Tag Recovery

one of one-plus

Michael 11 Comments

Last week I took a shot at regaling you with tales of spending a week in the hospital and coming home alone. Naturally the perfect followup to that would be (to take a shot at) regaling you with tales of spending that recovery week not quite alone. Yes, even though I made a big thing out of how hard it is to not be well and be alone, versus when you are a one of two, I wasn’t completely alone in my recovery week. Not quite not alone but definitely not alone.

I closed last week’s post with, “When one of two is missing, the void seems bigger than when one of one is gone. And when one of one returns, the welcome home is much less welcoming. I can probably write an entire post on that. Maybe I will someday.” Never to not pick up such a tempting gauntlet as that, I will accept my own challenge. Sort of.

First, to those who had asked, I am fine and anticipate I will grow even finer as the days march by. I made it through the first week out of the hospital without returning to the hospital and that’s not something I can say about all of my discharges. Fortunately, I had a lot of help. As I said, I was not completely alone last week. I had help. Not “one of two” help, maybe more like “one of one-plus.” Between my daughter and my sisters for some physical assistances and a handful of friends for mental, emotional, and at times even comical support, the week moved along faster than I figured it would.

It is a big boost when someone you typically connect with primarily through text messages makes time in her schedule to call at least once a day every day to check on how things are going. It is as big an aid to recovery as having someone stop in to do the heavy lifting portions of the never-ending household chores that one with a newly prescribed 5 pound lifting limit and prohibitions against bending and stretching cannot take on alone. Yes, it is not a secret that physical recovery does not happen, or happens very slowly, without mental and emotional recovery tagging along.

I recall that first discharge from so many years ago, the physical helpers were there but there was a distinct void where someone, some ones, or anyone who might call just to see how things were going could have been. What was most disheartening was that there should have been at least one someone, but the call that came rather than a message of support was of the “I didn’t sign up to be a nursemaid” type. And with it a rather rapid descent from the stratospheric one of two to the heartbreaking loneliness of a one of less than one.

Fortunately, over the years I discovered a handful of contenders willing to be part of my one of one-plus entourage. True, the other one of a one of one-plus won’t be there to help you into bed, or to wake you when your due for medication or a dressing change, or tell you, “Sit still! I’m perfectly capable of making us breakfast,” as I imagine the other one of one of two would, somehow it is easy to imagine they would if things might had been just a bit different. And a one of one-plus will always be there on the other end of a phone call or text message, or email, or even a card or letter when you least expect it, or at least when you least are thinking about it for a while and add to your emotional recovery.

The best one of one-pluses are those who take their role seriously, as seriously as a one of two partner would. Maybe even more. Let’s face it, a lot of one of two partnerships exist because of some compromise or even a little unspoken quid pro quo. Sometimes a lot of quid pro quo. A one of one-plus is more selfless and unconditional. There is nothing you are getting back for your love and concern except maybe someone’s love and concern. A friend of mine, a one of one-plus with me, said “Being one of one can be isolating. Being one of two is ideal. But being one of many makes a community. We all need each other and do better when we feel cared for and important to somebody.” I suppose if we put all my one of one-pluses together we can make a “one of many” community. (Now that might make for an interesting blog too. In fact, that sounds like just the thing we’d post at the ROAMcare blog, Uplift!  Maybe you should make a note in your calendar to check that out this Wednesday.)

Speaking of Uplift! In the latest post we wondered, if “In case” added to your declaration is a positive account of caution and a potential response to a situation, is “just in case” just a poor excuse for a poor choice? Read it here to see what we had to say about that.

Hey, here’s an extra thought if you know someone who could use a hand and you’re feeling one-plus-like. Dinners that can be heated and eaten are great but think outside the oven. Rides to labs or tests are great stress relievers and don’t often run unpredictably late like a doctor appointment may. And back in the food arena, if your someone is a big breakfast eater, a prepared morning meal is just as appreciated, if not more than an evening meal. A French toast casserole, or stack of frozen waffles makes a nice change for someone who may be too unsteady in the morning even to work a bowl of microwave oatmeal. My best meal “gift” ever was a bag of frozen breakfast burritos my daughter worked up. A few minutes in the microwave and a cup of yogurt with fresh fruit and I had a breakfast that kept me well through lunch and the only thing I needed to work was a spoon.

A84136A4-13A5-4151-86E5-041CE12375AB

For The Heck Of It

Michael Leave a comment
Last summer was a bad time for me. A baaaaaad time. After I got out of the hospital I was anxious to get home but smart enough to know that wasn’t the wisest choice. That’s one of the things that people who loooove the freedom of living alone don’t often consider. Long story short, particularly because I wrote about it often enough last summer, I spent several weeks at my daughter’s getting my feet and other body parts used to stepping in time for themselves. And even after I ventured back to my lonesome life, the child of mine continued to assist with daily activities that eventually morphed into weekly activities that now ultimately has settled at one weekly activity.
 
It’s been seven months, 3 minor procedures, two rounds of physical therapy, and one new ongoing exercise routine since my reentry into “the outside world” and if I say so myself I’m just as good as new! Or at least as good as the average slighty used, only driven on Sunday, new inspection but no warranty, as is, all sales final, yet you’ll still get some decent use out of it. Certainly well enough that household chores aren’t much problem as long as I stay away from “the big vacuum” and split my grocery shopping into no more than 10 pound bags. As far as cooking is concerned, especially since the last round of therapy, I can stand in the kitchen and slave over a hot stove as well as I ever could (as long as I don’t use the big cast iron skillet) (that weight limit goes in the kitchen too you know). Still, yesterday my daughter was over for our weekly 4 hour cooking extravaganza and we prepared a week’s worth of meals for the both of us – me because I need the help and she because she is so busy during the week. Except neither of those is true. 
 
Why do we still do this? Because it’s fun! I’ve always been good in the kitchen but as a 60-something Italian-American it most often involved red meat, red tomatoes, and fresh cheese. Add a glass of wine and I had the 4 basic food groups at every meal. The daughter has always been good in the kitchen but as a 30 year old urbanite her refrigerator has things like leftover pad thai, vegetables of every color, and a token chicken breast to satisfy the occasional meat craving. Fortunately wine rounds out her fourth food group also. Different color but still it was a common starting point. 
 
I firmly believe if you want to put people together, regardless of how different they spend the rest of the week there should be one day each week they must cook together. It is much too difficult to complain about trivial matters like politics and religion while you’re trying desperately to whisk fast enough to make mayonnaise knowing no store bought stuff will make a good enough base for your Romesco. And when you can’t get your point across about why you think your way might be better, an immediate taste test removes all doubt and answers all questions. 
 
After 7 months of cooking with each other we’ve both expanded our tolerances and are practicing cultural inclusion through yummy dishes from every continent except Antarctica. (Being involved Pittsburgh hockey fans neither of us is in a hurry to add penguin to our meal prep.) (Another common point.) Oh if only the rest of the world could come over every Sunday afternoon we’d all be doing so much better.
.
bubble-wrap-groceries
Oh hey, not that it has anything to do with anything else but today, the last Monday in January, is Bubble Wrap Appreciation Day. Thought you might want to pop that in your calendars, you know, just for the heck of it.
 
.

It Just Happened

Michael Leave a comment

You wouldn’t think Dr. Seuss would come up when a 60 year old is looking back on the year almost gone by. Being just out of the hospital for but a few days I actually haven’t gotten all the way home yet. Since I live alone and am still a little while away from taking care of myself with a greater chance that I end a day in the emergency room rather than the bedroom, my sisters have opened their house to me so I can be pampered in the style an only son should be pampered…even at 60. But I digress. I think.

I was sitting alone in a corner pondering how I got to this place in space and time while the younger of the two siblings, the one still working the poor dear, was modeling the many holiday themed hats she was planning on bringing to work with her on the next day. You know the kind you see this time of year. The baseball hat with antlers that reads “Oh Deer,” or the one decked out in gingerbread cookies saying “Oh Snap!” As she dug deeper into her bag of headwear I got a greater memory sense of a story about a boy with a never-ending collection of hats.

It didn’t take too much more reflection that I recalled the hats indeed did end. The young man was Bartholomew Cubbins and the tale was Dr. Seuss’s “The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins.” If you don’t remember it, it is the story of a young boy who cannot bare his head to the king. Every time he removes a hat another appears in its place. Finally at the 500th reveal he doffs the yet finest example and presents the highly decorated hat to the king and is rewarded with a bag of gold.

So, how do we get from a child’s story from the 1930s to my consideration of all that happened to me this year? The last line of the story tells the tale. Though they could never explain how it happened, “They could only say is just ‘happened to happen’ and was not very likely to happen again.”

And isn’t that really the tale we are all told?

That’s what I think. Really. How ’bout you?