Life in The Home

As I approach the end of week two in the TCU here at The Home, I have to admit that living in this island of time and space isn’t all bad.

The cast of caregivers remains compassionate and attentive. My compatriots are all somewhere on the spectrum of variously enabled and frequently amusing but always kind souls. And I’m learning which menu items are simply a bad idea when prepared in an institutional kitchen.

So for the upsides - I was told by one of the chatty aides that I’m among the most cognizant on the hall. Woohoo! Sure, that may be a low bar, but at least that’s one bar I can exceed here. 

My hopping skills are progressing. My left foot no longer feels like it’s glued to the floor as the useless right foot just dangles in its raised position, rather than dare to come anywhere near its rightful weight-bearing role. Side note? It’s really difficult to keep your brain informed that the role of the right leg has shifted from useful appendage for walking into a heavily casted somewhat useless object for the next five weeks.

I’ve tested out a knee scooter which seems like it could be promising, if I didn’t feel like I have T-Rex dinosaur arms based on the narrow width of the handlebars. Still seems like it could be kinda tippy for much use and tipping is one thing I’m working to avoid at this point. We shall see if this will be useful.

I met a lovely woman in the PT gym. It took me three tries to get her name right after she said it. “Is that Claudette?”, I asked. “No,” she said, repeating her name. “Ah, Claudine!” I said.  Again no. She finally carefully said, “Claudith - like Edith.” And then shared that she was the eighth of her mother’s children and her mother ran out of names she wanted. So she asked her cousin for a name for the baby….at which point, Claudith pauses…and he was a drunk, so that’s how I got my name. 

She’s in her late 80s and has repeated that story her whole life. Clearly a cautionary tale for taking care with the names we give our children!

And a note for all my friends. If you’re ever in The Home where restricted diets are the norm, be sure to ask for salt and pepper for your room. It’s truly the difference between edible and inedible when it comes to most foods.  

Ben was right - this place is a wellspring of content! 

Dignity Deferred

First it was David. Then there was Phil, Jose, MaryAnn, Nicole, Lisa, Presca, Jenner, and Leslie. Oh, and Deanna, Liane, Bernard, Michele, Debbie, and Kesha.

Each is a member of the extensive and still growing personal care team handling my personal - well - care for my newly re-enfeebled self when I showed up at The Home this week for recovery from surgery. 

This wasn’t the plan. I was recovering nicely from the hip replacement when suddenly my Achilles decided it needed to snap. My goal was a quick repair, and hobbling around in a boot for a few weeks before resuming normal life.

But a week ago, the ankle/foot orthopedic specialist confirmed what I had hoped Google had exaggerated. I needed surgery on that snapped Achilles tendon and that would involve six weeks of no weight-bearing on that leg, not to mention the first 10 days of leg elevation for 21 hours per day. Then there will be six more weeks with a lovely boot and crutches or cane hobbling. 

That threw us into a tail spin. We love our 120 year old home. Everything about it. In fact a couple of years ago, we’d redone the back of the house so it would be easier to transform into single level living when we would need more assistance with everyday life. 

It never occurred that we’d need that single level living now. Sure, the stairs had been a bit of a challenge as I waited for the hip replacement surgery earlier this year. But the stairs remained manageable…and just when I managed to walk up and down like a normal human - left, right, left, right - the snapped Achilles pushed me backwards.

Just imagining hopping up those higher than normal stairs? Well - the doctor assured me that he had patients that just scooted up and down stairs on their backside. That too elicited an eye roll. Great - I would be at the top of the stairs, and I still had to stand up on one leg. 

So we went to work seeking a temporary location with lots of support to make recovery possible for our aging selves. Fortunately, Minnesota is a state known for its excellence in health care - and with some extraordinary advocacy from the surgeon’s team, we left the surgery center on Monday for a transitional care unit with plenty of support to teach me hopping and scooting skills to survive the next three months.

What I wasn’t ready for was the immediate loss of autonomy when I was wheeled into a room post surgery. Apparently TCUs are one of the most heavily regulated types of facilities in this country and with attorneys being as risk averse as most are, boy, are there rules. 

I can’t even “self-administer” vitamins while here…unless I get a doctor’s order. And getting out of the bed, transferring to a chair, much less going on my own to the restroom - all require assistance to ensure no falls. Toileting has become a new action verb in my vocabulary. 

Don’t get me wrong. I get it. If I had seen myself hopping or pivoting pathetically on one leg, I’d be worried too. 

So many people - strangers all - albeit compassionate caregivers - have now seen every part of this aging body. And I mean all the parts. Even recognizing that I once was the age when my swim suits covered significantly little corporeal real estate, this involves putting personal dignity on the shelf for awhile. 

My son reminds me that this experience will provide plenty of content - and oh, he is right! Stay tuned for more notes from The Home, as I upgrade hopping and strength skills for maneuvering life in our old house as soon as possible. 

Time for A Redux and A Change!

My year so far…

I can't quite figure out what the universe is trying to tell me. But it’s clear that something needs to change. 

It was while lying in the MRI with oldies music masking the whirring sounds of the machine that I realized this whole year has been punctuated by a series of terrible, horrible, no good, very bad things. 

In what I've thought of as my normal approach to life, I began 2023 with a plan. We were organizing for the delayed trip to Jacques’ hometown of Tangier with the family, and I was going to regain the full flexibility of my inhibited hip. Convinced it was a hip flexor issue, I signed up to see the physical therapist and the chiropractor and got to work. 

As I told you at the end of 2023, it didn’t work. Every visit to the club left me in a heap of hurt that knocked me over. And I did it for months believing next time would be better. We took the trip, and I hobbled along gamely. Finally, in the fall, a visiting friend saw me stand up and said, “My 97 year old mother can stand up better than you!” 

That was sobering. So I went to see his mother’s hip specialist who, one simple x-ray later, informed me that she was surprised I was still walking based on the level of arthritic decay evident. 

Well, that too was sobering. She gave me the name of The Hip Replacement surgeon - they do specialize, these orthopedists. And by then, we were into the “I’ve used up my deductible” surgery rush time of year. I got in to see him last October, and the first appointment available was in January of this year.

That was the winter of my discontent. Pain and opioids. I recognize that opioids have been seriously over prescribed in this country, but they saved me through the surgery. 

My poor family. I ended up sleeping in a zero gravity chair for four months, as that was the only way to get more than an hour of sleep at a time before pain bolted me awake from the bed. (If you’ve never seen a zero gravity chair, they’re truly remarkable, but not a great place to sleep for months at a time…no rolling over.)

Then in December, just for fun, my body decided it was time for shingles to emerge. I meant to get the shots. They were scheduled in 2020 and we all know what happened that year. So I put it off, and the virus emerged. Fortunately, I was on a zoom call with a University colleague, and mentioned that the skin over my eyebrow felt strangely painful. He asked me to show him, so I said it was from the middle of my forehead over to the right side of my face, and…he interrupted. “You’ve got shingles and go to the ER to make sure it’s not in your eye.”

I never knew shingles could be on your face. Thought it was all torso pain. Nope. Six hours later, I learned that yes, I had shingles. Yes I had a powerful antiviral to add to my opioids, and that so far, there were no dendrites apparent in my eye. But I’d need to go see the ophthalmologist regularly to monitor. 

So - to tally - excruciating hip pain moderated by codeine, face pain with blurry eyes thanks to shingles related antiviral eye drops mixed with powerful antiviral pills. The pile of books I’d planned to roll through as I waited for surgery were now merely a blurry impossibility. The last few weeks of 2023 into the first month of 2024 were a bummer. Those who have accused me of being too positive in my approach to life wouldn’t have recognized that version of me. 

Finally - the surgery took place, and I began the work to regain mobility. The first couple of weeks were tough.  But again - the oxycontin and my supportive spouse got me through. Then right into physical therapy and the pain was gone as were the opioids, and all was moving in the right direction! Autonomy and mobility once again.

Even the shingles in the eye - oh yes, that happened - were resolving. 

Until last week. 

It’s not like I was running for a touchdown pass when my Achilles tendon snapped. I was merely walking into the house after a glorious solo trip of errands when I heard and felt the snap. An inconclusive x-ray led to the highly conclusive MRI that suggests another surgery on my new hip leg is in the near future.

So here I sit, pondering the message that the experience of this past year is sending. What am I not doing that I should be to break this string of terrible, horrible, no good, very bad luck?  

On the other hand - and this is where my positivity kicks back in (sorry, KK) - I know how very lucky I am to live in a supportive community of family and friends who are here when I need them with quarts of soup, happy hour and tea party gatherings, and boxes of treats and books to distract and entertain me over the last several months. 

And that’s the one clear lesson I take away from this past year - I have so much to be grateful for - even in my newly re-hobbled condition.

A None-Too-Soon Goodbye to 2023

Expecting the unexpected in the road ahead… Photo by Jarco Penning on Unsplash

This will be the year I remember as peppered with the proverb “This, too, shall pass”.

I only throw out that phrase when things are agonizingly annoying or somewhat painful or somehow horrifying. And it has proven to be not so true when it comes to world events.

I doubt the ongoing devastation in Ukraine will “pass” as long as Russia’s dictator desires its annexation. And the horror in the Israel and Gaza is far from passing.

As I finish that year-end review of the list of personal goals that seemed so eminently doable last January, it’s hard to suppress a chuckle at all that occurred as the year emerged.

I didn’t know that all of the PT and chiropractic care I sought for my clicky, sticky hip didn’t have a prayer of dealing with that rusty joint.

I tried. I worked at it. I thought, “I can do this!”

And then learned in September that I, nope I can’t do this on my own. I need a very skilled surgeon who will replace this old arthritic joint in two weeks – and then, again, it will be up to me to rehab back to the mobility I desire. So, this, too, shall pass.

My work has always provided the unexpected, which may mean there’s nothing unexpected about my work at all. Working for clients in higher ed, philanthropy, and networking tech means there’s no lack of issues asking for my attention. And 2023 has delivered oh so many issues eliciting the …shall pass… refrain.

There were indeed high points. We finally achieved our long-delayed family trip to Tangier and transferred knowledge of Jacques’ hometown to our next generation. Family sites, friends to know, and landmarks to never forget are now part of their shared knowledge. That passed too quickly.

We are truly fortunate to have our family all settled in Minneapolis. Daughter Clare came back first, and now Ben and Nellie own a house in the city just a couple of miles from us – and that I hope never passes.

The final note to this year has been a personal experience with shingles. I don’t recommend it. Turns out shingles is precisely as painful as people say it is. And when one has the added bonus of having shingles of the face/near the eye? Well, it brings a whole new appreciation for clarity of sight minus the smeariness of goo in the eye.

To all of you, my family and friends, I leave you with this thought. Yes, this will pass and the New Year will come. May it be filled with health and happiness for you and yours.

And if you haven’t? Get your Shingrix shots!

A Time of Quiet Reflection

An Alleshouse family picnic, with Dad on the left, Grandpa Alleshouse on the right, and Uncle Paul between Aunts Marge and Ruth on Townview Circle in the early 1960s.

For those weeks when the sun sets early here on the North Coast, we lean into the long nights as a time of reflection and memory.  And when memory takes over, the people and places we’ve loved emerge as fully formed images of times and places to hold tight.

Some years those images come from the pages of my well-worn address book as I write New Year’s greeting cards. Every year, a few more names are annotated as now gone – and a few more are added to its fading pages. The oldest entries are family and friends from home in Ohio. There are college year friends, the friends we made as young parents, then the colleagues from our middle, heavy-lifting years when we somehow raised children and worked demanding jobs. And there are the precious recent memories from the time we spent in Southern California with dear humans now on the list.

Memories also fly during and following laughter filled zooms with high school classmates as we plan a big reunion. We start off with the important work – the weekend to choose and the events to plan. Quickly the work devolves into a series of “do you remember whens”, that lead to laughs as the faces on the zoom quickly resolve into our 18-year-old selves.

My college roommates began virtual gatherings early in The Pandemic. That was so wonderful, it hasn’t stopped. Every week we catch up on lives we’re leading 40 odd years after we all shared a dorm.

I still hear the voices and laughter of my long-departed aunts and the few uncles I remember. The sweet near whisper of Aunt Mary’s kindness, Aunt Ruth’s perpetual chuckle over the equally perpetual pot of coffee, Aunt Greta’s Eastern European accent as she carefully shares only the good memories of her youth in Yugoslavia.

My parents re-emerge at this time of year. Happy fun memories of annual concerts and recitals that crowded the year-end calendars. My mother passed on when I was in my early 20s, so that’s when the memories stop. Dad was present when I married and the children arrived – so memories of his calm quiet include his humming along as first Clare, then Ben pretended to read stories from books far beyond their picture book stage.

And we remember those who left well before their time. My nieces Megan and Brittany should be home with family preparing to celebrate the holidays. And they, too, have passed on, leaving behind memories of their once easy childhood laughter and energy.

I’ve learned to hold tight to those who are still here to create memories for the coming years when long winter nights lead to reflection. And to cherish the images of those who now are part of memory, as they remain as dear today as they were when the memories were created.

Wailing

Photo by Alice Castro.

I woke up at 3 am because the gentle rain of the night was no longer gentle. The winds were whipping the rain into the window as they wailed through the trees whose leaves had yet to drop.

Wailing. That’s what woke me up.

And that’s when I realized that Mother Nature had picked up the wail of our planet and was joining in with our sorrow.

Wailing is the result of pure evil visited on innocents whose only sin was being born Jewish.

Wailing is the sound of sirens announcing another round of incoming bombs that intend to inflict further damage and death.

We stand witness to the wailing of mothers, fathers, children with the pain of loss and destruction and fear.

I am not a Middle East expert, but I am a Jew. I have been to Israel only three times in my life, and each time I fell in love again with that young nation that emerged from British rule following the Second World War.

Israel has always been a land of diversity – among its citizens are Jews, Arabs, Christians, Druids, and others – all of whom consider themselves Israelis. Its people, its culture, its science that has improved lives, and its overall zest for life.

Israel has always been a nation at risk which makes that zest for life particularly poignant. When terrorist leaders in the lands surrounding you have the stated mission of eliminating the Jews “from the river to the sea”, or erasing them from Israel, it’s a struggle to even start a conversation, isn’t it?

I’m not going to even pretend I have any ideas or suggestions or even thoughts for where this “war” could or should go from here.

All I do know is that the wailing will continue. As will the death, destruction, and fear that feels to be overwhelming us all right now.

May we pursue shalom or peace - Shabbat shalom.  

That Year That Went...

Ever have one of those years that begins with great intentions of things that will get done (finally) before the year wraps up?

This was the year when I would actually hit the mark on publishing two blog posts per month as a way to nurture the writing that will lead – at last – to the long-planned novel.

This was the year that would be measured in gains of strength and endurance to ensure I could travel with my far-flung college friends in their jaunts about the globe.

This was the year when I would complete the photo arranging project begun at the start of the COVID lock down that covers two-thirds of my project table in the office.

And here I sit in September of this year, writing the first blog post to appear on Stunning In Silver.

How does this happen? How do days that begin with great promise of plenty of productive time devolve into busyness that is exhaustingly non-productive?

How do weeks and months just fly along with those boxes of photos gathering dust on the table?

I do know what happened to the intended gains in strength and endurance. The hip that I thought was just sore from a frozen flexor turns out to need a replacement due to rampant arthritis. I had no idea I had arthritis until a truly compassionate surgeon said, “Gosh, this must be incredibly painful. How are you walking?” Not well, is the answer. At least there, I have a plan.

But back to the speed of time.

We’re in our reflective season – the Jewish New Year and all of its rituals are focused on reviewing the actions of the year completed, with great resolve to do better, be better, in the quest to make our world a better place to live.

This year I’m struggling with how to do and be better when I can’t seem to hold on to my intentions with time. I want to spend more time with my friends. I value any time with my family. Am I focusing enough time on the PT and nutrition needed to prepare for surgery?

Where does the time go?

Clare did teach me how to use Instagram this year. That’s a problem. There are my Wordle, Quordle, Octordle games with friends. I’ve started reading again – turns out I can focus when I’m not concerned the pandemic will end life as we know it.

So maybe it’s not such a mystery after all.

My Bonus Aunt Verla

My bonus family - Judy, Dennis, Aunt Verla, and Dwain.

I had no idea I had an Aunt Verla until about six years ago.  

That was when a woman named Judy reached out on 23AndMe saying, “Apparently, we’re first cousins. Where are you from? My parents are from West Virginia and Tennessee.”

The fact that my brother and I were adopted was never a secret. Mom and Dad were always right up front about the fact that they had chosen us to be theirs. So, it wasn’t a total shock that there were relatives with genetic matches somewhere in the world. But this online message made it all very real.

I responded with the few facts I knew – born in Columbus in November 1955, and I thought the last name of my birthmother was Arnold.

Within an hour I had the “OMG text” back.

Judy’s mother, Verla, never knew for certain why her younger sister ran off to Columbus from their home in Welch, WV. She always suspected she was pregnant as she didn’t contact her family for months, until Aunt Verla threatened to come and track her down. Verla’s sister, Ella, did get back in touch but never told her family she had had a child.

Judy and I communicated back and forth, reveling in these bonus family ties and imagining what ifs. By the time I met Judy, her aunt Ella had already passed, but her mother Verla was very much alive.

I spoke to my newfound Aunt Verla within a month or so and, oh my, what a lovely soul. Her first words to me were, “If I had had any idea my sister was pregnant, why, I would have raised you as my own.”

In her lovely Tennessee/West Virginia drawl, she projected sincerity of compassion that went beyond the words.

When Ella gave birth to me, Aunt Verla already had two children of her own – sons David and Dennis. Then was Janet followed by Dwain, and the baby, Judy. Her husband was an electrician named Felts and Aunt Verla was determined that her boys would not go into the primary local Welch industry of coal mining. With a persistence all her own, she pushed her husband to seek work near the Aberdeen Proving Ground in Maryland so she could move her family.

It was a hardscrabble life, as described by Aunt Verla. Her husband traveled up and down the East Coast for his work, forgetting at times to leave money at home for food for the kids. So, Aunt Verla became an independent entrepreneur, selling Avon products on the base. At one point, she said, she was the primary purveyor to the administrative assistants and staff on the base.

“That kept me in peanut butter for the kids’ lunches,” she chuckled.

I met Aunt Verla in person twice. Once, on a trip to D.C., I hopped a local train up to meet her and my cousins Judy and Dwain. We had lunch altogether, marveling at the mannerisms that reminded them of their Aunt Ella. It was strange to realize that my head tilt, and facial twerks may have had a genetic underpinning.

We promised to get together again. And we did in 2018, when Jacques and I were back on the East Coast. On that visit, we went to dinner with Aunt Verla, Dwain, Judy, and Dennis. Dennis brought photos, and Aunt Verla provided captions for them.

When we told her that we were going to drive back to Minnesota by way of the West Virginia hollers of her childhood, she cautioned to be careful on the roads around Welch and Capels.

“Remember, there are two sides of the roads in the West Virginia mountains,” she said. “There’s the safe side and there’s the sui-cide.” And then she chuckled her deep rich laugh that spoke volumes about her life.

I will miss hearing that laugh, that chuckle. We meant to go back. We meant to schedule a trip for the cousins to Minnesota. COVID happened, and then Aunt Verla had a fall that led to complications resulting in the loss of a leg. Her children asked her to approve that surgery. She did, saying, “Well I guess you’ll need to call me stumpy from now on.”

My Aunt Verla Lee Arnold Felts passed away last week at the age of 92. She was a strong, smart, deeply compassionate woman who will be missed.

She was married for 56 years until her husband passed, sold Avon for 55 years, and met a new niece at the age of 85. She had five children and a heart big enough to have raised another. Of that, I am absolutely certain.