Now, what was I thinking?

I was thinking of SoHo Crime, a division of Soho Press of NYC, and an enticing bit of a mystery by Van de Wettering. Wettering writes detective stories set in Amsterdam. You know where that is, don’t you?

Anyway, I had a great idea, an amusing idea that I wanted to write a blog on. Now all is silent in my skull. I only recall that I wanted, I want to get everything ready here in the cottage before my total hip replacement on Tuesday. What are those things?

I have a walker in the trunk of my car. Steve will get it out when he comes on Monday. I have my loose clothes to wear after I wake up Tuesday afternoon in the hospital. They’ll want me to walk a bit. Probably more than once. (Just thinking: I’ll miss breakfast and maybe lunch on Tuesday. May be I’ll lose a pound. Is that frivolous thinking?) (Nah.)

I don’t need to get all my laundry done. The washer is a good height for me to load and unload it. No bending. I don’t need to clean my house as I have a cleaner once a week. But yes to dusting. All the surfaces of my house are dirty. Oh, my. And I still haven’t gotten a feather duster Walmart sells that someone recommended. Walmart–I don’t like shopping there, too many items, too many departments. But I do shop there. It’s so close.

But what needs to be done now…?

Advertisements

I thought…

I’d like to write an amusing blog about my gimpy left leg. Surely there was some way it could be used for humor.

…………I’m still thinking and lots of time has passed. Nothing funny yet. But maybe there is some humor in the amount of energy that is expended in preparing us all for surgery.

Yesterday I joined a large group of people at Windham Hospital. For one hour and fifteen minutes we were told what to expect when we had our hips or knees replaced. I received a great deal of helpful advice but no laughs.  I almost laughed once, but the laugh died somewhere in my chest.

If I thought about the things we have to do or be done to us before our operations, I might find it funny. We have doctor’s visits: one with a physical, blood tests, CAT scans, EKG’s, consultations with anesthesiologists and visits to physical therapists.  Are you laughing yet? I guess not. Besides, I have four new exercises to do every day from the physical therapist. Not amusing at all.

I myself am fussing about my sneakers. After the operation, and for six weeks afterwards I can’t bend over and tie my sneakers. What’ll I do? I can’t pull on my socks, either. I need to get a picker-upper, a metal arm with two parts at the end that act as fingers and pick things up, like a sock, and any other light thing. But how do I put the sock on?

How do I keep myself from bending beyond a 95 degree angle? Pain, I suppose. Pain would do the job.

And how do we handle pain? With narcotics and non-narcotics. Tylenol apparently is great with joint pain. I’ll let you know about that. I do know that narcotics are great for pain.

I do hope I don’t forget and reach over and pick up something on the floor. Wow! that would hurt.

Wish me luck.

I love my …

postcards. In my will, my son, Steve, gets them. But I’ve been thinking of giving him a box or two now.

Of course, he hasn’t any time to spend on them. His work is demanding and he won’t retire for a few years more. Besides, I’ve put them in some order,, mainly by country.

The collection was one that someone else put together. It came to me in a complicated way I won’t try to explain. but the cards date from around 1880 to 1910 or so. and there are a lot of them; I estimate about five thousand or so.

Mostly European countries are represented: Italy has the most cards, followed by France, England, Spain and the Netherlands. there’s Algeria, Bosnia-Herzegovina, Switzerland and Germany. There’s one shoe box full of american cards too. In that box there are several sets of Native Americans, back in the days when they would pose for the camera or the artist. The other American cards don’t interest me much. All too familiar, I guess.

This postcard collection inspired me to collect modern postcards. I have seven boxes of them. They are only partially organized. For a period of time in the seventies until recently, postcards were used a lot for advertising, publicity and by politicians.

I think the internet has taken over those roles. I don’t receive many postcards any more. I do receive postcards from my dentist and from my local community college announcing art shows. Besides them, only politicians seem to use them. My mail is dull these days.

Bernie is doing…

…well. He has minor upsets to his routine. And routine is important to someone who has few things to think about. He can get exercised when they moved him into the little dining room for meals, instead of letting him eat in his room. The little dining room is on his floor, around the corner from the nurse’s station. He raised a fuss about it at first but now he’s settled down. At least for awhile. Until there’s a new change in his routine.

I plan to take him to my hearing aid guy who is now in Putnam. Previously he went to Willimantic for his hearing aids. Trips in wheelchair vans will be too expensive to go there.

I hope he’ll agree to see Ralph, my hearing expert. I’ll tell him the van is too expensive to go to Willimantic. Will he accept that?

In the meantime, I’ll be leaving him behind as I go with our son and daughter-in-law to  Prince Edward Island, Canada. It’s his place. He should be going and It should be the one staying behind. but that’s not the way it worked out.

There–I’ve finished with my life story…

At least all I’m going to do right now. I’m back to daily stuff. What is there to say about the weather! It’s been grey and raining for days. Or so it feels like it. All I know is I battle depression when it’s gloomy for too long.

But I have my cure–the book Feeling Good by Dr. David Burns. It’s a book about cognitive-behavioral therapy. It is full of specific exercises to do to pull myself upward and it works. Sometimes it has worked for me just by taking the book down off the shelf and putting it on my desk. Looking at it cured me! Usually, though, I have to dig in and do some exercises.

I’ll  show you one exercise for procrastination. If you’re depressed, you are putting tasks off. This sheet makes you get going. Suppose you have a letter to write that you have put off for weeks. Here’s what to do.

Break the task into smaller tasks. On a sheet of paper lengthwise, write down the steps:  1. Outline the letter. 2.  Write a rough draft. 3. Type the final draft. 4. Address an envelope and mail.

To the right of each step, predict how difficult it will be and how much satisfaction you think you will get from each step. Use a scale of 0% to 100%. After you have completed each step, write down how difficult it was and how satisfied you actually were with completing that step, again 0% to 100%.

Putting anything into small steps relieves me of feelings of doing badly. I just have to make an outline, for example. That’s easy. Once I do that, the rest of the steps fall into place. I feel good and I’m ready to take on another task. I may not even need to follow the directions above, if I feel energized enough.

The sun is shining now so I think I’ll go visit my garden. Maybe one of my day lilies is blooming.

An Ending and A Beginning

As the Autumn came on, I felt more and more restless. Finally I decided to quit my job and go back East. I didn’t feel I wanted to become a Californian. The weather was different. Not that I had missed the snow the previous winter, but the weather didn’t seem “right.”

In November I packed and departed Berkeley. It was raining the day I left. I made it across the central flat land and then started climbing the mountains. It started to snow. Then it snowed some more. Some of the cars on the highway had slid off into the ditch. I drove around them and kept climbing. I knew better than to stop. If I stopped, I wouldn’t get traction again.

I made it to the top and found that on the Nevada side of the mountain, it was raining. What a relief! The road zigged and zagged its way downward but I made it down safely and ate lunch in Reno, a sad little city.

On my way East, I visited some families of friends of mine. Since I wanted to avoid any more snow, I drove through Texas and slowly upwards toward New England. After several days, I hit the Pennsylvania Turnpike. By then I felt close to home so I decided not to stop for the night. I pulled into one of the rest areas, parked my car, and crawled into the back seat after locking the doors.

I don’t remember if I slept or not. After awhile, I hit the road again. I arrived home in Bethel,  Connecticut about ten a.m. on a Sunday morning. My mother was at church. My Dad was surprised to see me; why was I arriving at ten o’clock in the morning? I had to tell him before I went to bed. Needless to say, my parents were alarmed that I’d done something so stupid. Once some time had passed, I agreed with them.

In January I went to Miami with my friend, Nancy, from Berkeley. She had time off from her job, teaching English as a Second language. We only had a week, so it wasn’t much of a trip. But we lived cheaply and enjoyed ourselves.

Then we came back and I started looking for a job. Miami had used up all my money, about $75. I called Smith College Employment Office and they gave me Ken Baldridge’s name and telephone number. I made an appointment to see him in New York City. And so my life with Baldridge Reading Services began. And we know how that ended!

Ann’s Friends…

…were mostly from Salt Lake City and they all seemed to be former Mormons. One who wasn’t was George. I think he was a friend of Joan’s but he also was a friend of Ann’s. He stopped by one night to invite Ann and me for a trip to the Sierras.

Some months before, he had taken his roommate with him to visit a beautiful site in the mountains. But there was an accident and his roommate had drowned. George wanted to revisit the site where it happened and he wanted us to go with him.

We couldn’t leave until late Saturday afternoon as Ann worked as a telephone operator at a nearby diary. George drove a sports car with a faulty heater. And now that it was a hot afternoon, the heater worked. I thought I’d be baked.

As we got to the mountains, the temperature dropped and I came to appreciate the heat. We finally stopped at about nine o’clock at a bar that served food. I thankfully ate and had a beer. After George and Ann had a few dances, we left and George found a place for us to sleep–on the ground. No nice air mattresses, just a sleeping bag for each of us.

The next morning we drove to a ranch to hire horses. We got our horses and began climbing the nearest mountain. I was happy. There was no way my horse could run away with me.

Instead, the belt wasn’t cinched well and when the horse took a belly full of air to climb the steep path, (the edge of the trail fell off to the left, down some distance) the saddle, blanket and I went shooting off the back of the horse and I landed on the ground. The horse, free of its load, continued to follow Ann’s horse up the mountain.

It happened so quickly that I was speechless. I just sat there trying to figure out what had happened. Around the bend in the trail came George.I”m sure I was glad to see him but I didn’t quite realize I had to get back on the horse. That was no fun; my rear end began to hurt.

But once we’d reached a level place, it wasn’t so bad. We found the creek that George’s roommate had drowned in, ate our lunch and went back down the mountain: much harder than going up, for the path went down at an angle and the horse went down at an angle. I tried to be straight in the saddle.

We made it down. I wanted to report my accident to the owner, a woman, and I hoped she’d have some aspirin. She sounded helpful, so I followed her into a room. Before the door closed behind me, a man came in and leaned against the wall at the rear of the room, watching me.

Suddenly she became threatening. She accused me of planning to sue her. I was flabbergasted. All I wanted was an aspirin. She produced a paper that stated I would never sue he for any damage done to me. I signed it and left.

Never have I felt more threatened. And I still needed an aspirin. I had to ride back to Berkeley in  a sports car on my poor, sore rear end.