Just releasing thoughts--don't bother

 I write my thoughts to you, Blog, because I know you are non-judgmental, and I'm to be the  only reader of note. I'm fully aware that I have no power and and nothing I say or do will matter in the grand scheme of things. But from my  working mind and a muted voice, I have to ask, how any thinking human could have been inspired to support the candidate who will, if fate prevails, lead our country for the coming  four years. Of course, every human being has weaknesses, as witness out present leader's troubled crack-head son,  albeit he has acknowledged and admitted his transgressions. But when if ever have obvious weaknesses ever before overruled common decency? 

    To quote the words of Leonard Cohen's song, "Everybody knows..."  Everybody has to know that "he", a convicted felon,  is a liar, an egotist, a cheater,  a failure in business and  marriage, a coward who promotes violence against others, a boor who calls others vile names, one who has disgusted those who worked closely with him, one who dismissed John McCain's heroism because he was captured, one who sullied  veterans as suckers and losers, who stood by watching as violence erupted against his own vice president and listened to the calls of the rioters to hang him, one who spreads in public oration the unfounded rumor that illegal aliens are eating our pets, and, when confronted by fact checking, says he heard it somewhere, One who promises to be dictator for one day when he will get revenge on those who crossed him. One who shows a lack of education or knowledge of past and present. One who is basically so insecure that he sucks up to Putin and the billionaires who funded his campaign. One who belittles the workers whose efforts don't satisfy him. One who promised that when he won, no more votes would ever be necessary. 

  I could go on, but why? EVERYBODY KNOWS. 

Criminal History

 A while ago, I used to casually watch "COPS" the allegedly real-life tv show depicting  police encounters, but the show was cancelled after one of our national tragedies which made police work unpopular. A short while ago, I came across Cop-Cam on the internet, and started indulging in the   somewhat guilty pleasure of viewing it  when I can't sleep. 

 I feel compelled to relate my own encounters with the traffic police. 

    The first encounter was an accident after I had driven Dorothy to the doctor's office in Stillwater late in the evening hours.  I'd stopped at the  Stop Sign at the end of the street and had just proceeded to drive forward to make the right turn toward home when a large sedan came barreling down the hill and smashed into the left front side of my car, ripping off its outer surface. The driver, a portly man clad in a business suit, and apparently inebriated, got out and spoke with the local cop. I believe the driver was the owner of an insurance company or maybe a lawyer, someone of importance, and known to the cop.  His car was in the road. My car was just a few feet out on the street I was leaving. I remember the oficer measuring the distance. There was a bustle of people standing around the car in the road, when another car approached from the rear and smashed into the rear of the car in the road. With considerable force, actually moving the struck car forward. That driver was staggering drunk when he exited the vehicle. 

  Both of those vehicles were disabled.   I was able to drive my car home and must have gotten a citation of some sort, but Dick Lohnes did what he did so well, and nothing ever came of it that affected me or my driving record, just a repair bill.

  I worked at the Telephone Company in Troy for  a time, and called in sick only one day when I had an appointment for a job at the State Education Building in Albany. As I was driving somewhere in the vicinity of  Mario's, I was pulled over by a motorcycle cop--for speeding. I said I thought I was out of the 30 mph area, but he said "The Troy speed limit applies from when you enter Oakwood coming from Valley Falls."  I must have thanked him because he let me go ---with that warning.

I  had finished my final paper toward my Master's Degree one fine summer day and had driven to  Albany in my new Chevrolet Impala Convertible, accompanied by the 2 Bartholomew girls, and submitted the masterpiece.  I drove home through Stillwater and smack into the rear of a car that was stopped in the road. In my defense  there was a huge tree on the right where the road curved which blocked the view on approach.The occupants were a honeymooning couple from out of the area, unfamiliar with the road, and had stopped in the road to figure out whether they should make a turn off to the left. I was issued a ticket for following too closely. ( I really wasn't because I hadn't seen them until my 8 cyl. engine couldn't stop in time.) Again, the ticket was dismissed thanks to the liking  the Stillwater Town Justice seemed to have for Dave and his defense  efforts,  and the vehicle charges were  dismissed through the efforts of Dick Lohnes. 

  When Ma died, her dog Jumbo disappeared and I drove to the Menands Animal Shelter to see if  anyone might have found him and turned him in there. I was driving Dave's car and was issued a ticket by a Menands cop for his expired inspection sticker, which was just a few days past due.  BooHoo

And there was the time when Dorothy, Dave and I had dinner at the Eagle Bridge Restaurant and Dorothy and Dave were feeling good and when we left they decided to dance along the top of the low rail fence at the front of the restaurant. The cops must have been targeting the place because I the driver was pulled over right away. The cop said because I was weaving, which of course I wasn't drinking or weaving. My dear sister, chortling in the back seat,  offered to the cop that "She always drives that way, hee hee, hee."  I don't think he even asked for my license. It was obvious I was the designated driver, for the dancing drunks. It was fun though.

My latest traffic stop was several years ago when I was driving to the VVH one  cold day to visit Dave. I was pulled over by Pine Lake for an expired inspection sticker. The cop asked if I knew why he pulled me over. I said no. He told me, and said I should have it inspected asap before someone else issued a ticket.

Of course, 2 State Troopers were later to come to our house and make an arrest, but that's a different story..

  (When you live alone, you become prone to talk to yourself. Or write about things.

  

And I dream of the dead...

 Last night I dreamt of ELO, the first time ever in all these bygone years. He was sitting in a room, perhaps the lobby of a hospital. He told me his time on earth was limited, and he offered some advice, which has disappeared into the ether. He did say the doctors told him he was 16 pounds overweight. I said he didn't look it, and he launched into a scientific explanation of how the doctors had not accounted for the physiological causes which were not true weight gains. Others were present, but who they were and what they said has evaporated like water being thrown into the ocean. 

I see dead people...

 well, at least I think about them. In view of political manifestations of late, I remember how I got involved in "politics."  Jack Brackley, then Committee Chairman,  called me and asked if I would be on the Pittstown  Democratic Committee, which had lost a few of its small membership. At first I said I coudn't because I had a young child, but when he called back later and said my duties would take minimal time, I agreed. And so began my memebership on the Pittstown Democratic Committee.

  Jack rarely was able to attend meetings because he worked nightshift, but he kept advised of the happenings. Eventually he decided to resign, maybe because of health reasons. And a new Chairman was elected, Jim D.  He was a charismatic and efficient person in his capacity as Chairman, but he had never had the opportunity to meet with Jack. The PDC had many proactive exchanges and encounters during those years. But there was one unnoticed event. After a lifetime of being a Democrat, Jack abruptly changed his enrollment to independent or maybe blank. I was never told by him, but heard from  another that Jack had felt insulted because the new Chair had not contacted him as the outgoing Chair. In  hindsight, I'm sure Jim would gladly have met with him and even celebrated Jack's service, but I guess circumstances did not promote what Jack had perceived as protocol. 

  Some years later, Jack's health in further decline, he called me one day and asked my help. He asked if I would bring a voter enrollment form to his house in Tomhannock. I did. He and Carol were there, along with his mother, who was situated in a chair near the doorway, her health in rapid decline. Jack filled out the enrollment form registering him as Democrat, and I mailed it, as he had asked. When he died, not long after, he died as he had lived, politically speaking. 

Bad Cess Day

 No biggie, just annoying. This morning I put a load of laundry in the washing machine, and nothing happened when I pressed Start. Of course, I pressed several more times and still nothing.The washer is only several years old and has been working fine till now. I pulled out the wall plug and re-inserted it. Nothing. I turned on the dryer to see if there was power to that outlet. There was. I removed the load of laundry, dripping with the detergent, and prepared to call appliance repair. But I decided to give it one more shot and pressed Start again. Voila! The light came on. I threw the laundry back in, and ran upstairs, hoping the machine would do its job. I'm assuming it may have, but I haven't gone back downstairs as yet...

...Because I needed to go to Walgreens to pick up  a prescription  in response to last week's call from them. But the prescription can not be renewed now without an order from the prescribing doctor, who happened to be the hospitalist from a year ago, and with whom I've had no contact since being discharged. I was advised to call my doctor and ask for a Rx for this med. OK, I can do that.

Before I went next door to the grocery store, I decided to return the bag of empties which I keep in the trunk of my car. I bring them over to the bottle return only to find a note that the machine is out of order. As I'm going back to my car, a sudden gust of wind inverts the paper bag containing the returns, and the wind carries the freed cans and plastic bottles across the parking lot, and some underneath cars. (None are glass.) I retrieve a few, and decide to defer the visit to the grocery store. I had been planning to drive to McD's and indulge in a Happy Meal, but decided to just go home. 

Home, I'm carrying the bag, also paper, which contains the Ensure purchased with my discount coupons and a few other items. Just as I step inside my front door, the handle on the bag gives way, and the contents spew out. Those 6-packs evidently exerted more  stress than the bag could bear. 

Since my days are now very quiet, these events account for the most activity I've experienced in a long time. I fully realize their insignificance, and know worse things have happened---think Tuesday----and the  one-year anniversary of my brush with oblivion.

  So now I'm about to put the washed clothes in the dryer. Perhaps.

  

O.K., Its official

 The doctor called with the results of a test he'd ordered.  I said Thank You for calling.  He said:  "Of Course."   (He's 45.

A Shortage---For sure

 I received a call today cancelling Monday's appointment because of a shortage of IV fluid.  But the caller said there was a cancellation so I could reschedule  on Tuesday.  They have a few IV doses available. 

 So if Tuesday's cancellation freed up an IV dosage, why not use it for the Monday appointment? Why cancel and then reschedule for another day if dosage is available on Monday. 

I suppose there may be a valid explanation, but for sure I'm not going to pursue it. Let the chips fall where they may. 

Cop Cam U.S.A. Driver vs. ME

 Pulled over enroute to VVH one cold frosty day , officer approaches, asks, "Do you know why I pulled you over?"  

   CopCam:   No. I wasn't doing anything wrong. Don't you have anything better to do than harass law-abiding citizens like me, you wanna-be cop.

ME:  No, was I speeding?

Officer:  Your registration is expired.

CopCam:   So let me go and I'll renew it. My family is important in this town, so keep that in mind. I have connections.

ME:   Oh, I hadn't noticed.

Officer:  Can I see your license, registation and insurance?

CopCam:  I don't have to show you that. You can't ask me that. I haven't done anything wrong. Don't touch me. Get off me. I can't breathe. I don't have to talk to you. Get a sergeant out here. I want my lawyer here right now.

ME: Here's my registration and insurance, but my license is in my purse on the floor behind me, so I'll have to get out to reach it. 

Officer: Never mind, I'll just take your registration and insurance to my vehicle to check it. 

CopCam:  I'm not showing you anything, you b*%ch. Arrest me if you have to. But you can't arrest me if you haven't read me my Miranda rights. Go ahead, and it's obvious you can't please your wife in bed. And you just lost your badge!

Two Dressers +

 The house on State Street is for sale now, but if memory serves, the house was once owned by Paul McGraw, and after his death the contents of the house were up for sale at what was called an auction, but really meant to make an offer on any items of interest. 

  I believe Sara may have alerted my mother to the sale. This would have been not too long after we moved to Valley Falls and about a year or so after "Jack's" store was relocated to what had once been Peter Barrett's bar. Sara may have been related to Paul, though I'm not sure.

 At the time, we had very little furniture, only that which was transported by car from our last home past the curve going out from the village. Dorothy and I shared a bedroom and a bed, and the remains of an old pink dresser probably a leftover in some house or other. The drawers were so badly broken that our clothes were just put on top of the dresser. When my mother learned that there were dressers in the house, she made sure to attend on sale day. She ended up buying 2 dressers for $6.  One was a brown wooden dresser, probably oak, which was designated for my brother. The other was of blonde wood  with a curved mirror and 4 drawers. Since we girls were to share, we each had an upper and a lower drawer. 

   But most remarkable to me, probably aged 6 or 7 or so, was that after the sale, the auctioneer, or the man handling the sale, leaned down to me and handed me a key--the key to the dresser, of which all 4 drawers locked. That was probably the first piece of property I'd ever owned, and at home I looped a green ribbon, probably from an old candy box, through the hole in the key, and hid it away. I don't remember where, but possibly in an old sock which was under the other socks. Later, this key would be the basis of squabbles with my sister, when she would accuse me of locking up the last pair of clean socks, but I never surrendered that key which  granted me some measure of independence or authority or something like that, not until I ceded ownership of the dresser many years later. 

  Even more memorable to me was that the man who handed me the key, or maybe it was another man that same day, also gave me a Crucifix with a Holy Water Font. I still have it on my bedroom wall.

Who Goes There?

 

What??!!

 

This Old House

 In all the time I've lived here, since May of 1969, today marks the first day there is no other breathing organism in the house. 

Waiting for GODOT or God's Own Time

 Battery---soonest is Monday

Cat-------soonest is Sunday

Furnace ----1 Postponement, 1 No Show, Who knows?

10/15/ 24 Fails

 

Lifetime Compliments Received

 Not counting academic or professional awards and acknowledgments, here, in chronological order, are the compliments I've received:

1) My father taught me to play checkers, and when I was 10 years old or so, he said I was as good a player as the men who used to meet and play checkers at the Valley Falls Train station.

2) There was a large number of lectors at our parish , and one day after Sunday Mass, Father Ellis whispered to me that I was the best lector of all. 

3) My former gasteroenterologist Dr. G. said he thought I was very smart.

    That's about it, but I just remembered that in the last year or so the neurologist I'd visited said he knew I was smart because I understood the sarcasm he used. If that counts.

 Furnace 

Dog Story

 Everybody is talking about dogs nowadays, so here's a tale from the archives.

    One of the puppies, evidently intrigued by the colorful fly attached to Uncle Joe's fishpole which was kept in a corner of the barn, batted at it playfully and somehow got the fishhook inserted all the way through its front paw. It was yelping in pain and my mother cut the line from the pole and tried to pull the fishhook out of the pup's footpad, but true to its name, it was hooked, and firmly, with those multiple barbs not allowing it to be pulled back through. The fish was hooked.

   Back then, all unsolvable problems were taken to the front porch, and my mother in consult with Sara as to what to do. No success in backtracking the hook from the paw of the pup, who was now calm but crying piteously. Then a customer pulled up to the store, George Kagel's brother Herman. He quickly assessed the situation, went to his vehicle, retrieved a pair of pliers, snapped the protruding barbed section of the hook off, and then pulled the straight section out of the paw. Emergency medicine at its finest. The pup was back to normal.

   

Lake Placid.....

 ....someone mentions Lake Placid and my memory goes back, probably for the last time, back more than 50 years and a like number of pounds ago, back to before I was aged and decrepit. What I write here, since so much time has passed, can no longer be seen as self-aggrandizement, I hope and trust, but we, Barbara and I had the time of our lives. I so wish I could run this account by her one more time.

   I had spent that summer at Oneonta College, finishing up my Master's Degree. I had become friends with Dee, a student there, and later that winter she and 5 of her classmates had arranged a trip to Lake Placid and Dee asked if I would like to join them there. I did, and because I never liked to go anywhere alone, I invited Barbara. 

  We were all to meet at a designated hotel in the evening; there would be us eight girls. So Barbara and I set off in Dorothy's green Pontiac, as my car was having brake issues. We left in the evening and during a snowfall. The roads then were very rural, no highway, just dark and winding snow-filled country roads. And of course no phone or directional assistance. But we found the address, and stared, aghast. The hotel was on the edge of town, an isolated area in itself. But the huge spreading structure  looked deserted, dilapidated, eerie,and abandoned. In other words, which were both mine and Barbara's, almost exactly like the hotel in Psycho. It was late when we arrived, with slippery roads, so we knew the others would not arrive. We decided to look for other lodging for that first night. Back to town we drove, finding several motel units with no-vacancy signs, and at least two that had vacancy signs, but would not admit us. Someone told us later motels would not admit women late at night.Those times. Eventually we found a motel that agreed to let us in, but the unit had no heat. We stayed there anyway.

 The next day we drove to the haunted hotel on the hill and located the other girls there. They had just arrived, having not wanted to drive there in a snowstorm. Smarter than us. We did some usual day stuff there, I bought a handbag and then we discussed a place for dinner. Some girl suggested a Teahouse which we'd driven past, but I remember holding out for The Steakhouse, thinking that would hold more possibilities. That's where we went, a table for 8 girls. As luck would have it, our table was next to a table full of men, the entire Ottawa Police Force Hockey Team, which was scheduled to play a game that evening. I was sitting at the end of the table, by design,  and after we'd eaten one of the officers, Buddy, the best looking one at that, moved his chair to the edge of our table and offered me a cigarette. It was of a brand or type unknown to me,Canadian maybe,  but of course I accepted. As usual, I got the comment, "You don't smoke, do you?"  But he considered me a good sport to have tried and he invited me to their game, saying he'd leave 2 tickets in my name at the box office. Yay!

  And this is where my Taylor Swift moment transpired. I'd of course invited B, and as we started to find our seats, in the packed arena, the Canadian team was already lined up  on the ice just before the game started, and the whole team greeted me by name. Afterwards, Dee's friends told her they thought her new friends were"fast" or maybe worse because we took  off with strange men, even later going dancing in the next town, and, you know, getting to know each other. But, hey, they were police officers. B. had wild memories of having to defend her honor, but me, I always got the nice guy. We actually exchanged pictures and letters for almost a year, but when I didn't take him up on his invitations for me to visit him, the budding romance ended. Alas.

But back to Lake Placid. We also went to Whiteface Mountain and later took the Mt. Von Hoevenberg Bobsled run. The week before the bobsled carrying Miss Rhein-

gold had crashed and she was hospitalized,  so soon after that, they stopped running the bobsleds from the very top of the run. But we got the full run, where you wear a helmet and are snuggled in between a guy at the front who steered and a guy at the back who did whatever ruddering bobsleds do. Turned out the speed was such that the sled rides the side of the tunnel all the way down. All I saw and felt was flying ice.

  

   

    

   

Name Flub

 Yes, I had heard it right, but reaffirmed just now on repeat debate. At opening remarks, David Muir says to Kamala Harris, "You and President Trump were elected 4 years ago..." So President Biden would have been, and was, pounced upon for such a name flub, which are actually quite common. Ask any mother, who has most likely called her own children by the name of another.   But don't make that mistake if you're an old person---the only fair game left in this country. As you can now observe.  Again.

The Ick List Part II

Sometimes attempts at resolution work; sometimes they don't.

1A) The furnace has had a dripping issue since the first time some yahoo attempted to clean it, why I don't know. He said I needed to replace the furnace though it was only  a few years old. Others disagreed and thereby hangs a carefully documented long and convoluted tale. The upshot being that the furnace still leaks. Documentation shows several analyses and different parts replacement, the latest just 2 weeks ago, where the tech  said last year's Josh replaced the wrong part and he now has it right. But no, there's still leakage

 . I recently saw a post from Grasshopper Heating with a reasonable offer to perform a 28 point heating evaluation. They deal with all home heating and air conditioning needs, they tout. So I called and left a message. When they called back, they said they do NOT do oil furnaces, only propane and electric. I might have expected such because last year when Josh was here and presumably fixed the issue, he said that recently graduated   HVAC workers are not trained on oil furnaces. Alas!  

2A)  In light of the issues about emergency ambulance service, and the plethora of reasons for a change in service areas, I called the provided number for the Valley Falls Village Board. The response I was given raised more questions as to "who do you call" so now I have 2 more follow-up ICKS. 

Newly Pending Icks:  (1B)  Dashboard light indicates low tire pressure---again!  (2B) As I enter this info, I have traced the chirping noise to smoke detector in hallway. I managed to remove the detector that's on the wall, but to no avail. There is another detector on the hallway ceiling. Climbing up to  it or reaching over my head may well put me in a position of having to reach out to1A above. 

Medical Terminology

Patient Portals are now prevalent and their use is encouraged by medical professionals. (Well, with one exception in my experience.) So the examining physician uses a brief, succinct descriptive word or phrase in describing their patient's physical appearance on presentation. I gather the descriptors are pretty much the same, medical language-wise. I recall my shock the first time I saw my husband's described as "Frail" and unfortunately that word showed up again and again.  I know another descriptor word for a patient's appearance is "Well-nourished."  Now I know that's an arbitrary commonly used  term indicating "no obvious physical issues,"  but to me it means FAT.

Is it M&M or M&N?

 For clearer understanding, use the Aviation Alphabet where M is for MIKE and N is for NOVEMBER. Because for help in differentiating M and N,  M  for MOOSE could be misheard as N for NOOSE.  

How to spend (waste) a day:

 Make a list of icky things you need to do and attempt to follow it, or at least reduce the number of tasks.

1) I've been locked out (again) of my online bank account. The double verification or whatever it's called is so tedious a process that when I locked myself out a month or so again, I didn't bother to try to log back in. Who needs it anyway, I can wait for the mailed paper statement.

   But I wanted to verify some  information on a check I had written, so decided the day had come for the log-in. I open the site, and the red banner tells me I can't log in because I'd had too many failed attempts; I think the forbidden  number is 3. So I follow the re-log-in directions on site, entering my bank card number, my magic number and the first 5 of my SSN. But the red banner reads I can't log in due to my past flubs, and that I need to call the bank, number provided. So I call the bank, go through the list of options and choose help with logging in. All the same info I enter again. Finally the robotic voice issues a code, orally, which my diminished hearing can not distinguish; the code is repeated, but still not clear.  So I go through the machinations again, entering all the numbers and choose the option to speak to a rep. I explain to her that I had received the code but was unable to decipher it. She provides me not with a new password, but with a new code. I am to receive it through email and read it back to her, and then she can give me the password to log in. I open my email and retrieve my code, but lose the connection to deliver it to her. My fault, I'm sure. So I call back, and once again have to go through entering all the numbers, account, debit card number, my first 5, and once again select the live person option. Eventually she asks me what code I had received. I tell her what I think it was, and learn I have transposed the letter "n" with the letter "m." I ask her to give me a word with beginning letter. Now I know "m" stands for MOOSE. I say if that feature had been on the robot voice, it would have prevented my problem. She was nice enough to stay on the line while I used the valuable log-in information. Success, and thank you very much.

2)  Back to my list of unpleasant, therefore put-off tasks. As a valued member of the AARP, I sometimes, usually in the dead of night or early morn, enter some of activities, trivia type games and accrue points, easily thousands of said points. Those points can be entered on various commercial sites for various prizes. No winner is the usual outcome. But last February I was the recipient of a $10 Gift Card redeemable at any Walgreens.  I had brought the card to the local store and the cashier asked the manager. He perused the Gift Card and said he had never seen nor heard of such an offering, suggesting  it might not be valid. Not wanting to embarrass anyone, including myself, I acknowledged his doubt and when I got home stuck the card in the to-do pile. 

  Today, clearing papers, I almost discarded  it, but then thought it's not much but would I throw away a $10 bill.  There is an AARP telephone number on the card for any problems, so I called it. After not too long a wait, I was connected with a live person. My only question: Is the card valid? But before the rep could answer the question, I had to provide all my info, pretty much the same as the Bank had asked. Then the rep told me that my membership had expired. A surprise to me and I told her so. She checked and came back, repeating the same. As did I. Then it came to her that there are sometimes duplicate memberships and she would check on that. She came back again. AHA moment. I had a duplicate membership and one had expired. Sometimes when renewing a membership process, whoever does whatever and it happens. She mentioned my husband's membership and on being informed that he was deceased, she needed to go to the file and whatever. She was pleasant and apologetic for the lengthy time it took, but finally said my membership is taken care of. OH, I said what about the Gift Card, that I'd called about. She went to check and said it's valid, try taking it to another Walgreen's. 

***ON one of the above calls, I was asked for verification purposes, the maiden name of my father's mother. I couldn't recall it. What, she says, you don't know the name of your own grandmother? I finally came up with it, sort of a guess. AND, I stayed civil.

Remembrances of Things Past

 No, not Proust. Just some vague reactive unconscious spasms bordering on the edge of thought.

   For example, if I'm on the computer late at night or in the wee hours of the morning, and for some reason on some site, sound suddenly blares out, I get the feeling it is disturbing the sleep of another. Just a flash, not really a thought.

   The other night, I was in the bedroom and happened to lie down on the bed, and unexpectedly fell asleep, or anyway almost asleep. I had left the tv on in the living room  and in my stage of sleep, or semi-sleep,  the murmur of  voices and muted sounds were oddly comforting, I suppose as reminiscent of other times when others were watching television after I had gone to bed.

 Maybe, after all, there is not that much distinction between what we perceive as our dream state and what we  call our waking hours. We're there for both, right?

FAIR Warning

 Observations of the Great Schaghticoke Fair 2024 : The Beer Garden is still here, but the fence is gone. I wonder why. Of course, as of last year, there is a Beer Garden Building, with tables and even a D.J. ****For some reason , the barriers are gone for most of the displays in Antiques and Collectibles. The items are open to public viewing, touching and pocketing. Not that people tend to be dishonest or anything. 

"What They* Told Me" Abbreviated Version

 * They being my recent medical providers. (I did not initiate or share my info, only responded. I do wordle.

My dentist was stressed out over selling his house and buying another, and living with his family of 6 with his parents.  But home inspection passed.

R.N. Rehab Mike has frozen shoulder,  considers himself a helicopter parent.

R.N. Sue and husband wanted children, but were not  blessed. So she keeps working.

Rehab Asst. Colleen is trivia player and host, and swim-meet referee.

D.P.T. Pat has dog named Reggie, is Boston sports fan, does wordle, recently bought a house.

D.P.T. Matt has dog named Marvel, does wordle.

Dental Assistant had aspired to be a Registered Nurse, but found she couldn't bring herself to touch any patient's body part except their head.

Nurse in hospital setting is unable to draw blood from hand because it makes  her shudder, can  only draw from arms.  

Convention Review--so far

Tim Walz---Biggest surprise. Pep Talk.  His kid cried for him.

Barak Obama---Still cool

Michelle Obama---Longest braid

Bill Clinton---Still kinda cute

Pete Butegeig---Smartest kid in class

Memories of the 2024 Olympics

 That French pole vaulter, that Australian break-dancer, that rubiks-cube-solving  U.S.A. gymnast. And oh sure, Simone Biles, but that's rather boring.

Prediction Validity

 Just read last paragraph of "All About the Semantics."  Singular focus, though delayed, sublimated.

More About Anatomy

 Only a pole vaulter who was French...

The Anatomy of, Well, the Anatomy

 The CT report reads, again, "Grade 1 anterolisthesis at the L4-5."  That's a familiar skeletal observation, and seemed insignificant so I never bothered to analyze it other than knowing it meant some back issues. But curiosity reigned and today I googled to find out it means that the 4th lumbar vertebra has slipped forward in relation to the 5th lumbar vertebra. Severity is graded 1-4, with Grade 1 involving less than 25% of the vertebra, considered mild degeneration. 

   No surprise there, we all seem to suffer from some degree of backache nowadays. But it wasn't always so. I think I know when the slippage occurred. One day way back when my youngest child was a baby, I put him in his crib and went to lay a blanket over him when it happened--such a sudden and  agonizing pain in my lower back that I felt immobilized. The pain persisted, unlike anything experienced up to that time, and I despaired that I would, in essence, be paralyzed. And who would care for the baby!  After a few days confined to the couch,I was able to drive to the Leonard Hospital and X-rays diagnosed a herniated disc and I was told  to see an orthopedist.  I was able to keep an appointment with the go-to  orthopedist of the day, Dr, Paish. His office, as I recall, was in Lansingburg, on that short street behind the Sunset Inn, 3rd Street, maybe.  

The treatment was an injection, probably cortisone, but I paid no attention to that stuff back then. I only remember that there was no pre-injection anesthetic applied, the needle seemed about a foot long, and it felt like my back was being nailed to the table. And in the tradition of  Dr. Paish, his first words after the shot was administered were, "Now that wasn't so bad, was it?"  

  I recovered, with what I suppose was the beginning of the skeletal degeneration. Dr. Paish was fairly new to the area at the time, and was considered a somewhat offbeat doctor. He told me that his son wanted to get a motorcycle, but he said before that happened, he would break the kid's legs himself. Orthopedists are  all too familiar with motorcycle accidents. I trusted him, despite his personal eccentricities because he had been recommended to us by Dr. Grattan to treat M's  congenital hip problem, that being that her legs were too straight from her pre-birth position and thus were likely to pop out of her hip sockets. Dr. Paish treated and resolved that issue, to Dr. Grattan's satisfaction.

  Some years later, another encounter with Dr. Paish. Dave had been playing hide and seek with toddlers  M.and  D. in the driveway, ducking around the car, when suddenly and painfully, his knee failed to function. He actually  crawled into the house, his leg rigid, completely unable to bend his knee. So following an appointment, Dr. Paish ordered him to go to the hospital for surgery the next morning. (Things worked that way back in the 70's: almost always you were admitted to the hospital the night before surgery.)  Don offered to drive him to the E.R., St.  Mary's this time. I drove the kids to Ma's and drove through the snow with Dave, Don and Barbara. But on arrival, we all went into the hospital and Dave chickened out, saying he didn't want surgery based on a single  medical opinion. So back home we all went, through the snow and by-now slippery roads. 

  The next morning, Dr. Paish called: "Where the Hell are you?"  and advising, with a few stronger choice words, that if he didn't get to the hospital in 24 hours it would be too late and he wouldn't do the  surgery. So, knowing he had 24 hours to get another opinion, Dave got an appointment with a chiropractor in Albany. I drove him there, not easy to get him in and  out of the car as his leg was stuck straight out in front of him. The chiropractor took one look at him and his outstretched immovable leg, and said no , he wouldn't even touch him, get to the hospital for surgery.

  So we drove to the hospital in the window of time. Dr. Paish operated on his knee, with success. Dave was a terrible patient, but that's another story. (I've killed enough time so Spelling Bee will be available. Good night and Good morning.

  

lansingburg

The Fickle Finger of Ratings

 From GET OUT to G.O.A.T.

All About the Semantics

 I am not writing about politics, not directly anyway. There will always be the Right and the Left, and that's an integral part of the game, a rancorous game, but let's leave it at that.

   I will restict my remarks here to the conveyors  of what we like  to consider the impartial reports  from the media and purported allies who have bowed down and sold out to the forces of big brotherism combined with personal greed and ambition. 

  As stated, "I have come to bury Caesar, not to praise him." Let's not try to compare two debaters who performed in completely different methodologies. The reporters and observers seem to have arrived at one of the most popular assessments ever realized, in the form of condemning Biden's input. It even seems as if  a number of the conclusions drawn were formulated prior to the debate. Ready, set, go. The proverbial snowball gathers steam as it careens down the slope to its final resting place amongst popular, albeit spoonfed, opinion. Inundating the public with the "If it bleeds it leads" mantra may be news-pimping, but it sells. Concentrate on a single theme, the more sensational and easier to define the better.

 Today I read an article by one of the formerly onboard Media purge  refer to "Biden's shaky debate performance." This is honestly the first time I recall seeing or hearing any descriptor  but the Disastrous debate. And here is my point:

   I have spent many years as an editor, item, report and article writer, and reviewer of essays and applications and communications and submissions at the high school, college and professional levels. I humbly say I had high efficiency and success ratings for my efforts.

 I watched/ listened to the presidential  debate. It is true I didn't pay rapt attention so may have missed something. My overall impression was one of finding it rather boring. Yes, Biden's voice was weak and raspy, but aside from a "name-flub" or two, I would not have rated his performance anywhere near a disaster. If I were to assign a letter grade, probably a "C." Or maybe C-

But his opponent is hereby warned not to rest on his debate laurels, flawed as they were. Now that Biden is out of the picture, the media (specific and wholesale) jackals are on a single-minded pursuit of the fresh blood that they previously overlooked. Left wing, Right wing, mainstream, or specialty, they all recognize the importance of presenting a single issue to their audiences---the more gruesome the better.

  

Dole out...

...punishment, whether penalty box or  pummeling, for any and all writers and speakers who use the term "word salad." 

Dream(ing) On...

 Dreams, mine anyway, seem more detailed than reality, but trying to recall them is like waves wiping away tracks in the sand. So much disappears in the haze of memory.

  I was scheduled for surgery, was with M. in a facility for the procedure. We wended our way through a maze of hallways and rooms until we arrived at the  designated location. It was just a small square room. The doctor entered, a mild-looking man probably of  lower middle age. He spoke to us, mostly to M. He would sing in between his discussions, semi-classical tunes as I recall, and he sang quite loudly.

   When the nurse came in to check status, etc., she said there was a problem. The procedure had been canceled, and could not be rescheduled for this day. It seems when  the confirmation call was sent, to M's house, the call was answered by a quite young Samantha W. , who had meant to confirm, but mistakenly cancelled. She felt bad, finding out, but she was just a child. Rescheduling meant working around other issues, but would resume in future.

   As M. and I left the facility, we saw the doctor seated at the lunch table, with a doctor of another ethnicity. "Our" doctor was singing, out loud. 

"No Problem" no longer?

 Some people, mostly older folks most likley, seem to object to the response of "No problem" after extending a  thank you,  seeing it as a rather dismissive reply to an expression of gratitude. I don't mind at all, but maybe that expression  is due for replacement anyway.

  Today, the young bagperson at the grocery store might have coined a new response, or maybe I'm just isolated and out of the loop of conversation. When he put my groceries in the cart, I said Thank You, as I always do. I knew nobody in that age group would say "You're welcome." That's old school, but instead of the "No Problem", this very cool looking young guy clearly and confidently replied with "Of Course." I can't figure out how this exactly applies, but I think it was good-intentioned.

   Another iteration occurred at Cardio Rehab, and I'm still wondering how to take it. Mike, the chief R.N. there, adjusted the machine I was on and I said thank you, and his reply was "That's what I do." I think I prefer the "Of course."  Thanks for reading. 

I had a dream.

 No, nothing inspirational, just a dream. I was driving a red compact car out of a side street or parking lot wanting to make a right turn  onto the highway. The driver approaching from the left stopped and beckoned for me to go ahead. But there was a rough area and my car couldn't make the grade. The other driver waited for me. I backed my car up a little ways and floored it and the car responded. On exiting, there was a rare parking space nearby. I felt a little guillty appropriating it under the circumstances but did so. I got out of the car and started to walk to  the  nearby venue. As I walked along the sidewalk, I experienced a sharp pain in my left eye. It woke me up and my eye hurts. I suppose I should call the ophthalmologist, but can't imagine the long wait and then driving while dilated. (I warned about the lack  of inspiration. 

Disregarding the "politics"...

 ...One person responds to another's plight with sympathy, compassion, decency. The other responds to that person's health issues and disappointments with name-calling, untruths, and desire for revenge and financial payback. False equivalency promulgated by the majority of  news-whore media  has replaced intelligence and awareness.  

And in my world, ...

 ...anyone using the words girldad, girlmom,  boymom, boydad, dogdad, or any modification thereof, should face consequences ----penalties yet to be determined, but based on the extent of bastardization of the English language.

Also If...

 ....you ever see me putting a period after each word in a sentence, lock me up.

IF...

 ...you ever catch me responding to a post with " Exactly! Yep. or Truth!"  feel free to institutionalize me, or at least administer a Cognitive Impairment" test. Though,. please, not the one  "Count backwards by 7's from 100."

Unquote, Quote

 In the times  of spare necessities and sparse income, owning books was a luxury, and in our house, there was a well worn Webster's Dictionary, the traditional old family Bible, tattered and torn, and a paperbound World War I Memoir Book from my father's days of service. Later, when finances provided for more than the basic necessities, he bought a set of encyclopedias, displayed in a newly purchased bookshelf, the kind with the metal hairpin legs.

  But somewhere in those early days, I recall coming across a book of familiar quotations, not Bartlett's I'm sure, but maybe even an insert from a magazine or such. The quotations seemed largely based on the military. I remember reading them and thinking I could write things like that. Maybe I could be a writer of quotations when I grew up. I figured, given the appropriate circumstances, I could have said "Don't give up the ship, Fire when ready, War is Hell, Damn the torpedoes,  (when I was old enough to swear) and even I only regret that I have but one life to give for my country."  I wasn't sure about not firing until I see the whites of their eyes, but that was probably a one-time thing anyway. 

  I grew out of that stage, realizing it had been the singer, not the song, that had made those words immemorial. My next  career aspirations were to be based on a more realistic foundation. I had read a magazine account of a man who was widely sought out for his intensive knowledge of Shakespeare. He lived in New York City, but speakers and writers across the country, and even worldwide,  went to him for his expertise in  providing  the exactly appropriate Shakespearean quote when they wanted to make some salient point, and sound educated doing so. I had acquired a book, "The Complete Works of Shakespeare," loved to read, so I surmised I could read everything Shakespeare had ever written, and replace that master of Shakespearean quotations. Alas and Alack, I  never pursued that vocation, but just think how devastating it would have been to be replaced by google.

  But fame, illusive as it may be, has at last been captured. I understand someone, somewhere, has heard my words.   There IS more than one way to live a life.

House Cleaning

 The house was cherished by the family for well over 100 years. All who view it say it looks beautiful. Everything is pristine and plain, without any evidence of  the generations who called it home for  almost a century and a half. 

  You are now welcome to make it your  home, fill it with your treasures and memories, and live a busy and happy life there, busy enough to block out the inevitable truth that someday the house will again be stripped of all remnants of  occupancy. Potential buyers will find beauty in the absence of a previous life there. And so  it goes.

Pulled Over

 Dorothy, Dave and I went to dinner at the Eagle Bridge Inn one night. I may have ordered a drink and could even have drunk it, though sometimes I just ordered to be sociable. My dinner partners had several, I'm sure. When we left the place, they decided to dance along the top of the rail fence outside the restaurant, with only some success.  I think they were singing also. I got behind the wheel of my car with Dave alongside me and Dorothy in the back seat. 

No sooner had we pulled onto the highway when we were stopped by the siren of a police car. (I suspect they must have been "observing" the late night activity of those revelers leaving the place of business.) I knew I wasn't in any violation, but the officer approached, asked for my license and said that he had noticed I appeared to be weaving. I was sure I had not been, but I guess they have to give some reason for stopping a vehicle.

   Dave, a seasoned veteran of being pulled over, knew from experience that silence is golden in his circumstance. But my helpful sister in the back seat, still feeling pretty good and now quite amused at my being pulled over, offered this explanation to the officer, "Oh, she always drives like this, weaves a lot."  

 There was no follow-up and we were sent on our way. (I had not tried to balance on the fence.

 

Bicycles

 I have not ridden a bike in a very long time, except for last night in a dream. Of course I was young, or youngish. Even a dream state knows better than to choose old age.

    A man was there, dark haired and it seems he spoke with some type of accent. He persuaded me to go with him to rent bikes, electric bikes as it turned out. I was unsure of how to acess the rental unit. The building was very large, with numerous divisions. The construction was of wood, walls and floors. People were going about their business there, but I didn't know how to proceed, though I wanted to get a bike. The dark-haired man showed up with 2 bikes, so I took mine and decided to ride it through the building to the exit. I felt a little guilty doing so because there were people around and it was inside the building, but it reminded me of a boardwalk so  I thought it was okay. 

 I rode outside and near a lake or some body of water. I was by myself; the man was nowhere in sight. I stopped at some shop and the man was there, with no bike though.  He said he was trying to save his money, not to spend any more than necessary. I kind of laughed and said you'd never know you were trying to save after just spending about $141 or so  on renting  a bike. Then it occurred to me that he may have paid for my bike rental. I knew I hadn't paid, but would find out if it had been paid for when I returned the bike. I wasn't sure, though, about how to get back to the bike rental building. I'm still trying to figure that out.

+Piano Lesson(s)

 Dave took piano lessons as a child, as far as I know the only one in his family who played piano. It's possible his mother may have played because there was a piano in the basement of the Wrentham Street house in Kingston. Or maybe they bought the piano when young Dave showed promise as a player. He was certainly not an accomplished player, but he enjoyed it well enough for him to have bought a second-hand piano during our early marriage years. And he'd sing and play from time to time, when we had house parties or when he was alone with just family, as I recall a largely unappreciative audience. 

  When the family ties to Kingston were ended, the house on Wremtham Street was sold. Dave's father, an accomplished builder as well as mehanic, had added on to the house they had purchased some years before, constructing  a large master bedroom and bath on the ground floor at the back of the house. As it happened this addition prohibited entry on any large scale to the basement home of the piano. The piano was not removable with the new construction. 

The new owners did not want the piano and wanted it removed from the basement. There was no way for the piano to exit intact. It fell upon Dave to deconstuct the piano, which he did with an ax. I asked him how he felt  chopping it up.  He said he felt a kind of revenge for all the times he had to practice on it while the other kids were outside playing.

   

Night Time

 So long ago, at night,I would read in bed, with the radio on and the bedroom window uncurtained so I could see the break of morning daylight. That all changed: he liked the night to be as dark and quiet as possible, no lamplight, no radio playing, and blinds closed tight to stave off the morning light. I adjusted  to the change. Life happens that way.

   Now the choice is mine. There is no longer a radio in the bedroom nor is there a lamp. The television there is not turned on at night, and the ceiling light fixture is turned off at bedtime.The blinds are still drawn, not to keep out the arrival of morning, but for security reasons, the thought of an unwanted figure peering  through the darkness.

 Darkness and silence, when life is put on hold, for a night at a time or forever.

Standstill

 All the same day: No pics, no bank, no sound.

(1) And most critical to my would-be ongoing efforts to downsize by using the same process since the beginnning of time (so to speak) , my attempt to post pictures has met with failure.  A sudden and inexplicable rejection and obscure page appears in its stead. I am unable to load pictures.   Issue unresolved.

(2) Sudden denial  of access to usual login was rejected. Calls to central banking system were not helpful, nor was visit to local branch. Last resort was another call requesting what we hope is the necessary piece of information be sent to me by U.S. Mail. Time will tell as to the resolution.

(3) Rather humorous in retrospect. Since the last Spectrum service call, I noticed I need to have the Volume setting at about 50. I checked with a youngun' who could hear at 23.  I wondered why the first volume settings, up to about 20, are silent, and  figured  it may be adjustable through call to Customer Service. Settings were adjusted through reboot. BUT, then I find I have no Audio at all. Another call took me (us) through a lengthy , involved process. It turns out there is  a mutually devised process synchronizing the volume control on the tv remote with the volume control on the Spectrum remote. It was complicated for both the rep and me, but thankfully resulted in success. I can hear!  (That's if I set the volume at about 47. But I'm calling that a win. 

Now what?

 It's 4:00 A.M. and I've done wordle, Spelling Bee and Connections. What's left?

Choosing my Battles

 I pretty much keep my thoughts to myself when it comes to public pronouncements. Case in point:  I did comment on the puppy-nourishing goose, indicating that while viewers may enjoy looking at the picture, the caption appeared to be fiction. That resulted in scores of negative comments, including personal insults. I conclude they proved my point. 

  I could publish another personal opinion, but I don't think I could weather the storm. So I'll only confide in you, O Blog. 

     I do not think it is a good thing to post pictures of veterans on telephone poles. All veterans are now designated as Hometown Heroes, which of course is in itself not a true statement. Some were reluctantly drafted and did their duty, and are deserving of respect and benefits for their service, but calling them heroes is stretching the definition of the word. But I'll concede that point. But who in heck ever came up with putting their pictures and information on telephone poles, of all places. I believe years ago pictures of WANTED  offenders were placed on telephone poles. But that was discontinued in favor of other more efficient messaging. 

   Why a telephone pole picture to honor a veteran is beyond any reasonable thought. There are countles other venues to do so. Post the pictures in honor of veterans in community halls, cemeteries,  parks, libraries, and any other public places where such would be allowed, and even on the homes and lawns of their families and loved ones who want to honor them. 

But on telephone poles, along roadways and highways. Why? What did their service have to do with people driving from place to place. Do  we want to encourage drivers to be reading signs while driving. Most of the words printed on these signs are not readily visible and should drivers be reading information which has nothing to do with driving? "Sorry, Officer, I didn't see that car, I was trying to read that sign." Has not legislation restricted advertisement signage and billboards in proximity to roadways as being potentially distracting and therefore unsafe.

   I understand families of veterans pay a fee to have the signs nailed to telephone poles. I can see that already some of the signs are faded and have been damaged by the weather, so it seems regular maintenance will be necessary. 

  Yes, honor our country's Veterans in all the traditional ways and through the more modern methods of transmitting our repect. But  posting their pictures  on  telephone poles does not seem either respectful to them, nor does it encourage respect by those driving by---just more irrelevancies to be ignored and forgotten.

Fools and damnfools...

 ...as my father used to say.   

  GoodKarma posts story and picture of an event. A goose was found, shivering and frozen to a pole in Montana.  Sheltered in its wings is a tiny puppy.  It's pictured, sort of. Animals are kind is the message. and you should know the 2 animals have been adopted together.  What is disturbing is that hundreds of commenters are willing to believe this story, even though there are no follow-up pictures or videos or explanations of where these creatures are. Many attribute a spiritual or religious behavior to the goose.  If I were to accept this picture as other  than A.I. generated, I might think it probable that the goose was considering the puppy as a source of food. How it found a tiny puppy is a mystery, as is any way the goose could have nourished it. I wonder if any of those who comment realize how aggressive geese can be,  at least those geese who have not found religion. 

  At one time, the ophthalmologist who treated me had a conversation with me, or rather he expressed  his  opinion regarding our government. He said the people, citizenry, were too ignorant to be trusted to choose the leadership of the country. He said that those  important and critical decisions should instead be made by a panel of educated and knowledgeable people, such as Princeton college professors or such.   I listened politely (He was about to perform eye surgery on me), and chalked it up to his being an elitist, which he may well  have taken as a compliment.     I thought he was totally undermining the concept of democracy--surely, taking all into consideration,  a rational voice should emerge from the masses  and choose the optimal decisions. 

      I'm thinking now Dr. Z.  may have had a valid point. 

   

Blaming it on the Toprol

 Weight gain: that is what beta-blockers do. Among other things.

How to tear a rotator cuff

 This is one way. Begin by sitting on your front step on a bright sunny day, observing the lilies of the valley growing by your doorstep. If you watch closely, you can see them unfurling their leaves, kind of popping open. After a while, lean forward and pull a few weeds that are growing right beneath the step. Noticing that there are more grass and weeds growing between the bricks on the walkway, decide to leave the step to sit on the ground so as to better deal with what is growing between the bricks.

   When you feel you've done enough manual labor for the day, decide to quit and sit back on the step. There is a single step leading up to the stoop itself, but since you're feeling strong and capable, don't just heft your weight to the bottom step but do a single motion directly onto the stoop, not a great distance, a mere 14 inches actually. You certainly must have done the same in the past: just put both arms behind you onto the top step, and lift yourself up. 

  But on this day, just as you reach the top step, you hear a snapping noise and feel a burst of searing pain at the top of your right shoulder.  Ouch, that hurt, you think. But the worst is yet to come. Your arm is dangling, useless. You realize you're in trouble. So you seek medical attention, with x-rays showing no broken bones. 

 But the MRI tells its own tale: an all-thickness tear of 2 of the tendons, scapularis tendinosis with partial-thickness tearing of the superior fibers, some edema in the teres minor muscle, torn biceps tendon, torn labrum, AC joint degeneration, full thickness cartilage loss of the glenoid, joint effusion along with the bursa tear and bursal fluid, likely tear to the biceps tendon, and a few other issues. 

The summary is a "Complete Right Rotator Cuff Tear"  and the Protocol is Physical Therapy for 6-8 weeks with Strengthening and Home Program Exercises. "Advance to full range of motion as tolerated."  The young and confident DPT,  Doctor of Physical Therapy if you please,  says the prognosis is good. Yay.

  

   

A Dream, Perchance...

 We were leaving some gathering or event,Dorothy somewhere behind  me in the crowd, when I spotted Gus. I was speaking to him in a friendly manner, and when Dorothy appeared, had her join us. Gus soon in the conversation asked her to get back together with him, even dropping to one knee, so urgent was his request. I remember inserting "why not," and Dorothy smiled and agreed. We all felt happy. 

Ouch

 

A recent, but distinctive sound...

 I was sitting in the living room today with the front door open to let in the sun when I heard the sound from outside. Maybe because I'd just seen Luke Bryant fall flat when he tripped on a tossed cell phone, I instantly recognized the sound as a cell phone being run over by a speeding car. (All cars speed past our house.)  I looked into the roadway and there it was, right in the center of the road, a black cell phone. I started to retrieve it, but another vehicle ran  over it again, with the same distinctive noise. 

  I waited for the all clear, grabbed the phone, a brand unknown to me. Of course it was somewhat cracked and mutilated. I put it on the porch railing. About an hour or so later, while I was sitting in my sunroom (car) working on the Cryptoquip, a car stopped in front of Nellie's house and a man got out, looked in their driveway and then walked along the roadside toward my house. I got out of my car and asked if I could help. Looking for my phone, he said. I pointed to where it sat on the railing told him it had been run over twice, at least. He picked it up and it did turn on and he said he was glad to at least know where it was. He lives right up the road.

Life presents me with so many unanswered questions:  How does a phone fly out of a car window? And how does the owner know almost exactly where? Maybe he could call it and trace its location? Ah, sweet mysteries of life...

Physician Ratings---

 Yes, from time to time I read doctors's ratings on HealthGrades. I think they can be unfair because patients can say almost anything, unless it's a threat or other unsavory statement. I don't leave comments, but  mostly read the ratings when I have an appointment with a new provider, as I did last week. It was a one-time visit but I thought I'd find out what his patients thought of him. One patient's comments convinced me not to say too much in the office of Dr. J. Here is the comment he left:  "I asked, Doctor, are you listening to what I'm saying? The doctor said, 'No.'  So I will not go to that doctor again."  Ouch!  

Random Medical Notations

 Dr. Alan Boulos, neurologist, is now the 18th dean of Albany Medical College. Last year, I'd had an appointment scheduled with him through a physician referral, but his office changed the appointment to another neurologist there. Dr. B. was out of office on another project.  (All went well without him.)

Columnist Gene Lyons, whose Commentary I read in the Troy Record, wrote that he recently became ill and thought he was dying. He awoke one morning too weak to move, couldn't get out of bed. He was resigned to his upcoming death more than frightened by it. A trip to the E.R. revealed he had COVID, serious this time as it had gotten into his heart, and despite  agressive treatment he was diagnosed with acute urinary retention, treated by catheterization. He developed pneumonia, treated by a course of antibiotics, but suffered weakness and depression due to his atrial fibrillation. A cardiac electrophysiologist stimulated his heart back to a normal rhythm. So far so good, he writes. He is 80 , but no mention of hospice.

At last week's office visit, I asked the cardiologist if heart stents would prevent a symptomatic patient from having a colonoscopy.  He said no; he is an interventional cardiologist and just cleared a patient for that procedure. He also said he highly recommends cardiac rehabilitation for his patients. He added that my account of an  MCI was a "good description." How would he know. 

My medical journeys have been so far successful, to the point that the nephrologist I'd been referred to several years ago said my last medical report shows no issues so I don't need to return to his office unless I wanted to. The urologist's office said I don't need any follow-up visits unless I develop a new problem, that tests were fine. And the cardiologist I'd been with for a number of years said he didn't think I needed cardio rehab.  The hospital's chief cardiologist, the surgeon and the hospitalist all recommended it though. Moreover, the gastroenterologist where I'd been a patient for about 20 years told me 2 years ago that he was unable to remove  "flat polyps"  and treatment would be surgical removal of that part of the tract. He was honest but wrong. (I guess he never heard of referring to another surgeon with more modern skills. 

   I could go on, but enough is enough. We all know doctors and medical staff in general are human, and make mistakes in judgment, and some are burned out and'or lazy and selfish, as we all are. We also realize that the aged and aging population are burdening the health care system and that old people account for an extraordinary percentage of medical care. ERGO---hospice enters the scene, but that's a topic for another entry or rant, Dear Blog.

Recurring thoughts

   When Dorothy Bartholomew learned she had cancer and with a bad outlook, she wrote me a letter meant for "all her family." I still have it. 

When my friend Barbara Schoen learned she had terminal cancer, she wrote and told me about it. When she died, her daughter called to tell me. 

ELO wrote me a 5 page letter detailing his health struggles just a few weeks before he died, in retrospect an alert ot what was to come.

I  don't mean to overinflate my sense of importance, but am at a loss to understand. She had put my name as one of her health care proxy agents, so I don't think she meant  to exclude me . But what do I know, really.  (And why did hospice let her die alone; was it a surprise?  I've been at a number of hospice deaths, and usually there was a type of controlled notification. (Excluding Don's death, that is.And, as it turned out, I was called first then, in the early morning hours, because B. didn't hear her phone ring. I called her to tell her to call the nursing home.

The Dance----Not.

 My mother's family moved to Melrose after her brother Timothy died in an accident. Mary then attended the Cooksboro school as a very tall for her age young girl, and therefore felt self conscious and awkward in new school surroundings. Shortly after her arrival at the school, the teacher engaged the class in what was presumably a recess activity. As I recall being told, the teacher played the piano and when the music started the students found a partner and danced. The student left without a partner was to Dance With The Broom. That was the activity, and the name of the game.  My mother was the new kid, knew no one, and she was left standing alone. Teacher said, "Mary, you are to dance with the broom."  

   That would have happened no way in hell, and led to further disobedience and bad student-hood on the part of Mary Donovan. 

Exclusive Group? Not so much.

 Picked this card up today in a medical office:  "When To Call Hospice."  It seems an awful lot of people who've been in my life for the last decade or so would qualify for contact, including myself for sure.

Eureka!

 I found it!  The exact descriptor for the  unusual sensation that has been spordically affecting the outside of my right leg for some weeks now. I mentioned it to my primary care doctor and she said she has the same thing, that painless sensation. I am somewhat dubious. I googled and found it is evidently not rare at all, as manifested by several explanations and descriptions. One source calls it "formication," yes, spelled with an M. Others report those experiencing this creepy-crawly feeling believe that there are bugs beneath their skin.  

  I pretty much put it on the back burner of  my mind and gave up trying to give it a name. Then last night, out of the blue, the precise  term to describe it  suddenly flashed into my mind. The sensation is exactly like that of the motion of a lava lamp. 

The Best Day of Your Life

 If you are one of the very rare individuals gifted with the highly superior autobiographical memory recall ability known as Hyperthymesia, possibly you could sift through all the days of your life and, in almost photographic detail,  identify which of all the days you have lived would qualify as " the best day of your life."  MariLu Henner claims to have this ability, which would put her in an elite group of only about 100 persons who were ever so identified. (I have seen her demonstrate this phenomenon   several times on tv shows where the host would pick a date purportedly at random,  and she would describe all the events of that day. I was not convinced, but that's just my opinion.)  

  Anyway, if ordinary people were to name the best day of their lives, I suppose many would say graduation, wedding day, births of a child, meeting first love, attending first prom, buying first house, winning some trophy or contest, traveling to some beloved country or venue, maybe even viewing an eclipse or other natural and rare event.

 In my own experience and observations, the memorable days like those above were always accompanied by some outlying factors which introduced a certain measure of uncertainty and stress into or onto the occasion.

  If I could review all my days and try to ascertain what was the best day of my life, I think it might be a very simple and unremarkable day, easily and quickly forgotten unless resurrected by a thought such as this:

  It could be one of those chilly but sunny spring days or a warmer summer day, a day like this: As too  rarely  happened when we were kids, my mother was done with her chores and housekeeping. It was probably a weekend and the family car, a big old Hudson or Nash or something, was parked in the driveway outside the garage. My mother would sit in the front seat and my sister and I would climb into the big  roomy back seat, with a kitten or dog on our laps. My mother was not a storyteller per se, but there would be talking and warmth and comfort. One of those rare days could have been the best day of my life. Except that it ended too soon.

  

5 Charming Lane Nowadays

 Zestimate $336,700

Me and C.C.

 

Duly Unnoted

 In 7th grade, our teacher required us to have a composition notebook for Social Studies class. No class list for parents to peruse, just get the notebook. We alll had one; they all looked alike. On social studies days, maybe twice a week if I remember correctly, Mrs.Foster would spend considerable time writing the social studies questions and then the answers to those questions on the blackboards. It took a while because the blackboards covered two sides of the classroom, and she had lots of questions and their answers. We dutifully copied everything she wrote on the board into our notebooks, in pencil. Pens were for grown-ups. (This reminds me that when I was a freshman in college, I turned in an assignment written in pencil and the instructor rejected it--Use ink, she commented.)  Anyway, it took the teacher  a while to write the blackboard assignement, so sometimes I had a wait time until she was in a position so I could see the board.

   At times, my 12-year-old self was feeling emotional about something troubling---the death of my grandmother that fall, an argument at home, a pet  that died, a problem with the roof, I had my pencil in hand, locked and loaded, ready to write. Now the teacher did not collect these notebooks. She may have done an in-classroom check occasionally  to see if we'd all been up to task, but they were ours to keep. All the following test questions would emanate from that notebook. 

  At times, feeling some pressure from my thoughts and fears, I would write personal comments sideways in the margins of my notebook. Nothing bad or inappropriate, but thinking it was out of place and wrong to be mixing my feelings with schoolwork, I would always at some time erase my sad tales from the margins of that dedicated social studies notebook.  Writing my woes down was kind of a self-therapy, I suppose, though not anything acceptable for that time.

I don't write my thoughts and feelings in a notebook that much anymore. Instead I write in my Blog, as the Blog knows, and instead of having to use a pencil eraser to dispose of any potentially troublesome remarks, all I have to do is delete...

  

Change

 Tonight Maybe had a seizure, quite severe, right on the couch where she'd been sleeping while I read the papers. As usual, I scratched her head and told her she'd be all right. When she came to, what wasn't usual was that she followed me into the room where I changed to  my nightgown  and then into the bedroom. Seeking comfort from fear of the unknown perhaps.  

 It reminded me.

    My mother had a heart attack in 1978 and was in hospital for a week or more. When she came home,   she and Helen were in shock as to what had happened, and did not want to be in the house alone. Danny was a baby, the kids had school, Dave worked in Albany, so Ma and Helen spent several nights here, sleeping on the 2 couches in the living room. I'd drive them home for the day, and then back here until they adjusted to the "new normal" and could stay in their house.

 My mother died 5 years later, and Helen was alone for the first time in her life. She had what she called "that all-gone feeling." Dorothy and I stayed with her. She was now sleeping on the big couch in the middle  room, which my mother had taken to sleeping on. I dragged out the old cot from beneath the stairway, set it up in the middle  room, near Helen,  and Dorothy was to sleep on the couch in the living room. But no, Dorothy soon came into the middle room and crawled in bed with me, both of us in that rather narrow cot. But we slept. Some years later, Helen was hospitalized for what was to be the last time. I slept on a cot in her hospital room the night she died.

 Lloyd at age 46 was hospitalized for a terminal illness. I slept in the hospital the night before he died. His siblings had visited but left. Dorothy may have stayed in his room, I don't recall. After he was gone, I stayed in Dorothy's house. She had an extra bedroom with a daybed for me to sleep on. But during the first night, Dorothy left her bedroom and squeezed into that daybed with me.She didn't want to be alone. 

  When Dorothy was on Hospice, and no one could say  how much, or how little, time she had left, Danny came home from college and was with her when she died. 

  Changes. 

  

  

   

RIP Helen, Matt and Nanny, St John's Cemetery, Gurley Avenue

 

IPF

 Idiopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis.  I now know what this is and what options are available to stave off  an incurable disease as long as possible. Turns  out treatment is a bitter choice. Most of us should be grateful for what does not lie ahead. 

That Rare Old Nightmare

 It was late and the night was dark, nothing unusual there. I was in bed when I heard a scratching at the door. At first I attributed it to the cat, but it grew too loud, and emanated from outside the front door. I got up and looked out the window to see a car in the driveway and two figures at the door. I turned the outside light on and yelled that the police were called, and the figures hurried away.

 I went back to bed, relieved, but after a while heard the same noise again. I knew they were back. I went into the kitchen and closed and locked that door, which is usually left open so the cat can access its litter box. I went back to bed, again, but was too terrified to sleep. I guess you could say I must have slept fitfully to some degree, as it came to me that maybe it was all a dream. I wanted to go into the kitchen and see if the door was locked, as that would show if it really happened, but I couldn't make myself get out of bed, paralyzed with fear, I suppose would be the term.

   For some reason, I opened the front door and Dave was there, in the doorway, youthful and cheerful, and reassuring. I was so glad to see him, no longer afraid of the figures in the dark of the night. We spoke in the doorway but he wouldn't come inside.    End of dream.

   

IMHO

 I was asked my opinion tonight, so I feel somewhat empowered to voice my views on another subject. Let's see, verboten topics include politics, religion, children, my health or lack thereof, personal differences, ...Wait, I know:  most men don't dress old-school fashion anymore, that is, wearing suits. But many, perhaps  most notably local reporters and meteorologists, wear suits but do not wear them well. They look bulky and frumpy, if that term can apply to the male sex. It appears they buy their suits off the rack and have no idea how the suit should fit. 

  When Dave was working for various companies, he every day wore a suit with shirt and tie. He always bought his suits at Specter's in Albany. Every two years, he would retire the old and buy new. And his suits were always fitted by the master tailor there. It is true that Dave then could have served as a prototype for suit sales. But his fashionable look was determined by the experienced and accomplished tailor. A main rule for a man's jacket was that the length of the coat should hit the bottom of the hand, just above the fingers. 

  Recalling that rule, I can see where today's suit-clad men have gone wrong. Most wear jackets that are too short.A notable exception is Steve Caporizzo, who may have his suits tailored, and always looks well dressed.  The others wear suits that mainly don't cover enough of the business in front, or else bulge out in the back over their rumps.  Take note; it will be apparent what I've pointed out. (While this message may be boring in its insignificance, its chance of offending its readers should be negligible.

   

  

"A Rainy Night..."

 "We watched our friends grow up together

 And we saw them as they fell

Some of them fell into Heaven

Some of them fell into Hell"

February 25, 2023

 Marks one year of brain damage. I used to be so smart.

P.S. If a person in dire condition needed medical transport via emergency ambulance service to the hospital, and the ambulance was unavailable because it was dispatched to a caller because they were feeling anxious or in need of comfort, that needy person would and should be mad as hell. And  that person denied vital lifesaving transport will come back from the grave to haunt the attention seeker. The cold winds will howl around their houses forever. (It is almost 2 a.m.and I'm half, well one quarter, asleep. I can always delete tomorrow. I do that a lot lately. 

Winter Memory

 The day, February 28, 1973, started out as usual, for back then. I would take the kids to the Valley Falls Post Office to pick up my mother's mail. The weather was fairly mild, for February, so I had 2-year-old David wear a newly-purchased jacket. Since this was only his second year walking, his previous winter wear was the traditional one-piece snowsuit so he was pleased to be wearing a "real" jacket, with big-boy pockets in front. Both kids were wearing those lightweight slip-on rubberized boots. 

   We drove to the post office and entered by the steps that were then on the side of the building facing the library. The rest of the library porch then was open, no rails or barriers in place. As the three of us approached the top of the steps, a large black German Shepherd came  up to us in an excited greeting. He was animated and seemed friendly. He was wearing a chain collar with several tags and they jingled as he came close to us. I was concerned that he could knock the kids off the porch, so I moved them to the right, close to the building.

   We entered and got the mail.  The dog's owner, known  to me, was at the window  chatting with Gloria J. Knowing them both,  it seemed they may have been talking for quite a while. M. prided herself on being able to use Nana's combination, B-FG-B, to open the box and get the mail so she was carryng Nana's mail as we left. The dog was not in sight, forgotten by us.

   M. stepped out first and I reached out to help David down the step at the doorway, but he had both hands in those new pockets, so I used his shoulder to guide him down that single step. M. was a few steps ahead of me and D. a few steps behind. The length of the porch was only a few feet to the descending steps. Within seconds, I heard a snarling noise and turned to see the dog on top of David, who had been knocked flat on his back. The dog was standing over his body, attacking his head, I think at least 3  primary bites. I turned and the dog ran off, though I don't exactly remember where to. I picked up David, whose head was covered and dripping with blood, and carried him back into the post office, yelling dog bite. The dog's owner asked, in horror, if it was her dog. It was, she soon learned, and she ran outside. Gloria had us go into the office area and called the ambulance. D's head was bleeding so badly that she grabbed a box of Kleenex and ended up placing the entire contents on his head, which the blood seeped right through.  I asked her to look and see if his eye was still there, at the center of the most bleeding, and she picked up the stack of blood-soaked  Kleenex, looked,  and told me his eye was there. That was a relief; I had not been able to look.

  G. then called Dave, who was at work. I heard her sternly saying to him to never mind those questions  now.  It's bad, she said, just get to the hospital. Thankfully, Dorothy and Gus showed up about the same time, and were able to calm him and keep him from any violent actions. I don't remember who called them. Maybe I did. Maybe my mother. During the wait for the ambulance, Joyce Bott (?) showed up at the p.o. and she drove M. to Nana's house. (She later told me she thought M. must have been at least 5 years old, as she related the events and directed her to her Nana's house.

   The surgeon who stitched up his wounds, a few hundred stitches, said the force of the bites was so powerful that  the dog's teeth had penetrated his skull and that if he had been bitten anywhere else on his body it would have most likely been fatal.

  Of course, even then there were some dog advocates who speculated that maybe the child had stepped on the dog's toes, etc. The child was 28 months old and weighed 27 lbs. Dr. Grattan, who exerted full authority when he found out, said the dog weighed about 135 lbs. And because its teeth had entered into the child's skull, he ordered that it be euthanized and tested for rabies, even though it had had its rabies shot. The results were negative, but with no regrets on Dr. G's part. He said it was "a bad dog."