In my mind, I'm five years old having a high old time wandering and wondering. In reality, I'm now approaching 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!
Hurrah! I got my blood pressure down sufficiently that the doc said he'll see me in three months. And, I went home without having to be prescribed medication. Another hurrah! I know I'm not in the clear. I'm simply happy that my top number is back to borderline rather than over it. It does help to count potato chips and to eat a banana more often, so I think. Have a wonderful weekend, One and All!
It was the sweet hour of the sun heading home. I stood in L Studio, my back to the window, taking advantage of the still bright natural light. La, la, la. I snipped away at a strip of red card stock to fit in a discarded book's hanging-for-dear-life spine. I wanted to fortify the spine before sewing in my own page signatures to make an art journal. Fun. La, la, la. . . . Bzzz. What the heck? Bzzzzzz. Louder. Bzzzzzzzzzzzz. And louder. BzzzZZZZZZZZZ. Over my head and around to my back. BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ. I turned and stepped to the window. Striding around the corner of the house and towards the window was our neighbor to the north, his leafblower strapped to his belly like a weapon. I recognized him instantly. What was he doing here? How did he get in the backyard? Our neighbor is a law enforcement officer. Was something wrong? We locked eyes immediately. Neither of us seemed that much surprised to see each other. "Your husband said a lot of dust blew over to your side when
Colors, Oh my! Vibrant and deep. Shades of color, So many Subtleties. 3D! My gosh, Everything has depth. -- Su-sieee! Mac This, I tell you, is what I've been experiencing since Friday afternoon when the eye patch was removed from my left eye. Oh my gosh! What will it be like when the cataract is removed from my other eye and a corrected lens inserted. Oh me, oh my! And, now I can add my pirate photo to that of the Husband's and our dads. Daddy's cataract was removed in the late 1960s, way before the procedure of inserting an intraocular lens was a thing. No doubt, he would've loved having his sight fully back in his left eye. Arrrrr, mateys! Come check out one, two, or all three of these memes with me: All Seasons , Mosaic Monday , and Say Cheese . Many thanks to the hosts, Jesh, Angie, and Jenna.
This morning at the end of breakfast my fingers locked into a Vulcan salute, and I wasn't even trying to make one. "Look," I said to the Husband who was intently bent over his iPad. "Wait, I'm watching this video." I constantly interrupt the Husband while he's in the middle of reading or watching a video online. Sorry, Dude. My fingers weren't moving. Now what? Gah. That got me thinking about what kind of Medicare Advantage plan to get. I think I'm in good health for being a life-time fatty. Poor Mama, the doctor pulled out 21-inches long and over eight pounds me, cesarean style. That must've been awfully scary for her. Baby Sister (who lived two years) and I were cesareans. Older Brother was a natural birth in a jungle in the Philippines. Just kidding about the jungle, though I would love to claim being born in a jungle. I don't know whether Oldest Girl was a cesarean, too. Valentina, the sister who died on the day she was born
This morning I read in the AARP Magazine that glaring lights and difficulty driving at night are signs of developing cataracts. Ha! Night driving started becoming a frightful thing for me over five years ago. Earlier this year I asked my primary doctor why he thought a sparkle-sparkle sometimes appeared inside my eye and only disappeared once it grew to the size of my eyeball. "Don't know," the old doc said, and sent me to an ophthalmologist whose appointment book was full for nearly two months. The young doc had no clue either, but she did discover cataracts in both my eyes, bad enough that my insurance would cover surgery. Yay! Also, Boooo! I chose to get new prescription glasses, stubbornly thinking that all the deep scratches in my eight-year-old glasses were the problem. Ha, ha, I don't know better than the experts. Some where down the line I'll need to decide what to do first: Knee or lens? I can alternate, knee, lens, knee, lens or lens, knee, lens
I suspect that I may not ever have been spontaneous. I've done the all-of-a-sudden turn onto an unfamiliar road to see what's there and where it takes me. I've walked into a salon on a whim and got my hair cut or permed. I've suddenly decided to go somewhere, generally never far. But never ever have I been truly spontaneous. Don't ask me what that is? I don't know because I haven't done it. When I was a teenager I thought about running away. Mainly, I contemplated what to stuff into my knapsack. Should I bring a change of clothing? Change of underwear at least. My notebook, of course. Should I bring a pencil and a pen? Two pens, maybe several. Food to get me to my next destination. Money, which would probably be $20, if even that. Do I want by guitar? What I never thought about was where to go. I didn't want to run away, did I? Today, the Husband and I are in Oakland hanging out with his college buddies. (Yesterday was when I wrote this.) Will we h
As some of you dear readers know, I underwent a full hysterectomy last year. For those of you who are learning for the first time, yes, I did. Snip, snip, snip, snip went the oncologist/gynecologist with the da Vinci robotic arms and pop! shusssssh! went my Fallopian tubes, ovaries, uterus, and cervix, along with cancerous cells, which nobody was really sure if they truly were there. Yes, it overwhelms me when I think about it. My mind does really well about not thinking. My body is another story. Before telling you more, know that the doctor assured me that my reproductive system fits the size of my fist, maybe even smaller, and that within time my guts will drop and fill the space. So, here I am just over 13 months later continually clenching my tailbone because I'm afraid my intestines will fall out. Seriously. This got me to wonder: Has anyone given birth to her guts? Do you think I ought to ask the doctor? Giggle
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
Yesterday I celebrated my first day of being 64 years old. How did that happen? My body knows I'm old. Probably my brain does, too. I'm guessing all old people say that since I have no guidebook for getting older. Spiritually, I'm that five-year-old wandering in the fields surrounded by tall grass, wildflowers, butterflies, and sun bubbles. I'm also that young thing uncovering worlds and possibilities. I feel, again, a freedom to dream, to discover, and to do!
Two Fridays ago, the sunflower plants (those standing green guys in the background of the photo) were about one-third the size they are today. Two Fridays ago, I was sleeping off the effects of a robotic laparoscopic hysterectomy in a hospital room over an hour's drive away from home. I am healing well, thank you. I think I have inherited the Mama's resilience genes. It could also be described as the gene that resists letting go, chilling, and not doing anything at all. Fortunately I have also inherited the Daddy's gene of that's enough being whatever, so I have decided that I will not work in the yard unless the Husband is with me. Did you think I was going to say not work at all? Ha! I appreciate all your warm thoughts, prayers, positive vibes, and well wishes. They're all helping me get stronger each day. Love you, one and all, Su- sieee ! Mac P. S. I'll write about by not-so-hysterical adventures soon.
"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.
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
Ilocano is the Mama's primary language. It was the Daddy's as well. Ilocano is one of the languages of the Philippines. I'm one of those second-generation people who can understand their parents' primary language proficiently but is a doofus when it comes to speaking it. I don't even think I spoke it before I went to school, which was probably because the Only and Older Brother was already in school when I came along. Because we've lived with the Mama for over 12 years, I've gained back much of my comprehension skills. It's a good thing. As the Mama has gotten older, she is speaking more in Ilocano without realizing it. Her hearing is pretty bad, which has me thinking that a lot of the time English sounds like jibber jabber to her. I've started using a word or two of Ilocano, when I can think of it. Of course, my Ilocano also sounds like jibber jabber to her. Doesn't matter. Broken Ilocano talk, here I am. Adda iti kayat mo? Is ther
My day 83 ride with Tilda-Hilda was yesterday. It was my birthday ride, from our house to my favorite coffee shop just over 13 miles away. Whoo-hoo! Starting off! We've done longer rides, but this is the first time I've ever pedaled Tilda-Hilda to San Juan Bautista, which I've been wanting to do for three years. I was hoping to accomplish my goal this past August, but my knees got all whiny and worrisome. For about four months, we mostly pedaled around our neighborhood and it wasn't until the end of November that I ventured out and about. Although I only worked up to a few miles per trip, I decided last week to simply do this ride on my birthday, if the weather is good (no rain nor thick fog) and my knees are in good order. Looking back from whence we came: The highway we crossed at the end of the field. I admit I was a bit scared leading to yesterday, although I have often driven the path I would be taking. I would be crossing a highway, which worried
I'm writing this yesterday. Not caring about proper grammar. Because today is my birthday. Giggle. This old lady is a young 6-2. Ha! If the weather and my body cooperated, and I didn't chicken out, Tilda-Hilda and I have begun my new adventure around the sun by pedaling our way over to San Juan Bautista for breakfast. The Husband shall have driven over and met us there. And, together we shall have figured how to tie Tilda-Hilda into the trunk for our trip back home. Knock on wood . Until later, dear friends.
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