May-Hem Part Three

Ok, hard to believe I'm back again so soon, but today was one of 'those' days in what appears to be an endless month, and I need to share.  Well, maybe share isn't the right word, I guess vent would be more accurate.

After a restless night's sleep, I woke up feeling not-so-hot.  I was started on antibiotics for Lyme disease in April, so a month has gone by already. I haven't noticed too many problems with the medication; mostly a bit of nausea that lingers for an hour or so, and migraines.  I'm on a waiting list for a trial IV therapy, but so far, no appointment has been set.  After calling my doctor's office today I was told the earliest I can expect to begin treatment would be August because of a long, long waiting list.  Lots of people have Lyme disease, sadly.  So for now, I wait.  (And take my meds.  See, Mom's not the only one who has to take pills.  I keep telling her this, too.)

The pain in the butt syndrome I was (and am) experiencing was such a fiasco. I hate going to doctors, I'm not usually a hypochondriac of such epic proportions, but after having so much trouble from October to February, I gave up trying the home remedies.  I went to my general practitioner in February right after Mom came home from the hospital, and had a lovely 'bend over' exam.  The doctor thought it looked like hemorrhoids, and prescribed some suppositories to be filled at our local pharmacy.  At last, relief!  

I found to my dismay that my pain in the butt would soon be replaced by a pain in the wallet; the suppositories, twenty of them, came to $240.  Wow.  That was a shock, but I was desperate for relief.  Our insurance is dismal; we have a very high deductible which makes all of these purchases, treatments and exams out of pocket expenses for us.

I paid the high price for the suppositories and hoped I'd soon be on the mend.  Except I wasn't.  Ok, there was a refill on the prescription, maybe it takes more than ten days to heal.  This time I shopped around for prescriptions and was stunned to find the refill from a different pharmacy was only $36.   Made no sense to me how the same exact medication could cost so much less the second time around (no, it wasn't a generic) but I wasn't going to argue.  I went home with my second ten day supply.

And ten days later, still no relief.  I called my GP again.  Another bend over exam, this time on my birthday in March, and another prescription for the same suppositories.  Remembering what happened the last time with the price differences, I asked for a prescription I could take with me instead of having it faxed to the pharmacy.  

When I got home from the doctor, I called around for prices, well, guess what?  The same prescription that ten days ago cost me $36 would now cost me $676 for twenty suppositories.  Yes, we're talking butt suppositories.  Not pure gold, diamond encrusted pellets; just hydrocortisone.  I asked the pharmacist about the price, and she said yes, she knew it was outrageous, but the prices are determined by supply and demand.  (There must be a lot of people out there with sore behinds.) 

I called four other pharmacies before finally ending up at Wal-Mart who would agree to let me use a discount pharmacy card (I have no idea how those things work, you don't pay anything or sign on the dotted line) and the bill would be $360-ish, but with the card, I could get it for I think, $138, if I remember correctly.  Which I probably don't, but anyway, on with the story.

Another ten days of suppositories, no relief.  Sitz baths, epsom salts, special seat cushions, standing as much as possible; let's put it this way, I still had a pain in the butt.  Back to the GP, who began to suspect it was maybe more than hemorrhoids, maybe it was the pilonidal cyst I'd had surgery on in 1982 making a most unwelcome reappearance.   I was horrified to hear that diagnosis; the recovery from that surgery was the worst thing I've ever had happen to me.  I didn't want a repeat. 

All of this was going on during and after Mom's stay in the hospital, too, which was worrisome, what if I couldn't take care of her?  Then what?

My GP referred me to a gastroenterologist, but I couldn't get in for two weeks.  In the meantime, I made an appointment with a surgeon who specializes in pilonidal cyst surgery whose practice is in Eau Claire, a good three and a half hour drive from home.  I'd read he was the best, and I wasn't going to trust having a second surgery on my tailbone to a doctor who didn't have as much experience.  (I looked at pilonidal surgeries on Youtube, not a good idea, by the way.  No wonder it took so long to heal thirty years ago, not for the faint of heart.)

Carl took a day off of work and off we went to Eau Claire, because apparently I'm not happy until I show off my derriere to all the doctors in the state of Wisconsin......anyway....after an exam, the specialist said he could see no outward evidence of any pilonidal cyst reactivation.  The only way to be sure would be surgery, but he felt there was no cause for alarm.  He said I would qualify for plastic surgery of the scar tissue which might make sitting and walking more comfortable for me in the future, but that was up to me.

I thanked the doctor and we left, relieved it wasn't a cyst again.  We can't afford plastic surgery, and even if we could, it wouldn't be on THAT part of my anatomy.  (Bill: $368)

My next stop two weeks later was with the gastroenterologist (they charge more for the extra letters in their specialty, by the way) who also gave me a less than one minute exam and said, "Nope, you don't have external hemorrhoids, maybe you have internal ones.  You'll need to see a colon-rectal surgeon."  (Bill: $240)

A week wait and there I was again, dropping trousers in the colon-rectal doctor's office who also declared me blissfully internally hemorrhoid free.  (Bill: $430)

The colon-rectal surgeon's diagnosis was 'ani levator syndrome'.   His referral was to a pelvic pain specialist/therapist who was booked up until the end of April.  Ok, well, I've lived with this misery this long, what's another coupla weeks?  

Maidenhair fern unfurling

By this time I had to go back to see my Lyme literate MD in Oshkosh which is about 40 minutes from home on April 22.  When I told him what doctors I'd seen and what the next step was he told me to wait until I was treated for Lyme and see if my problem improves.  Physical therapy would be probably quite expensive too, and may not help either.  As he put it, "The therapists will always be there if you think you need them."  I'm hopeful after the IV treatments (ten of them at $200+ a piece once a week for ten weeks)  I won't need physical 'butt' therapy.  My advice: Do Not Get Bitten By a Lyme disease-Carrying Woodtick. 

So that's where I'm at with that whole mess; it's not as bad as it was, but I'm doing a whole lot less sitting this time of year, too, with the gardening.  Maybe that's the solution, Never Sit, Always Stand?  

 Anyway, on to Thursday's dilemma (which was yesterday already since the clock struck midnight), I went up to Mom's and gave her medication to her.  And we went through the counting routine again; but I jumped in before she could say she didn't want to take her medication and successfully distracted her with tales of the garden and goings on around the farm.  The meds went down, phew.

At noon I left Mom's and grabbed leftover soup for lunch.  As soon as I was done eating out the door I went to mow lawn.  We haven't had much rain but the lawn has been growing by leaps and bounds.  Carl has been taking time off the past two weeks to work with me on getting the gardens weeded and reducing a bunch of large miscanthus clumps down to a reasonable size.  On Tuesday and Wednesday Carl and I rebuilt the back hill of the Quarry Bypass with all new stone (which looks much better!) but he had to work on Thursday, so I took the opportunity of him being gone to get the lawn mowing done for the weekend here and at Mom's house.

The lawn mower is a 15 year old zero turning radius machine we've had since 2001.  It doesn't seem that old to us, but alas, it is.  Last summer it broke down while I was mowing; a lot of blue smoke and barely able to move forward.  Oh, dear.

David came to our rescue last summer; he and his friend, Mike, who is good with motors, found the problem was a bent push rod.  After replacing the rod, the mower was good to go and go it did, all last summer and for one mowing this year.

 
A garden can be weedy, but a well-manicured lawn makes all the difference in a landscape; I was looking forward to mowing the lawn.     I'm obsessive with checking the oil, you get like that when you grow up on a farm; you never drive a tractor without checking the oil.  All the fluids looked great, no problems, and an added plus, the mower even started easily.  

I was blissfully mowing away when I noticed the engine was bogging down a bit.  Well, the grass was long, maybe I need to slow down.  Nope, that didn't help much.  I managed to finish the back yard and part of the front when suddenly the motor died down to almost nothing, blue smoke billowing.  I quickly turned off the deck and hit the off switch.  

Smoke started rising all around me, oh, no!  Time to bail out!  I headed for the Pachyberm and watched with bated breath as my beloved mower started to smoke even more from the oil dripping on the muffler housing.  I wouldn't have been too surprised to have a 'Hollywood ending' for my poor machine, I was half expecting it to explode or at least catch on fire, which it thankfully did not.  

I sat on one of the big rocks and watched until the smoke cleared and I was sure the coast was clear.  There wouldn't be any theatrics involved, but my heart was just as heavy.  Darn it.  Now what?  

Just as I was trudging back to the house, Carl drove in with a five gallon pail full of koi fish for our pond from our friend, Ellen.  He was so happy to show me the fish but then it was my turn to share the bad news.  

Carl took the engine apart and found out the rocker arm housing had broken apart.  Well, maybe we can get lucky and find parts to repair it online like last year when David and Mike fixed it.  The mower has 924 hours on it (wow, I mowed a lot the last fifteen years, ha), but it's an industrial model, built to withstand a lot of use.

We were hot on the trail of replacement parts when suddenly my laptop went black and an announcement popped up, Windows 10 was being installed on my computer.  I'd been avoiding the update for months at the advice of my tech savvy sons, but now time must be running out and the decision was taken out of my control.  So there went our big screen laptop for a few hours.  I tried looking for parts on my cellphone, but geez Louise, I need a magnifying glass to read PDF files and exploded parts diagrams.  

Carl went to bed early out of frustration, and I don't blame him.  My computer wouldn't reboot after the upgrade and after three hours I resorted to going online on my phone looking for 'what to do when your laptop has a black screen and won't load anything'.  The instructions were all too technical for me, until I found one that said to 'unplug anything plugged into your computer and shut it down.  Then remove the battery from your laptop and wait a bit.  Put it back in, hit the start button and see what happens.' 

It worked, thank goodness, but as I've been typing this post, every few minutes I lose the ability to type and have to use the mouse to get the cursor back where it belongs.  I hope I can figure out what's causing the problem, it's very annoying.  

So our recap of the day:

The mower sits in the driveway, mortally wounded. 

Our options are:

1. Buy a new lawn mower.  (Expensive, $5K and up for what we have now and we have a $10K plus septic tank bill facing us this year, plus my mess of medical bills.)
2. Buy a new motor only.  (Possibly around $1K, maybe less, if I can find one somewhere...)
3. Buy a used motor we found near Milwaukee (135 miles one way) for $50 on Craigslist that doesn't run, but is 'good' for parts.  Maybe.
4. Buy a push mower.  A solution?  My exercise needs would be met, I wouldn't be sitting on my butt; it's five acres of mowing sometimes twice a week between our house and Mom's plus parts of the Back Eight I keep short for walking paths.  I guess it would work, but I won't get any other yard work done. 
5. Let the whole yard go to the Prairie Look.
6. Get a goat.  (Wait, we tried that one year, it didn't work. 'Goater Goat' was sassy and only wanted to run around on the rocks and eat hostas.  And the aforementioned foam rubber lawn mower seat cushion.)

Now I'm all ranted out, and I haven't shown one wedding photo because the computer is still being bucky and I don't understand Windows 10 yet.....wait..........we might have one...

Abby and Joel, June 2015

 
 There will be more to come, I promise, just as soon as I can get this computer to cooperate.  

Now I'm off to bed before something else goes wrong.



 
 

 






  





  

 

 

 

May-Hem Continued

After I brought Mom home from the hospital, she was lucky enough to qualify for in-home nursing care twice a week for the first two weeks and then once a week for another month which was a godsend for me.  Mom wasn't crazy about the idea of having the visiting nurses, but it gave me peace of mind and another set of professional eyes to monitor her health in those precarious early days.

For the first four nights, I stayed overnight at Mom's house, sleeping on the couch in the living room.  I'm rather tall and the couch is much shorter than I am, plus my pseudo-hemorrhoids were in the midst of a full flare-up, so I wasn't getting a lot of rest.  Mom, being 95, is always cold, so she keeps her thermostat at a balmy seventy degrees at night which seems much hotter to Menopausal Me.  I sleep  with a bedroom window open a crack even in below-zero weather; I love me a cold bedroom.  Every time I'd hear the oil furnace kick in, I'd inwardly groan.  Oh, not again...good grief, it's finally livable in here.  

I also still use a CPAP machine.  The first night Mom woke up around 3AM.  I was awoken by her nudging me and asking repeatedly, "Are you alive?  Karen, are you alive?"

When I rolled over to face her, she was scared silly by the sight of my CPAP mask and literally jumped.  Figures, I was there to reassure myself she would be alright overnight and the sight of me almost gave her a heart attack.

I removed my head gear and assured her, yes, I was alive, it's ok, go back to bed.  My presence seemed to bother her at night, it was a departure from the norm.  However, I didn't feel right about going home to sleep in my own bed since I wasn't sure I'd made the right decision bringing her back home.

The visiting nurses brought with them a weight scale, blood pressure machine and literature for us to read.  Every day the telemedicine machine would alert Mom with the prerecorded message, "Good Morning!  It is now time to take your vitals.  Please step on the scale.  Please step off the scale and put on your blood pressure cuff.  Please place the oxygen sensor on the ring finger of your opposite hand.  Please remove the blood pressure cuff and oxygen sensor."

Mom disliked the loud voice on the machine, she startles easily and it never failed to make her jump when it started 'talking', even if I gave her a warning it was about to go off.  

If her blood pressure was too high, I would receive a call from the nurses and they would ask questions about Mom's demeanor and what I was seeing.  The first few weeks we were home from the hospital, Mom's blood pressure wasn't stabilizing.  We'd been to see her general practitioner twice, but he didn't have any new ideas.  One day the visiting nurse telephone service asked me if I'd thought about taking Mom to a cardiologist and set up an appointment for us to see one that same week.

Mom didn't want to go to the 'heart doctor', but after I talked about it long enough, she finally gave in.  I had been warned in advance that the cardiologist didn't have a warm and fuzzy bedside manner, but to my surprise, he was quite personable. He changed several of Mom's medications, and so far, the changes seem to be correct.  Her symptoms have been managed quite well, of course we keep our fingers crossed. 

But I have to dispense the drugs, no ands, ifs. or buts about it.  I can't trust Mom with the task.

 "Why can't I take my own pills?" she asks me.

"Because you admit you won't take them," I say.

"I don't need them.  I think the doctor prescribed all this stuff and it's making my stomach hurt."

"Well, he took a quite a few of your medications away; you take less now than you had been taking.  A lot of people much younger than you are taking far more medication than you are.  It's not so bad," I said.

We'd realized too late that Mom was being sneaky last fall when one day Carl went up to dispense her meds and caught her 'palming them'; dumping them in the chair beside her and pretending to swallow them.  I'm not sure how many times she managed to get out of taking them entirely, but I'm sure it had a lot to do with why she eventually had the very serious bout of congestive heart failure in February.

So now I'm the Warden.  Every morning we go through the same routine, I walk up to Mom's house, get her glass of water out of the refrigerator and put her pills in her palm.  She stares at them, counts them, "One, two, three, four, FIVE pills?  Why do I have to take so many?  Who's bright idea is this?" and she glares at me, waiting for an answer.

It's a well-worn script.  

Right on cue I say, "I'm sorry, Mom, but you have to take them to stay healthy and out of the hospital.  You remember how you couldn't breathe?"

Mom frowns at me and then at the pills and finally does manage to swallow them all. 

"I don't know why I have to take all those pills, I'm up half the night."

A month ago I asked my doctor about any supplements that might help with her stomach woes and he suggested some probiotics which I've also added to her regimen along with several other vitamins.  Just what I didn't need,  five more pills.......

"Who prescribed this stuff?" Mom always asks. 

"My doctor," I say.

"Your doctor doesn't know me, why would he prescribe this stuff?"

"It's not a prescription, these are over the counter to help you feel better."

"I don't feel any better, I feel worse."

"I'm sorry, Mom."

After the first four days of staying with Mom during the night, Joel talked to David and they came up with a plan to put four cameras in Mom's house so we can monitor her from afar.  Of course to do this, we had to get Mom an internet connection which is very confusing for her.  Happily, she wasn't upset when I suggested we install the cameras; she said it was a good thing if it kept her from having to go to the nursing home.  
 

Joel and Carl installing cameras and a new TV, Mom watching from her recliner.

The cameras give us some peace of mind; no, they're not going to protect her from falls, but at least I can look in on her as often as I like from my smartphone.   I also have access to a playback feature so I can tell how restless she was in the night. 

Carl, reading instructions!

Joel hooking up kitchen camera.

Joel was here for a few days after work and on weekends helping with the camera installation, and Carl and I so appreciated his help.  Our friend Cody was also instrumental in helping us get the bugs worked out of the system, too.  

I know to many people this seems like high-tech spying, and yes, it is an invasion of privacy, but the peace of mind the cameras have given me is priceless.  When Mom was in the hospital, I slept very well at night because I didn't have to worry; someone else was watching Mom.  In the past, even if I checked on her right before she went to bed, I'd have no idea if she'd fallen until the next morning.  This way I can see in real time what's going on any time I want.  

I've heard so many horror stories of elderly people falling and their loved ones not finding them until the next day.  Twelve hours (or more) must seem an eternity if you're in a crisis.  I know the cameras aren't a perfect solution, and at best, they are only buying me time, but the longer Mom can stay independent, the better we all like it.  

She does have one of those famous 'buttons' you can push if you've fallen, but just like her pills, she refuses to wear the device.  It stays on her kitchen table 'where she can find it if she needs it'.  I tell her it won't work if  'she's fallen and she can't get up'.

"Why? It's right there on the table."

"Yes, but if you would fall, you'd be on the floor," I say.

"Yeah, so, what does that mean?"

"How are you going to reach the button to call for help if it's on the kitchen table?" I ask.

"I'll get it and push the button."

"What if you can't get up?"

"I'll be able to get up.  I don't plan on falling."

I admit I do dread our routine every morning.  I love visiting her, but I do not love being the 'bad guy' and insisting she take her medication.  I keep cajoling her, just take them today and we'll see how you feel tomorrow, but I know one of these days, she may completely refuse to cooperate.  

What's my Plan B?  

I have none.  

"How long do you think I'm going to live?  Do you know how old I am?  What, do you think I'll live to be 100?" she'll defiantly ask me.

"Well, I hope so," I say.  Carl has an even better answer for Mom, "You have to live to be 100 so you get a congratulatory letter from the President of the United States."  (I had to look that one up, I guess it's true?)

Speaking of Carl, he's been invaluable in all of this.  He's got the patience of a saint and always goes up to Mom's for me in the evening to give her nightly pill before bed and on weekends, too.  He goes through the same interrogation I do and he's unfailingly cheerful and answers the questions the same way every time, yes, you have to take the pill, yes, I know how old you are, yes, you may very well  live to be 100.  

I love my mother so much; I only want her to be safe and happy.  I'm not sure if I'm doing the right things; but so far, so good.  I realize how short our time together is and how blessed I am to still have her.  

I took the pictures below on Mother's Day using my smartphone; Mom hasn't caught on entirely yet that my new 'gizmo' is capable of taking pictures.  She has always hated having her picture taken and will try to hide at every opportunity.  It's a shame she's not smiling, but I'll take whatever pictures I can get for remembrance.

Mom walking around the garden Mother's Day, 2016

 Mother's Day was a hurried affair here a few weeks ago, we helped Joel fix his fence in the morning and before we left, he presented me with my Mother's Day Rock, a tradition we've had since he was a tiny boy of four or five.  The first Mother's Day rock he'd brought home for me was one he found in the woods across the road and it took all the strength he had to pull it home in his little red wagon.  From then on Joel never fails to find me a special rock each year.

Before we left for Joel and Abby's house that morning, I whipped up a pan of bars and filled my crockpot which performed flawlessly while we were gone.  Scalloped potatoes and ham were ready when we arrived home to pick Mom up at 1PM so she could join us for dinner.  I don't know what to buy her for gifts, so lately I've resorted to buying her a bouquet of flowers from, of all places, the grocery store.  She is always pleased by them; this year I wanted to get her carnations, but they must have been out of season.  

On a side note, David had called me the night before Mother's Day and asked what I wanted.  I told him not to worry about it, it's just another day.  Then in a moment of silliness, I texted him one sentence,
  
'Chocolate. Drops mic.'

He responded, "Lol, what?"

"You want me to get you chocolate?"

"Yes."

"Where are you? Are you home?  I have a bunch of tools out.....OH! ha ha ha, never mind, I'm dumb, I get it now."

(I'd explain the mic dropping thing, but it's late, it's a comedian tactic; dropping the mic to make a point after making a statement or joke.)

Dave said he'd bring my gift out on Mother's Day, and on the way home from Joel and Abby's, I texted him that dinner would be at 1PM.  He didn't realize I was making a meal and was on a group motorcycle ride forty miles from home.  

"I'll be there in about an hour if that's ok."

Carl went and got Mom from her house, and it was getting late, so we ate without Dave who showed up about fifteen minutes later.  It turns out he had already had dinner, but when he came in the house he stopped dead in his tracks.

"OH, NO! he exclaimed as he was removing his helmet.  "I cleaned out the saddlebags on my motorcycle after I ate and threw your Mother's Day chocolate away in a dumpster."

"Oh, darn!  Well, that's ok, I really don't need it anyway, it's the thought that counts," I said.

"No, it's not right, I'll be right back," Dave said as he crammed his helmet back on his head.

So off he went, forty miles back to Shawano to retrieve my gift from a dumpster.  

The chocolates were delicious, by the way, they were the sole occupants of the newly cleaned dumpster and besides, they'd been in a shopping bag.  

I'm truly blessed.

 I have to leave you with one tantalizing tidbit, Carl and I are going to be grandparents Very Soon!!  Joel and Abby are expecting their first baby in a few short weeks!!  

But first I have to show belated pictures of their wedding last June...stay tuned!
 



 

 



 


 

May-Hem

I've been absent from writing for so long; I can't believe my last update was in January.  Things have changed around here and I'm still working on getting used to the new routine.  That's my excuse, and I'm sticking to it, but in the meantime, here's what happened over the long winter:

Back in early February, I caught a nasty cold.  In order to hopefully prevent my mother from coming down with it too, Carl took over dispensing her medication over the weekend.  I called Mom on Monday morning to remind her that we had a doctor's appointment with her general practitioner at 10AM, but when she answered the phone, I realized we had a problem.  Mom's voice was very weak and she could only talk in two word phrases.

"Mom, are you ok?" I asked.

"Yes.......I'm  ok.........I.................just.............can't seem...........to breathe.........very well," she gasped.

Oh, dear!

I got in my car and sped up to her house where I found her sitting on her bed, trying to put her shoes on.  I knelt down to help her and discovered her feet were swollen twice their normal size.  When I gingerly raised her pant leg, I was stunned by the edema in her legs all the way past her knees.  She was in big trouble.

I called the doctor's office, spoke with the nurse and told her I was taking Mom to the emergency room.

I told Mom I should call an ambulance, but she was terrified they would make her lie down.   I doubted they would have, but Mom had vivid memories of my father's death fifteen years ago and a tragic mix up that occurred with the ambulance crew.  Mom did not want to have the same experience he'd had.  The only way she could breathe was in an upright position.  I decided to take her into the hospital on my own so I wouldn't cause her any more stress.

Even though she could barely talk, she was still able to walk, albeit slowly. I helped her down the stairs and into my car.  It was bitterly cold out, and she had a hard time breathing when she first went outside. After I had her seat belted in, we started on the fifteen mile drive to the hospital.   I kept talking to her as I drove carefully, making sure to set my cruise control to the speed limit.  Fifty-five mph seems so slow when you're in a hurry. 

All was well until we came to the first traffic circle (or roundabout, as they're known here).  If you're not familiar with roundabouts, don't feel bad, they're a relatively new thing in our area in the last few years and they take some getting used to.  A roundabout is a type of circular intersection or junction in which road traffic flows almost continuously in one direction around a central island.  The basic thing to remember in a roundabout is to always yield to the traffic on your left.  If there is no traffic coming on your left, you don't have to stop.  

Apparently the driver of the car in front of me was brand-new to the area; there was no traffic in sight and yet they came to a complete stop and didn't budge. Mom was having more trouble breathing and I was getting frantic.  I'm a patient driver, I've never blown my car horn at anyone ever, but I guess there's a first time for everything, "Beep!  Beep!  BEEEEEEEEEEEPPPPPPP!"" I laid on the horn as hard as I could.  The car finally jumped to life and went through the roundabout.  I felt bad for being so rude, but we had to get going!

Finally free of the slowpoke driver, we headed down Hwy 172, across the bridge and the busy freeway traffic, exited, waited for the stop light, and down Webster Street we went at 35 mph for the next three miles.  Lots of stop and go traffic and I'm driving as carefully as I can all the while wondering if this was going to be the last time I would go for a ride with my mother.  She did not look good, and she sounded worse.  My blood pressure was way up, I could feel it pounding in my ears.  

"I...........can't.............breathe...............why?.................can't.............I..................breathe?" she gasped.

"I don't know, Mom, but hang on, we're almost there," I could see the hospitals in the distance.  One more light and we'd be there.  Well, at least that's what I thought.  As soon as the light changed to green, I went through the last intersection and was searching for the entrance to the hospital.  I was so relieved to see the big red 'EMERGENCY' sign plastered on the side of the building, this is the place, thank God!  

I pulled into the driveway and a valet parking attendant came out and took my information while I was dashing for a wheelchair by the entrance.  I got Mom out of my car and into the wheelchair (the first time she's ever ridden in one of her own free will) and whisked her off to the ER.  We made it.  Phew.

Mom was taken to an exam room quickly.  The doctors were all very good, they could see the problem was congestive heart failure and they set to work at getting the extra fluid removed.  We sat  in the ER from 8:30AM until nearly 2:30PM before she was assigned a hospital room.  Mom wasn't happy about this at all, she wanted to go home and couldn't figure out why they were keeping her in the hospital.  

The one question that kept coming up after she was stable was, "Her doctor is affiliated with Bellin Hospital.  Why did you bring her to St. Vincent's?"

Um.....good question?  I had to admit I hadn't realized we were at the wrong hospital, I was in a panic situation, I saw the first emergency room sign on the side of the hospital and went for it.  The two hospitals are actually joined together, in order to get to Bellin's ER, I would have had to bypass St. V's hospital and go down a side street and then turn into the Bellin Hospital emergency department.  I apologized to the doctors and nurses, I'd panicked.  I asked if we could simply move her across the building to the correct hospital, but no, that wasn't possible.  Eventually they had all of her records transferred, sadly I realize it made more work for them.  

Mom had chest x-rays and a plethora of exams and medications.  She was unable to tolerate lying down at all, she had to remain bolt upright or she couldn't breathe.  

She kept asking me over and over why this happened?  Why did she need to be here?  How long would she have to stay?  Couldn't we go home now?  

I reassured her the doctors were doing their best to help her and we'll just take it one minute at a time.  It was heart-wrenching to see her tiny little body in the big hospital bed.  I hadn't gotten around to giving her a perm or cutting her hair since the holidays, and she was in bad need of a hairdo.  She was very worried that her appearance was frightening.  I was cussing myself out for not catching all of this sooner.

She was hooked up to oxygen and a catheter and all sorts of bells and whistles.  The staff was excellent, I can't say enough good things about them.  They all loved Mom, and treated her with great respect.  

Family is so important.  Carl came to the hospital after work as did Joel.  David came up after his 1 AM work shift was over and volunteered to stay overnight with Mom so I could go home and get some sleep, but Mom said she would be fine, and that we both should go home.  Ann came up with Dave to lend me moral support too.  I stayed until 3AM the first night and then headed home.  It was the start of the coldest weather we'd had all winter and I was shivering uncontrollably by the time I found my car with Dave's help. I don't know what I would do without our sons; they are so comforting to me.  I am blessed. 

Mom was in the hospital for four days.  She was always hoping to go home, but the doctors wanted to make sure she was stable, and so did I.  Her confusion and slight dementia haven't been getting any better; she's not terribly bad, but she is forgetful and the hospitalization wasn't helping with her memory.  She was a card with the staff, though, and especially liked a young physical therapist guy who came in every day 'to take me for a walk'.  She loved to tease him mercilessly.  I hadn't seen that side of Mom in a very long time and I found myself wiping away tears frequently.  Despite everything she's gone through in her long life, she is still able to see the funny side of things and try to set the nurses at their ease.

I know she was scared, though, and so was I.  You'd think I'd be prepared for the loss of my mother at the ripe old age of 95, but, guess what, I'm not.   Truth be told, I'm just a big baby.  I woke up on Tuesday morning and for a blissful second my mind didn't catch up with the events of the previous day.  But when it did, I found myself lying in bed sobbing for no good reason.  

When I was a little girl, my father absolutely hated tears and would banish me from his presence if I cried.  To this day, I'm appalled when I cannot control myself even though I know crying is a healthy way to release tension.  And the older I get, the easier my traitorous tears seem to flow.   

What was I crying for that morning?  

The loss of my mother.  I'm not ready.  I know I'll never be ready.

The truth is Mom has been leaving me for some time already.  Her memory hasn't been great, she often repeats herself and asks the same questions over and over.  I know she can't help aging, but I can't help missing the mom I used to know, either.  Sometimes it seems as if she is a stranger to me (and I'm sure I appear strange to her, too).  I've whined to Carl more than once, "I want my mom back!  I don't like this new version." 

I've been through this before.  A few years prior to his death, my father didn't often know who I was.  He was always looking for a four year-old version of me and I often joined in with the search.  

"Have you seen Karen?  She's about yay high," holding his hand about three feet off the ground, "and she's got long, blond hair.  I haven't seen her for a long time.  She's got to be here somewhere!"

And off we'd go looking for me.  Joel would often accompany me to visit my parents and my father always confused him with my late brother, Bob, who had died in 1995.  

"Bobby, have you seen Karen?" Dad would bark at Joel.  

Joel played along the best he could, no, he hadn't seen Karen either. 

"Well, who knows where she went to!  She could be lost in the woods!  And I won't ask that woman in the house anything about it, she says she's my wife, but I don't know who she is.  I know she's not my wife!"

I managed to change the subject with some distraction and soon the issue of Missing Me was settled and Dad forgot all about it.  For about two years I was a complete stranger to Dad until the day he died. I took him shopping and out for car rides, but he had no idea who I was.  At times that led to some very embarrassing situations, but I survived.  I know he wasn't in his right mind. 

I am hoping against hope that Mom's mind will remain a little clearer; it's very hard to care for a person with advanced dementia.  Dad was 86 when he suffered what the doctor thought was a mini-stroke.  He passed away at age 88 after a fall down a flight of stairs, independent and stubborn to the end as he was working on putting the cab on his tractor for snow blowing.  Less than eight hours after he fell, he was gone in October of 2001.  

My mother has been a widow for fifteen years.  She's handled widowhood gracefully, the same way she's handled her entire life.  Never one to brood or feel sorry for herself, she always finds something to keep her busy and her house is as neat as a pin.  Her bed is always made every morning, dishes done every night.

It was so hard seeing her helpless in the hospital bed.  The nurses gave her the TV remote control which also contained the call button, but of course she couldn't remember how to work the silly thing. She was increasingly restless, and whenever I walked in the room, she'd tell the nurses, "Sorry, I have to go now, my daughter is here."

Finally, after four days, the doctor said she could go home.  His recommendation was she should go to a skilled nursing facility (an old folk's home, in Mom's terms) for rehabilitation for two weeks.  I received the call at home that Medicare would pay for her stay.  It was all settled, or so I thought.  As I was driving in to the hospital, I received a call from the benefits coordinator; there was a change with the insurance, she wasn't going to qualify for the nursing home rehabilitation after all.  

As it turned out, the fact that Mom was able to put on her own socks and walk down the hallway with no assistance for short jaunts even with congestive heart failure meant she was not 'sick enough' to need skilled nursing rehab, at least in Medicare's estimation.  The nurses and physical therapists all remarked on how fit she was for 95, they said she could teach some of the sixty-year old patients a thing or two.  

They wanted to know what her secret was.  She told them her secret was being a farmer's wife for sixty years.  Amen to that, I know it's the truth.  I do not know one woman who has worked as hard as my mother did all those years. 

 I was really concerned as to what to do with Mom after they discharged her.  Would she be ok home alone?  

The doctor said she could go to rehab for two weeks if she wanted to private pay.  I thought about it and finally said, yes, ok, draw up the paperwork.  While they were doing that, I set about getting Mom's things packed up and getting her dressed.  She was not against going to the nursing home, but she wasn't thrilled with the idea, either.  

Who would be?

After another flavorless meal (they put her on a salt-restricted diet) she was ready to go to the nursing home.  I was to go and get the car and the nurse would wheel Mom down to the entrance.  Just as I was getting ready to leave, the fire alarms went off and the elevators were shut down, so I had to run down four flights of stairs to get back up the ramp steps and find my car parked on the roof of the parking lot.

 Carrying all of her belongings, the trip took me longer than it should have and the nurse was waiting with Mom in the wheelchair for quite a while before I came around with the car.  

"We thought you forgot about her," the nurse said as she helped Mom into my car.

No, I didn't forget, how could I? But I was debating with myself about this two week stay at the nursing home.  Should she go?  Was it the right thing to do? 

Mom settled back in the seat as we drove home in the bright afternoon sunshine. 

"Now where am I going?  To the old folk's home?  Is that what you want me to do?  I'll do whatever you want me to do, I don't want to be a burden to you.  If you want me to go to the home, I'll go," Mom said.  "You have a life of your own, you don't feel good; you don't need to fuss over me."

I didn't know what to say.  Since last October, I've had another bout of ill health which turned out to be Lyme disease.  Lyme disease is very hard to diagnose because there really aren't any definitive tests for it, but all my symptoms for the last twenty-odd years are now starting to make sense, my auto-immune thyroid woes were most likely caused by a stupid wood tick bite who knows when ago.

Since October, I'd had a nasty bout of what I thought was hemorrhoids. (Yes, the pain in the butt that no one likes to talk about, much less write about.)  Sitting was unbearable (which is also why I haven't written any posts lately since I don't type standing up very well).  Even standing was painful.  I spent most of last winter soaking my derriere in sitz baths with epsom salts and trying one remedy after another to no avail.  The pain wouldn't leave me alone.  And when Mom went to the hospital, it was worse since there wasn't much to do but sit with her on very uncomfortable chairs or pace around the room like a caged cat.

So there we were, a daughter driving her mother to the old folk's home.  I didn't talk much on the drive, the nursing home is in our little community of Seymour, so Mom would only be three miles from home.  I comforted myself with that thought, I could go and see her every day, it wouldn't be too bad.

"I left the house without making my bed," Mom fretted.  "When you go in there, you're going to see how messy it looks, I wish I'd had the time to make the bed."

"Oh, that's ok, Mom," I said, "I washed clothes this morning and stripped your bed, I'll make it up later."

"You washed clothes?  Mine too?  You don't need anymore work, I can wash my own."

But then the reality of where I was taking her set in and she became very quiet.  I was having the hardest time driving because the unshed tears were burning my eyes.  I couldn't do this, could I?  Should I? 

Finally we arrived in Seymour.  

"I'm so glad to see familiar places," Mom said.  "I don't like the big city."

I drove the last mile to the nursing home and parked the car in the lot.  Mom was weak yet, so I told her I'd go in and find out where we had to go and I'd be back for her. It was very cold out, but the car was parked in the sun and I hoped she'd be warm enough.  I didn't intend to be gone long.

I wandered into the facility and past a few elderly patients sitting in their wheelchairs, looking completely catatonic.  Finally I met a nice woman who asked me my business and said, yes, she had Mom's paperwork, let's get her settled in.  

That's when I done lost it.  I was standing there with the lady as she explained the terms of the stay and the paperwork she still needed from me and where is your mother, by the way?  When suddenly it hit me.  

I can't leave my mom here. 

The treacherous tears were rolling full force now; the lady's voice trailed off as she realized I was having a meltdown.  

"I'm sorry, is there a problem?"

"Yes, I'm sorry too.  I'm sorry I took up your time, but I'm going to take Mom home," I blubbered.  "I can't leave her here, it isn't fair of me."  

"If you feel the time isn't right, that's perfectly understandable, but it needn't be long term.  After a few weeks of rehabilitation, she'll be feeling much better.  But of course, if you feel strongly about it, just remember you have one month from her hospitalization to reconsider your options."

"Well, it's just that she's my mother, and she's never been away from the farm, and she deserves a better daughter," I sobbed.

"By all means, you have to be comfortable with any decision you make," the director said as she handed me a box of tissues.

I stood there wiping my tears and staring at a picture of a tranquil Victorian home on an impossibly gorgeous autumn evening and made up my mind.   

I smiled at the director, apologized for the third time for taking up her time and marched out of the building.  When I got to the car, Mom said, "Did you find out where I'm going?"

"Yes," I said.  

"Where?" she said, as she unhooked her seatbelt.

"Home." 

"What do you mean?  I'm going home?" she asked.

I blew my nose and turned the ignition.  "Yes, you're going home."

"Oh, I'd better put my seatbelt on." 

And off we went, back to the farm.  The farm my father left horizontally, the same way I hope to leave it, too.  

"Oh, it's so good to be home," Mom said. 

She was right, it was good to be home.  

"Oh, look, my bed's not made!  I told you I left a mess behind!"

And off she went to find her sheets.

 

 

 


 





 

Stainless Steel Glass Whatsit

 Way back last July, Carl came in the house with a piece of stainless steel scrap from a job he'd been working on.  The scrap steel was 9" wide by 18" tall and 1" thick with four vertical openings resembling a window pane cut out.  I wish I'd taken a before picture, but once again, I've dropped the ball. A picture is worth a thousand words, but I'll try to keep it well below the limit.

"What do you think we should do with this?" he asked as he carefully set it down on the kitchen floor.  "Do you have any ideas?"

As it turned out, I did have an idea for the impossibly heavy hunk of metal.  At first I thought it would make an interesting frame for a stained glass panel for the garden.  I sat down to draw up a design but the vertical lines were too narrow to accommodate anything floral.  (You know me, I'm all about the flowers.) 

While I was poking around in our stained glass scraps, I found some glass globs in assorted shapes and sizes stashed in an ice cream pail.  Most of the globs came with some supplies we had purchased from a stained glass artist who had given up the craft.  I was never really sure what I would do with them at the time, but the time had come.

I decided to attempt an abstract stained glass design.  The spaces were just right for squares, rectangles and circles of varying sizes.  I laid the entire design out on the light table in the dining room, gingerly putting the thirty pound hunk of stainless on the surface without breaking the glass underneath. I puttered around with the shapes for a week or two at night, trying various configurations.

This process of putzing was similar to the way we created the big round window for Castle Aaargh; there was no design, just a whole bunch of random scrap glass in varying shapes.

Castle Aaargh's Round Scrap Window 2014

 I admit that the round window came out much better than either of us anticipated.   This was the first window we ever made without a pattern; the shapes we had to work with formed their own pattern.  I wasn't as optimistic about the Stainless Steel Glass Whatsit, but what the heck?  Might as well try something new.  It's all basically scraps anyway.

Once I had the glass shapes placed in the vertical panes, I took a few days to wrap copper foil around each of them.  Many of the glass jewels were quite thick, so the process took longer than I anticipated, which is fine because foiling is my favorite part of the craft of stained glass.  I find it very relaxing to sit down with a bucket of glass and a good movie.  

Carl took over with the soldering when I was done foiling everything.  We weren't sure if the solder would adhere to the stainless steel or not, but surprisingly there were no problems.    At one point the entire project was tipped over by accident, so many of the pieces were dislodged before they were soldered, but to tell the truth,  I guess it didn't matter very much.  Behold my first attempt at abstract stained glass:

Carl had finished soldering this together late last fall, and I put off doing the clean up on the project for various reasons.   It had been moved from the front porch to the dining room floor and finally to the basement for the holidays where Carl plopped it into a wastebasket.   Neither of us were totally thrilled with the end result, no stained glass work ever looks promising especially covered in soldering paste and flux in a gooey mess.  I had chalked it up to an experiment and a learning experience; not anything I was likely to repeat.

 This week I went to empty the wastebasket and found the Whatsit again; it was very cold outside, nothing else was happening, might as well take my mind off my troubles and start the cleaning and detailing process.

Flush side

One side of the Whatsit is flush with the surface, but the other side is recessed into the 'panes' of the stainless steel piece.

Recessed side

The cleaning process took me most of the day and a night of movie watching, by all rights, a window or lamp should be cleaned as soon as possible after soldering, but with us, that doesn't always happen.  I have a set of dental picks that are great tools for detailing stained glass.

At first we had been underwhelmed by the way Whatsit turned out, but when I propped it up in the dining room window and the late afternoon sun streamed through it reminded me of stained glass chipped 'slab' windows installed in some churches and mausoleums. 

  All in all, this was an experiment that we may try again.  Using two different mediums was actually quite fun.  I'm not sure how or where we will display the Whatsit, but I'm sure Carl will think of something. 

In a way, life is a lot like these windows, sometimes you're given pieces of the puzzle and you don't know how any of them fit in the big picture.

 When life throws us scraps, all we can do is arrange things the best we can.  Maybe it's right, maybe it's wrong, but one thing is for certain, at least we tried.

Anxiety, Thy Name is Karen

When we last left them, Carl and Karen were in the midst of figuring out their septic tank woes.  And woes they are; the soil test failed, so now we are scheduled for a mound system installation this spring.  It will be 100 feet long and approximately 3-4' tall, not sure on the height yet, more soil tests are necessary for that determination.

December 23, 2015

One good thing; we can put the mound a long distance from the house, so the River Bed is not in jeopardy.  Well, except for the fact the original septic tank will have to be dug up and removed and a new one stuck back in which will entail digging up most of the back yard.  And, oh yeah, I forgot; the truck bringing in the new tank is Really Big, so we may need to cut down a few trees here and there and possibly say adios to the gazebo, but other than that, with a little luck and ambition and with the weather cooperating, we might have something other than mud by July.

Time to go into the Tardig and teleport Somewhere Else?

And to add to my stress, I've got three garden walks already scheduled for this summer, the first one in June.  Thankfully, they are not big tours; but I do hate to disappoint people when they've traveled for any distance.  I had another call this week and I told them about the possibility of seeing far less than perfection upon their arrival, but they were undaunted.  Luckily, they don't want to tour until August. 

Good ol' Castle Aaargh will be on the back burner again this season, but it can't be helped.  Having indoor plumbing trumps everything.

Random snowy urn things.

The financial side of this is stressful, to say the least.  I had just about enough saved up for our remodeling fund (if I don't pay any other bills for the rest of the year) to cover this.  The soil test guy joked, "Seeing all the rocks around here it seems like you guys like hard work, why don't you just put your own septic system in?"

Well, ha ha, Mr. Funny Man, if we could legally do that, we definitely would.   But of course there are government inspections, paperwork, official rules and regulations, permits, red tape, so on and so forth, so that's not an option.  Don't even dangle the carrot of sweat equity in our sad old faces, ok? 

Have a seat.

I have a doctor's appointment later on this week.  Yet another expense we really don't need, but I don't have a choice.  There are tests and more tests in my future, I have a tentative diagnosis of Lyme disease at the moment and have no idea where we go from here.  Like most people my age, some days I feel fairly good, but the joint pain is unrelenting along with very frequent headaches.  I'm still exercising on a regular schedule and trying my best to watch my diet, but a few pounds crept back on already this winter.  I gave up on heavy weightlifting since last summer; it takes far too much of a toll on my joints at the moment.  As trite as it sounds, I have to listen to my body or risk being unable to function.

More Random Snowy Urn Things.

Skiing has been my salvation as it is every winter.  We've only had one good snowstorm so far and I've been making use of it at least four times a week, going out for an hour a day.  Lately the temperatures have been below zero and the windchills are nasty, but if I stay in the tree line in the Back Eight and up against the neighbor's woods on our northern farm fence line, I don't suffer too much.  Crossing the bare fields from the trees to the woods is the worst part.

Skis!!!  

 Some days I get really down on myself; the woulda coulda shoulda's creep in, I shoulda seen this coming, coulda stayed working for the insurance company, woulda avoided being bitten by a woodtick, you get the picture.  Woe is me, nobody likes me, everybody hates me, I'm gonna go eat some worms.  (Where did that come from?  My father...it was one of his favorite taunts when I was a little kid feeling miserable over something.)

But then I go outside and take in the beauty of the world around me and it helps so much.  I'll never be thin, I'll never be rich (that's a No-Brainer!) but I can still get around and all is not lost.  Not yet.

 I can't afford to throw a Pity Party.  Heck, I can't afford to throw any parties at the moment, but pity parties are definitely off limits.

There's always something to look forward to, every day is a blessing.  But try as I might, the obsessive thoughts fly around in my poor old brain.  Here's a sample of my daily ruminations:

 I may or may not have to look for a job this year; it's all up in the air.  With employment comes other headaches (on top of the ones I have daily now) such as am I up to it physically?  Mentally?  My car is already eleven years old and Carl's is a 1989; any work traveling will soon put both cars into the junkyard and we'd need new-ish ones; depending on the work I can get (if it's office-related) there's a wardrobe to consider, would my measly imaginary income help us or hinder us when it comes to tax brackets? There is no way I can tend this garden to the extent I do now; I'll probably end up on an opposite shift from Carl; what if this is Lyme's disease?  What if it isn't? What is with the new rash that just developed?  I don't think I felt a lump, no, it's gone now, how can I afford this doctor?  Our deductible is $15K before insurance picks up a dime.  The dentist says I need a root canal and a new crown, it's only $800..... and Mom.........what about Mom?  I am her sole caregiver, she's doing ok at the moment but there's no guarantees.  There are no guarantees on anything.  No extended warranties any of us can buy that will ensure our health, wealth and well-being.  No one gets out alive.  Bah, humbug.

End Rant.

(Aren't you glad you don't live in my head?)

No, I didn't take the Christmas decorations down yet. 

Take a deep breath.  Calm down.  It will all be fine.  So much of what we worry about never comes to pass.  Pray.  It's not that bad.   But then the mind starts up again with the old tapes, my MIL told me years ago that 'failure to plan is a plan to fail' and 'you should always have a backup plan in place'.  She had no sympathy for those who didn't,  'Times are tough all over.'

Yes, they are.  And I know my current 'tough' times are nothing compared to what other people are dealing with.  I still have a warm house, enough to eat (too much, if you believe my scale) a loving husband and family, I have it all, I'm just a Worry Wort.  That's nothing new.

There's still snow outside, and it's free for the skiing.  What more could I ask for?

Plus, we have the Biggest Balls of Them All.  (Inappropriate, but true.)

This too shall pass, even if my perc test didn't.  Wish me luck at the doctor's office this week, I can really use it.  (And what is up with my blog format?  Good grief, I apologize for silliness!)