There is something oddly comforting about being sick, of wandering around in a medication induced fog, shuffling from room to room in baby soft yoga pants and yellow slipper socks, some book or other held open by it's spine and wrapped around my middle like a protective shield. I have allowed myself to succumb to the entreaties of my husband and my friends~go to bed, rest, drink lots of hot tea, watch mindless television. In fact, dare I admit that it's a tiny dream come true? The evil bacteria that have lodged so peremptorily in my throat and sinuses have perhaps given me a small gift. And I have quite willingly abdicated my responsibilities for the past two days. I have not worked, or shopped, or gone to the bank or the pharmacy. I have not walked the dogs, nor cooked or cleaned. I have allowed others to do those things for me, without protest, without even the slightest nudge of guilt poking me in the shoulder and urging me to my feet. I could perhaps get used to this. Alas, I feel this coming to an end as the marvelous wonder that is medicine begins at last to work its magic in my bloodstream, gobbling up the vile germy invaders, flushing them out like the vermin they are. My head is beginning to clear slightly, and the room doesn't spin each time I move. I can take a deep breath without the air stopping dead somewhere midway between my lungs and my esophagus, or suffering paroxysms of the seal-like bark that has been masquerading as my cough. By tomorrow, I may be nearly as good as new. Already, I can feel my husband retreating to his usual safe place in the corner of daily life, the silent observer who patiently waits for all the necessities to be handled, smoothly and competently, and as they always are, by me. Sigh. It crosses my mind that perhaps one should not wait for illness to strike to allow themselves an occasional retreat from the dailiness of living. Perhaps a "me day" every so often is not out of order, a day to wander around the house in floppy yoga pants and yellow slipper socks, a day to eat only toast with honey or chocolate cake if those are the things the palate desires, a day to have an open book on every comfy chair in the house, ready to be picked up as you amble through the room, a day of not answering telephones, not paying bills, not reading the mail. A day to just be. Hmm. I think I'm on to something.
Sailing Through September
Usually, I love September with its crisp bite in the morning breeze, the first tracings of crimson and gold on leaf tips, and (of course!) school supplies, my ultimate favorite binge buy. But this year, September has betrayed me. It's not only the weather, still heavy and dull with August-like heat and humidity. My own body has turned on me, and quite viciously too. Admittedly, this all started in August, when I had my annual physical. Within a couple of days, I got the first phone call. "Rebecca, Doctor wants to call in a prescription for you." "A prescription?" I ask innocently. "What for?" "Your cholesterol is 236 and she'd like to put you on medication." Okay, I guess. I mean, that's not horribly high, but I'll take the medication (rather than completely forsake toasted cheese and bacon and tomato sandwiches). And I've been taking my Lovastatin, luckily without suffering any of the several zillion grim side effects so neatly listed on the prescription insert. Then Monday, while we're in Florida trying to have a tiny vacation, I start feeling the unmistakeable scratchy throat, itchy eyes, and watery nose that spell URI (upper respiratory infection). This does not come as a huge surprise~when I visited my mother in law the night before we left, she was sick and coughing, as were several of her "neighbors" in the Alzheimer's facility. Those places are a hotbed of germs, and it would have been a miracle to get out of there unscathed, no matter that I virtually scrubbed my hands raw with antibacterial wipes and gels when I left. What starts as a cold quickly moves into my bronchial tubes (the weak spot of all child astmatics) and by Tuesday morning not only can I not talk, I'm gasping for breath~and I'm facing a three hour plane trip at the end of the day. This time, I call the doctor's office and say I need a prescription, which they kindly provide. Except that our local Walgreen's is out of the medication (and so apparently is every other Walgreen's in Naples, Florida, and believe me, there are just as many there as everywhere else in the US). So I board the plane decongestant-less. Everything is fine going up, but as soon as we started to descend, so did I. Had it not been for the kind ministrations of my seat mate (who was not my husband because we couldn't get seats together!) and several flight attendants with ice packs, cold cloths, and ginger ale, I probably would have spent the last 20 minutes of the flight stretched out unconscious on the floor. As it was, I came pretty close. You better believe I was glad to get home last night. My old house never looked so good, and I'm not planning on flying again anytime in the near future (if ever). Unfortunately, I made the mistake of listening to the messages on my answer machine before I went to bed. "Rebecca, this is Doctor's office. Please call us as soon as possible~this is about your mammogram." Well, God. Do you think I slept at all last night? You're right. I did not. Sure enough, they want me to come in and have a "some more pictures done." Won't tell me why, but I'm smart enough to know it isn't because they need additional views to put on the cover of Mammography Monthly. You'd think that would be enough, wouldn't you? Nope, September is out to get me. About an hour ago, the phone rings again. "Rebecca, this is Doctor's office. Doctor wants to call in a prescription for you." "Good grief!" I yelp. "What now?" "This is about your bone scan. For Actonel." "What are the T scores?" I ask. I know a little about bone scans. "Well, I don't have those. She just wants you to take this medication." Bother with that. I'm quickly reaching my limits with medications, and I've heard about this Actonel you take once a week, and then can't lay down or drink for 30 minutes later because of potential gastrointestinal side effects. Nope. "Call me back when you have the T score," I tell her. "And I don't want to take Actonel." "How about Evista?" she offers. "We have some samples here." "I'm not taking Evista," I refuse adamantly. My mother in law (the one in the Alzheimer's center) has taken that for 15 years, and it's been linked to dementia. "How about Miacalcin?" that's the nasal spray my mother takes for her osteoporosis. "Sure, that's fine," she says happily. Of course, she didn't call me back with the T-score. I called again and made them look it up. If you've managed to read through all this, you're probably feeling a lot like me~either ready to laugh or cry. Sometimes I think the scariest thing about facing potential serious illness is not the disease itself but navigating the world of modern medicine. So wish me luck as I set off through these evidently stormy September seas.
Encyclopedia of Me Monday: D is for...
D O G S !
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Magic and Molly, wading in Lake Huron
My dogs are part of my family, and always have been. Ginger, the cocker spaniel we had during my childhood, was the long suffering participant in my efforts at playing school, house, doctor, and every other game that I would have used a younger sibling for (if I had been fortunate enough to have one!) When Jim and I were first married, we practiced our parenting skills with Buffy, the cocker puppy we brought home on our first anniversary.
After we lost Buffy, we went almost 15 years without getting another dog. Why, I'll never know. Magic came to me from a friend, who bred her own Shih Tzu in 2002, and offered me "pick of the litter." We fell so in love with this breed, that it didn't take long to decide we wanted another, and so Molly came to live with us in August of 2004.
Naturally, I think my dogs are the cutest, smartest, most adorable dogs ever ~ sort of the same way I feel about my kid! But I love all dogs, and if there's one thing I cannot abide in any way, shape, or form, it's cruelty to animals.
So, it's love me, love my dogs...or hit the highway!
Sunday Scribblings-The End
There's just no end to it, Denise thought, as she grabbed the last bag of groceries from the trunk of her car. Tossing the bag inside the back door, she hurried back to the car to retrieve her cup of iced coffee, a small reward for completing another day of errands. Gripping the sweaty cup in one hand, and snatching as many of the thin plastic handled grocery bags as she could with the other, she tromped through the kitchen. A quick glance at the clock elicited an involuntary groan. "Shit," Denise muttered. "Ten minutes until it's time to pick up the twins." Tears sprang to her eyes, as she began clawing through the bags, searching for milk, yogurt, meat, ice cream - all the perishable items she'd need to stow in the refrigerator before she hit the road once again. Today was Tuesday, so that meant soccer practice for Darren and gymnastics for Doug, with just enough time in between to hit the drive through at Walgreen's and pick up her husband David's prescription. God, she thought, it never ends. When had her life gotten so completely out of control? Certainly caring for five year old twins, a large home, a part time job, and a husband demanded huge amounts of time. Yet there never seemed to be a moment she could call her own, a time to sit quietly with a book and cup of tea, or walk in the park, or listen to music. Never mind time to pursue her photography. Wistfully, Denise recalled the pleasure of taking a "photo safari," grabbing her camera and heading off in the car, stopping to photograph interesting old houses, or blooming gardens. Would there ever be time to do those things again? she wondered, jamming the packages of cheese and lunch meat into the deli drawer of her refrigerator. Right now, there was barely time for a quick run to the bathroom before she had to be on the road to school. Dashing toward the bathroom door, Denise's heart sank as she heard the front doorbell ring, followed by a determined rapping. Mrs. Cartwright, her elderly next door neighbor, was standing on the porch, an envelope in her hand. Denise sighed. The woman had obviously been watching for Denise to drive in, the timing was just too perfect. Denise knew from past experience that she would stand there, knocking incessantly until Denise answered her summons. Raking her fingers through tousled blond curls, Denise threw open the door. "Hi, Mrs. Cartwright," she said, smiling through gritted teeth. "I'm just on my way to pick up the twins..." "Oh, I won't keep you, dear," the older woman said gently. "The mailman left this letter in my box, and it belongs to you." Denise noticed the quaver in her hand as she held out the envelope, and, taking it, she looked into the watery blue eyes. "Are you feeling alright, Mrs. Cartwright?" she asked, concerned replacing the annoyance she had felt moments before. "Yes, I guess so," she answered. "I was just thinking about when I was a young mother like you, so busy with my boys, running here and there, cooking, cleaning, chasing them down. You know, I raised all five of them right here in this neighborhood." "Five boys!" Denise exclaimed, her mind reeling at the thought of three more like Darren and Doug. "Five!" Mrs. Cartwright affirmed. "I certainly never had a minute to myself in those years." She smiled sadly. "And look at me now, rattling around that big house all alone, with so much time on my hands. Who would have believed it would all come to an end?" Shaking her head, she looked up at Denise and smiled. "Well, I'll be getting out of your way, dear. I know how busy you are." Denise found herself fighting tears for the second time that afternoon. "Mrs. Cartwright," she said, "if you're not too busy, would you mind riding along to the twins school with me? I've got some more errands to do, and I'd love to hear more about how you managed five boys!" With a huge smile, her neighbor readily agreed. "I'd love to come with you!" she said. "I can't think of a better way to end my day!"
Poetry Thursday~When Morning Comes
When Morning Comes
When morning comes
pale early light
nudges open my eyes
recalling me from distant travels
in the land of dreams
I stumble from bed
heavy hearted and sore
no delight in this day set before me.
~
When morning comes
black coffee drizzles
into a shiny, clear pot,
preparing to ignite my sleep laden spirit
I lean across the sink
and throw open the window
hoping to clear the fog from my head.
~
When morning comes
cool breezes caress
tender, dry, skin
anointing me with freshness
I offer my face
to the wide open window
rejoicing in the baptism of possibility~
when morning comes
~
Thank you, Poetry Thurdsay, for providing a safe place to share and experience the joys of poetry.