a buncha backs
Back #1: It was just a matter of time, I guess. Several nights ago, as I tried to lift my mother's legs back onto her bed, I felt as though someone shoved a knife into the right side of the lower spine. It was a long night for me, as I painfully made my way to a chair, only to find it hurt too much to try and sit. Lots of Excedrin Back and Body later, I'm relatively OK as long as I don't twist sideways or make a sudden move. I have a long history of problems with the right side of my body, including developing "drop foot" on my way to Harvard's first BloggerCon five years ago. And it's been all downhill from there.
Back #2: Despite the above, I wrapped an Ace lumbar support belt around myself, put on the cruise control, and drove out to see my daughter and family, who, I knew, would give me some TLC -- which I needed for more reasons than my out of whack back. Luckily, I had left my new quarterstaff there, and that surely came in handy for limping around the yard.
[Side note: Ronni Bennett has a section of her blog dedicated to the "Quarterstaff Revolution," and I will be sending my photo to add to the growing collection.]
Back #3: Last week, I took a little trip back in time and finally got together with my college roommate and her husband, who live about a half-hour's ride from here. Both she and her husband were good friends of mine all through college. She and I were the same size and coloring We shared a room and later an apartment right through grad school, and we also shared our wardrobes. She is still slim.. Our lives are about as opposite as possible these days, but the memories of all of the crazy college experiences we shared (including driving down to Daytona Beach for Spring break with three of our male classmates) are still ties that bind.
Back #4: Thanks to the Bush regime, this country is so democratically backward that we can only hope that the new president will have the strength and stamina to haul us back to where we belong. The latest indignity is PBS stalling about widely airing Torturing Democracy. It is, however, being aired by individual public stations, and you can watch it online.
a witch by a nose
One of the distinguishing characteristics of the Halloween witch is that bump on her nose. Well, not only do I have one; I have three. I guess that makes me officially a witch.
The dermatologist says they are "fibromas," which are benign kinds of tumors. Mine are under the skin, and so they are not really noticeable. I can have them "sliced off" (the doctor's words), but insurances don't pay for that because that's considered a cosmetic procedure. He says it's not a big deal to take them off, or out, or whatever they do to remove them. (But he'll have to cut the skin, so how is that not a big deal??)
When I first got them (one ages ago, one six months ago, and one last month) I thought that they were sebaceous cysts, and so I put hot compresses on them and they eventually diminished in size, but they never went away.
At the moment, they don't bother me, but I know they're there. I can feel them.
I can't worry about them now, however. In two days I'm leaving to head out to Massachusetts for my grandson's sixth birthday, and I'm going to stay over at least three nights.
So it will be just my brother and mother. The hospice nurse suggested a change in my mother's medication, so we're going to try that. Her extreme anxiety is overwhelming her. And us too. I guess it's her dementia getting worse. Between that and her increasing aches and pains, it makes it almost impossible to interact meaningfully with her. It's like trying to take care of a sick toddler.
I often wish I really were a witch so I could get on my broom and fly away.
I had the last word
Who doesn't like having the last word, and this time it was mine at the end of Ronni Bennett's great essay on elderboggers, Put It In Writing, published today in the Wall Street Journal. You can't get to the essay online, so Ronnie had to send it in an email to those of us she mentioned in case we don't subscribe to the newspaper, which I don't.
Interestingly enough, the Journal began the printed version of Ronni's essay with a quote from my quote. So, here I am, the alpha and the omega.
On Ronni's blog, Time Goes By, she mentions the essay and shows the great graphic that the newspaper included.
Ronni will be having occasional articles on aging and retirement for the Wall Street Journal from now on. Congratulations, Ronni.
And thanks for giving me the last word.
I blog to connect with the world outside myself
that I'm trying to make sense of.
I blog to keep up my spirit;
to stir the spirit of others;
to stir my blood, my brain and my beliefs.
ADDENDUM: I discovered that you can read the whole great article by going here and then clicking on the story title, "Put it in Writing."
a vernal wish
A very fruitful
Spring season
from Grammy the Great,
defender of all things
gray and growing,
familal and funky.
going gray
Soon after every birthday, I take a photo of myself. My 68th birthday was last Tuesday, and here I am, way past the time when I would normally touch up my hair color. I've begun to go gray:
I took this photo with a new webcam that I just hooked up so that I can video conference with my grandson, who will soon get, from me, one of those indestructible XO laptops that are no longer available for private purchase. It comes equipped with a webcam. In order to buy one for him, I had to buy one for a child in a 3rd world country.
I went to visit my kindergartener grandson and family last Sunday, and I'm sure that, as a result, I have a few more gray hairs. By the time I left on Tuesday, both my daughter and grandson were seriously sick with sinus infections and the construction of a second floor had begun on their home. After I left, the workers had accidentally put two sizable holes in their first floor ceiling, letting the cold in and further endangering their health. You can read about the fiasco on my daughter's blog.
I wish I could have stayed to help out. My son-in-law has his hands full. He even had to take time off from work because my daughter now has laryngitis and can't talk at all. Just imagine how that works out with a chatty 5-year old.
Ah, if only there were such a thing as a Star Trek Transporter.
signs
When she flutters her hands in front of her nose, I know that she needs a Kleenex (well, we use Puffs because they're softer on her nose). When she taps her teeth, I know that she wants her flosser. When she reaches out with her right hand and opens and closes her fist, I know that she wants her cane.
She doesn't always use her self-devised sign language, but she's tending to do it more often -- especially when she's tired. And she seems to be tired more and more. The signs are often there. The words are often not.
On a sunny day last week, when I got into my car to go to the drug store, I flipped down the visor mirror to check for any stray chin hairs that my Tweeze might have missed. No chin hair -- but what's that??? Long white hairs in my eyebrows??? Now there's a sign. Definitely a sign.
I'm not sleeping well, my reflux is acting up, and that contact dermatitis I get on my elbow every once in a while is itching like crazy. I can't ignore the signs.
Signs that I need a break. I need a couple of days away from here. And so I'm going to my daughter's from Sunday to Tuesday. It's my birthday present to myself.
In two years I'll be 70. It just doesn't seem real to me.
Maybe it will seem real when my natural hair color finally grows in. Then I will see the most obvious of all signs -- the gray signs of being where I am in life.
Each year, on my birthday, I take a photo of myself. Each year, the signs are more obvious -- the drooping jaw, the sagging chin. There won't be much of the gray hair visible when I take this year's photo. But next year, there will be no denying that sign of this life fading to pale.
If I were able to live my life at the age I am today in the way I would prefer, I wouldn't be obsessing so much on my age and what I am losing with each day that passes.
But here I am, watching for signs and missing those times when the only sign I looked for was the one that said "dancing until 2 a.m."
I tried, and they're true
I guess I don't have enough distraction in my life because I seem to spend too much time buying and/or trying new products that look interesting.
Recently I was sent some samples of a skin moisturizer called Theraplex. I was particularly interested in the Emollient, which is supposed to help the kind of skin I have on my feet -- winter dry and scaly. So, after getting off as much of the callouses and outer dry skin as I could with my new PedEgg (see below), I slathered on the Theraplex emollient and put on a pair of socks for the night. I ran out of the samples after two nights, but by then, my feet were almost as soft as a baby's butt.
The one complaint I have about the Emollient is that it makes your feet feel a little tacky to the touch. But putting socks on and letting the moisturizer soak in overnight makes that complaint a very minor one.
I also tried the HydroLotion on both me and my mother. While it did a great job as a protective moisturizer, neither of us liked the way it felt on our faces -- too sticky.
The ClearLotion, on the other hand, smoothly soaked right in. When I used it on my 91-year-old mother's face, my brother (who didn't know I had done that) commented that she must be feeling very relaxed because she seemed to have fewer wrinkles.
So, thumbs up for the Emollient and ClearLotion. The HydroLotion needs a little more work.
What doesn't need any work at all is the PedEgg, which, as far as I'm concerned, does exactly what the ads say it will do.
And so does the Samurai Shark. For the first time in memory, every pair of scissors and every knife I own is sharp.
MYRLN'S Monday Meme
Ah....Paris Au Printemps!
Yes, Paris in the Spring...or the springing of Paris...or Paris reslammered.
Yeah...that Paris, the Hilton one, not the worthwhile one.
A friend of the lesser one points out, "It was so cruel what has happened to her. She wasn't allowed to wax or use a moisturizer. Her skin is so dry right now!" My god, Paris with dry skin! Leg stubble! Returning bikini-line hair! How dreadful! "She's had an awful five days," the friend goes on. "She wants to see her friends and have fun. She's been punished enough already." Five days without a party? My god...cruel and unusual punishment! California's Guantanamo!
And well-heeled, high-powered defense attorneys to a person cry out that she's been singled out only because of her celebrity. Right. And those same attorneys say nothing about how their butter's breaded by the rich and famous.
But you know what? What happens to Paris Heirhead is not the important story. What is of relevance is the national obsession with her and this event. Every t.v. station covers it incessantly, even cutting in for "breaking news" about it, lest they lose advertising revenue if they ignored it as they should. Newspapers are adorned with the story. They've reached tabloid heaven. And why is this obsession important? Because it shows us loud and clear and in no uncertain terms just how shallow America has become. Paris Hilton drives all else out of the news of the day! Paris Hilton!...who's not worth a rat's aspersion of our time or interest, yet here we are, dominated by her.
If we asked that friend of hers what the american military death toll is in Iraq, do you suppose we'd hear from the friend that it's over 3500?
If we asked what help she and her friends have given to the poor, or homeless, or an ailing parent, think we'd hear about any meaningful humane efforts?
If we asked about what's happening in Darfur, think we'd get a knowledgeable answer?
Of course not. Those events detract from party time. Please...all we'd get is more drivel about "poor Paris." More petitions to "save her." More websites crying out on her behalf. Or another fan yelling, "She's America's Princess Di!" (Another pitiful obsession inexplicably rampant.) All of it is hard evidence of precisely where we've arrived in this country: in the shallows of monumental stupidity.
Oui...pauvre Paris au printemps.
Et pauvre l'Amerique.
