Summer Is Here

Three weeks ago, we bid adieu to the r.v. park, hitched up the fifth wheel, and came home to the lake for the summer. The days have been warm and sunny for the most part, with a good breeze blowing most of the day.

Since my heart med was increased again, I have been feeling a little under the weather, and have been spending a large part of each day sitting on the shady deck, enjoying the breeze, watching the ducks, geese, herons, egrets, bluebirds, and squirrels.

Sunday was the first day of summer, but since one day has been much like another, it barely made a ripple in my mind.

Most mornings, Wick and I sit out on the back deck, drinking coffee, and talking about what he has accomplished working on the cabin, and what is planned for the next day.
This morning, the breeze died. At 9:00 it is already nearly ninety degrees. Summer is here with a vengeance.

I scan the sky hopefully, looking for rain clouds, but there isn't a cloud in the sky. The only thing that makes the deck bearable is the fact that it is so shady most of the day, and that Wick plugged in a fan to create an artificial breeze.

Even the duck and geese have abandoned our little piece of shoreline, clinging to the shade and staying in the brush most of the day.

This is the day that the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.

Even if it is already summer.

One Step Forward and Two Steps Back

In the 6 months since I was diagnosed with congestive heart failure, the cardiologist has had me come in every two to three weeks for blood work, to see if the dosage of the RX can be increased. For reasons I don't really understand, this prescription has to be increased very gradually. Apparently, jumping to a high dose all at once would not be wise.

I don't mind going to the doctor's office, although I do wish I could drive myself, instead of Wick having to take a day from work to take me. I don't mind (very much) having blood drawn, since the nurse is very good at what she does, and only sticks me once each time. So far, my lab results have been within acceptable ranges, so the RX has been increased a little bit each visit.

The problem is how I feel after each increase. I feel just awful.

When I first get up, I feel pretty good, and try to accomplish whatever I have planned for the day in the first hour or two. After that, my energy dwindles rapidly. By mid-afternoon, I feel as if someone has pulled the plug, and if I don't lie down, I might fall down.

When I went to the dr. Friday, my med was increased again, and the nurse told me how pleased the dr. is with the results of the lab work. She says I will probably get the goal dose level at the next visit. We have had a similar conversation every time I have come in, and she tries to encourage me to feel that I am making excellent progress. She says I am getting better all the time.

I started the higher dose today, and immediately felt the drop in energy.

Today, I wanted to fix a decent meal for Wick for supper, and use some fresh vegetables one of our neighbors gave us this weekend. So this morning, I put out some ground meat to thaw.

After a brief rest, I cut up a quarter of an onion.

After another, slightly longer, rest, I sliced a squash.

After a little longer rest, I sliced a zucchini.

The celery and bell pepper had to wait until I had a little nap.

About two o'clock, I fried the beef.

About three o'clock I started assembling the casserole.

When Wick got home from work, he added the grated cheese and put the dish in the oven.

While it was baking, I took another nap.

My dears, when I am too tired to eat, I know I really have a problem.

On the other hand.....if I am too tired to eat, maybe I won't gain back the 60 pounds I lost this winter.

My question is....how long can I keep "getting better", without getting well?

Carded at the Library

I have had a library card almost all my life. I vividly remember struggling to learn how to write my name, just so I could have a library card of my own, instead of using my mama's. When we started RVing full time, I did not stop to think what that would mean, in terms of getting a library card. Apparently, most public libraries feel rather strongly that in order to get a card, one must prove residence in the applicable town.

Our driver's licenses show our address at our cabin, since that is where we live. However, since Wick still works in the Dallas area, we stay at an RV park during the week, so he doesn't have to drive so far every day. That means that the closest library is in Dallas. Dallas feels so strongly about "non-citizens" of Dallas that the fee for an outsider (that is, someone who has an address elsewhere) is $250 a year.

Two hundred fifty dollars a year. Y'all. That is exorbitant.

Now, after checking my billfold, I found the following cards:
Mesquite Public Library, from before we started RVing full time.
Chandler Public Library, where we live.
Tyler Public Library, because of a reciprocal deal with Chandler's library.
Seagoville Public Library, since I used to teach there.

Suddenly I remembered that shortly before I went into the hospital, I had filled out an application for the Dallas library, which offers a special deal for people who don't have a Dallas address, but do teach in Dallas.

Even though I had filled out the application, I had not received my card. I still have my teacher i.d., so I thought, why not check and see if I can still get the card.

When Wick got home from work, he took me to the nearest Dallas library branch.
I went to the first desk and explained to the tall, thin, stern-looking man who was sitting at the desk. I told him I had filled out the application at the school where I was teaching, but never received the card. He looked at me over the top of his glasses for a long moment. Finally,with a sigh, he turned to his computer and entered my name, after I spelled it for him three times. Somehow, he did not seem to want to look at my teacher i.d., which would have been easier on both of us, since either I was not speaking clearly or his hearing was impaired.

Finally, he announced in stern tones that I already had a library card.

I responded, yes, I had filled out the application, but did not receive the card.

He said again, the computer says you have a card.

I launched into an explanation about having filled out the application when a library representative came to the school, but I never received the card. I suggested that perhaps the card had been delivered to my mail box at school while I was in the hospital. Since a series of substitute teachers had been covering my classes, one of them might have accidentally picked up the card, but really I had no idea where it might have ended up.

Again, he said, the computer says you have a card.

Wick took me by the arm and steered me to another desk, where a lady was flipping through a magazine. When we got her attention, I explained my plight. She responded by turning to her computer.

She did deign to look at my i.d., and typed in my name correctly the first time.

She said, well, the computer says you already have a card.

Once more I launched into my story about how I applied, but did not receive the card itself.

She looked back at her computer screen, looked at me, and said again, the computer says you already have a card.

This conversation repeated itself about three more times. Wick finally stepped in and asked, how much does it cost to get a new card, if you lose your card?

She said, three dollars.

He pulled out his billfold.

She said, oh, wait a minute, maybe it is in the box of lost cards.

She pulled out a box that looked like it had about three hundred cards in it, and began to go through them.

Wick's patience was wearing thin. He drew three dollar bills out of his billfold, tapped them on edge on the counter, and said again, Just give her a replacement card.

Finally.
I had my own card in my hot little hand.
I felt the same surge of pride and power that I felt when I was five years old, signing my name to get my first library card.

That little piece of card stock was my ticket to the universe. Through books, I could go anywhere, be anyone, learn everything.

Reading.
It's fundamental.

Home for the Summer

During the school year, we stay in our travel trailer near Dallas to be closer to Wick's job. In the summer, holidays, and weekends, we live at the lake. We are in the process of building a cabin.

We are already living in the cabin, even though it is not finished. Mostly, what we lack is cosmetic stuff, such as ceilings, floor coverings, drawer fronts, etc. The back deck is almost finished--the roof gives us shade in hot weather, and shelter when it rains. I love the sound of rain on that tin roof. This summer, we hope to put up the railings and steps, to give access from the deck to the back yard.

A few weeks ago, several family members came over and helped Wick put the ceiling and floor covering in the living/dining/kitchen area. It looks great. It is wonderful to have people who are willing to give up a Saturday to help.

Next week is the last week of school for this year. We will be home for the summer Thursday afternoon. Home.

Home, where we sit on the deck and watch the sun come up over the lake in the mornings, drinking coffee and waking up.

Home, where we sit on the deck and watch the sun go down over the lake, drinking rum and coke or wine coolers, or hot chocolate or coffee, depending on the weather.

Home, where our hearts are.

Hair today, gone tomorrow

As noted in a previous post, I had long, very fine hair, past my waist. Since my hospitalization(s), my hair has been falling out by the handful. Every time I brushed it, I had to clean a handful of hair from the brush.

Daughter Jeana suggested that I might want to consider cutting my hair. I had to think about that for a while. A long while.

Finally, while I was staying at Jeana's for a few days, I made the plunge. She took me to the hair dresser who cuts her hair. When I told her I wanted my hair cut to shoulder length, she stared at me for a long moment, and then asked, "Are you sure?"

No, I wasn't sure. I loved my long hair. I took great pride in the fact that my long hair was silky, shiny, and in great condition. But that was before.

After seven weeks in the hospital, rarely eating, I was malnourished. I have grooves in my fingernails that confirm the diagnosis of malnutrition. I lost nearly 60 pounds--almost a pound a day. My body was shutting down peripheral activities, including growing hair. That's why my hair was falling out.

My hair was in a long braid down my back. The hair dresser cut the braid and laid it on the counter. I had braced myself for that moment, because in the past getting my hair cut had been so stressful, usually disappointing, and always something I dreaded.

This time, as I stared at that braid, I realized that it did not even look like my hair. My hair has always been very thick, so thick that most hair dressers said I had enough for two or three people. This braid was thin. Very thin. Not like my hair at all.

I plan to send the braid to Locks of Love, an organization that takes donated hair and turns it into wigs for cancer patients.

When I look in the mirror, I can see tiny new hairs growing in around my face and along my part. My hair still looks thin, but I have to admit it is much easier to deal with at this length, drying faster when I wash it.

I miss my long hair. I miss how it feels against my skin, and how easy it was to put it up with hair sticks.

But, as Jo March noted once, maybe my brains needed a little airing, and maybe I was too vain about it, considering it my one great beauty.

At any rate, I did cut it, and while it may take several years to reach the length it once was, it has already grown noticeably, my bangs already needing a trim after just three weeks.

I wish I had a great punch line to end this post, but I can't think of anything funny, or witty. Oh...except....I didn't cry when my hair was cut this time. Maybe I am growing up after all.

Sisters, Sisters

Sisters, Sisters;
There were never such devoted sisters...

Fans of the old Bing Crosby movie White Christmas will recognize those lyrics as coming from a duet/dance sequence by Rosemary Clooney and Vera-Ellen. Two of my granddaughters have entertained us with their own version at our family Christmas.

But they take on new meaning as I think about my recent hospital experience. They describe my own two sisters.

Jill, the baby, has a very tender heart and great compassion. Because of work and family commitments, she was not able to stay with me a great deal, but she offered a steady stream of support--books, magazines, cozy house shoes, a dress to wear after I went home, when I couldn't tolerate the pressure of trousers or jeans on my incisions; decorative book marks, phone calls, visits, anything she could think of to comfort me and occupy my thoughts.

Middle sister Judy is retired, and thus able to spend many days and nights in the hospital with me. She talked to nurses, questioned the reason for various procedures, made sure my allergies and diabetes were taken into consideration, and most of all she helped make sense of the flood of information and opinions; during my stay, I saw cardiologists, surgeons, nephrolgists, endocrinologists, psychiatrists, residents, interns, an ever-shifting entourage of medical students who came to view a condition my surgeon said most of the doctors at the hospital had never seen.
Judy listened to everything, remembered it all, and was the liason among all the specialists, making sure that each knew what the others were doing, and that no conflicting medicines were administered. She even talked to the nutritionist about meals that were not appropriate for a diabetic.
When my husband arrived after work, or my parents for their morning visit, Judy was able, as I was not, to explain what was being done, and why, and what the doctors said as they made their rounds.
When I told her how little I remembered, because of all the drugs, she told me what was going on, and reassured my anxieties.

Daughter Jeana had French braided my hair in an effort to keep it tidy and contained, but after several weeks, my hair was a huge matted mess. My sisters, along with my mother, daughter, and husband, took turns for three days, trying to comb it out without pulling it out by the roots or cutting it short.

Sisters.
Such devoted sisters.

A Whole New Me

Losing more than 60 pounds has affected me in many ways.

For one thing, I didn't recognize myself for a while, when I saw my reflection unexpectedly in mirrors or reflected in windows.

It has certainly affected my wardrobe, which was once rather extensive. I have gotten rid of more than three large trash bags of clothes that were one to three sizes too big.

Just before I went into the hospital, my baby sister told me she had some clothes for me. Her friend's sister had passed away after a battle with ovarian cancer, and the clothes had been hers. I was really looking forward to getting new (to me) clothes, especially since most of them were more expensive than I normally can afford. Now, all those lovely clothes are hanging in my closet, waiting for me to find someone that size who needs a professional wardrobe.

Currently, I have one pair of jeans, one pair of black pants, and three tops that fit.

On the other hand, all my shoes still fit.

I can paint my own toenails.

I can bend over to tie my shoes, and breathe at the same time.

My tummy is flatter than it has been since I had my first baby--and he is in his thirties.

My little granddaughter pointed out that I have lost "a whole me" (she weighs less than the pounds I have lost).

My brother says that since I have lost weight, my face looks like it did when I was in high school (!)

These are all positive developments.

On the other hand....I still need a cane or walker, since my core muscles are so weak.

One of my legs is weaker than the other, which affects my balance.

My exercise routine takes up an inordinate amount of time each day, but then I have nowhere to be and nothing to do at any certain time, so I guess that is not really a problem.

Cooking, while needing a cane or walker, is an adventure, and sometimes a small disaster if I drop something that I can't readily retrieve. I spend several hours a day prepping food and cooking--not because I am making elaborate meals, but because it takes me so long to do.

My hair--oh, dearie me, my hair. I have very long, very fine hair, past my waist. It used to be very thick. But it is falling out. Every time I brush it, a big handful ends up in the brush, and then in the trash.

Not only that, but my eyebrows are disappearing, as well as the hair on my legs--I'm not really complaining about that, though, since it means I really don't need to shave my legs--just pluck about six fine blonde hairs.

Apparently, though, the hair has migrated to my chin. Jeana plucks it for me monthly.

Some of these things will eventually return to normal, I hope, as I progress through physical therapy. Some of the changes, I hope, will be permanent, such as the weight loss.

Some things, such as being retired due to disability, will be permanent whether I like it or not.

So....if you have enjoyed coming here, some things will stay the same. Other things will change. It's going to be interesting, either way.