.Those are mine, you betcha! Very rough and kid-like. You'd think I'd be embarrassed to show them. Nope. This elephant -- my doodles -- is just another something new for me to attempt. Ever since my first grade teacher told me that my cows needed to stand on terra firma , I have been insecure about drawing, painting, sketching, and anything to do with art. Not anymore. The elephant in the room is now s-i-x-t-y and can do whatever she darn well pleases. So, I may be posting a doodle every day of this A to Z challenge. Or not. Because I'm talking about the elephant, I may not be inclined to do any more. But, then, as I'm composing this post, I can't think of w
"Boo!" "What?!" The Husband jumped. I got him twice already. "Stop scaring me," he whined in a fake scaredy-cat kid's voice, after he stopped laughing. "Stop scaring me." Maybe I will. Maybe I won't. I'm feeling loosely-goosely right now. Almost floating on air. It's the ibuprofen speaking. I took one of them red pills a few minutes before I surprised the Husband the first time. "Boo!" I'd taken 3 of them before going to bed last night. "Boo!" I'm getting ready for a big OW! later on today. An endometrial biopsy. The doctor said it would hurt a little Hah! I know better. I've had two in the past several years. The second one was the worse and I had self-medicated myself before then. Let's just say two ibuprofen pills doesn't do it for me. The Husband said he could hear me from the waiting room. Until yesterday, I thought I was a wimp, a weenie, a baby for not having been able to
One of the last times I went to church with the Daddy was to a Good Friday service. The Mama scored big that day as she not only got the Daddy to go with her, but me. I don't know how she did it. Maybe I didn't even sulk as I drove them to church. More than likely I did daydream through the service. That is, until the Daddy caught my attention. It was a struggle for his old bones to do all the physical activity that takes place during a Catholic mass, especially at the longer Good Friday service. You stand, sit, and kneel a lot. I don't think the Daddy realized he was protesting out loud. I still wonder if God and I were the only ones who heard him. Stand. Sit. Kneel. "Shit." Sit. Stand. Kneel. "Fuck." Kneel. Stand. "God damn." Sit. Stand. Sit. Kneel. "Shit. Fuck. God damn." The Husband loves this story. After all, what's not to like: An old man swears in church. How I miss the Daddy.
My birthday was a couple months of ago. It was a delightful day, spent wandering with the Husband. One of the many highlights of the day was a package from Jenn, a dear long-time friend. Many years ago we worked together in a community-based nonprofit in San Francisco. She developed on-the-job-training jobs for at-risk youth, while I counseled them about staying in school. Jenn and I had a lot of fun moments within our serious ones. She could get me to do things I would not consider doing, such as buying a disco dress in all its femme fatal glory. Not just once, but twice. And, then there was that time we were walking back from some serious moment, talking about non-serious things as we passed by the panhandlers, street musicians, and the folks talking into objects before there were cellphones on Market Street. We stopped in front of a wig store and gazed at the display of gigantic Barbie doll heads sporting long and short hairdos. "I wonder how I'd look in a long blon