I was angry about my doctor putting me on more medication. Then I clocked in and met a guy angry he didn’t have any legs.
So, I’ve been fifty two for twenty four hour.
It physically feels the same as fifty-one. For now.
An incredible surprise visit from my daughter made day #1 simply amazing – a virtual cake walk.
Just when I was reaching a low point in my self discipline regarding exercise, hope came at 0900 this last Wednesday. “Hope” ( can’t tell you his real name) walked down the hall, quadriceps flexing, causing a rivet of wrinkling in his Bermuda shorts, his arms jutting out from his side. A chest that must have measured almost two yards made it impossible for his arms to drop lower toward his hips.
Breezing through his history to confirm the main reason for his visit, I saw the word ‘bodybuilder’.
I stayed oh so professional until a coworker that recognized him from her gym, stopped and said “Hello”. Then the Anesthesiologist came. He made reference to how long ‘Hope’ would have to wait before returning to his workout regime.
I was mesmerized by his muscles. No funny stuff here people. Half a century ago I was an athlete. It was all respect. All respect. But I dropped the bar a little just before starting his IV. I asked him to flex his arm for me.
And I’ve been to the gym every day since. 🙂
Please read from fellow blogger : Pearls Before Swine
I got an invitation in the mail to plan my burial. You know, one of those things. The card had a glossy finish, discrete, but classy chestnut brown and dark gold background, the font, italic. Dinner included – at Red Lobster.
When I opened the envelope, I was thrown at first. Baldwin Fairchild did the mail out. I had no spouse in Hospice. My parents — alive and kicking, out daily, hobbies, traveling, yada yada.
I’ve seen something similar to this, except it was for future planning, investing, IRA’s. So into planning my financial future, yes I am, but do I get one of those in the mail like my parents…
I get an invitation to decide if I want cremation or an open viewing, a mahogany or a pine casket; burial in a fancy- dancy cemetery with a view of a lake (like it’s really going to matter to me), or a local plot next to the fine/ expired residents of the city I live in.
I smirk at the irony of this because, see, I made no big deal about turning fifty over a year ago, but obviously Big Brother wants to acknowledge it. Flyers from AARP have gone in the trash. No disrespect to them, but at age fifty-one and far from being able to touch my IRA or Social Security without big penalties, what is the purpose of being inundated with this mail?
Especially mail to pick your burial site.
Let me say that I am an advocate of Advance Directives and making an effort to decrease the minutia of things your family has to do with your passing. The most important thing is to let them know what life saving efforts you want made in the case of significant health decline.
But this stuff in the mail. Geez!
I’m tempted to go to the dinner and ask questions like, “Would if I want to be buried in my back yard? Will this plan pay for it?” Or “I’d like to be buried next to Robert Frost. Is that possible?”
I won’t get any more insensitive about this. (You know what they say about Karma)
Someone told me a long time ago I had to deal with my issues about death.
Silly Rabbit. I’m a nurse. Death strolls through hospitals, nursing homes, and clinics picking and choosing whose time it is. I don’t know him personally, but sometimes I swear, I feel a draft and I know he’s just walked by.
You don’t stay in medicine without giving a head nod to Death and respecting his significance
I’m not afraid of Death. Sometimes I fear I’m not living enough, but I’m not afraid of death. I placed my life in someone else’s hands a long time ago.
When I’m ready to sit back, start counting my days left, and stop living. I’ll let Big Brother know. In the meantime, I have to finish this and go.
I have another doctor’s appointment.
So I leave the dentist, stop for gas, grab a Gatorade, and three minutes later I’ve discovered the secret for fast weight loss…
To be more specific, Lidocaine injected into either your right or left buccal sac ( cheek for you non-medical people).
I had twisted off the cap to the bottle and was looking forward to the orangey taste of my potassium loaded drink. Lifting it slightly higher than chin level, but not too high that I couldn’t see the road ahead of me, I puckered my lips. Or at least I thought I had.
As I placed the plastic rim against my mouth and realized I couldn’t contract the muscles on the right side of my face, there was a split second debate going on in my head: Do I dare take a sip or not ? Am I going to dribble liquid down my shirt? I pushed the lip of the bottle harder against my mouth. Nope. No feeling at all . Like a baby squirrel, I sucked a few drops from the left side of my mouth.
I put the drink down.
I looked mournfully over at the baked chips I picked up just before paying for the gas. They probably wouldn’t taste good being as the right side of my tongue was also numb. I couldn’t roll the sour cream powdered flavoring around in my mouth.
I whimpered a little. The 460 calories sat there while I drove on.
Damn cavity !
The scale better be half a pound lighter in the morning.
Either he had slept little the night before, or he always had the seductively lowered lids that drew you in. Then there was his slow drawl with the slight accent – a male version of the come hither tone you might hear on a T.V. show – but he was sincere – that’s what him so appealing – and made me smile at his response to my question.
“I need a phone number of the person who is going to take you home after your surgery.”
Fingers on the keyboard, I was ready to type in a name and number.
“It will be one of my girlfriends.”
“Ah, um, okay. Pick one and give me her name and number.”
“Well…,” He dragged the word out. “I’m not sure which one is best. It depends on what time I am ready to go.”
I can do this. It’s none of my business. Just take both names down and the window of time for pick-up appropriate for each.
I jotted the names and numbers. All was well until four hours later. The waiting area receptionist called.
“Hello. Just wanted to let you all know that Mr. ___________’s girlfriend called and said she was on her way.”
His comment about the fact that he had more than one girlfriend came back to mind. I quickly asked, “Did she say what her name was?”
“Gosh no, Susan. Sorry, I didn’t ask.”
I advised the nurse recovering ‘Romeo’ that he had a visitor coming, that one of the girlfriend’s took a proactive approach and didn’t wait for a phone call. As she turned back toward his bay, I took note of the look on her face. Priceless.
What would happen if the other girlfriend showed up would be even more special!
Last night I set my regrets on fire; a small flame, a single curl of smoke – that’s all it fostered. Like the wagging tongue of a child, it momentarily taunted me, but then I thought, No.
There were too many joyous experiences from 2016 to let a few misgivings piggyback into 2017.
What I learned most from this last year is that letting go, for me, needs to be a daily practice. No more holding things in ( or up). It’s not some kind of measure of my character.
Besides, no one’s ever asked me to hold anything in.