Hummingbirds

Wick hung up a hummingbird feeder out on the deck a few weeks ago.  We have enjoyed watching the tiny birds zoom around, and have discovered that they have personalities.

One is very aggressive.  He apparently feels that the feeder is his personal property, and whenever others show up, he chases them away, twittering loudly.  He then returns to the feeder, perches on it, and chirps, as if to say, I won again.

Another is quite cautious.  He flies in circles around the feeder, finally landing, but can't seem to sit still long enough to drink.  He keeps jumping into the air, turning himself around in circles, as if watching for the aggressor.

I've read a little about these birds.  They are attracted by the color red.  They "know" how long a blossom takes to refill its cup with nectar after a feeding, and won't return to that blossom until it has had time to refill. 

The little aggressor doesn't know that we keep the feeder replenished, and that whenever he returns, there is always more nectar.

I guess sometimes we are like that with God;  our human nature can't encompass the unending bounty of God's love and care for us, so we worry and fret, instead of waiting on the Lord to supply our needs.

His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.

First Monday

We went to First Monday in Canton Saturday.  First Monday is the biggest "garage sale" in the world.

It started in Canton many years ago, when farmers came to town on the First Monday of each month.  Court was in session, and while people took care of their legal business, they could swap for fresh butter, eggs, and produce, and then by a natural evolution, they began to swap for all kinds of other things.  First Monday is now a huge tourist draw.  

We are lucky enough to live close.  We went Sat. morning, poked around for a couple of hours, and had lunch before heading home.

I have missed going to First Monday since I haven't been able to walk far.  I still couldn't walk from the parking spot to the first pavillion, but Wick got me a powered chair, and it worked great.  He loaded it into the back of his pickup with a couple of ramps, unloaded it when we got there, and presto, I was able to keep up with him and our niece all morning.  It was great.

We didn't buy much, but got a lot of ideas about decorating the cabin when we get to that stage.

We lookked at life preservers, ship's wheels, fishermen's floats, old nets, everything from fine antiques to pure dee junk.  It was fun just to look and browse, and watch people bargaining.

If you have never been to First Monday, it's worth the trip.  There are all kinds of places to stay, and even if you don't buy anything, it's an adventure just to make the rounds.

Of course, buying stuff is sort of the point. 

Obsessions, Compulsions, and General Craziness

I'm not really obsessive/compulsive. But, like most people I think, there are a few things that I really have to do.
1. Folding things: t-shirts, towels, sheets, pillow cases, underpants...all have to be folded into thirds.
2. Stacking things: all washcloths have to be stacked so that the nice fold is on the outer edge, and the edges of the washcloths are to the back or side. Same with sheets and pillow cases.
And towels.
3. When I fold socks in pairs, I alternate the folded edge, so that the stack stays even, not lop-sided.
4. I count things. Like steps. When I go up stairs, or down stairs, I count the steps. If I walk on stepping stones, I count them. If the ceiling tile has rows of dots, I count them. If we are at a football game, I count the number of players on the field, the number of girls in the drill team line, the number of kids in the band playing percussion.
5. When I eat M & Ms, I lay them out in rows, sorted by color. I eat only one at a time, starting with the color of which I have the fewest. I suck on each M & M (if it is only one, is it still M & Ms, or just M?) until it melts before I put another one in my mouth.
6. When I eat dip and chips, it has to come out even. If I have dip left, I need more chips. If I have chips left, I need more dip.
7. I sit on the back deck every morning and drink coffee with lots of cream and a spoon full of Splenda in it. If, for some reason, we have to leave early, and I don't have time to sit out there, my whole day seems off.
8. I don't check my e-mails every day, because when I check, I have to answer anything that needs an answer right then. I can't stand to leave one unanswered. So if I know I don't have time to answer, I don't read.
9. I like for my shoes to match my outfit. If I don't have a pair of shoes that match, that's okay, but if I do, I have to wear them. I can't just wear another pair. I have to wear the ones that match.
10. There are certain blogs I have to read, if I am on line. I don't necessarily comment often, but I do have to read them. It's a good thing there aren't too many of them, or I'd be on line all day.
Well, there you have it, the general nuttiness of my day to day life. Could be worse, I guess. At least none of it hurts anybody else.

Ten things Meme

Diane, at Diane's Place, posted a meme. Since I haven't been thinking of much to blog about, I thought I'd answer her questions.

1.] How come I can never find: my glasses. my scissors. my cell phone. my memory.

2.] I wish I'd never started: getting pedicures. I love them, and they used to be one of my "life's little luxuries", but now that Wick has to take me everywhere I go, I won't ask him to sit there for an hour while I get my toes painted and my feet massaged.

3.] I wonder why: sometimes I can't think of a thing to write about, and other times, I can't find time to write down all that occurs to me.

4.] Mama always told me: to always wear nice underthings, in case I ever had to go to the emergency room. Naturally, the night I got so sick last November, I had on my oldest, tattiest underthings.

5.] There's this one thing in my closet that I just can't seem to get rid of: shoes. I love shoes. I've worn the same size since I was fourteen. I keep buying them, but hardly ever et rid of any.

6.] My favorite guilty pleasure is: chocolate. Chocolate cake. Chocolate cookies. Chocolate chip cookies. Chocolate ice cream. Mocha Java Chillers from Sonic. Mocha Moolattes from Dairy Queen. Chocolate Thunder from Down Under at Outback. Chocolate ice cream. Chocolate sundaes. Hot fudge sundaes. Chocolate. Did I mention Chocolate?


7.] I always forget to: get a bulb for the reading light in my bedroom. It's an odd size, and I need to take it with me to make sure I get the right one. I keep thinking I will get it as I walk out the door to go to town. But I haven't yet.

8.] I have never: been to Europe. Or the Orient. Or Australia. Or South America, central America, or Canada. I have, however, been to Mexico, Grand Cayman, and Jamaica.


9.] I'm obsessed with: oh, now see, if we are going to talk about my OCD tendencies, we need a whole post. Or maybe a series of posts. Because while I am pretty laid back and easy going about most things, there are a few things about which I am Obsessive. Compulsive. or maybe just Crazy.

10.] One of my favorite memories is: when our children were young, and we used to spend cold Sunday afternoons sitting on the rug in front of the fire playing board games and laughing like loons.

Traumatic, Life-Altering Events: Musing

I've been thinking about traumatic events in people's lives, and how it affects them, mostly because I recently experienced a traumatic, life-altering experience.

I have known for at least all my adult life that people experience traumatic events, and are forever changed afterward. I myself have had a few of those experiences. But never before have I felt as fundamentally changed, different, no longer my own self.

I can't explain in what ways I have changed, other than that my writing is not as funny as it used to be. I only know that I'm not me any more. I don't know who I am. I don't react the same way as I used to.

I cry more easily, and more often.

I spend a great deal more time alone.

I have a strange reluctance to be where there will be large numbers of people, and when I am with a lot of people, even people I love, I feel uneasy, and find it very stressful, to the point of needing a two-hour nap afterward.

I often have a sense of dread, as if something really bad is about to happen, and I don't know what it is or how to stop it.

Anxious. I feel anxious.

Tomorrow is my birthday. My darlin asked what I want. I told him I don't want anything; I am just thankful to be alive.

But there is something I want, and I don't think I will ever have it again: I want my life back.

I want me back.

But I think that me is gone forever.

I'm stuck with the new me, and I don't know who I am.

Child-speak, part 4

When Katoushka was two years old, she did not talk baby talk. She talked in complete sentences, in a very melodic voice, quite clearly, and not only seemed to remember everything she heard, but also to be able to use new words appropriately.

Her parents had a discipline plan, which I had not totally grasped yet, but it seemed to be working very well, and I had a great deal of respect for it, and for them.

So when they left Katoushka with us, I tried to do as I thought they would do. But one day Katoushka did something that she knew she wasn't supposed to do. I told her I was not sure how Mommy and Daddy would handle it, and we were going to wait until they got home and find out what they wanted to do.
She sat in the little red rocker quietly for a few minutes. Then she said, "Mimi, Mommy and Daddy say that those who love me chastize me."

I knew that chastizement meant some kind of punishment, so I called her to me, and gave her a couple of little swats on her thickly diapered bottom, saying, "Precious, I would not want you to think that your Mimi doesn't love you." She returned to the little red rocker, rocked vigorously for a few minutes, and wiped her tears.

I could hardly stand it. My precious little grandbaby was hurt.

But before I could say anything, she came back to my side, spread her arms wide, and said, "Mimi, can we reconcile now."

My heart twisted in my chest. I gathered her into my lap, hugged her, and we rocked until Mommy and Daddy came home.

Note: For clarification, I am adding Jeana's response: " We told her that we chastise her because we love her. I think the difference is important. We certainly do not expect everyone who loves our children to chastise them, nor would we be happy at all if they did."

Jeana wants to be sure there is a distinction between what they actually said, and what Katoushka and I thought she said.

Child-speak, part 3

Our first grandchild, Pie, wanted to talk, but frequently ran out of words. She was between 18 months and two years old, and her total repertoire included a number of isolated words, mostly names, please, thank you, no, and me (meaning roughly I will do it myself, thank you very much), and a few short phrases.

She often sat in my lap, and when I talked to her, she would respond with one of her words or phrases, whether it fit my comment or not--a steady stream of non sequiters.

When she had run the gamut of her vocabulary, she would stare at me intensely. If I said nothing, she would put her little hands on my cheeks and squeeze them together until my lips opened, and say, "Talk. Mimi. Talk."

I finally figured out that we were having a conversation, and I was falling down on my end of it. She had contributed all she could, and I was supposed to keep the conversation going, while she tried to come up with something else to say.

She is seventeen now. She still sits in my lap occasionally. But now I am the one who feels like saying, "Talk. Pie. Talk."

Child-speak, part 2

Speaking of children, have I ever told you about our son Scott? He was the most energetic, active, challenging child I have ever known.

When he was two years old, he decided that he needed to explore the larger world, outside the chain link fence surrounding our back yard.

Now this yard was the perfect yard for little children. Dozens of shade trees, lots of toys, stuff to climb on and ride on. But he longed to expand his horizons.

So he climbed the fence.

He went over a chain link fence, the kind with wire "spikes" on the top. He was two years old, so he received a series of bleeding scratches on his little tummy, but that didn't slow him down.

He then walked past our nearest neighbor's house, and found his way into the parking lot of the nearby convenience store, where he spent some time investigating the sucker someone threw down, the ice cream cone someone dropped, the chewing gum someone spit out. How do I know he did this? The evidence was all over his face.

He then decided to direct traffic as cars and trucks pulled into and out of the parking lot. That is what occupied his attention when we, his hysterical parents, found him.

And this was just the first time he "ran away."

No wonder my hair started to turn gray.

Child-Speak, part 1

When Jeana was small, she had a little trouble with certain words, such as mayonnaise. She pronounced it "bandaids."
She also had a little trouble with the word moustache. Her daddy has had a moustache most of his adult life, and all of her life.

One day we were looking at old pictures; we had looked at pictures of her grandparents, aunts and uncles, and cousins, talking about who they are, and how related. We came to one of her daddy, pre-moustache.

I said, who is that? She hesitated, then said firmly, Uncle Tommy (daddy's brother). I said, no, that's Daddy.

She looked at the picture, and at me, and then back at the picture, insisting that it was Uncle Tommy. When I held firm that it was indeed Daddy, she said, No! It not!

That not Daddy! He don't have no mattress on his lip!

It's a story we still tell, whenever one of the grandbabies has difficulty with a word.

Precious memories.

Where's My Sense of Humor?

I spent a couple of hours yesterday rereading some of my oldest posts. The thing that struck me was how many of them were funny, compared to my most recent posts.

I have a strong sense of the ridiculous, especially in my own behavior and attitudes. I used to relate the silly, aggravating, foolish things I said, did, or observed.

What happened to my sense of humor?

Will it come back?

Or is it gone, never to return?

I love to laugh, especially at myself.

Will I never again crack myself up, describing the events of my life?

I LoveYou More

"I Love You More" is a game we used to play with our children. Here's how it is played:

Press forehead to child's forehead. Whisper, I love you more.

Child responds by holding thumb and forefinger about a millimeter apart, and says I love you more than this.

Parent responds similarly, with thumb and forefinger slightly further apart.

The game continues until both are saying, I love you more than this, with arms outstretched as far as possible. Both then dissolve in laughter and hugs.

Antique Mommy brought up the subject of games we play(ed) with our children, and got me to thinking about precious moments with our children and grandchildren, and I may just do a whole series of these memories.

Right after I wipe away the tears.

Respite From the Heat

I thought I would write more this summer, since I have more access to the on-line world now, but I haven't. Much of my time has been spent sitting on the back deck, watching the wildlife and the lake and how it changes as the light changes.

But then it started getting hot. I mean, HOT, as in summer in Texas hot. Upper nineties, near 100 or a little above 100 degrees every day. Even in the evenings, the temps lingered in the upper 80s, and with such humidity that sitting outside was not comfortable for long.

So I retreated to the air-conditioned in-doors, and continued my watching under the cooling breeze of the window unit, and an almost unobstructed view, thanks to the twenty five feet of windows across the back of the cabin.

Then...suddenly...a cool front came through, bringing with it wind and rain. It's hard to believe, I know, for anyone who has lived in Texas in the summer, but I actually needed a lap quilt this morning.

It rained almost all morning. Huge lightening strikes and rumbling, growling thunder, as well as sudden thunderclaps that made me jump and made Frankie the Pom bark like a mad thing.

The lake was covered with whitecaps, and the branches of the trees bent and swayed as if they were dancing.

It's mid-afternoon now, and still in the 70s. Unbelievable. Precious time to enjoy being outside again, before the dog days of August arrive. Precious time to be at peace with nature and myself.

Time to ponder a question inspired by Antique Mommy's question: what would your autobiography be titled, if you were going to write one? I came up with one I consider appropriate, given all that has happened in the past seven months: "I Should Have Left a Trail of Bread Crumbs: Where Did My Life Go, and How Do I Get It Back?"

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.

Home Alone

Tuesday was a full day. On the way to my two dr. appointments, we stopped at my previous high school to deliver a letter of resignation. I saw my principal, my department chair, and a couple of teachers. It was good to see familiar faces, and to achieve some kind of closure. It also made me wistful....I am going to miss teaching. In fact, I miss it already.

After contributing some blood for lab work, and seeing my surgeon, it was on to the Central Administration building for my school district. We expected to be in and out in five minutes, but were there more than an hour, filling out paperwork, getting advice, and having three different people checking to be sure that I had sent in all the forms I was supposed to complete, and that I had taken care of transferring my insurance.

By the time we stopped for lunch, I was so exhausted I felt like lying down on the tile floor and falling asleep. I was too tired even to eat. So Wick took me home for a nap.

Three hours of sleep, and I was ready to go shopping. After losing so much weight, I now have bought one pair of jeans and one pair of black pants, and three tops. I need new underthings, summer clothes, and some walking shoes, for when I am actually able to go for walks again. We went into three stores, using my walker for balance and for a place for me to sit down when I got too tired. You might think that I would have been excited to be shopping for smaller size clothes, and you would be right--for about five minutes.

After that, I was exhausted again, so Wick took me home for another nap. He was concerned that I might not sleep that night, after sleeping so much that afternoon, plus the late-afternoon nap, but I slept like a rock, and never even knew when he left for work the next morning.

Retirement is not what I expected. We had planned to retire together. I never planned to be home alone all day, while he still had to work. I miss my fellow teachers. I miss the mental stimulation. I do not, however, miss lesson plans, grading compositions, or the pressure of standardized testing.

After three and a half months at my daughter's, with four lively grandchildren to keep me entertained, being home alone all day has been a huge adjustment. I had gotten used to frequent chats with Jeana perched on my walker, and I miss her jokes and sense of humor. I miss her company.

I have never been a huge television watcher. I don't like the constant noise. I can't go outside unless Wick is here, because of the danger of falling on the stairs--my strength and balance are still problematic. I don't know anyone else in the RV park, so I have no visitors. I have been embroidering some kitchen towels with ducks and fish for our cabin kitchen, and it is pleasurable, but not something I can do eight hours a day--it eventually makes my hands ache. If not for Frankie, our Pomeranian, I would be lonely indeed. He keeps me company, entertains me with his funny expressions, and warns me whenever ducks get too close to the window.

I spend a lot of time looking out that window. It's a big one, and I have a good view of the small lake here, which reminds me of our lake at home. I see lots of birds, a few dogs, occasionally someone fishing. This view reminds me that I am not truly alone here.

In fact, I am never alone, since God is a constant presence in my life. How do people manage, who don't have a relationship with Him?

The nurse who does my blood work every two weeks reminds me that in December, I could not move my foot six inches across the mattress, and now I can walk with a cane. I no longer have to be strapped into a wheel chair to keep me from falling out. I can get a meal on the table by suppertime, most days, even if it does take me most of the day to do it. I can dress myself again. I can make myself a sandwich for lunch. I am making progress, however slowly.

I have much to be thankful for.