Category Life
Counting Chickens
As I write this, a few minutes before 4:00pm on May 28, it is a year to the minute that I was getting home from what I hoped would be my last dialysis session. In 12 hours, I would be waking up for a ride to the hospital to have a kidney transplanted into me from my sister. For months after the evaluation process identified her as a candidate and a date was set, the staff at the dialysis clinic would say to me, “it won’t be long now,” or “are you counting the days yet,” or similar words of what they certainly thought were ones of encouragement. I met each one with “I’m not counting any chickens” That last day I think I said, “thanks, you’ve all been nice enough to me you but I hope I never see you again.”
We’ve now made it to a minute after 4:00pm on May 28 and it is juat about a year to the minute that the phone rang with a call from the transplant surgeon’s office. “Doctor wants you to come in this evening so she can run a new CT scan and do as much site review as possible before you get to surgery.” Because of previous abdominal surgeries my insides did not conform to the textbook illustrations budding surgeons poured over in their early med school days. They didn’t even conform to the messy real life version most people walk around with that present to surgeons many years past the book learning phase. Even though I had been scanned and rayed and imaged from every imaginable angle (and 1 of 2 unimaginable) I saw her point. I called my chauffeur who doubles as may daughter on her days off and asked one of them to take me to the hospital. But I still wasn’t going to start counting any chickens.
You’ve read the tale. The operation was a success but the implant didn’t take. Nineteen days later I was finally discharged with instructions to resume dialysis.
I never felt right at dialysis after that. Not mentally or emotionally not right but physically not right. In the best of times, and there are best of times in dialysis they just aren’t very good, one doesn’t feel right. It’s hard in the body and although it leaves you with sparkling clean blood (I used to refer to the dialysis unit as a bloodromat) it also leaves you with headaches, dizziness, tingking or numb extremities, a little bit of nausea, a lot of muscle cramps, and the need to sleep for 48 hours when you get to do it all over again. But this “not good” feeling was different. All of the above multiplied plus more and others and few etcetera.
Discussions with the doctor led to new and different tests which led to yet another tale. The transplant didn’t work but I was getting better in spite of it and became one of the few who have successfully been discharge from chronic dialysis.
So, now on the eve of what would be my first kidneyversary celebrating a new normal I am celebrating 4 months of being relatively normally normal.
I still have blood drawn every couple of weeks and see the doctor every couple of months. I still watch my diet, my fluid intake, and my other medications. I still pray every morning and every night. But I don’t still go to dialysis.
And I still don’t count chickens!
One other thing, my sister is still doing well also. Thanks Sis!
‘Nuff Said
Uncontrolled Chaos
Here’s a news flash. I’m moving. Talk about challenges during a pandemic. Somehow I managed to review, tour, select, and sign for a new apartment without leaving the confines of my confining current compartment. Trust me, if it was up to me I would stay here forever but it’s my roommates, Myself and I, who are jonesing for new Joneses to keep up with.
You might remember for older posts that I spent 30 years in a sprawling, way too big on many levels (metaphorically and literally) for one person suburban house with the requisite yard, gardens and outside spaces. Five years ago I “downsized” into my now soon to be abandoned first attempt at retirement living. Not retirement living community, just retirement living.
I did pretty well with the first wave of downsizing, paring away about 3/4 of my accumulated possessions. After 5 years I’ve found that I’ve re-accumulated and am on the verge of “upsizing.” But it’s not for the newfound additional space I am pulling the plug on the present penthouse. That’s a tale for another day.
Today’s tale starts four weeks before I hit the drop dead date on renewing the current lease. Oh, how was I supposed to know there would be a global pandemic so close to my renewal date? Because I had resolved to drop dead before I would renew I had 4 weeks to find new lodging. Unfortunately that coincided exactly with the eve of the world shutting down. Oy! Or is that Oi? Whichever, it was a challenge. But I met the challenge and 4 weeks later I was not committing to a renewal.
That was 30 days ago and I have 30 days to go. I have discovered that the challenge of finding a place while the world is isolated ain’t nothing compared to packing in isolation. To call this controlled chaos would be generous. Out of control pandemonium is not quite there either but it is closer.
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First, there’s just me here! Me and hundreds of flattened boxes that need reconstructed, rolls of tape in a holder/dispenser designed by a mechanical engineer who was last in his class, pieces of bubble wrap in a variety of shapes and sizes saved from the previous move and various package deliveries over the past 5 years, and felt tip marking pens that keep disappearing. No matter how carefully I wrap and place items into an expertly reconstructed cardboard box there’s always a corner too small for the last item my mind believes should fit there and too large for anything I do find to put there leaving still an empty corner just even smaller than that last item my mind still believes belongs there and nowhere else. In the process of filling that box I’ve reconstructed another box (expertly, of course) with just one item in it, the one my mind is still certain belonged in that empty corner of the first box. It was easier the last time I moved.
The last time I moved I was convalescing in a recliner while I wrapped a glass or two and directed the relatives doing the heavy lifting, err packing. The time before that was 30 years previous and there were professionals involved. Hmm, I just realized this might not be the cause of the virus and the Governor’s quarantine order. I might just not be good at packing. Oh my.
I’ll try to keep you up to date on my progress. As long as I can keep a computer or tablet out of a reconstructed cardboard box (expertly).
Wyizit?
Last week I was hit with a bad case of the wyizits. It started with a song that got trapped in my head and couldn’t find it’s way out. And all day long I was asking myself, “Why is it that only the annoying songs get stuck in your head?” Seriously, do you ever walk around all day with the comforting sounds of the opening movement of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata? No, it’s always “Na, Na, Hey, Hey, Kiss Him Goodbye” or if you’re in that classical mood, the 1812 Overture but ending with a hearty “Hi ho Silver!” So I started wondering, quite unconsciously and seemingly unstoppingly, about other wyizits, howcomes, and hoosedsos with an occasional wydont and one random watzitcalled.
Why is it that people are now walking down the middle of the street eschewing the safety of the sidewalk for the chaos of life among motorized vehicles? Not only are they walking down the middle of the street they are doing it with eyes firmly focused on their hand held cell phones, doubly taking their chances among the cars being driven by likewise distracted phone gawkers. And to make it more challenging, every so often, the street walker (apologies to the professional ranks) just stops in mid stride (if it can be called a stride – perhaps mid-shuffle) until just as unexpectedly begins moving again.
There were many others equally well thought, mentally mulled, and eventually determined to be forever unanswered questions of life as we know it. Here is a sampling.
How come a vegan or vegetarian thinks nothing of announcing “I haven’t eaten a piece of meat for 35 years” but then spends 20 minutes explaining what I’m missing out on when I just happen to mention that I tried kale years ago and just don’t like it?Who said a quarter pound is the right size for a hamburger?
Why don’t cat owners take their pets out for a walk?
What’s it called when you eat breakfast cereal for a midnight snack?
Why is it that birds always know when I wash my car?
Why is it that celebrities thinks the ability to memorize the lines of learned person character give them the knowledge of a real learned person without the need for 12 years of education, training, and research?
How come none of the people in pictures of Panama are wearing wide brimmed hats?
Why is it that athletes think I care at all about anything they have to say?”
How come the printer always run out of ink two-thirds of the way through the One Important Document I have to print this year?
Who said pajama bottoms aren’t acceptable business casual attire?
How come nobody else recognizes my infallibility?
Why is it that in surveys, applications, and other instruments that bother to ask does a third generation Asian, Latin, or Pacific Islander get a box to check but a first generation Italian is “No?”
How come a tian and a tangine aren’t the same? Similarly but different, how came a tian and a ratatouille aren’t the same?
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Who said all good things must end?
Na na na na. Na na na na. Hey hey hey. Goodbye.
Gettin’ Crabby Out There
You may have noticed I didn’t post anything on Monday. Then again you might have a life and aren’t sitting there with nothing better to do than wait for my wisdom to fall out of the ether. Well, on Monday after I had gone back and forth on this post for a couple days I decided at the last minute I wasn’t going to post. I told myself that in a couple days I’d come up with some fluff in my life to exploit and that would be fine. Then the threat came and I had to have my say. Well, there’s nobody here to hear so if I am to be heard I have to get these words from here to there so you can hear them.
I don’t want to be the sad sack, the sourpuss, the moaner and groaner, but gee golly willickers, can we at least not resort to violence. Oh yes, actual threats of violence have been made. Homicide even. Read on.
With the full knowledge that I sound like a moaner or a groaner myself I just have to say, I knew this would happen. I mentioned last week Pennsylvania will be loosening isolation standards in phases by counties. There are roughly 12.8 million people living in Pennsylvania spread over 67 counties. As a broad statement, there are 134 versions on how the reopening plan will be implemented with about 12.8 million opinions on how to do it better.
In general the state is establishing 3 levels of what I guess can be described as activity. “Red” is where we started with a stay at home order in place except for transport to and from the three Fs of essential business: food, pharmacy, and physician. (Yeah, yeah, I know, but you get the idea. Hey, it works on audio!) Restaurants are open only for takeout and delivery. “Yellow” removes the stay at home but if you go out maintain social distance and wear your masks, stores may open but curbside pickup and delivery is preferred, and no public gatherings greater than 25 people. Restaurants and bars are still restricted to take out and delivery and hair and nail salons, and gyms and spas remain closed. “Green” means you can now travel about and conduct business within CDC guidelines although there is still some question about large, large gatherings.
The first phase shifted 24 counties to “yellow” on May 8. Another 13 counties turn “yellow” on May 15 and no counties go to “green” just yet. It is anticipated that there will be no further status changes before June 4. If you’ve been home schooling your kids in math the little tykes will have figured out that leaves 30 counties at “red.” Oh, and one of those “red” counties is actually surrounded by a bunch of “yellows.”
Because this system was developed by a government there are, as governments love to do, pages of specifics with a lot of whereas and wherefore sounding clauses but what I gave you is pretty much the down and dirty. And boy did people get pretty much down and very dirty.
In the “red” counties the biggest news stories have headlines that read like “District Attorney Will Not Prosecute Businesses That Open.” Comments to stories and posts on social media are filled with “statistics” about why somebody’s county left behind has lower infection or death rates than those moving ahead and should be declared “yellow” soonest. The talk on social media is of I’ll just cross the county and/or state line and get what I need there prompting yet additional outrage by business owners over the ingratitude of their “neighbors.” Lawyers are preparing class action suits against the Governor and Secretary of Health demanding full, unconditional reopening.
In the “yellow” and soon to be “yellow” counties, after 6 weeks of hearing on the news and reading in the papers how much we need to reopen the businesses and get people back to work, the media is now reporting that business owners aren’t ready to reopen their doors. Owners are saying it will take weeks to get ready to accept customers and are asking what guarantees they will have that if somebody gets sick in their stores they won’t be held liable. Restaurants, bar, gyms, and spas are preparing plans to present to the governor demonstrating how they can function while maintaining social distancing and should be allowed to reopen. Hair salons are posting they are opening for business regardless of operating guidelines.
It seems there are more plans for defying the plan than there are plans to implement the plan. Not to be undone by the potential mutineers, the Governor has threatened revocation of business and professional licenses of those opening or conducting business contrary to orders to remain closed.
Then came the threat. This story was picked up by the Associated Press and reprinted in papers and on news sites throughout the country so you may have already seen it, but here, as first reported in the York Dispatch (12 May 2020) is the lead:
State police arrested a Greensburg-area man Tuesday for allegedly saying he and his buddies “have a bullet waiting” for Gov. Tom Wolf if the governor doesn’t reopen businesses closed for the COVID-19 pandemic.
Subsequent updates confirmed the accused who had made the threat by telephone to Wolf Home Products, a kitchen and bath cabinet manufacturer once owned by the Governor, was identified by tracking the phone he called from and located via a records search at the county probation office.
So our intrepid would be assassin would have been wise to spend some time during his period of isolation learning constitutional law, the state penal code, common courtesy, or at least not to use his own phone when making threats by phone. (Let that be a lesson to you future would be assassins.) I suppose that being an at least one-time loser, evidenced by the fact that he is known at the probation office, he is doing what he can to maintain a consistent Neanderthalian persona.
Now I ask you, do you want to come out of isolation with a felony charge hanging over your head? Don’t be a Neanderthal! Be a neighbor instead. Maybe bake cookies to celebrate and eat them all yourself because you’re still a little unsure. Then when you do get to sit down with friends and neighbors you’ll have a funny story you can tell instead of reading transcripts from your bail hearing.
And don’t stop washing your hands.
I’m Board
Long before the pandemic hit my corner of the world I was already spending more time indoors alone than probably healthy, exploring few opportunities that would take me to other places that a grocery store, or a pharmacy, lab, a doctors office or other medical facility, or outside for a solo walk. It’s like I was made for this crisis. But I will say that even I am getting a little bored. I’m sure I wouldn’t be so bored if I could only get a little board! You know I haven’t worked for quite a few years now. I had settled into the routine of, if not a refined retired gentleman at least one not quite as bad as a crotchety old fogie. That’s because I kept my brain young. Yes, I am using past tense. I believe I’m slipping.
Even though the forays to the outside world were not often and typically instigated by one if the aforementioned reasons, I almost always made some detour on the way home. Perhaps I would stop at one of the big time mega-marts and wander the aisles getting some exercise and often some deals from the clearance shelves. Maybe I would find a local diner and compare its grillmaster’s patty melt to the last visited diner’s offering. Maybe I’d browse a thrift shop because they are just fun to walk around in and I’ve found a remarkable selection of candy dishes in them over the years. Even if I was feeling adventurous today, and lucky enough to venture out where others may be, those places aren’t open anyway.
When extended outdoor time wasn’t desired or desirable like in times of freezing weather (which we seem to have 9 months out of the year) I would amuse myself baking oatmeal cookies or concocting a new marinade for something on the grill. Now though I’m limiting my flour to bead and pizza dough and experimentation time (not to mention counter space) has given way to knead, rise, knead, rise, rise again, bake, slice, eat repeat.
Then there is that portion of the day I called down time. That would be the time I’d spend watching an old movie, reading a book, or going through the whole of a newspaper following stories missed during the morning headline review, laughing at the funnies and doing the crossword puzzle. The papers have all stopped publishing hard copies, the library and bookstores are closed and I can read only so much electronic prose, and even I am getting tired of old movies (except for anything with Audrey Hepburn). (Nobody can ever tire of Audrey Hepburn.) (Nobody!)
Add to those losses the loss of Sundays with the Daughter. (Yes, yes, of course this should be at the top of the and indeed it is but I had to keep it for last one mentioned to build dramatic effect. If you don’t like it, go wrote your own post – sheesh!) (But don’t leave yet. We’re finally getting to the point of this post.) Sometimes after we cooked for a couple hours then ate for a couple hours we’d pull out a game board and play for a couple hours. But not just any old game. Our game was, and will be again, Backgammon.
If you’re a chess player there are apps and live sites and virtual games around very corner. I know first hand that there are indeed crossword puzzle apps that you can play all day long and not be interrupted by a single ad. For free! Word games abound, arcade games are electronic naturals, even “jigsaw” puzzles can be assembled without interruption on line or in apps. But backgammon…
Indeed there are some backgammon apps but every one I ever tried forces you into watching ads to earn tokens to build moves with. And there are a few backgammon live sites where you can play against AI or a distant opponent. These are few and the opponents are fewer. (And I think the AI cheats. Nobody can throw that many doubles.) Besides, backgammon needs to be experienced in more than two dimensions and with more than just sight. You have to hear the dice rolling in the cup before bouncing across the felt, you need to feel the smoothness of the tiles as you slide them along the points, you have to see you opponent slump when you bump her or him to the rail or bear off your last stone. The Mesopotamians weren’t thinking computer when they drew the first points and carved the first stones 3,000 years before Jesus walked the Earth. Backgammon is to be experienced, not pixelated.
But this isolation won’t last forever. Until then I’ll still take my set out each Sunday. Now I just polish it. Eventually I’ll get to play it.
Embrace The Middle
Are things becoming less restrictive where you are? There are not yet here but I have read there is some movement toward more recognizable routines we had been used to in some locales. Now that would be some movement toward something approaching what we used to think of as normal for some activities in some areas. Not the whole world is back to what we want it do tomorrow.
When things do lososen up, I don’t know that I’ll be thinking that’s the right choice or not. Here’s what I believe and I believe I’ll say it. Or write it. I believe we are approaching a whole different “normal” that’s going to be the norm for yet some more time and that new normal isn’t quite what most of us remember as the old normal at all. Whether we want it or not, whether we accept it or not, or whether we get used to it or not, it’s going to happen, and it’s going to happen slowly. And people are going to just beat the crap out of that “Love your neighbor” thing we had going.
We aren’t going turn a switch and all the stores and restaurants and schools and churches will open, sports arena will be standing room only and theaters will have the hottest ticket in town, air travel will return with too tight seating and cruise ships will be packed to the deck rails, and spas and salons will be cutting hair, painting nails, and massaging under worked and over appreciated muscles overnight.
When it starts it is going to be a slow start, an adventure of misstarts, missteps, and probably a retreat or two. It will be gradual and will take more patience than it takes now when we are waiting. And here’s the thing – write this down – we don’t wait well, and it will be worse when we get just a taste of life without waiting.
Humans aren’t designed to go slow. Patience is such a virtue because because nobody has it! We want to go. We are okay staying still. But getting from stop to full speed is not man’s strong point. We aren’t good in the middle.
Think of all the middles out there and then honestly think is that where you want to be. The middle seat. Middle management. Middle age. Middle of nowhere!
It’s coming. It’s going be bad. Almost everybody is going to say it’s too soon to reopen the world or we’ve been closed off for too long. Nobody is going to say well at least there is a little more I can do today and I’m thankful for that.
When the transition begins be thankful for the little changes, know they are the first steps to bigger changes, remember you didn’t get to where you are today overnight, and embrace the middle.
What’s in a (Nick)Name
As we move deeper and deeper into our isolation it’s becoming harder and harder to find an article, post, blog, podcast, phone call (!) that doesn’t reference COVID-19. But I think I’ve finally found something I can write about where the virus isn’t right up there in the first paragraph. Ooops.
Anyway… how about death? Actually death notices – you know, obits, necrologies, life tributes, obituaries. I’ve noticed something about them, oh yes I have indeed. And not just that there are getting to be a lot of them out there nor that I haven’t shown up in one yet. I’m seeing that a lot of people don’t seem to know their own name. I’m guessing here.
Just recently there have been a lot of obituaries in the paper for people with multiple names. I don’t mean the deceased married woman who is listed with both her married and maiden names. I mean people with 2, sometimes 3 given names. I saw one just this morning (real name changed to protect his guardian angel from being teased by the other guardian angels): Joseph “JB” “Joey,” “Scooter” Brown. Ummmm. Really? Are there people reading the obituaries coming across Joey’s name and aren’t sure if they only saw Joseph listed that they could not be sure if that was the same Joey who was their friend? And those who didn’t know him as anything but Scooter, what are the chances they even know Scooter Who?
I saw a lot of them over the past few days, and some pretty colorful monikers too. Stucky, Gar Gar, Dickie Lou, Butch, Baby, Babe, Mac (whose last name did not start Mc or Mac), Birdie, and Stitch to name several more than a few.
I remember the gang my father hung out with. Nobody had a real name. Actually they all did but they didn’t Anglicize their names so they used nicknames to make calling them easier. Among them were Bunny, Ninny, Patsy, Mare, Jojo, and Tuner. These were all guys by the way. But the obituary didn’t read John “Bunny” Doe. It was just John Doe and everybody knew that was Bunny. No, multiple choice names weren’t necessary and they still got good send offs. Mostly because everybody knew everybody then and the crowd at the funeral home was already spilling out to the parking lot before the obituary was even published. I can’t imagine the funeral director would even put an order through for Ninny to be printed on the prayer cards. Some of the other names might even make a prayer card spontaneously combust!
I can’t imagine my obituary reading anything but the name I have on my driver’s license. And I’m not so sure about this trend of putting pictures in obituaries either. You look at some of them, “John Doe, 93, died in his sleep after a long, long, long illness,” and there’s a picture of some young guy in full hiking regalia climbing out of a canoe. If it gets to where they insist on a picture then I guess if they’re going to use my driver’s license name they might as well use that picture too. And I already have the plaque for the drawer preordered and that has the name from the check I sent them to pay for the engraving. Just fill in the end date.
Hmm, you know, I wonder what’s on Scooter’s headstone.
Farm to Fable
Now things have gone too far! Oh, hi. Sorry. I seem to have started in the middle. Let me back up.
As I approach the Doddering Years I have three joys. A good long chat with a dear friend, Sunday dinner – cooking and eating – with my daughter, and a few hours spent each week fondling ripe produce. (Fondling ripe other stuff is pretty much now confined to unconscious sleep time activities and with much thanks to dreams that forever live in the pre-doddering years.) [Sigh] Now where was I? Right, doddering.
Phones calls, text messages, emails, and a video now and then contribute to maintaining contact with those not with you during this time of not allowing those to not be not with you. I don’t know what others think but I find the art of phone calling rebounding. For a while text messages and direct contact through the various social platforms seemed to have phone calls going the way of pay phones. I believe the desire to hear another voice is driving an increase in calling minutes. Regardless of how much we’ve retreated into a world of contact by social medium, social media isn’t all that social. But the tone of a familiar voice, the lilt of emotions not requiring emoticon augmentation, or the thoughtful pause of reflection contribute to the experience of communication that go so much beyond “on my way, there in 10.” Even isolated I continue to experience the joy of a good long chat with a dear friend.
For some time now every Sunday my daughter packed up her dog and his toys, occasionally added an onion or select chicken parts to her parcels, and made her way to me for a day of cooking, eating, and reporting of the previous week’s activities and upcoming week’s plan. Although we have both been careful with our contact with everyone just about to the point that there is almost no contact with anyone, we have suspended these food fests for the duration or until whenever we say “oh enough of this already!” But still she brings me groceries every 2 weeks and we still cook a big meal each Sunday in our own kitchens and share our results electronically. It’s not perfect but it works for us and keeps some version of Sunday dinner in the joy category.
Our Sunday cooking extravaganza always left me with enough meals and meal compontents that I could spend a good part of the following week just reheating. Several days each week though I still had to construct a full dinner on my own. These days were always such fun. I would rarely wake and say today “I want [insert specific food here]” but would often wake and say “I wonder what looks good at the store today” and then plan a trip to the market to critically examine meats, sniff fish, and squeeze produce. I am very fortunate that I have a small Italian market within walking distance of my kitchen (and uphill only in one direction!) where you are encouraged to use up to four senses before adding a purchase to your basket. (You could sometimes use the fifth after asking.) (Yes, you do know which one I mean!) In the absence of the little market, and it is now absent since the owner decided he would be happier staying alive than staying open, the nearest supermarket has an excellent produce section, a well stocked and maintained fish counter, and a butcher ready to butcher on request. One way or another I had sufficient opportunity to find something that looked good with which to build dinner.
But now I’m stuck at home and the only tomatoes I get to choose from are those my daughter had the pleasure of putting under her thumb – so to speak. No sniffing the blossom end of a cantaloupe, or peeking between the leaves of an artichoke. No examining the fat marbled through a New York strip or glistening in a filet of salmon. No losing oneself in the intoxicating aroma of cheeses and sausages ready to be sliced or portioned to my specifications. [Sigh] [Again]
Bad as that is, its going to get worse, even as it appears it may be getting better. Last week the pronouncement came down from on high. No farmers’ markets this year. Farm markets to be sure. You can still go to them, but no weekly gathering of all the local farms at a convenient park or parking lot with their most recent hauls of fruits and vegetables, their just baked breads and pastries, their hand cut cuts of beef and pork, their eggs and chickens, or even their kitsch and tchotchkes. [Big sigh]
No, even if I get the chance to go out and shop on my own this summer it won’t be the same. The joys of fondling fresh fennel fronds straight from the farm are just not to be. [Sigh] [Still] But al least I can still dream.
The Real Reality Show Blog 