Helpless

It feels so strange to go from living with a man who is IN CHARGE in a big way to one who suddenly becomes "helpless."

Case in point:

Last night Hubby came down with the 24 or 48 hour bug that has been going round and round and round again.  Nearly everyone has gotten it -- I had it right after Thanksgiving (or maybe it was at the start of November; time telescopes on me lately). 

Anyway, last night Hubby got all cold and had an "icky" feeling so he asked for a cup of hot tea, which I delivered.  Hubby no longer enters the kitchen unless I make a special request of him.  He did make a pot of spaghetti sauce this week after I'd sauteed the beef and onions and boiled the pasta.  He also helped me cut up some beef to freeze so we could take steaks to Wendy in Houston when we go later this month.  But that's the extent of his kitchen activities in December. 

A friend called, talked with Hubby for a bit and then was commiserating with me about the tub mishap when Hubby suddenly demanded, "Have you run me a hot bath?" 

What the heck?  The bathroom is less than 10 steps from the bedroom.  You can't run your own bath?  And it's so important to have one that I have to interrupt my one phone call this month directed especially to me to ask if I've run you a bath?  Of course, my friend quickly hung up the phone -- she never was a person to delay a needed warm bath -- and I dutifully ran a tub full of plenty of suds and even a good splash of Epsom Salts, for aches and pains. 

Out of his bath, back sitting on the bed, suddenly Hubby moans, "Pot." 

"What?  You want a pot?  In the bedroom?" 

More moaning.  "Pot!  Pot!  Pot!"

He's going to vomit --and he's not willing to walk the 10 steps to the bathroom to upchuck in the proper facility.  Now I kind of understand.  Vomiting can be a fairly strenuous activity and any activity sends his poor heart into a race that makes him feel scared and vulnerable.  Again, dutifully, I fetch the pot.

The normal 24 hour activity ensues in the pot -- but here's the killer for me.  Hubby puts the pot on the floor, crawls into bed, and ignores the mess he has made.

Now.  In the 40 years we have been together (come 2013) I HAVE NEVER ONCE ASKED HUBBY TO EMPTY OUT MY VOMIT.  NEVER!  There are just some things one has to do for oneself. 

In point of fact, if I get sick Hubby ignores it and me.  I can lay dying on the bed, rolling in agony, and Hubby will calmly go about his business as if I were not at death's door.  He doesn't offer soothing drinks or dry toast.  And he never cleans up a mess. 

And this is the man that expects me to empty that nasty pot he just threw up in? 

Here's where it gets really upsetting -- the pot wasn't going to empty itself and it did not smell pretty.  So I carried it -- as far away from my body as possible into the bathroom and emptied it; then into the kitchen and washed it out; and finally back into the bedroom to Hubby.  All the while I was fuming and my fury continued to grow. 

Lying pathetically in the bed, wrapped up and shivering in the quilt, his apparent illness suddenly had no affect on me. 

"You will never expect me to empty your vomit again.  You have NEVER done it for me -- and I'm never doing it for you again.  You throw up -- you clean it up just like you expect me to clean up my messes.  Got it?  GOT IT?"

Even the dogs quaked in the bed.  "Okay," he murmured quietly as I stormed off. 

This morning Hubby is still doing poorly.  I walked the dogs at 7 a.m. Then the hot tea and buttered toast were delivered. At the moment, he's in the bedroom moaning softy.  This helplessness has turned my strong, macho man into a poor baby.  If he throws up breakfast, he's cleaning up his own mess, helpless or not.  

Holiday Blues

We got good news this week:  Hubby is the perfect candidate for a pacemaker and we scheduled his "out-patient" surgery for January 2 at 10:30.  We have to be at Research Hospital at 7:00 and they hope to get him in early but the current insertion time is 10:30 a.m.  He will not have to go off the Coumadin except for the day of the surgery.  He will need to stay overnight but the next morning, he goes home -- with a steady heartbeat for the first time in two years.  

I wasn't sure he would agree to the surgery because Hubby is not one to have "invasive" procedures on his "perfect" body (little sarcasm there) and he wasn't even willing, initially, to go in for the consult.  I had to keep saying, "We're only going to listen to what this new doctor has to offer; then we will have all options open to us." 

Hubby is at the limit of what meds can do.  He is NOT getting stronger or better.  The tests this fall showed he was in A-Fib over 50% of the time and his heart rate was always above 100, even when resting.  Exercise sent it sky high -- over 150.  He is never out of an exhausted state and our activities have been limited to watching him watch TV 24 / 7.

As the new doctor drew pictures of Hubby's heart and what they would do stop his own heart from beating so irregularly and quickly, Hubby was throwing "rolling eyeballs" at me the whole time.  However, we kept listening and finally the doctor uttered the magic words:  less meds, outpatient surgery, increased energy, longer lifespan, a less frightening existence.  And with the "increased energy" Hubby was all in -- ready to schedule his surgery the next day.  Outpatient surgery also signaled "not a big deal" and Hubby was even more enthusiastic. 

I've been waiting for the magic "bullet" to help us cross this gigantic canyon of lethargy, his inability to walk any distance, the frightening body coldness, the days on end in bed because both the blood pressure and the heart rate were so high he was incapable of movement, and my deep fear that every episode might be our last together.  So when the good news came that we were going to do something positive and all the signs pointed to a very real reprieve from the misery we were in, I initially hit a huge high. For about five hours.  Then, predictably, I swam down into a very real depression.  

The fall in the bathtub didn't help, of course.  My body is so sore that almost any movement on my part is uncomfortable.  The bruises on my back and feet are very ugly and painful.  Even laying in bed, if I turn wrong and hit one of the bruises, I'm in misery.  Walking dogs the past two mornings with temps in the teens and wind chills in the single digits made things worse.  I am continuing with my water aerobics but Tuesday was rather a half-hearted effort on my part.  I even tried sitting in the 100 degree hot tub to see if that would ease the joints but all it did was make me sweat. 

Probably trying to amp up for Christmas is playing a part in my "blue" mood.  I think about trying to pack up for the Houston jaunt and all I feel is inertia.  Really?  We leave in six days?  I need to find all those Christmas presents scattered around the house and put them in a central location so they can be packed.  The underwear needs to be laundered and damn, if walking down those steps to the basement doesn't just seem a Herculean task.  And then I get to drive 850 miles across Oklahoma and Texas?  Just the idea makes me feel exhausted. 

I know -- so don't leave the comments, please. Buck up!  The health news for the New Year is exceedingly good.  I'm retired -- and mostly, I love it.  It's just that I have to get through today and then tomorrow and then the day after that -- and the dogs have to be walked, and I've waited so long for good news for Hubby that, now it's here, it's just . . . .well, news. 

Tomorrow will be better . . . if I keep the faith. Christmas IS coming and we will be surrounded with people (well, at least, person) who loves up.  The New Year is very promising.  If today I can just keep the faith . . .

There Was a Big Splash

It finally happened - what Hubby and I have feared for sometime -- falling in the tub.  Because of his poor knees I always thought it would be him.  Tonight, though, I lost traction with my right foot, it slipped under me and I jammed every toe all the way down the length of the tub, my body careened backward, I hit the faucets with a mighty jolt, and rolled over backwards. 

My pride was hurt.  My dignity was lost.  My back, which hit the old tub faucets, screamed.  My foot tried to right itself by having me do the splits.  My cursing was loud and obscene.

After the fall, while I tried to figure out how the heck to get out of the my splayed position, the house was silent.  By the time I had figured out how to get the right leg together with the left, Hubby had finally appeared in the bathroom to see just what stupidity I had achieved this time. 

His immediate reaction was to haul me out of the tub, but I was turned around now, facing the back wall, instead of on my knees, hefting my bulk upright and out onto the dry rug. 

We have shower doors on our tub which means that one side of the tub is always closed off.  I was now in the closed section and it took me a minute to realize that if I just opened the doors and pushed them the other way, I could eventually lift myself out onto dry land -- and not put Hubby into cardiac arrest.

Shoot.  Now I'm bruised and battered.  The foot is swelling while the spot on the back which hit the faucet is turning a lovely shade of purple / green.  And I'm shaking like a leaf.  Falling gracefully is so longer in my play book.  Luckily nothing is irretrievably broken except my self-esteem. 

Why Do I Do It?

You have asked why, when I am NOT a morning person, do I crawl out of my nice warm quilts and toasty house, don underwear, yesterday's jeans and sweat shirts, coats, scarfs, mittens, and walking shoes and head out to the park -- all before 7:30 a.m.?  Why on earth don't I stay in bed until the reasonable time of ten o'clock, leisurely arise, sip some hot tea, take a bath, wash my hair, brush my teeth, don CLEAN clothes, and then leash up the boys?

Gussie is content to lay abed until 10 or 11 a.m. and never make a peep about going out doors for a little releasing of the body's contents.  Luie, however, like his dad, is up and at 'em as soon as the sun hits the horizon.  He knows that new smells have accumulated in the front yard, the car has gas in it and is ready to be warmed up, and this bladder needs to be emptied very quickly, followed almost immediately by his bowels.  "Let's go!" he fumes as he paces up and down beside the bed while running to the front door to see if it has magically opened. 

Also Hubby is awake, the TV is on to the morning news shows, and my own bladder says, "You'd better put those toes on the floor and make progress to the room next door -- or you'll be sorrreeee."

Once my feet hit the floor, all pandemonium breaks loose.  Luie is at the front door, jumping up and down and if that doesn't get our attention, he splatters a few "yaps" between the leaping.  Gus raises his head off the pillows and decides now is the perfect time to wash the sheets, and his little pink tongue comes out and he begins circles of spit all over the foot of my quilt. 

Hubby may have been dozing during the news but once I hit the light switch to hook up my bra (front hooks and I have to see them to get then snapped up right), everybody but me is alert and ready for the day.

I don't talk until I'm actually fully dressed, the hair is minimally combed, the teeth have been brushed, and the tea kettle set to boil while I'm out dog walking.  At the door, I tell Luie "up" and he stands on my thighs so I can leash him properly (blind dogs don't walk off leash in an open park) and then both dogs have to stand behind me while I open the door.  (I"ve been faithfully watching the "Dog Whisperer" during my six months of retirement). 

Today we changed the routine a bit -- because on really good days, if I ask Hubby if he wants to drive me over to the park, he'll say, "Sure," and we all go to the car together.

Today Hubby is feeling pretty perky because we were both able to talk to each other, instead of riding in stone silence, while the dogs hang at the windows hoping to see / smell the parkland.  I was showing Hubby a darling little treat bag I had gotten at lunch yesterday (Wendy, act surprised -- I'm putting it in your sock for Christmas so you can see how cute the patterns are -- you are much more talented at this stuff than me) and he reminisced about his Christmases when he was a boy.  The cabinet holding tea plates and cups that we had seen in Annapolis during the High Tea celebration reminded him of the one his family had piled high with sweets:  cakes, cookies, pies, buns, and candy.  He enjoyed regaling me with the stories of delicious tea cakes and coconut cakes, as well as the sweet potato pies. 

The conversation, though short, was a happy one.  The car felt warm with the little odd stories that only a close family can share. Even when you've heard the stories many times, it's nice to remember once more the joys that these events brought to the person remembering.  These are the moments that make getting up at dawn worth it. 

Lunch

For the seventh month I've met with "The Ladies Who Lunch," all of us retired from Wyandotte High School.  When we started we needed a table for two and now we're up to a lovely complement of five. 

It's a fun afternoon, we eat either brunch or lunch, tell how we're coming along in our retirement activities, what our families are doing, and, if we know any, share the gossip about our old high school.

Today all but one of us was wearing Christmas attire.  One gave us literature and a sample of her new product that she is promoting for a little extra spending money, and three of us showed up with small Christmas favors to share.  You might have guessed that I was in the group wearing Christmas jewelry and was bearing small favors for each of the ladies, housed in funny little Christmas cards.

When we eat soul food in my neighborhood, we all dine on rich and spicy food.  But today we were in tony Johnson County, two of the ladies were keeping Weight Watcher points and one was merely dieting (the slimest of the group), so four of the ladies had salads.  I had a chicken breast with lemon sauce on fresh spinach and mashed potatoes.  If I'm going out to eat, I'm not having salad unless I really, really want that salad. 

We lingered after the meal, telling our upcoming travel plans and what our holiday menus would be.  We drank our diet cokes and ice water and had difficulty splitting the bill.  Instead of individual tickets which we usually get, one of the ladies had a $10 off coupon, so we put that toward the entire total.  We finally settled on a huge tip for the waiter because we had sat so long after eating. 

It was a very nice afternoon.  I never thought I'd be a "Lady Who Lunched" but I'm quite proud of earning the title.  Of course, we are nothing like the song (see below) -- except that we are retired from a profession that only allotted 20 minutes for a miserable little cold lunch -- and now we can linger over menus and chat over fresh food and sit at the table until we actually are ready to get up and go back home.  What a luxury! 

________________________________________

According to Wikipedia:

Ladies who lunch is a phrase often used to describe well-off, well-dressed women who meet for social luncheons, usually during the working week. Typically, the women involved are married and non-working. Normally the lunch is in a high-class restaurant, but could also take place in a department store during a shopping trip. Sometimes the lunch takes place under the pretext of raising money for charity.

The phrase "ladies who lunch" was popularized by a song of the same name in Stephen Sondheim's Company.

Lyrics:

Here's to the ladies who lunch--
Everybody laugh.
Lounging in their caftans
And planning a brunch
On their own behalf.
Off to the gym,
Then to a fitting,
Claiming they're fat.
And looking grim,
'Cause they've been sitting
Choosing a hat.
Does anyone still wear a hat?
I'll drink to that.

And here's to the girls who play smart--
Aren't they a gas?
Rushing to their classes
In optical art,
Wishing it would pass.
Another long exhausting day,
Another thousand dollars,
A matinee, a Pinter play,
Perhaps a piece of Mahler's.
I'll drink to that.
And one for Mahler!

And here's to the girls who play wife--
Aren't they too much?
Keeping house but clutching
A copy of LIFE,
Just to keep in touch.
The ones who follow the rules,
And meet themselves at the schools,
Too busy to know that they're fools.
Aren't they a gem?
I'll drink to them!
Let's all drink to them!

And here's to the girls who just watch--
Aren't they the best?
When they get depressed,
It's a bottle of Scotch,
Plus a little jest.
Another chance to disapprove,
Another brilliant zinger,
Another reason not to move,
Another vodka stinger.
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh!
I'll drink to that.

So here's to the girls on the go--
Everybody tries.
Look into their eyes,
And you'll see what they know:
Everybody dies.
A toast to that invincible bunch,
The dinosaurs surviving the crunch.
Let's hear it for the ladies who lunch--
Everybody rise!
Rise!
Rise! Rise! Rise! Rise! Rise! Rise! Rise!
Rise!

Elaine Stritch made the song popular.  You can see her singing it here: 

Ladies Who Lunch - Elaine Stritch

 

Smiles

Once in a while you just wake up happy.  There is no special reason for it -- you just feel content with the world.  Today IS one of those days for me. 

Maybe it was because I did get most of the trash out before 7:30 and then was able to crawl back in bed for a tiny little nap before -- well, see the next "maybe it was because."

Maybe it was because Hubby got up and walked the dogs and went to exercise while I laid in bed and watched my DVR shows (The Good Wife and the holiday edition of the Extreme Home Makeover which I don't normally watch partly because it's sappy and partly because it always makes me cry when the folks get their new home). 

Maybe it was because breakfast went quickly when I prepared it at 9:00 (instead of the before 8:00 routine which is normal).  Hubby has been eating well, not just asking for a couple of canned half pears and one slice of toast with tea.  Today he had a two egg omelet folded over on rye toast, half a glass of orange juice and two cups of mint tea.

Maybe it was because the sun was shining and the humidity was finally low.  We've had what I consider rather miserable days of very warm temps (up in the 60's and 70's) with high humidity and blowing clouds making the days seem dark and depressing.

Maybe it was because the toothless, gentle Gus has kept his sweet pink tongue inside his mouth though we expected it would drag down into his beard.  He is also able to eat chunks of roast beef and chicken and he even attempted to take a big old rib bone from Luie -- though once he got the bone he looked at it with disgust and then he finally gave up and spit it out on the floor.

Maybe it was because I got my hair permed and cut last Friday and now feel much freer - and look much less bedraggled.

Maybe it was because the chicken was thawed and I still had two baking potatoes left over from Thanksgiving and lots of onions and garlic -- so dinner preparation of marinated baked chicken breasts, baked potatoes, and green beans was a snap.  And a cup of chocolate mint ice cream for Hubby.  Hubby ate half a breast and half a potato.  Not bad for food he really isn't wild about -- but keep him salt free and healthy.

Maybe it was because we got the sheets changed on the bed yesterday and both of us slept better for it.  I had used my spare mattress cover the last time we made up the bed and it was rumpled under us all week long.  The good one is back on the bed and sheets fit properly now.

Maybe it was because I organized my own pill containers, ordered up the refills, and took all the proper dosages for the first time in several weeks.

Maybe it was because I have all but one set of Christmas presents ordered -- and most of them are already in Houston.  Booyah for me!

Maybe it was because I heard some lovely Christmas music on my Kindle Fire this morning and I got my computer desktop switched over into holiday mode (I change my desktop picture daily -- while I NEVER change out my Facebook page). 

Maybe it was because for the first time in a week I'm going to water aerobics at 5:30 and wearing my new swim shoes.

Maybe it's because tomorrow I have lunch with four women who retired from my high school.  Carol and I started out as a group of two in July -- and now we are a group of five.  Next year we think we'll be six.  It's fun to get together and talk about old times and new retirement experiences.  

Maybe it was all these things combined. Whatever brought the smiles to my face, it's a good day.  I'm cherishing it. 

Didn't Win the Lottery

"I just came back from a lovely trip  . . . "

The Christmas carol goes -- "along the Milky Way -- I got off at the North Pole to spend a holiday . . . "

Except I just came back from spending the morning in the Kansas City Federal Court House.  I'd been selected for federal court duty for the month of December and lucky me, I had to report at 8 a.m. in the downtown court house.  They pull a pool of people together at the start of every week and from them they select jury members.

About 55 of us were in the room this morning.  Initially they had thought that two cases were to be heard, but one got settled late last night.  I was put in the initial jury pool for the tax fraud case being heard today -- 34 of us were selected for the pool.

Judge Dean Whipple asked us questions and we were to rise, hold up our jury card, and answer truthfully if we had something to report:

• Are you under indictment at the current time?
• Have you ever had an occasion to be called in by the IRS?
• Do you live in the 29 counties represented by this federal jurisdiction?
• Have you ever been a witness in a court case?
• Have you ever had a crime committed against your person?
• Can you sit still for 90 minutes without having to leave the courtroom?

And so on and on and on.

All the people involved in the case were introduced and then we were asked if we knew any of them.  Finally we had to stand and say our names, our occupations and where we were employed (or from where we had retired), our marital and parental status, and our educational history.  I was completely bamboozled by the fact that the Judge seemed to know me and my name -- thought I'd swear I'd never met the man in my life.

(Caveat - I was part of a group that filed suit in federal court in 1990 against the Kansas City School District and the federal deseg order we were under at the time.  I wonder if he knew about that -- he certainly was old enough to). 

After nearly two hours of this we were asked to wait outside the courtroom while a selection of 13 people were chosen (one alternate) -- and the rest of us were told to go on home and check back next week.

Luckily, December is a very light month for court cases.  Only one case is scheduled for next week and the court aids thought they had enough untapped resources that none of us would be called back.  During the 3rd week of December no court cases are on the docket.

I was home by 1:00 with barbecue in hand for Hubby's lunch.  I'm very glad I'm not spending my "holiday" within the judicial system.  Now Santa can actually "tell his plans to me ... "

So you better watch out, you better not cry
You better not pout, I'm telling you why
Santa Claus is coming to town