Happy New Year's Eve

Still cold. Ordinarily, during the winter, Finn makes repeated requests to go out, only to want back in after about 30 seconds; then he goes to another door, as if the weather is going to be different there. Yesterday I made him stay out with me while I shoveled snow. Today he is not even asking to go out.

• I made a deal with myself this morning that if I took the dogs on longish walks today, I can skip dog-walking the next two days. That's if the dangerous wind chill factor forecasts pan out. There's a full moon and a clear sky, so I'm expecting they will.
• Last night I was so physically tired I felt almost ill. Turned out the lights shortly after 9. When I think of how many decades I was basically inert because of my job and single parenting and general laziness, it amazes me.
• My SO and I decided to celebrate the New Year today, during the day, while we are still awake and alert. While the sense of a new beginning each new year brings is exciting to me, I don't feel the need to torture myself into staying awake until midnight.
• When I came home, around supper time, I was so famished I felt shaky. That is a rare thing, but when you reach seniorhood, every little quirk in one's physical or mental well being feels like the beginning of the end. One day, you are perfectly fine, the next day you're not.
• Usually I make at least a few resolutions this time of year, but I'm coming up blank for 2018. I could still lose weight and exercise more and keep house better and etc., but I am fairly content with where I am right now.
• Finished watching season 2 of Happy Valley. Will there be more? What should I watch next? River? Broadchurch? I'll check my Netflix queue.
• Good-bye, 2017. Don't let the screen door hit you on the way out.

The Invisible Woman

I'm the kind of person that, in general, other people don't see and don't remember. I'm guessing I fly under their radar because most women don't find me a threat, most men don't find me attractive. I'm not ugly; I just don't stand out. This city was settled by Germans, and being mostly of northern European extraction myself (although I self-identify as Danish), I blend right in. Just another Hoosier.

Case in point: At the sixth of eight dog training classes, when the instructor took attendance, she commented, "Nice to see Watson is back." Yes, she recognized the dog, but didn't realize we had not missed any classes. In fact, after the previous class, I had stopped to discuss one-on-one a particular problem I have with Watson. Apparently, looking me in the eye for five minutes was not enough to earn a position on the stack of her short term memory.

It is also not unusual for me to be mistaken for someone else, sometimes someone I actually know, but to my knowledge never does the reverse happen. For example, the parents of one woman I'm frequently mistaken for moved nearby; when I mentioned to them that I was often mistaken for their daughter, they looked at me as though I were crazy. Or maybe they were just horrified.

One disconcerting experience of mistaken identity has been with the medical community. Someone with the same name as mine must be a real bitch because I have been treated oddly and sometimes rather rudely by a variety of nurses (one yelled at me over the phone, so I know it wasn't my looks) and a dermatologist once tried to examine me from across the room. I have changed doctors enough in the past few years that this particular issue seems to be resolved. Or maybe the other woman died. Or moved to Florida. (Which is worse?)

Sometimes I have fun with my invisibility. While attending a fiber arts festival, I spotted a member of the local spinning guild. I confess I myself am not good with names and faces, but this time I not only recognized the face, I remembered the name. I called out to her and chatted her up a bit, but I could tell she had no idea who I was even though I sat next to her during several meetings when she served as the guild president. I decided not to help her out.

I've learned not to throw my arms around old friends and former co-workers I have not seen for a while, just in case they don't recognize me. A different hair style and new eyeglass frames can really throw people, not to mention the aging thing. Being older has actually raised my visibility to strangers, though, I guess because it's considered a blessing to help the "elderly" (I'm 64). Unfortunately, my profile has also been raised with those Medicare supplement call centers that keep phoning. And they don't even know what I look like.

Jinx

My last post must have jinxed me, as things have NOT settled down. I should point out that the bad stuff is not happening to ME but to those around me. I'm fine, just in constant support mode and vaguely unsettled much of the time.

I don't want to tell stories that really belong to others, but one recent event was my ex had a heart attack. It could have been The Big One - in fact, it was The Big One, the doctors were surprised he survived - but through the miracle of modern medicine, he not only is alive but should be kicking, for a while at least.

My ex is not the first of my "cohorts" to have a health crisis, but he is the closest. The natural reaction is to try to pinpoint why HIM and not ME (easy, he's a smoker). Another reaction is, What if I were still married to him? (Thank goodness I don't have to be his caretaker through this.) And of course, there is the reminder that everything can change in a heartbeat, literally.

I try to prepare for the worst while also hoping for the best. What is "the best" at this stage of life, though? How do I want to live going forward, knowing there is only so much forward to go toward?

I have lived in this house over twenty years. When I retired, it was with the expectation I would remain in this house for another twenty. I joke that I cannot move until Finn, my indoor/outdoor cat, gives up his roaming ways. Most days I like my house, but there are times when I don't want a house or a yard or even a car anymore.

When in the anti-house mood, I declutter. Sometimes I apply Marie Kondo's methodology (keep what gives me joy), sometimes I simply wander through the house, looking for things to get rid of. I also rearrange what remains, to suit ME. These changes are prioritizing my possessions. Theoretically, when I do decide to downsize (or the decision is made for me), figuring out what to take may be easier than it might otherwise be.

I'm also trying to simplify the yard and garden chores. This summer I purchased a riding mower. My yard is not quite large enough to justify it, but it preserves my energy for the more fun aspects of yardening. And now mowing is FUN. In fact, I wish my lawn were larger. And that is happening somewhat, as I decrease the garden's footprint. I'm losing interest in growing food.

Until those jet packs become available, it looks like I am going to have to replace my Honda CRV. Soon. It has over 100k miles on it, and while it is still going strong, I am hesitant to take it out of town. A couple of days ago, I test drove the 2017 Honda CRV, and oh-my-goodness, the thing practically drives itself. Maybe all new cars are like this now - I'll have to test drive a couple more to see - but the technology has really advanced in the last 12 years. So even though I would like to magically be transported hither and yon, just as TV is more enjoyable with Netflix and Amazon Prime, driving may be more fun with a new vehicle.

Hanging onto old stuff mindlessly is actually stressful in a backwards sort of way. Yes, car shopping is stressful, but a new car would make my day-to-day life less so. Yes, learning to drive a zero-turn mower is challenging, but it is worth the time and energy saved. Yes, I may throw out something I later wish I hadn't, but I'm fortunate to be in a position financially where I can replace it if need be, so why worry about it?

Just as stuff gets prioritized, activities are dropped and added on an as-needed basis. Do I like doing X? If not, perhaps it should go. What about Y? Maybe I'll try it and see. Oh, gotta do Z, it's important to ME.

It's not that I don't still struggle with the SHOULDs that rattle around in the back of my brain. Sometimes I don't know if I truly like doing something or if I am just doing it because I always have or believe I have no other options. The events of the past year have driven home the truth that there is very little under our control. We still need to make wise choices, but after that, life is a crap shoot. So get rid of the crap.

Oops, I did it again

My dog is old (which is a topic for another post) and has become rather lacksadaisical about where she pees. In an effort to contain the damage, I laid a chair across the doorway between the kitchen and dining room, to keep her off the carpet. Then I forgot I had done so and tripped over the chair in the dark, landing nose first.

Compared to last time, this fall had a lot of positives to it: I landed on carpet, not concrete; I missed the dining room table; if I had fallen from the dining room into the kitchen, I could have hit the breakfast bar on the way down; my glasses remained unharmed. There was blood to contend with, and icing one's nose is awkward, but I felt *lucky* things were not worse.

I did go to the doctor to make sure nothing broke. Even though she is a "real" doctor, she didn't examine me as thoroughly as the PA did last time I fell. She suggested having my face x-rayed, but said if there were a fracture, they wouldn't do anything about it, so I asked what was the point? The visit turned into an exercise in due diligence on my part, followed by the purchase of an Ace bandage and two Cadbury eggs.

Almost everything I read about falls discusses balance and muscle mass, both of which are negatively affected by aging, but there is something else never addressed. Once upon a time, when I tripped, the fall occurred in slow motion, giving me time to react. Now the fall is instantaneous - one moment I am upright, the next I am kissing the floor. Is there a remedy for this?

I look worse today than yesterday, and hurt more. The modifications to make my house safer are useless in protecting me from myself. Any remedy for THAT?!?

A good enough death

My father passed away on December 1, at the age of 95. He had surgery in September for a bowel blockage and recovered from that. A second blockage sent him to the ER, and when they started treatment - insertion of a nasogastric tube and catheter - his heart stopped. After two resuscitations, we decided to let him go. My older brother was with him for the end.

Over the past six months, Dad had been going downhill slowly. He was sleeping more, so much so that I would not have been surprised if he had simply not awoken from one of his many naps. I was in the habit of phoning him several times a week, and he sometimes struggled to find words or remember names or dates. After his surgery, he couldn't follow plots or keep track of characters in the John Grisham novels he favored. Facebook, along with most computer tasks besides email, was a lost cause. He still loved to watch the Red Sox, though, listen to classical music and opera, play dominoes, dine with his friends, see family.

After his surgery, he spent about a week in "continuous care" getting rehab so he could return to his apartment. On the first day there, he told me he was in no hurry to leave. But the better he felt, the more horrific that unit became to him. He was one of the few that were mobile; the other residents spent their days in wheel chairs, watching the same show on TV in the day room, clutching teddy bears. He was very happy to leave that place behind, and said he would rather "jump off a bridge" than ever return. With his failing mental capacity, though, that is what I was afraid would happen.

Dad told me that, before the surgery, he had decided that if he were diagnosed with a terminal condition like cancer, he would not seek treatment. While recovering, he had a bout of incoherence caused by low blood oxygen, but it was interrupted by his asking me point blank why we did not just let him go. After the surgery, he said that he "would rather die" than have a nasogastric tube inserted again. So when my oldest brother called to ask if I had any objections to Dad not being resuscitated the next time his heart stopped, I said I had none. It was what he would have wanted.

After my stepmother passed away a year or so ago, I asked Dad if he had done any preplanning. No, he didn't care what we did, but he suggested his cremains be buried in Chicago where his parents and my mother (Dad's first wife) are. My brothers and I decided not to have a service in Massachusetts but to gather in Chicago at a later date, to celebrate a life well lived. With no service, though, sometimes his passing feels like a dream and I get a little panicky thinking I have forgotten to call him.

My two brothers that live in Massachusetts are taking care of business at that end: cleaning out the apartment, executing the will, etc. The brother in Chicago is tasked with interring the ashes. There was nothing for me to do, no ritual to mark the end. But then the Chicago brother thoughtfully asked if I wanted to be there for the interment. So on Monday, my son and I are going to Graceland (cemetery, not Tennessee).

My mother passed away when I was 20. I was young and callow then, and forged ahead into my future without much thought. Older and maybe wiser now, when I look back, I see what a hole was left by her death. Dad's demise is another hole. Even though I am 62 years old, I feel abandoned and orphaned. I miss him very much.

Not according to plan

The idea was for all the siblings to convene to celebrate my father's 95th birthday. His chronically healthy body had a different idea, though. We still gathered but in his hospital room instead of his favorite restaurant. And there was no cake since he could not yet eat anything post-surgery.

For the generally healthy, we are perfectly fine until we are not. In this case, for unknown reasons, an adhesion put a twist in Dad's small intestine, causing a blockage. The surgeon called it a "best case scenario" because she did not need to resect the intestine, just snip the adhesion to release the twist.

This kind of surgery might leave someone in their 30's, even 60's, unfazed. But in the 90's? Recovering from the anesthesia takes days, mostly spent sleeping. As we age, the skin becomes more fragile, speeding the possible development of bed sores. Pneumonia is a potentially lethal complication.

And then there is the mental confusion. Lahey Hospital has a program whereby new nursing assistants spend six months serving as one-on-one "sitters" - they simply stay with the patient to make sure no tubes or IVs are pulled out and the patient stays in bed. This usually prevents the need for restraints, plus the newbie learns how to interact with patients and their families while also getting some on-the-job training when assisting in patient care. Dad required one of these aides for a few days post-op.

All was going reasonably well. I was particularly surprised Dad had no pain because after my abdominal surgery, I held the plunger for my morphine drip in a death grip. But then the oxygen level in his blood dropped. The first sign was a sudden lack of cooperation with the nurses. He became more and more incoherent as they tried to determine exactly what was going on and what to do about it. At first, this downturn was heartbreaking, but once he became more docile, the ensuing conversations grew highly entertaining.

Most of his babbling centered around the voices telling him to find the paper with the instructions about what our next steps were regarding the two bodies on the table; I used this fantasy to tell him his job was to cough up the phlegm in his throat. At one point, he lost track of who I was ("Do you have a sister?"), then he confused me with his second wife ("Time for our tea and a cookie"), and then with my mother ("We have a baby now. We need to take care of him.") And yet, when distracted by the construction of his bed, the plastics engineer in him spoke quite lucidly about the process and materials used to make it.

This story has a happy ending. The staff managed to short circuit the fluid gathering in Dad's lungs, gave him Nebulizer treatments to break up the mucus, and put him on oxygen. After a subsequent day spent with him thinking he was in Chicago, he became his old self again. He is eating solid food, the tubes and IVs are gone, and he should be released today from the hospital for a several week stay in the rehab unit of his retirement community. Then it will be back home to his apartment.

Of course, while witnessing all this, I couldn't help but think, This is my future. We like to ignore the fact we will get old and sick and someday die; that is something that happens to other people, not us. The getting old part is annoying and the dying part incomprehensible. The getting sick part, though, is scary. If we are lucky, we get appropriate care. But even the best facility, the brightest medical staff, a bevy of caring relatives cannot guarantee anything, not even a peaceful passing.

Dementia and Alzheimers are the scariest of all. Confusion in the elderly can be mistakenly attributed to either of these when the problem may be fixable, like low blood oxygen. Unruly dementia patients are often treated with psychotropics when frequently the actual problem is pain that can be relieved with ibuprofen were the patient able to communicate. My nightmare is to be bedridden and suffer excruciating leg cramps and be unable to ask for help. And then there are the well-meaning efforts to drag Alzheimer patients back to reality when the kinder thing may be to just let them go into the void.

Anyway, blah, blah, blah. The future is unknowable. All we can do is mitigate the risks - sign a will, designate a health care proxy, set an example to our kids of how to treat aging parents. Hope for the best but prepare for the worst. Nothing goes according to plan.

Falling apart

I hope this blog does not turn into a litany of complaints, but it does feel like I am just falling apart these days. The latest evidence is a crumbling filling. While that was easily fixed, it feels like one more sign post on the road to decrepitude.

When I read non-fiction, I find myself focusing on single topics for a period of time. For a while, it was horse books, then dog books, then books on menopause, autism, Alzheimers. Now I am in the midst of books on aging. I recently read Blue Night by Joan Didion, in which she quotes from In the Fullness of Time: 32 Women on Life after Fifty. Both books are full of loss and somewhat depressing - is this what we have to look forward to?

It does not help that my pets are aging, too. Fern was recently diagnosed with tongue cancer, a particularly aggressive squamous cell type for which nothing can be done. She is still able to eat and drink, and does not appear to be in any pain. Recent trips to the vet have left her more suspicious than usual of my motives when I pass, so she avoids me unless I am prone. Not ordinarily a snuggler, she now seeks my warmth when I am laying under an afghan on the couch. Sometimes I catch her staring at me with great intensity, like she knows.

Insomnia

That's my excuse for not updating this blog more often. Periodically, I suffer through bouts of insomnia, but this most recent one has been particularly relentless. Recently, I participated in an insomnia survey of sorts, a class project of my massage therapist, and she suggested I read Insomniac, by Gayle Greene.



I have never been able to discern a reason why my insomnia comes and goes, but I'm guessing it's a combination of anxiety, hormones, and stress.

Also, the rabbit died. That used to mean "I'm pregnant" but in this case, the rabbit literally died.



My pet bunny suddenly sickened and passed before I could get him to the vet. I've lost pets before but only after they have grown old and/or suffered through a long illness. HipHop was young and I expected to have him for several more years. I'm a little surprised at how much it affected me, too. I think the older we get, the more difficult loss becomes, which is unfortunate because losses large and small really start piling up as we age.

Another feature of aging is realizing we are not going to do all those things we thought we would do "someday". Like travel. And by travel, I mean really travel, and not just in herds of seniors.



From reading Where the Hell is Matt? I realize why I don't really travel: my physical comfort and safety matter more to me than visiting strange and exotic places. Is that the definition of old or what?

Speaking of old, I am also reading Somewhere Towards the End, by Diana Athill.



Liberated woman or slut? She likes to kiss and discreetly tell. She is less discreet in her opinions, and I favor candid people.

What else has been going on lately? Our all-employee summer event was postponed at the last minute because it was inadvertently scheduled the same week as a global downsizing. (My department downsized last year, so we were left relatively unscathed.) We were to go bowling. We went bowling several years ago for the all-employee event. At that time, we were gifted tee-shirts in the company color with the company logo on the front. Not bad, I thought, until I unfolded it the day of the event.



Fridays are jeans day and I frequently wear this shirt then, which makes the person responsible for its design happy. She does not realize I am wearing it ironically.

Speaking of work, we are getting a new building next year and the new building will have new work stations. This is my current cubicle. (Sorry about the crummy pics - had to use my cell phone camera.)



This is your standard cube, about 9' x 9', with a hutch, some shelves, some drawers, a visitor's chair, and a 5-drawer file cabinet. I also have a white board and a hook to hang my coat. The cloth walls are about 5' tall, giving one the pretense of privacy.

Here is the new work station. (If you look closely, you can see the hand of god giving it the spark of life.)



Floor space is about 5.5' x 5.5'. Walls are about 4' tall. Shelves and drawers are limited; no white boards and no coat hooks. If one rolls one's chair back from the desk a bit, one is in the aisle.

The desk can be cranked up so one may work standing up...



... just in case one wishes to remain above the fray.

"They" set up two of these 6-stall pods, one right next to my cube, so I get to hear all the complaints and carping. Once the novelty wears off, two employees are going to take up residence.

In fact, here is one of those employees now, with another co-worker who is making sure the monitor is level by using an app on his Google phone.



Is that geeky or what?