The Bell, the Bandages, and the Blue Tsunami

For months Jean measured progress in bandages, dressings, and weekly appointments, never quite knowing when the finish line would appear. This week it finally did, complete with a ceremonial bell, cheering nurses, and the kind of relief that makes even the hokiest traditions feel surprisingly meaningful. Along the way she found herself thinking about aging, the topics that dominate different stages of life, and a few other things worth celebrating. After all, when you've spent so long focused on healing, even ordinary blessings start looking like reasons to ring a bell…. AI

Six months. That's how long I dealt with the wound that wouldn't heal on my foot. But this past week I got to ring the bell on my way out of the wound center, signaling that I didn't have to come back. At first I wasn't going to ring it. They gave me a choice. But for the people behind the curtains in the fifteen or so treatment cubicles I thought maybe hearing that bell and the nurses cheering might give them a lift in spirits, knowing the place can produce good results when you stay the course.

In all the weeks I went there, I had not heard that bell ring. Not once. But it wasn't unusual to hear a few loud expressions of pain followed by doctors saying, "I'm sorry." So even though the bell-ringing tradition seemed a little hokey, I'll bet if someone had snapped my photo when I did it, I'd have been wearing a smile from ear to ear. That night I couldn't resist announcing my bell-ringing achievement at the dinner table.

A lot of amputees go to the wound center, along with people whose surgical sites won't heal and diabetics who need treatments that can't be done at home. Hyperbaric oxygen therapy, where you breathe 100 percent oxygen inside a pressurized chamber, is one option. It helps kill stubborn bacteria. Then there's a sealed vacuum dressing system that increases local blood flow. They also do skin substitutes and bioengineered grafts, and what they call "offloading and pressure relief." In plain English, that's custom casts. 

I didn't require any of those treatments. Mine was probably the lowest-level treatment and is billed as debridement and specialized wound dressings. But I heard enough horror stories about people who didn't take wounds like mine seriously that it put the fear in me. So I did exactly what I was told, week after week. A man who lived in my building and has since died from complications related to his foot wound and toe amputations, was one example. 

The photo above shows my wound-care supplies, and I can hardly wait to put them away. But it will be another week before I can retire them completely. I still have to keep the area covered with a thick foam, to prevent the site from getting reopening.

The above saga is a classic example of old people talking about their medical issues. We all have them, but do we have to talk about them?

Yes. Yes, we do.

Every era of life seems to come with its own conversational script. That's a stereotype, I know, but stereotypes aren't spun out of thin air. Teenagers talk about clothes, music, and the opposite sex. Young adults talk about college, building careers, and hooking up. Then comes the newlywed conversations, followed by the child-rearing years. 

Now I'm surrounded by grandparents who can talk endlessly about their grandkids. Lord knows I hear enough of those conversations living here in the land of too-old-to-live-alone-but-too-young-to-have-lost-interest-in-living. Travel is another favorite topic around here. Someone is always coming home from a cruise or planning one. My biggest trip this year was getting my oil changed twenty miles south of town.

Getting cut loose from the wound center and having my Mahjong students finish their classes so I could get back to playing are not the only things making me happy this week. Longtime followers of this blog can probably guess what's coming next: the Blue Tsunami. I was hoping for a Blue Wave and am stunned that Democrats took back both the Senate and the House. And TEXAS! Stunned and as happy as the proverbial clam at high tide.

As for the president, never lacking for something shocking to say, he recently gave a tour of the Oval Office, never mentioned the results of the Mid-Terms but he did announcement that he’s signing an Executive Order that designates the Oval Office as a national monument and federal landmark so that future presidents can’t change his decor. Sure, Donald. You can’t just pack up all that gold crap and send it to your presidential library like all the presidents that came before you did with their Oval Office decor? You are that special? No matter what anyone says about the man, he is gifted with the ability to distract and divert attention away topics he doesn’t want the public talking about...like the huge statement the Blue Wave makes about the direction he’s been taking the country. Either that, or his ego knows no limits. Does he really think no future president should have the right to decorate the place where he’s to work for the next 4 to 8 years?

Yes. Yes, he dos have an ego that enormous. ©

Thankful for Cream of Wheat and Other Tests of Character

This week Jean found herself traveling from Dickensian orphanages to Appalachian foster homes, with a detour through a bowl of Cream of Wheat and a Mahjong Mixer she somehow survived as chief organizer. Along the way she discovered that good books can make modern comforts seem miraculous, and that running an event is mostly an exercise in pretending not to notice the few things that almost went wrong. In the end, both experiences left her grateful for resilience, whether found in the pages of a novel or around a table full of determined Mahjong players….AI

I’ve been reading Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingsolver. Or I should say I’ve been listening to this month’s book club selection. Listening rather than reading for the club is something I started doing a year or more ago because I can multitask at the same time. (Question for grammar nerds: is it redundant to add “at the same time” after the word multitask? I suppose it is.) Either way, I do have the hard copy version of the book and the inside cover says, “Many generations ago, Charles Dickens wrote David Copperfield from his experience as a survivor of institutional poverty and its damages to children in his society.” It goes on to say the problems haven’t been solved in all these years since 1850 when he wrote that book.

I found Demon Copperhead a spell-bounding, fast-paced story about the foster care and opioid addiction crisis in Southern Appalachia. One negative reviewer said it was a book “filled with metaphors after metaphors” as if that was bad thing. But the metaphors were one of the things I loved about the way the story unfolded as it follows the timeline of a boy born in a single-wide trailer to a teenage, single mother who died from an overdose. A lot of dark humor comes from those metaphors. This 2023 Pulitzer Prize-winning book is written in first-person using an often witty and warm voice of the boy, Demon, as he goes from one foster care place to another, used and abused, to a brief success in high school as football player to addiction. One reviewer called it “an epic tale of survival” and I would agree wholeheartedly with that.

There’s a line written by Dickens that describes the orphans in his time as getting "three meals of thin gruel a day, with an onion twice a week and half a roll on Sunday." Demon also didn’t get enough to eat. While reading Demon Copperhead I ran across that quote while googling the word “gruel” which I did because I was wondering if gruel was the same thing as Cream of Wheat. Since I’ve been on a high protein diet I’ve been eating Cream of Wheat Instead Protein for breakfast until it threatens to come out my ears. Gruel, in case anyone else is curious, is a watery porridge made by “boiling coarsely ground oats, wheat, rye, rice, barley, millet, or hemp.” Even acorns in times of scarcity. This morning when I emptied my pouch of Cream of Wheat in a bowl with 2/3 cup of water and popped in the microwave for 25 seconds—not 30 seconds as the directions call for so it wouldn’t boil over—I thanked the gods of good luck that I wasn’t eating grounded-up acorns. That’s one of the super powers that comes with reading good books...you get to “experience” living a different kind of life without actually having to suffer living through the hardships of others who were born into different circumstances.

Change of topic: Last week I promised a report on the Mahjong Mixer I planned between my campus and our sister campus. We had twenty-four in attendance and all but one person seems happy with the experience. The woman was not happy to be playing at a table with a man from her campus because, she said, “He should be playing at the novice table and I should be at an intermediate play table.” I said, “I’m sorry, but we had to change some things around.” But the kicker is that it was the other campus’s counterpart to me who rated the playing style of their players, not me. So I can’t claim that as a mistake on my part that they both got rated as playing at the same speed.

The two other hiccups we had were also not my fault. (Right or wrong I’m not claiming them even though I suppose ‘the buck stops here’ rule should apply since I was in charge. But in my defense, all the committees had their responsibilities outlined in writing.) Hiccup number one happened because the woman in charge of the cookies and water forgot to get the bottled water so we ended up at the last minute having to have pitchers of ice water and glasses. Not ideal to use on tables where players can accidentally knock over a water container. We might not have had any water at the event if I hadn't checked the refrigerator and found it empty several hours before the event. But no one but she and I knew about the slip-up so I told myself to put my control freak in a box and don’t let her out for fear I'd say something that would embarrass us both.

The other hiccup came when it was time for the MC to do a short reading at the end of the event where she was to name the committee members, to thank them. (I had written her script for both the opening and closing, printed them out for her on two sheets of paper, and gave them to her four days ahead.) But when it was time for her to do the wrap up, she didn’t. So I reminded her it was time and she said, “Oh, I never saw the second sheet!” that was still paper-clipped to the first. But I picked her for MC for a reason and she carried it off without anyone but the two of us knowing that it was her first read through of the closing remarks.

God save me from being in charge of any future committees. I spent too much of my work life depending on just myself, and trusting others was freaking scary. Especially senior citizens who have a built-in excuse for not doing what they didn’t do. But I told myself that the people who played in the Mixer didn’t see the slip-ups that I saw. “All’s well that ends well” ran through my head as well as other platitudes to make excuses for the Mixer not going perfectly. But everyone seemed to have a good time, liked the prizes they won, and I even won two games. ©

Back on the Bench in Old Peopleville

Jean returned to her favorite lakeside bench this week, armed with a notebook, a healing foot, and good intentions. Along the way she found swans, a suspiciously friendly chipmunk, proof that autumn has arrived, and another reminder that organizing people is far more complicated than stacking Mahjong tiles. What began as a search for inspiration turned into a meditation on recovery, community, and the surprising amount of material available for yet another episode from Old Peopleville…. AI

It was a beautiful day in the neighborhood, to steal a line from the theme song written by Fred Rogers for his TV show, which needs no introduction among my demographic of readers. The sun was shining. The temperature was in the high 60s, and the distant landscape was filled with soft corals, bright reds, oranges, and lemon yellow, dotted here and there with the dark greens of conifers.

I was sitting down by our lake, watching a single swan on the still surface as it dined on weeds pulled from the bottom of the shallow water along the shore. I don't know where the six other swans were that made up the bevy the last time I sat on the same bench. That was back in the first week of September when I started going to the Wound Center and was told to cut back on my walking because of the open wounds at the base of my toes.

This past Tuesday I got some good news on that front. They scheduled me for two weeks out, instead of one, and said they think my toe woes will be healed by then. They also gave me the green light to start walking again, which was helping with my stalled mission to lose weight. I hope I can get a few weeks of outdoor walking in before the temperatures dip. I'm always cold, even in the summer, but fellow residents who walk the halls here in our Independent Living facility say I can rack up 7,000 steps if I include the underground parking level. As boring as that sounds, I'll be doing it.

As I sat by the lake writing in my notebook, I heard a rustling in the dried leaves at my feet. When I looked down, a chipmunk had one paw on my shoe and was looking right at me.

We both froze.

The spell was broken when I said, "Hi, Chippy," a nickname my mom used for these little guys who came to her ground feeder. My voice had the chipmunk hightailing it to the nearby cattails. I was glad he ran that way instead of up my leg, which at first I thought he was poised to do... or maybe he could smell the therapeutic honey on the wound dressing on my toes and was about to chew his way through my shoe. My second thought was that someone else must sit on that bench and feed those little guys. Why else would he get so close?

What was I writing when the chippy interrupted me?

I was looking for inspiration for this blog post, but all I could come up with was how busy my week had been, a sharp contrast to the tranquil view in front of me. One reason it was a busy week is that the facility threw a huge and lavish party for us to celebrate its fifth anniversary. The bar was open and free, and a lot of residents took full advantage of that. Not me. Nor did I indulge in the large chocolate bars made in the shape of letters that spelled out the name of the place. And I'm proud to say I didn't even look at the desserts. I stuck to the veggie station, the cheese station, and the kebabs.

The usual suspects got up and made speeches that had them choking back tears. All of them mentioned what a lovely family we've created here. We also had a Frank Sinatra impersonator for entertainment. It was fun watching everyone in their fancy clothes. A few people got a little tipsy and sang along with Fake Frank.

But the main thing that kept me busy this week was the Mahjong Mixer I've been planning for next week between our campus and our sister campus across town. We've got twenty-three players signed up, five of them from the Newbie class I've been teaching for the past month and a half.

This will be our third joint Mahjong event, and it was my brainchild from the very beginning. But this is the first year I've allowed others to help. I would have preferred to do it alone again, but I'm not going to live forever, and the best chance of having the event continue after I'm gone is not being the only one who knows what to do and when to do it. So I formed a committee of four, outlined the tasks that needed doing, and let them take their pick.

I could have done everything easier and faster by myself than by holding meetings and checking back to track progress. For example, one woman who was tasked with buying part of the prizes bought items and then changed her mind several times. She'd ask my opinion about what she'd purchased and I'd try to be positive, saying, "If you like it, so will others." But one prize was a potted plant that might be awkward if the winner has to take it home on the campus bus. I didn't tell her that. Another prize was a tea towel, which I dearly hope doesn't end up going to one of the guys.

The last time I took this walk down by the lake it was very much still summer. In addition to the color in the distant landscape, now the walnuts have fallen from the trees, as have the pine cones, The cattails have busted out their brown cases and are balls of fluff and squirrels were busy burying their winter dinners. The Canada geese are gone off the lake and walking trail. I missed seeing their swaddling butts in front of me as they try to get out of my way. It always makes me feel like I am herding stock. "Git along, little dogies! Whoopie Ti Yi Yo." Can you tell I grew up watching Spaghetti westerns?

And sadly all the stone carins I built on a large boulder were gone. Here I thought I was one of several people who maintained them after the wind, the pull of gravity, or little boys knocked them over. I built two more and am anxious to see whether anyone adds to them before the next time I walk what I call the lake route.

At the end of my walk, I sat on the bench by the water long enough with my notebook that the whole swan family of seven appeared from who knows where they were hiding which was my clue to get back to my apartment while I could still read my own handwriting to feed this blog post to my computer. 

Come back next Wednesday for another fill-in-the-blank episode from Old Peopleville. ©