The Great Sleep Campaign of 2026

Navigating the healthcare system can feel like a full‑time job, especially when long‑ignored symptoms finally get the attention they deserve. This post chronicles Jean’s journey through a growing lineup of medical specialists, a parade of diagnoses, and a few treatments she never imagined discussing with doctors half her age. With humor and honesty, she explores the strange, hopeful path toward a full night’s sleep. It’s a story about persistence, aging with grit, and the small victories that make the whole medical circus feel worth it.  AI….

The past few months I have accumulated a few new doctors—specialists, because apparently our bodies are too complicated for one doctor to learn it all from the tops of our heads to our toes. I now have an ears, nose and throat doctor, a sleep specialist, an urogynecologist, and a gastroenterologist. I shouldn’t complain, because it wasn’t long ago that I didn’t feel like anyone in the medical field was taking me seriously. My internist has been my primary care doctor for 20 years and if I’d been in the medical field as long as he’s been I’d be tired of listening to people complain all day long about stuff that we’ve probably brought on ourselves. “You broke your toe? It’s those extra pounds you’re carrying around.” “You have a hang nail? Loss some weight.” He’s not really that bad, but between the two of us there’s been no follow-through with things like my stage three kidney disease and the lack of sleep I’ve been complaining about for five years. I only see him once a year, so you do the math—I’ve complained five times.

The recent turnaround happened during a visit to my primary care’s PA for a UTI—a young woman who actually listened and immediately sent referrals to both a sleep specialist (with a sub-specialty in general psychiatry) and a urogynecologist. I can’t get in to see the latter until April, but I’ve already seen the sleep doctor, who sent me to an ear, nose and throat doctor, who is now sending me to a gastroenterologist—also booked until nearly April. The end of January I’m set up to do an in-home sleep study to see if I have sleep apnea. 

The Sleep Doctor suspected I have silent acid reflux and the ear, nose and throat doctor confirmed it. The gastroenterologist appointment is to see what is causing it. Silent acid reflux can wake you up at night. The Sleep doctor’s diagnosed was partly based on the fact that I wake up sometimes moving my lips like I’m blowing bubbles. He also prescribed a sleeping pill with the side effect of making a patient hold their urine—which, in my case, is a welcome side effect. Since I started taking that, some pills for acid reflux, and using the below mentioned cream I’m only getting up 3 to 5 times a night instead of 7 to 10.

And since most of my readers are women, I’ll mention the most astonishing treatment for nighttime over‑urination: vaginal estrogen cream! When the young PA mentioned it and put me on it, I couldn’t believe it was a real thing until I got home and Dr. Google confirmed that it’s a common treatment for night time urination. Apparently we get “thin” up there (or down there—take your pick), and the cream helps “restore the health of the tissues, which become thin, dry, and less elastic due to declining natural estrogen levels after menopause.” That wall is close to our bladder and it puts pressure on it. But imagine my embarrassment when my new, very young, cuter-than-Tom-Cruise Sleep Doctor explaining how vaginal estrogen cream can help me get a better night’s sleep. When I checked the MyChart app a few weeks later, I looked at the notes he wrote and I discovered ten pages of my medical history—going all the way back to my tonsils being removed at three months old! AI must have been working overtime to compile our complete histories all in one place. I was shocked. 

On New Year’s Eve I had two glasses of champagne, slept for ten hours without a sleeping pill, and only got up once during the night. How’s that for a heavenly way to start out a new year after dealing with this issue for at least five years. But in case you haven’t figured it out, my next few months are going to be consumed with a hit‑it‑from‑all‑fronts campaign to get me sleeping like that every night—without the champagne. I have a spreadsheet to track my sleep, weight, blood pressure, bowel movements, nighttime urinations, what I drink, when I eat and what combination of sleep meds I’m taking and at what time. He wants me to cut down on over-the-counter Melatonin. And reading my history reminded me that back when I broke my ribs, a doctor who came to see me in Assisted Living told me that if I took an hour every afternoon to lie down with my legs higher than my heart, it would help cut down on how often I get up at night to pee. So I’ve been doing that again while enjoy old West Wing episodes on Netflix. It’s the strangest New Year’s resolution I’ve ever written—working on my sleep issues—but I’m hopeful it’s a resolution I can achieve.

New topic: Our New Year’s Eve celebration here in the CCC started at 5:00 with a plated dinner, a slide show of all our 2025 events and ended at 8:30 with a ball drop. Yup, I know—that’s crazy. Six of us did extend the official party until 10:30 by playing cards, and all but the white snowflake headband pictured up above were won in that card game. The white headband I wore to the party. Everyone else here recycles their old holiday sweaters but I never wore them during my work-for-a-living days, so since moving here I've accumulated dollar store headbands for each of the holidays. 

Below are photos of our plated dinner—all but the first course, which was a roasted beet arancini with a goat-cheese cream sauce. I thought the chefs made up the word “arancini,” but it’s actually a traditional Sicilian fried rice ball, and it was yummy—as were all five courses that followed.  ©

Our second course was a pear-endive salad of port poached pears, braised endive gorgonzota, toasted walnuts, lemon shallot vinaigrette.

Our third course was a pan seared sea bass with roasted red pepper, lemon coulis, wilted greens and vegetable blend. Everyone was looking for a four-leafed clover during this course.

 

Our forth course was mango sorbet in champagne. "A palate cleaner." It was really good!

 

Our fifth course was grilled lamb chops with mint pesto marinate, pomegranate, balsamic sauce, lemon rice pilaf, and blistered tomatoes. I don't normally eat baby lamb or baby beef but I have to admit this very good.

 

I dove into eating our sixth course before I snapped this photo. It was a chocolate lava cake with peppermint stick ice cream and chocolate sauce. Our chefs do a wonderful job with plated meals which they only do twice a year. This one cost $30, a five dollar increase since the last one.  

(I apologize for the poor quality of the photos. I have a new phone and while that's a handy excuse, the truth is I got in a hurry and didn't notice how "yellow" those white plates turned out before I posted the photos. By then it was too late to edit them and still make my dateline for posting.) 

Post Script:  Related to not sleeping well is Dry Mouth which comes from sleeping with your mouth open. I found a product that helps with that, a tablet that sticks to your gum, above your teeth, and it lasts about five hours. I find my tongue touching it when my mouth needs moisture and I can go back to sleep without getting up to rinse my mouth with water.

 

 

The Universe Plays Jokes: My White Elephant Déjà Vu

In a senior living community where serendipity often masquerades as coincidence, one resident found herself at the center of an uncanny holiday repeat. During the annual White Elephant Exchange—an event known for its chaos, comedy, and questionable gifting—Jean once again unwrapped the only religious icons in the entire pile. Two years, two angels, two crosses, and one agnostic wondering whether the universe was nudging, needling, or simply having a laugh. What followed is a blend of skepticism, curiosity, and the kind of communal mischief that proves older adults are far from done having fun.  AI....

 
It's spooky, sometimes, how the universe seems to speak to us—how it always seems to know that we need to hear to break through the silence or fears in our lives, or to touch bases with our innermost thoughts, dreams and memories. I have a theory, though: those messages are always out there, but we don’t tune into them until we’re ready to hear them—ready to see the serendipity, coincidences and recurring symbols at play.

I wrote the above paragraph over ten years ago when I was a newly minted widow and if my theory is true, what message do you think the universe was sending me last week? The continuum care facility where I live hosted a resident‑driven White Elephant Exchange on Christmas Day, and twenty of us attended—about the same as last year. If you’ve played the game, you know the randomness of the gift you finally get to open and take home. At least six gifts passed through my hands before I opened the one I was destined to keep. This year and last year, I got the same gift: a pair of religious icons to hang on a wall—an angel and a cross. They weren’t identical, but their purpose, color, and sizes were the same. Both years, these were the only religious icons in the entire exchange. What are the odds that an agnostic would get that gift—twice?

I was incredulous. “I cannot believe this!” I blurted out, embarrassing myself. “This is the same gift I got last year!” I’m ashamed to admit the disgust in my voice was probably apparent. 

The idea that the universe was shouting a message that I didn’t want to hear made me mad. What does it want me to do—exactly? If I suddenly start claiming to believe in Jesus Christ as my savior, you should assume I’m feeling especially old and I'm hedging my bets by faking an acceptance I’ve resisted doing my entire adult life. They have a group of volunteers, here, being trained to sit with people who are actively dying and have no families. Would that person be able to tell if I was lying on my death bed? 

Still, I believe in messages from the universe; I just never questioned if those messages were vetted before they are sent out. Does the universe have a sense of humor? I wonder. Or is it trying to drag me out of my secular world to blindly accept what is in the Bible, with its text that was written exclusively by men, then rewritten, edited and translated dozens and dozen of times over the centuries, not to mention entire books that have been cut out and hidden away by the Catholic Church. 

I’ve always trusted in the balances of forces that keep the world spinning in the right direction. The positive and negative, the yin and the yang. The dark and the light. Even the Republicans and Democrats—you get where I’m going here. Maybe my reaction to getting the religious icons was the universe testing my resolve, and it said to itself, “Yup she’s still coming down on the side of Humanism. The disbelievers are still balancing out the believers.”

When I got back to my apartment, I hopped on line to refresh my memory about signs from the universe. First, I clicked on a site that promised to cover twelve signs that the universe is trying to dial us up. When the site opened up the first thing I saw in big, bold fonts was: “The Universe Doesn’t Play Games.” Farther down in the article it said the universe doesn’t send signs until we’re ready to hear them. Since that directly refutes my theory that the signs are always there, that we just don’t see them until we’re ready, I quit reading and went back to the basics.

And by the “basics,” I meant I read how Google’s AI defines signs and it says, “You know the universe is sending a sign through meaningful coincidences (synchronicities), recurring symbols (like angel numbers 11:11, songs, or animals), strong intuitive feelings, unexpected help/opportunities, or even repetitive roadblocks nudging you to change direction, all accompanied by a feeling of alignment, support, or a nudge to pay attention to something specific in your life. It's less about a single event and more about the meaning and feeling you attach to repeated, unusual patterns.”

That reminded me of how quickly many widows find comfort in the appearance of a bird or butterfly that they associate with their spouse who passed. Back in the early years of my widowhood I wrote several posts about going to a butterfly exhibit at a large conservatory and having a spiritual connection with a pair of Common Morphos—the four-five inch iridescent blue butterflies from Central and South America. To this day it gives me the warm-fuzzes to think about how those two butterflies landed within arm’s reach—me, a recent widow. Whether it was truly a sign from the universe that Don and I would always be together in spirit, or it was the invention of my own mind giving me a mental pacifier it doesn’t matter. Why? Because either way, it’s amazing what our brains can conjure up and run with. And it’s amazing that we can love someone so deeply that we can feel their presence just because a particular bird or butterfly crosses our paths.

The author Carolyn See once was asked the question of, “Why do you write?” And she answered, “Because we live in a beautiful, sentient universe that yearns for you to tell the truth about it.” 

Amateur writers like me are told that Truth is in describing the details, in the moments when we’re able to expose our flaws and fears to the world—those feelings that we have and wonder if others have them, too. And Truth is in our observations—those gray nose hairs, the flat-bladed cattails and a stranger’s Mona Lisa smile. At the White Elephant gift exchange, my Truth was also in the beauty of turning my imagination loose and pretend I knew which of my fellow residents were happy with the gift they got and which ones had mastered the art of polished politeness. 

Our self-appointed mayor didn’t pretend to be happy with the jar of  ‘Roadkill Jam’ and the handmade, artsy-fartsy dish he got. I told him, and others joined me, in convincing him to secretly leave the dish at the door of the Art Professor. She would love it and people here have turned her doorway into a receptacle for handmade ceramics. She’s been trying to figure out who is leaving her such “lovely gifts.” It’s been going on now, since before Thanksgiving when the family of someone who died was cleaning out an apartment and they left a vase at the Professor's door when she wasn't home. So far she’s gotten 5 or 6 things and those of us who eat with her at the Monday Farm Table are enjoying listening to her trying to figure out who her “secret admirer” is. Whoever said old people don’t know how to have fun. 

Until next Wednesday have a Happy New Year!!!  ©

How to Win a Gingerbread House Contest Without Eating the Evidence

Holiday gingerbread contests on a continuum care campus are usually sweet, but this year Jean's entry came with tweezers, birdseed, and a level of precision that borders on becoming an OCD legend. Along the way, this week's post revisits past showstoppers, memorable rivals, and one infamous “protest house,” all leading to a behind‑the‑scenes look at how this year’s  creation came together.  AI….

Since moving to my continuum care campus, I’ve entered the holiday gingerbread house decorating contest three times in the four years they’ve held them. My first house placed second and my second house won first. This year's judging just took place and I took first again (with the house at the top), but when I carried my house down and I saw another house (below) my heart sank. I thought it would beat the crap out of mine and hand me the crumbs in a paper bag. It was made by the kitchen staff, and they took the original kit and added another story using graham crackers. 

The year I took second place, the winner deconstructed the original kit, too, and made a house styled after one built by Frank Lloyd Wright, the most innovative architect in 20th century America. It was so clever. I didn’t mind losing to the couple who made that gingerbread house. They put so many clever details into their houses that it was just plain fun to look at. One year it was a broom with thin spaghetti for bristles that stole the show, and another year they spun sugar to make it look like an icy river. They also put a Christmas tree made out of spearmint candy inside, in front of a window, and the house was wired with lights. 

I sat out the making a house for last year's contest, because I didn’t want to be tempted by all the candy that is left over. For example, I once bought a bag of candy just to get one star out of the bag to top a Christmas tree and I needed just six squares of pretzels out of a bag for window panes and I ate the rest, which a person with high blood pressure shouldn’t be doing. And it cost a fortune to buy everything I used. 

The makers of the Wright-inspired house sat that year out, too, and that was the year the Art Professor caused a huge kerfuffle over a house she made to look like a bombed-out house in the Gaza Strip. She was going to make another protest house this year to resemble a coal-fired power plant but the kits were all gone when she asked for one. The CCC gives them out. First come, first served. This year three kits  were taken and not returned. I suspect they ended up as gifts for  grandchildren. I know for a fact that happened last year. The guy was open about it and he probably started a trend. I don't get people why do things like that. 

Nor do I understand why someone would tried to sabotage this year's contest. Three days before the votes were to be counted I discovered that someone had crossed off the number on the placecard corresponding with my house and wrote in another number. (Houses are numbered and voters are to write a number on a ballot and put it in a ballot box.) Voting had already been going on a week before my number was changed. No one owned up to the "prank" and no one can figure out why someone would to that other than to try to screw up the contest. I was so mad! I worked a lot of hours on that house and I was sure they'd use that as an excuse not to declare a winner this year. A few people are against having the houses judged. "Can't we just make them for fun?"

Anyway, this year, I decorated the entire gingerbread house and its yard with birdseed and used salt-free peanut butter to ‘glue’ them on. (If you ever make one using birdseed, do some research to learn what is toxic to birds—regular peanut butter, honey, dyes, hard candies are a few things you shouldn't use.) But before I could even start, I spent two nights sorting birdseed from a mixed bag by color and size using a pair of tweezers. I think I have a bit of OCD in me. Sometimes I’ll find myself sorting magazines on the display rack at the grocery store. People pick them up and don’t care where they put them back. What I’m trying to say is I like sorting things. But I was told that I could have found a store that sells bulk seed, and bought what I needed already sorted. Oops. I have a lot of seed left over, but at least I won’t gain ten pounds getting rid of it. We can’t feed birds here, but I can take a walk around the campus and be like Johnny Appleseed spread leftover seeds and house parts alongside our mile-long trail around the lake.

Below are photos of the step-by-step process of making my gingerbread house.

The kit the CCC gave out.

What I used to sift the smaller seeds from the larger ones.

Unpacking the parts in the box.

During the unpacking I dropped the front of the house on the floor and ended up using peanut butter to "glue" the parts to cardboard to reinforce it .

Putting peanuts and seeds on the sides.

The roofs with their layered seeds

I added cardboard hinges to help hold the sides up while the corners dried

The white hinges I made to help give the broken front more support.

The next step was to do the borders around the house while the corners set up for a couple of days. I wanted them solid before the weight of the roof was added.

The finished front

The left side

The back of the house. Those are suet balls holding up the trees branches.

Top down looking at the right side yard

The finished house. The sign says, "for the birds."

I used a pair of tweezers to place every one of those seeds and some are very tiny. It was a labor intense house to make but I enjoyed the process, even the part about figuring out how to fix my boo-boo of breaking the front of the house.

Have a good Christmas, everyone! Thanks for stopping by.