Almost There

It's that time of year again, isn't it? And it doesn't seem to matter that we are having a freak Indian Summer at November's end this year.

Rather than point fingers at those who might have contributed to this odd, yet strangely welcome, lovely day outdoors, I'll talk about something completely different.  

Here in the land where the two favorite local sports aren't really about red birds or blue notes, taking an opportunity NOT to complain or argue might get more attention than falling in line with the locals.

I'm not about attention this year.  And yet, strangely, I have just received more attention in the last two days than I had in my entire prior two years.  Go figure.

The calendar marks time in its normal way, even when it seems to those of us who follow it that it surely must secretly have altered either scale or speed.

A non-landmark birthday is apparently worthy of being celebrated by anyone and everyone who has ever known me, in person or online.

The online thing is not really about knowing me at all, especially given my occasional online clumsiness.  You see, I'm that troll who chimes in on Fakebook arguments where I shouldn't, sees what I've done, then goes back and quietly removes my contribution, leaving some on smarter devices scratching their heads while others seemingly argue with an invisible opponent.

I'm not really invisible, but that has always been my Super Hero Power of Choice: to be that micro fly on the wall.  As long as I don't open my mouth and reveal my power pipes to even the deafest within earshot, that is.

So at this time of year, rather than succumb to Pink Floyd logic and deem myself nothing but "...shorter of breath and one day closer to death..." I'll simply say, I'm getting closer.  I'm almost there.  I can see the finish line.

And yet, I'm not.  Many days, perhaps decades, remain in my allotted time. There are some nice discounts coming my way a year from now, and I'm ready for those.  There are a whole bunch of really great financial incentives about three and six years from now, respectively.  Legally, I'm not yet entitled.

It's one thing to say you're ready, or even that you can see the finish line and the parties. But there are a delightful multitude of people and events holding me here, keeping me from opting out to join my beloved parents and way too many others.

My husband is the most wonderful blessing in my life.  We will have been married for nineteen years in a month and a half.  I can honestly say we've done both the richer and the poorer pretty thoroughly in these nearly two decades, along with whatever else we said in those vows.  We're still best friends, bonded in a way that glue manufacturers can merely envy.

Everyone that I count as either family or friends of the heart has also chimed in to shower me with love and bounty.  Every single gesture, no matter how trivial, hits home in my heart.  

They all know who they are, as I strive to reply in kind to their gifts.  

I'm still not gainfully employed full time, but I'm gaining traction with the idea that I may not work for a boss ever again.

There's much work done, and much left to be done.  But whenever it seems that I'm not making the progress that my inner German Frau would like to see me making in my life, I must allow my inner Tolerant Human Mutt to remind her of one important fact:

No matter what you say, I'm almost there.

I'm OK with that, and I'm the only one who has to be.

Monday? Down!

Remember the old saying "You can never go home again?"  Well, that's been more than a memory to me recently; it bordered on fact this morning for several minutes (bottom photo), in a manner eerily similar to my inability to escape home several weeks ago (photo above).

Although it's not neighborly of me to complain about my tax dollars at work on the 31-home block of neighborhood in which I reside, it's obvious to me that I have an amazing gift of timing on my arrivals and departures therefrom.

Much as I would love to have everyone I know imagining that the life of a chronically unemployed person on the cusp of senior citizenship is nothing but one long vacation playing in the sunshine, I couldn't begin to sustain that illusion.  Way too much work!

This morning was a true Monday for me, the likes of which inspire those working folk to overwhelm the internet with memes.  My morning featured moments where I clearly heard Karen Carpenter singing "Rainy Days and Mondays" without my ever turning on a music player.

Taking Stu for his follow up visit with his wonderful orthopedic surgeon was our first agenda item this morning. Stu being Stu, we had the first appointment promptly at 8, arriving about 10 minutes before the doctor's staff. We got a coveted handicapped parking spot, and an A-Plus bill of health from the good doc, Stu still being Stu.

On the other end of the marital bond, I knew I was having one of those HFC mornings (Hurtin' Fer Certain) hours before we even stepped out our front door. By the time we left St. Luke's facility, merely opening the door to Mother Nature prompted icepick-like pain in my left knee and a not-so-saintly religious uttering from my mouth.

It only got more Monday and more Down from there.  We threaded the needle back into our own driveway and garage and got the patient and his impatient wife home without incident.

It wasn't until I got ready to leave for my deep water class at about 9:20 that the proverbial skies opened up.  First, a small red pickup truck, carrying a full load in its bed and obviously having much better brakes than my vintage car, came roaring around the single-lane corner aiming at slow-moving me. Little Red stopped short of insurance-claim hell, but my heart rate thereafter would have allowed me to skip exercise class.

I made it the rest of the way to the class without incident, circling the parking lot to find the best non-handicapped spot.  My typical rationale is that I need the exercise anyway, and I'm not "legally" recognized as handicapped, temporary placard notwithstanding, unless post-surgery hubby is present.

After locking my clothing away, I took my warm shower with soap and wrestled into my inexpensive and now very wet swimsuit without ripping it. So far, so good, I thought.

The first 40 minutes of class were great, as always.  Teacher instructing, ladies talking and laughing, noodles and foam barbells bobbing joyfully. 

And then some eagle-eyed young life guard spotted a lightning strike from our many-windowed viewing area atop a hill.  Oh, darn it.

This particular recreation facility is new enough to still be hyper-cautious about its patrons. Shortly after this indoor pool was opened a little over a year ago, a lightning strike caused the pool pump to stop functioning, and all inside the pool were evacuated immediately.

Either before or after the above occurrence -- and I honestly don't know which -- a rule was established something like Thou Shalt Not Allow Humans In Pool Under Slightest Possibility of Lightning.  Everybody Out! Stat! (I was muttering something like "Electrocution.  Bring it on!")

The two sweet young lifeguards did their best to humor us oldies by a lengthy debate over enforcement of said rule.  I simply said "I move at only one speed, and this is it" so all would understand my personal lengthy departure process. 

Our instructor -- who truly is the female retired equivalent of some Marvel comic hero -- suggested that we should do jumping jacks or at least some stretching on the pool deck with her to finish out the class time.

Some of us laughed at her. Others dashed inside to grab showers, chuckling at our teacher's compulsive nature when it comes to exercise.  I mean, ya can't argue to the face of a thin, muscular woman who you realize could bench press some of us without blinking.  

I didn't want to wait for a shower to free up, so I toweled, unlocked, unsuited, and donned clothing and a raincoat, with some "see ya Wednesday" cheer coming from my mouth. I only live about 10 minutes away in a world without detours -- my current fantasy.

A mere 10 minutes later, seeing the scene below at the end of my street, I opted to go circle other neighboring blocks, knowing it wasn't going to clear quickly. Been here, done this, don't need another stinkin' t-shirt.

Neighboring blocks were amazingly hard to circle given subdivision-wide lane closures, so I drove cautiously, went the wrong way once, and then stopped to retrieve my phone from the trunk of my car.  Must post photos to share suffering!

Upon my re-arrival, mine became the second car in a parked line of three signaling onto my block just before I took the photo below.  If it weren't raining, perhaps my neighbors and I, residing in three of those 31 homes, could have had a nice chat.  (The one in front of me lives three doors before me; the one behind me lives somewhere beyond me.)

So let's recap. It's a Rainy Day *and* a Monday, and many things are down or semi-functional, myself included at this point.

The Fakebook Rainbow Unicorn says: Here's hoping for some nice May flowers in a year where the April showers began early in March!  

This crabby old lady says: If you're going to live in this town, you'd better get used to changing weather.  Our only local predictability is changeability. And BTW...never trust a meteorologist!

Never Trust An Old... Treadmill?

It seems like only yesterday when Stu came home from the hospital using a walker and determined to heal so that he could use his brand new right knee joint like a pro.  He is the consummate overachiever, as everyone who knows my husband is aware.  Stu will not only do the job right, he'll overdo it to the point where he gets fired.

His wife, on the other hand... not quite such a valiant warrior in her own life, sad to say.

Everything turns into some kind of weird competition between us, especially with both of us home all day.  When Stu's narcotic pain meds killed his appetite, he thought:  oh, great; I can finally lose some weight!

I thought: oh, no.  Time for another graphic demonstration of the drastic difference in weight management requirements between Stu and MR.

One of the first things I did, before he was even home from the hospital (perhaps this was my idea of starting training for caregiver tasks), was to start a daily walking program for myself.  

We have an antique (of sorts) treadmill downstairs in our basement.  This particular monster has moved at least four times - two of those across the country - of which I'm aware.  Stu purchased this for his own exercise needs before he and I met.  And it's a great treadmill.

However, just like human bodies, these things eventually wear out, and the process of being used a lot for a while, but then left to sit and collect dust for an even longer while, does not enhance its usability.

I believe I made it to day two or three this last time before it threw me at the 16-minute mark.  Yes, folks, it literally seized up and stopped like someone applied hydraulic brakes.  This body in motion wanted to remain in motion, and very nearly wet herself trying not to fall when the magic belt halted abruptly.

Since Stu was unable to diagnose the latest treadmill problem from upstairs, and at that time unable to descend the steps to get up close and personal, I switched to walking both dogs around the neighborhood.  I did that a couple of times before the weather turned suddenly cold and now warm again.

I'm currently in one of my chronic pain cycles - at least that's my excuse for now - but Stu was eventually able to diagnose the problem.  I had told him I thought it was an electrical failure. It turns out that there's some kind of kill switch built into this treadmill when some threshold is exceeded.

That's great for the treadmill.  But what about the stress threshold of the walker?  Inquiring minds demand this answer.  I don't trust it anymore.

And as far as the weight loss journeys of this particular couple... he's doing great.  I told you in the first paragraph: he's an overachiever.

No Goodbyes For You

The Soup Nazi from Seinfeld must be somewhere in my brain.  

An entire week has elapsed since my last post on my other blog related to my having been laid off from a job I often professed to hate.

I guess it was, for me, like a relationship that you've "settled into" but were never thrilled with.  

I accepted the job in 2014 knowing that it was a full $2/hr less than I wanted to accept for any job.  The two increases I received never even got within $1/hr of my earlier target.

Why did I assume there would be raises?  Why did I think I could prove myself worthy?

Why, for that matter, did I even think anyone would miss me when I was gone?  They're obviously still in business.  And in the Saint Louis office, there were ten.  And now there are nine.

I hate to say it, but the "walk of shame" - where the boss gives you your immediate notice of termination, and the second in command helps you gather your personal stuff and get it to your car - isn't really all that much nicer with a hug and a kind word from each of them.

Not that they didn't try to make it less awful.  I know they did.

I keep wondering, in retrospect, who was watching out the upstairs window(s) as the Ops Mgr and I were putting my bin in the trunk of my old car.  

I did know who was already in the office that morning.  It was my job to know that for the first 45 minutes of Wednesday, January 25, 2017.

I understand that both the VP and Ops Mgr were trying to do things "BY THE BOOK" since they knew my husband had been a supervisor more than once, and since they might have worried about my husband's tendency to reach out and express opinions.

I won't stalk anyone.  My husband is done writing emails related to jobs held by either of us.  Trust me on this, please.

So sorry I didn't get to hug or say nice things to any of the other seven folks still working there.  I know it wasn't any of your fault.  

I'm glad you all still have your job and most importantly, your health insurance.  Mine ends in 19 days.

Meanwhile in my twisted little brain, a New York man with an accent keeps repeating... 

NO GOODBYES FOR YOU!

How Stupid Am I, Really?

I just received an all time classic of what I call Life's Humility Lessons.

I spent nearly an hour finishing Chapter 13 of my book, which was entitled "Another Way Not To Get A Job."  It told the tale of my posting an ad on Craigslist in the summer of '09 offering my newly available .NET programming skills for free in hopes of finding a job, and the scariest job interview of my entire life and why I didn't accept their offer.

I then spent another hour or so writing Chapter 14, entitled "Cookies:  Baking As Career Inspiration" which is finally setting the stage for the Cassell Family Misadventures in Central Florida to begin.  Yes, that would be the eventual point of this book, right?

I was very happy to save Chapter 14.... until I realized I didn't do a new Save As after finishing Chapter 13.

So I now have no more Chapter 13, a finished Chapter 14, and a big hole in my book.

Color me Total Idiot.  I have absolutely no one to blame but myself for this latest misadventure, AS USUAL.

Yes, Lord, I am humbled.  The rest of you may go ahead and laugh hysterically.  I deserve it.  Ugh.

My Father's Aching Back (In Memoriam)

MY ACHING BACK!

By Bob Lucas

(published in TESA News, May 1983)

That was an expression used back in the days of World War II to express complete frustration, but it's now used to describe the physical condition of many human beings, myself included.

Last month's TESA-News informed its readers that I was in the hospital again, for the third time in a little more than a year, and wished me a speedy recovery. Thanks, I needed that. Now, a brief recap: my first visit to a hospital in March of 1982 was for the removal of two herniated disks; the second trip was suggested by a neurologist who attempted to alleviate some residual pain; the third confinement was in St. Louis University's Pain Management Program in a last-ditch effort to make me feel better. I emphasize "last-ditch" because a return trip to the surgeon who had performed my laminectomy elicited no promise of more relief through additional surgery and my family doctor informed me that I'd just have to "live with a little pain." (Unlike TV technicians, doctors don't have to guarantee their work for extended periods of time.)

By the time I got to my initial interview with the doctors at the Pain Management Program (PMP) my pain was excruciating, and after talking with them for over an hour I was convinced they wouldn't be able to help me, either. They told me that pain had taken over my entire body, a fact I already knew, and that they would try to get me to put it in the proper perspective. An internist checked out my body and pronounced that he thought that they could help me. That's all the encouragement I needed. In the back of my mind I still had the feeling that maybe they'd take some X-ray pictures and get me psyched up for more surgery that would really fix me up.

When I was informed as to what I should bring to the hospital I felt that they had confused me with some other patient: gym shoes and sweat clothes. Heck, I haven't had those items in about forty years, didn't they know I was practically a cripple? When they reassured me that I wouldn't just spend the day in bed in my pajamas, I figured that I'd better go shopping at a neighborhood discount store and get the latest fashions in exercise togs, still skeptical.

After I was admitted through Desloge Hospital, where I received the routine entrance examinations, I was ushered to my room in the Wohl Mental Health Building. This confirmed some of my deeper suspicions -- I'm a mental case. Very soon, though, I learned the wisdom of this location. It wasn't really structured like a hospital. Not one patient was bed-ridden, and all were granted a great deal of freedom. The PMP occupies a block of about nine rooms, only five of which are occupied. There is a lounge with refrigerator, sink and electric range, color TV, table, chairs, and a couch. One concession was made to hospital procedure in the form of a nurses' station which was headquarters for the full time nurse for the program. I hasten to point out that, while these R.N.'s routinely checked blood pressure, pulse, and temperature, they also encouraged the patients to do their "homework" in the evening.

Before any of the programs were entered into, each patient underwent a stress test in the cardiology department, wherein he operated a stationary bike or a treadmill to the point of physical fatigue, roughly that point at which the pulse rate was about twice the normal rate. Vital signs were constantly monitored during this test to make sure they didn’t hasten the patient’s demise.  At this point they knew the patient’s limits which they didn’t want to exceed in any of the exercise programs.

With the aid of a caliper they determined how much of my svelte body was excess baggage (fat) and how many pounds I would have to lose to achieve the perfect weight for my height. Try as I might, I was unable to convince them that I was not overweight but six inches short, but they put me on a weight-reduction diet anyway.

With these preliminary examinations completed, the patient is ready to enter the day-by-day routine. It goes like this:

0700 Rise and Shine - Blood pressure and temperature

0800 Breakfast

0830 Monday, Wednesday & Friday - visit with Internist

0900 Exercise Physiology (workout in gym)

1000 Biofeedback

1100 Occupational/Physical Therapy

1200 Lunch

1330 Group (air feelings with other patients - supervised)

1430 Physical Therapy

1600 Seminar (Learn about pain & stresses)

1730 Dinner (followed by 'homework,' visitors, etc.)

2230 M.A.S.H. (not compulsory) Bedtime optional

As I stated before, pain was ruling my body, and it was decided that my upper back pain was caused by muscle spasms caused by my "steeling" myself and stiffening my shoulders every time I got a twinge of pain from the lower back, which they told me I was entitled to have. Twice-a-day massages from the physical therapist helped work the kinks out of those shoulder muscles, to the point that they made a believer out of me - that pain receeded from a '5' on a scale of from ‘1’ - (discomfort) to '5' - (excrutiating pain) to a '0' - (no pain!!) Biofeedback helped to educate me in ways to relax those muscles so they don't spasm again; now, when I get the pain in the lower back, I'm supposed to relax the shoulders.

In brief, the whole PMP can be summed up in one word, ADAPT:

Acceptance of the pain which remains forever

Dealing with doctors, neither overusing or underusing

Aiming at reachable goals

Pacing activity level to avoid overdo-underdo cycle

Timing medication use to keep pain within manageable limits.

I've tried to sum up in a few words what I've learned in three weeks.  If you’d like to listen, I’ll happily tell you more, and reinforce my feelings at the same time.

Job and Baby News

For those of you that don't do Facebook, this is my best way to broadcast my good news.  

My temporary job since January 21 just became permanent yesterday.  I won't get rich with this one nor even have health insurance at the moment, but I'm greatly blessed all the same because I love my boss and what she does so much.

Selected details will only be shared only upon individual private request - and PLEASE BE PATIENT WITH ME because I'm happily overwhelmed and busy.  

Suffice it to say, no more of the white knuckle fears about money for our small family at this moment.

And just in case you want our other tidbit of good news:  in the wake of our dear Dixie's adoption on February 2 by a lovely Florida family, we are proud to welcome Tango, a seven-month-old male golden-brown mixed breed weighing approximately 40 pounds, into our small household effective Wednesday, February 27. 

Our best guess at breeds is yellow lab and a little golden retriever, with a fair amount of hound thrown in.  He's beautiful, although his ribs show, as is often true with kennel pups (Humane Society of Missouri in this case).  We plan on correcting that slowly and gently along with other baby behavior.  He's growing almost too fast.

Big brother Jack, almost exactly five years Tango's senior, is reluctantly accepting his new duties and responsibilities with good cheer, and sometimes enjoying them.  He's definitely setting his own boundaries for the little guy, with the help of the proud parents.

Feel free to share this communication if you want, with whoever you want that might care.  

Me and My Husband (no further info needed "just in case").