Be nice if I was given a sabbatical from aging. Feels like I’ve been aging my whole life.
It was great for a while. Then…aging started getting old. Now worries come up with every fart, creak, and groan these days. What is that? Do I need to worry about it or can I forget it?
That whole worrying about things is different when you’re aging. When I was young, I’d fall off a building, land on my head, bounce up with a little cry. Mom would spit on my injury and I’d motor on. Maybe Mom’s spit was magic; I haven’t tried that recently as I live across the country from her. Seems like all the issues she’s had related to her aging, if her spit was magic, she would have used it on herself. Then again, maybe a mother’s spit only works on her children. Maybe her spit aged and lost its magic. Either way, a year off from aging would be a wonderful break for me.
The sixth day of February has boarded our minds in the year of 2025 CE, a Thursdaz. Crazy frog — our home’s expression for freezing fog, based on a mondetext — has stolen the sunlight, gifting us twilight colors of, gray, white, and black. No snow falling but ‘they’ are warning us that more is on the way. It’s 32 F and greater warmth isn’t anticipated. Snow might be on the way. Or rain.
The primary roads have been plowed here but get off them and yer on yer own. Sidewalks on not cleared, so people must walk on the streets. Everyone gives pedestrians on the roads wide passage but given the environment, I imagine people walking worry with every step about someone losing control of their vehicle.
Weather caused cancellation of my first two lymphedema massage therapy sessions. Another one is scheduled for tomorrow. Also have an appointment for Papi the ginger blade, aka butter butt, Meep, and butter booger, to see what’s going on about his fur shedding.
The Ban Man is at it. Trump bans with a petulant thump. “Ban transsexuals in women’s sports.” Thump. “If I can’t have fun and play sports, neither can they.” “Ban DEI. I’m a rich white guy, born into a wealthy white household. I don’t understand how that was an advantage over others.” Thump. “Ban it all, everything that isn’t me.” Thump.
Of course, the craziness of the first term is still flowering. ‘The U.S. will take over Gaza. Move the Palestinians out.’ What? Friggin’ nuts. Then his ‘team’ scrambles to make it sound sane, plausible, and supported by everyone, and then Trump realizes how nuts he sounded and tries to change what he said. Brother.
It was a busy morning. Friend called to ask advice about his ailing cat. Another called for help with his recalcitrant computer. And, caught up with Mom drama via texts with Mom and a sis. Mom fell again. She refuses assistance and she’s been at war with her live-in boyfriend for months. She’s 89 and he’s 94. I have never witnessed him be anything but polite and nice to her but she declares him mean. My siblings and I have a lifetime of Mom so her claims draw leeriness as a first response. It’s unfortunate but she’s been married multiple times and has had several boyfriends, and drama is her drug. She makes everything contentious with everyone. It’s a sigh-inducing relationship with her.
With that gray-tinged white world staring back at us, it’s no surprise that The Neurons pulled a Cream song, “White Room”, into the morning mental music stream. It’s a Cream favorite o’ mine. A poet, Pete Brown, was responsible for the lyrics, which strike many as enigmatic. I think iyhat pushes me to look inside myself.
My favorite part is this stanza, followed by the chorus.
I like the way the stanza is belted out, angry, defiant, challenging, before the softly resigned introspection presented by the chorus.
Then, too, there are three phenomenal rock performers demonstrating their craft with bass guitar, lead guitar, and drums. Awesome.
Coffee and I introduced ourselves to one another again and I’m indulging in more caffeine-infused dark goodness. Hope your day offers some escape from the world’s woes and some satisfaction to your plans. Cheers
It’s Soonday, December 9, 2024. We’re enjoying a clear sky loaded with sunshine and an outdoor tempy of 28 F. Frost has shadowy places airbushed with white influences. A dense fog warning is percolating while 49 F is being dangled in front of us as a high. Should say that it’s my local system calling out 28; in other parts of Ashlandia, sunshine has cleared the forests and mountains and 42 is already being experienced. A friend’s weather setup, available via Wunderground, has his temperature at 31 F. Dress appropriately.
Moving slow this morning. That’s why I’m calling this soon day. Soon, I’ll get up and do things. Soon I’ll leave and get my hair cut. Soon. Night fraught with dreams and restlessness are keeping the go pedal from getting engaged, even though coffee and I have said our hellos. One dream featured me as a young man with young friends and relatives, traveling to another place. Along the way, I stopped to visit with others. There, I rested in sunshine and told people of other people’s businesses failing, along with places such as airports not being built. It ended with me trying to pull a nuisance weed, which then bloomed, leaped out of the ground and ran away, freaking us out. Then we laughed.
This cold weather and clear sky put me into a whirlpool of childhood memories. Once, while going outside to play football with friends when I was almost a teenager, I was accosted by mom. “Put a heavier coat on, for God’s sake,” she said. “It’s winter outside.”
Wise me replied, “It’s not winter yet, Mom, until the solstice, December 22.”
She answered, “It’s winter when it’s cold and the snow starts falling to me.”
We were living in Penn Hills, a Pittsburgh, PA, suburb. Snow had been falling since before Thanksgiving. Therefore, it was winter.
I used to talk to her about her winters in Iowa. She loved those days, she said, because they would stay in the house, where it was cozy and warm, and play games, listen to the radio, talk, cook, and clean. Winter remains her favorite season for those reasons.
Those memories crystallized into two songs for me last night. Both are called “Our House”. They’re very different. The first was dropped into the morning mental music stream (Trademark frozen) when a television show featured it ysterday evening. This is the “Our House” by Crosy, Stills, Nash, and Young. My wife sang along with it; that stirred The Neurons up, and triggered that memory whirlpool. But a rebel group of Neurons countered with “Our House” by Madness. Two very different songs. The CSNY offering says, “Our house is a very very fine house. With two cats in the yard. Life used to be so hard. Now everything is easy cause of you.” Madness sings, “Father wears his Sunday best, Mother’s tired, she needs a rest, the kids are playing up downstairs. Sister’s sighing in her sleep. Brother’s got a date to keep, he can’t hang around.” The CSNY version is about a young couple’s domestic tranquility. Madness offers a portrait of hustle, growth, and noise.
Let’s get positive (sung to Olivia Newton-John’s “Let’s Get Physical) and move forward. 2025 is almost here. Here’s the music to help you along. Cheers
Dad’s 92nd birthday is Wednesday. Mom’s birthday is tomorrow. I’ll be calling her tomorrow, so I called Dad today, as I’ll be pretty busy Wed. with planned surgery.
Dad and I had one of the best chats I recall having with him. We chatted about aging, financing, and Mom. Very satisfying.
Dad has always been a level guy, staying mellow, keeping things in the moment. He’s never gotten too worked up over any of life’s tumbles and twists. And he’s been through his share.
He’s in okay health. Had some stents put into his coronary arteries some years ago. Suffers some COPD. Went through some edema issues twice. Now he’s on a low sodium diet. A cane is employed to walk around. He sometimes needs a walker.
But we laughed a lot about these things which happen to us as we get older.
I had a medical appointment the other day. Met with a PA about my upcoming surgery. We had a good time with the young guy. My wife had helped host a birthday party for her Y exercise class instructor and brought home some goodies, so we were on a sugar high, cracking jokes at him. He, for his part, confessed that he wanted another cup of coffee and shared a story about how he’d once unwittingly consumed the ‘half caf’ that his parents brew.
Part of the directions to me for my appointment was to bring all my medications.
I ignored that directive. My PCP is with Asante; my surgeon is independent but working with me through Providence. Both use Mychart to track me and communicate. My medical prescriptions are in those records.
I’ll tell you, I like Mychart. I go in there whenever I want to check on my history or look at what’s upcoming. It’s a significant improvement on filing a billion pieces of paperwork like we used to do in the military.
Number two with not taking my meds with me, I’d filled out a paper questionnaire at my first appointment. That’s what folks call a ‘hard copy’. I was required to list my medications on it.
I figured my meds were pretty covered. If their systems were having trouble tracking them, we have much larger problems, Hal.
Of course, my med list contains two items: Flomax and Amlodipine. Many men over fifty are on Flomax for prostate gland issues. That includes me. People experiencing hypertension are often prescribed Amlodipine, and I fall in that Venn diagram.
I know of patients who have a complex array of prescriptions. Like Mom. Even after helping her sort her medicines, pain killers, and aids several times, I don’t know how many she has. I’d guess over twenty. They help with her pain, breathing, sleeping, bowel movements, lungs, heart, digestion, blood circulation, side effects of the drugs, and side effects of the side effects of the drugs. She’s in network but it’s a couple networks.
If you’re seriously developing us bots and AI, I think a smart app to help track drugs for people and the healthcare industry needs a hand.
I suspect this medication business is going to get increasingly complex. We’ll need whatever help we can to manage it. I know Mom would certainly appreciate a bot that tracks her pills and tells her when to take what. Given the potential for mixing drugs that don’t get along, I’d like that for her, too.
One thing about my appointment the other day that I noticed was that my PA never brought up my information on the terminal in the examining room, and he barely glanced at the stuff I’d filled out. Nope, instead, he had a small fan of paperwork that he consulted.
The change from paper to computer is underway but it’s gonna be a long haul.
I found myself thinking about my parents as I dressed this morning. One is from Iowa and resides in Pennsylvania. The other is from Pennsylvania and lives in Texas. They divorced way back in the mid 1960s. Were friends or friendly off and on. Now Mom is bitter and angry about Dad; Dad is reflective about Mom.
I left their homes when I was 17. I’ve visited both as they moved around, remarried, and raised other families. As they’ve aged, Dad tells me he’d like to be closer to me. Mom tells me she’d like to hear from me more often because she worries about me.
But a large elephant marches through their desires. I’ve been married 49 years. Mom visited me once, when I bought her an airline ticket and forced it to happen. Dad visited me once in my first year of marriage, dropping by with my father-in-law for thirty minutes while they happened to be in the area. It just didn’t seem like they were deeply invested in being part of my life.
I don’t feel abandoned by them. Dad admits he wasn’t a good father and wasn’t there. Mom insists she was there as much as she could be. I do see their sides but I’m indifferent to Dad’s efforts for us to be closer or to Mom’s request for me to alleviate worries. I could employ simple sophistry and claim, they made me who I am, but really, I head little from them across my decades of living. Sure, they always sent birthday and holiday cards, but mostly there were months of silence. Yes, I know they each raised other children and went on through a few more marriages.
I get all of that. My feelings about them slice along a spectrum. I love them as they love me, from a distance. I know they made sacrifices on my behalf to ensure I had food and shelter security and a place to call home. But at an early age, as I watched their fights and listened to their arguments, I made a decision to be independent of them. Sure, there are days when I surf the spectrum of our relationships when I want to help them out of guilt or empathy. They become less as I move through my life, age, and deal with my own issues.
My parents both have been supportive in many ways. They tell me they’re proud of me. My wife points out that it all would’ve probably been different if she and I had children.
But we didn’t, and this is where my parents and I stand, like many other parents and their offspring, at a complex crossroads which we never leave.
‘Five minutes’ has changed for my wife and I as we age. It used to be that we’d say, “I’ll be ready in five minutes,” and five minutes later, it was so.
No longer. First, time is faster for us now that we’re older. Happens to most people as they age. What used to take place in five minutes now consumes fifteen minutes. It’s freakin’ amazing. I’ve seen it happen with my mother. She used to say, “I’ll be ready in about fifteen minutes.” That fifteen minutes is now a lot longer.
We face it, too, that, like Mom, we no longer move with young eagerness. We move slower and more carefully. A more leisurely path is followed to dress and prepare to go out. Because we’re at the point in life where we don’t feel a need to hurry, and our bodies agree, slow down, take your time. So, if we tell you that we’ll be ready in about five minutes, have a seat.
The world has dropped a Sunday bomb on Ashlandia, emphasis on sun. Little wind stir the heat. We’ll travel from our current relative pleasant found in 69 degrees to the upper eighties. Cooler than yesterday, not as hot as that endured by those under the skillet lid in the eastern U.S. Today is June 23, 2024. Next Sunday will be June’s final day. This means that almost half of 2024 has slipped by the surly calendar.
In bad news, a friend sent me stats on COVID-19, showing that it’s risin’ agin’. He saved me some time. I’d planned to look into it because eight friends reported they had it in June. Their experience was a few days with mild cold symptoms followed by two to three weeks of poor energy of any kind. One reported, she sit down with a book and go right to sleep.
I spent the morning texting with sisters. One is teaching her sixteen-year-old to drive as her newly adult high school grad takes on adulting as he preps for college this fall. She’s going down to Georgia to vacation with our oldest sister tomorrow. Meanwhile, texting me, the older sister tells me she’s had a couple strokes without elaborating on what kind. She’s always had back problems and now there’s stenosis and they want to fuse five of her vertebrae together. She’s also diabetic and has chronic kidney failure, a byproduct of her meds, she tells me.
Then there’s my middle younger sister. She and her family drove down to the Carolina coast yesterday. They’ve rented a beach house with a pool. They’re all hard workers and mo’ def’ deserve and need a vacay. Hope they’re able to relax and chill.
Meanwhile, my mind is floating around calling Dad to get an update on him and calling Mom to get an update on her and pass the update along about Dad. I’m not quite up to that yet. More coffee and some writing, first.
We had a net outage the other night. Actually, two nights in a row. This frequently happens when the heat jumps into the upper nineties. I mean degrees, not years, decade, or period.
With the net out, we read but then I surfed the television offerings. Since I cut the cable back in 2010, we survive on over-the-air digital broadcasts. We receive the big four networks, along with PBS, and the networks’ sub channels. Like NBC is channel 5.1, then there are three other networks broadcasting old shows or documentaries on channels 5.2, 5.3, and 5.4. X-Files,Two and a Half Men, Seinfeld, along with Green Acres and Hogan’s Heros, and several police/hospital/fire department-based dramas from past decades.
Watching Hogan’s Heros and its silliness, my wife and tried remembering what happened to Bob Crane. Was it suicide or murder? Bludgeoned to death, we rather later recalled, and then conneted it. (Yes, conneted is my word for ‘confirmed on the net’.)
My wife follows a tangent, recalling that Naomi Judd ended her own life. It’d shocked her and me; Naomi Judd, a lovely and talented person, seemed to have it all together, resulting in a life of artistic and commercial success. Naomi Judd, though, coped with many mental and physical health issues and decided, enough. Never know what’s happening in another’s skin and what’s passing through minds.
The final piece that evening was a sort of celebration of the Judds’ music, with my wife enthusing about their songs, like “Mama He’s Crazy” and “Girls Night Out”. But the one she particularly relished was “Turn It Loose” from 1988. She played it a few times once the net returned, heavily accenting her favorite lines by loudly singing along to them.
I love the slide of a steel guitar I love the moan of an old blues harp I love the shake of a tambourine I love the bass when it’s low and mean So put on your shoutin’ shoes And turn it loose
It may surprise you that The Neurons in my head then loaded it up and sprang it on me this morning in my morning mental music stream (Trademark loose) as I was wandering around the kitchen, just minding my own business. So that’s today’s theme music.
Stay positive, be strong, and make what you can of the day. Needn’t be perfect. Just tryin’ can help. I’ve downed some coffee — the last gulp was cold as stone. Time to go write and roll.
Today is Saturday, June 22, 2024. Summer had asserted itself with a firm hand. A solidly blue sky gazes down on Ashlandia and bright sunshine blisters our skin and browns the land. Currently 73 F, Ashlandia’s area will experience low to mid 90s for the highs today. The wind has shifted and the smoke has drifted out of our valley to go plague others in another valley, so it’s breathable outside. Take precautions against the heat and outside activities can be pursued. It supposed to get cooler for a few days, with temperatures dipping into the eighties.
It feels like it’s been a long week. Realizing it’s Saturday surprises me. The big Biden-Trump debate looms on the calendar. Personally, I have a physical this week. Slowing down, moderately overweight, I feel like I’m aging by the day — which, yeah, we all are — so I’m not looking forward to the physical.
Mom and I spoke yesterday. She related one of her favorite precautionary tales. Her mother had a thing about smells. She was living alone, in her nineties, as her children discussed putting her into a nursing home or assisted living facility. Those discussions had stalled.
Meanwhile, on a cold December Nebraska night, her mother put on a light jacket and took a banana peel out to put in the outside trash. She slipped and fell, staying on the ground for forty-five minutes before noticed and helped. That was the end of her living alone. She lived for several more years but wasn’t the same.
On her part, Mom’s big fall over a decade ago triggered her long health decline. For my part, when I was immobilized with an obstructed bladder a few years ago, I saw changes quickly emerge. I was suddenly stiffer and less fluid in my movement. My balance felt slightly off. My metabolic rate had changed as I aged, of course, but suddenly I put on weight. Much of my muscle seemed to slack off overnight. Then, boom, my skin all seemed to be sagging.
It’s likely that all those things were happening but I didn’t notice until my routines were changed. Seeing those changes made me more cognizant of my retreating hair line, and the color fleeing my hair and beard. I feel older, slower, and weary. Reading news of the world and its people, and political news, doesn’t seem to help at all. I turn to coffee for energy boosts but I know I shouldn’t be drinking it any longer. Like Grandma and her banana peel, I can’t stop myself.
I read Jill Dennison’s blog as frequently as I can. She and I seem like kindred political spirits, part of the same tribe as many of you who regularly visit my blog and comment. I read one of Jill’s posts and commented yesterday. In her comments back to me, she mentioned that she’s looking for a rainbow.
That was like a set up for The Neurons. As soon as that was read and digested, they began playing Chris Rea’s song, “Looking for A Rainbow” from 1989, in the morning mental music stream (Trademark smoldering). The song starts out slow as it carries forward the album’s theme, The Road to Hell, but becomes jauntier and of course features Rea’s slide guitar work.
Well we come down to the valley Yea we’re looking for the honey I see a rainbow I say that’s the land of milk and honey
Me and my cousin Me and my brother My little sister too Come looking for a rainbow Yea we’re looking for a rainbow
Well we come down to the valley Got our babies in our arms Yea we’re Maggie’s little children And we’re looking for Maggie’s farm
Me and my cousin Me and my brother My little sister too Come looking for a rainbow Yea we’re looking for a rainbow
Yeah, Jill, baby, I think many of us are looking for a rainbow and the land of milk and honey. Some seem to believe the only way there is by holding others back, beating them down, or banishing them. Yes, I’m looking at you, Republicans.
Stay positive – yes, it’s hard – be strong – yes, also hard – and lean forward and Vote Blue in 2024. Maybe we can create a place that attracts rainbows. Here’s the music. Cheers
It’s a beautiful summer morning *cough cough*. Except for the smoke in the valley.
Yes, Ashlandia has awoken to smoke in our air on this Friday, June 21, 2024. It’ 70 F out and is expected to clip 93 F. The smoke will cut the high by a few but the smoke’s impact, scratching throats and eyes, congesting noses and sinuses, stirring up infections and limiting outdoor activities, is depressing. Still not as bad as weather in other states
Completed my DIY plumbing yesterday. Took most of the day, a chunk of energy, and three trips to the hardware store. It all worked out, though. My keywords for completing it were persistence, seating, alignment, and tighten. Satisfying and rewarding, once I finished it. And again, I learned.
For relaxation last night, we headed to Lithia Park in the downtown zone for the city band’s concert. It was a sweet, comfortable time as they presented a mixed box of sounds from the 1900s. Three bucks showed up at the park. One enlivened the show by visiting with some patrons and then dashing across the lawn in front of the band. That earned him a light spatter of applause. The other two came up to the front, surveyed the scene, and went around it behind the bandshell.
Back home, the net went out for the evening, so we reverted to reading books and light housecleaning.
On personal matters, my ankle is doing better. Don’t think I’ve noticed swelling in the last two days. There is stiffness. Mostly, there’s distrust. I’m leery of trusting it not to go out. I’m still wrapping it for support and I’m avoiding certain movements with it but I’m mostly walking sans limp.
Spoke with Mom. She’s not happy with her hospital bed. I think it’s a matter of adjustments, as its smaller shape had an impact on how things were arranged, forcing new arrangments to her personal area. That comes with challenges.
Over on Dad’s side, good news abounds. Took ten pounds of fluids out of him. He’s complaining about his kidney-friendly diet and is being moved from ICU to a private acute rehab room. So, hurrah there. A dialysis decision has His wife told me that she’d been worried about costs, but his Medicare and Tricare-for-Life pays for it all. The system works, at least for him. So will respond, yes, because he’s a white man. And they’re probably right but I hope we reach a point that all can be treated in the same way.
The Neurons, being not very original, have an abundance of smoke-themed songs in the morning mental music stream (Trademark hazy). One persistent song was “Smoke from A Distant Fire”, a 1977 hit for Sanford & Towsend. But I shouted, “Get thee back with that music!” That ignited skitter mode in the floofs because they thought I addressed them. I finished to The Neurons, “I reject that song for today and that whole damn attitude. That sent The Neurons afluttering because I’d not even imbibed coffee yet.
Papi then approached to pet me. As scritches were exchanged, The Neurons found an old song, “Jeepster”, and began playing it in the morning mental music stream. Although the T-Rex song came out in 1971, it has a mid to late 1960s sound to my ears. Either way, it’s a fine, upbeat offering for today’s theme music.
Coffee has now been enjoyed. Smoke is lazily graying the azure sky. Don’t know from whence the it originates — the smoke not the sky — but it’s time for me to go rock and roll. Remain pos, be strong, lean forward, and rock on. Here’s the music. There I go, a leaf on the wind. Cheers
