Summer Day Trip and Broken Bones

Michigan has had some great days weather-wise this week---sunny, but not so humid that people were complaining about the temperatures in the 80s. Wednesday I spent some quality time with one of my Gathering Girls friends in a small town thirty-five minutes away. The town was founded on the Flat River in the early 1800s as a trading post but it’s only grown to a population of around 4,000 people. Their downtown area is a collection of quaint old buildings covering a six block area that is over shadowed by a massive 228 year old mill that today “produces 1,300,000 pounds of flour and 500,000 pounds of whole wheat products each day.” 

But the town’s most famous claim to fame is a riverboat named The Robert E. Lee that they use as a showboat. When the White Supremacists had their rally in Charlottesville, VA, last summer it set off shockwaves that were felt all the way up here in Michigan. A hot debate and a petition drive to change the name of that showboat became the area’s obsession and it ended with one of the city’s leaders resigning and the others making plans to change the showboat’s name. "A few coats of paint and a steady hand is all we need to take the right symbolic steps to denounce racism." 

Back on topic: The outside of the buildings on Main Street might be turn-of-century quaint but the two art places we explored first were anything but quaint inside. Except for the original hardwood floors, they’d been gutted and were sleek and modern---high black ceilings, white walls, with great lighting that showcased a large assortment of work by artists working in various medium. The one place was an artists’ co-op, the other was an impressive art gallery and the theme of the show we saw was places in Michigan. My God, I could not believe the prices on the paintings---mid hundreds to low thousands! Made me wish I was still an obsessed wanna-be artist. Also makes me glad I still have all my framing and mat cutting tools, should I ever decide to become the next Grandma Moses. 

We also found some nice antique shops after lunch. The place where we ate, though, had great food but it was tacky with a capital T. It’s been a long time since I’ve eaten in a place so in need of a good purging and a makeover. But it’s good to be reminded from time to time that while I might come home to messy house once in a while it’s never truly dirty or neglected for lack of money to keep it up. That sad little place with its friendly waitress and cook sporting prison tattoos was well pass its heydays. A set of sliders at the back hinted at its former glory. They once opened to a long-gone deck that would have given outdoor diners a good view of the showboat parked across the river. But one thing struck my funny bone---a sign on the front door about wiping your feet before coming inside. The inside was so at odds with what that sign suggested we’d find---I expected prissy pristine---and that still cracks me up.

Speaking of bones, I saw my orthopedic doctor the next day to get the results of my yearly bone density test. Great news! There was so much improvement from the Reclast infusions that my risk factor for a major osteoporotic fracture (hips and back) had gone significantly down. Now for the bad news. I had surgery at my elbow back in 1999---broken bones in three places---and it’s been hurting again, so I asked the doctor to x-ray it. When he looked at my images he said, “Wow! What we’re looking at here is a massive surgical failure.” One of the screws that once held the top of the ulna bone to the bottom was floating around free-willy in my flesh. Another screw that looked to be around 1 ½ or 2 inches long had backed half way out and was no longer anchoring the ulna bone to the radius bone like it was supposed to do, and a stress fracture was showing a few inches below the screw. 

The bottom line: Every time I lean on a table, for example, or put any kind of pressure on the back of my lower arm---I get a sharp pain. And I get a duller pain in my forearm every time I rotate my wrist. He said to fix the mess would be “a major ordeal involving a very long surgery, weeks in a cast and  months of physical therapy” then he added a few more 'wows' like he couldn't believe what he was seeing. The good news is I’m not getting a pinched nerve---yet---but that may happen down the road, he said, as the ulna bone floats around unconnected at the top and with the screw migrating around. I can never again lift anything above my waist. Bench pressing is out, too, which I was actually doing last year at the YMCA.

I have to go back to the doctor in two weeks after taking a round of Prednisone to reduce inflammation and we’ll go from there. He did not do the original surgery but he replaced both my knees, fixed a broken radius and wrist in my other arm and repaired my shoulder not long ago but he's not known for shoving patients into surgery without trying other things first. Laser energy waves therapy for pain management was mentioned along with a few other tricks he has up his sleeve. And here I was wishing I was just being a wuss and the old surgical point was starting to act like a weather barometer. ©

P.S. In case anyone is wondering, this elbow is not the same one that I had the Popeye’s Elbow in earlier this year.

Cougars and Widows

 

Walking on the nature trail it’s not usual to share the place with literally dozens of bikers and joggers. Local clubs use it for meet-ups and training and one bike club alone travels in packs of 30-40 cyclists. These clubs seem to be dominated by men in the prime of their lives, nice eye candy. Yesterday I was on the trail with my niece-in-law and Levi, my dog, when she asked, “Are you sure you don’t want another man in your life?”  No, I assured her, dating and romance are behind me. “Too bad,” she said, “Levi is a man magnet!” After thinking about it for a few seconds, I realized it’s true. I can’t take him any where that I don’t get comments like, “Nice looking dog,”  “beautiful schnauzer,” and “I like your dog.” One slow poke elderly gentleman we meet often on the trail even brings Bonz treats along to give to Levi. Jeez, do you think he’s trying to woo me?

It’s a good thing I look my age. I carry around my share of extra pounds---someone has to do it---and I have enough wrinkles that I’m amazed, at times, that I can still recognize myself in the mirror. Have you ever been startled when you see yourself in a mirror unexpectedly? I have. Who is that old person? I suspect most of us have an image stuck in our brains of what we look like and I doubt many of those images match our true ages. Soul mates can do that, too---look at each other and only see one another looking as fresh-faced, fit and bright-eyed as the day they fell in love. My self image shaves at least three decades off my age and when I look at members of the oppose sex---you guessed it---I am attracted to guys 35 to 40 years old. The guys in my peer group are too elderly to have any sex appeal what so ever. I’ve always thought it was kind of pathetic to watch an old woman pawing all over a guy half her age so as I age I’ve started working on seeing myself as I really am and not what I wish I still was. God forbid I should start man shopping some day and find myself browsing on the top floor when I should be shopping in the bargain basement.

Today I had an appointment with a young doctor who made me think of old lady cougars. Lord help me, he could have made me cross over that forbidden line and, trust me, there are no aspiring cougars living in my brain. He was quite full of himself, a bit of a looker with a jock’s body and we had the same quirky sense of humor. It was one of those chance encounters that leaves you feeling good, the kind where you know exactly where the other person’s sentences are going and you can finish them for each other. We were laughing so hard it’s a wonder no one came in the exam room to see what was so darn funny. I was getting tested for carpal tunnel syndrome---turns out I have it in both hands---plus the fall I took in May when I broke my arm aggravated it enough in my dominant hand to give me “trigger finger.” Two or three appointments with a physical therapist to teach me some exercises will, hopefully, buy me a year or two before the carpal tunnel has to be addressed. Until then, I have no reason to return to Dr. Hot Stuff, thanks goodness! Another appointment with him too soon might have me offering to buy him a drink after he gets off work. And I don’t have enough money in the bank to become a cougar to a doctor! Isn't that what's in it for the boy toys?---the older woman pays for elaborate vacations, a sports car and Bentley Limited Edition Platinum sunshades to match that bikini she buys him for their first trip together?

When I was a teenager I was quite boy-crazy so it doesn’t surprise me that in my widowhood I’ve started checking out the men I across paths with. (And I didn’t take all those nude figure drawing classes just to forget how to appreciate the human form. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.) But in all seriousness if I was a young widow this would the time in the process of adjusting to single living that I’d be fantasizing about getting laid. I’ve read it often enough in young widow’s blogs to know this is a normal frustration/vow/perplexing revelation for them. So if you’re a young widow thinking along these lines, I have a man magnet of a dog I could rent out. He’s guaranteed to start more than a few conversations with members of the opposite sex and who knows where that can lead. ©

Elderly Cutie Pies and Other Silly Stereotypes

My long-time hairdresser had a melt-down that caused her to cancel several appointments which meant I had to find someone new to cut hair. Enter the new kid on the block who, in the time it took to cut my hair, called me ‘cute’ or ‘cutie pie’ five times. I’d be flattered except she was calling me ‘cute’ for no other reason than in her mind I’m too old to be computer and cell phone literate. For example, when it came out that I use my computer every day, she said, “That’s SO cute!” And I had to bite my tongue to keep from telling her I’d been using a computer/word processor every day since before the internet was invented but I wasn’t sure I could pull it off with the right tone of voice. There’s a fine line between old-people chit-chat and old-people cranky talk if you’re not careful.

When it came out that I have a cell phone and know how to text…you guessed it. “Oh, that’s SO cute!” my new hairdresser gusted. I wanted to say that I’ve had a cell phone since she was watching Sesame Street in her Pampers but I wanted a ‘cute’ haircut, not the don’t-come-back style reserved for mouthy or crotchety old customers. What’s so hard about texting, anyway? We seniors just have to learn to use a different set of codes than younger people do. Things like: ATD for “at the doctor’s,” WAITT for “who am I talking to?”, and WTP for “where’s the prunes?” etc. I would have told her about the old bag cell phone I have in the basement, but she probably wouldn’t believe it has a battery so big that you had to carry it and the huge handset around like a purse---thus the term “bag phones.” Don and I were some of the very first people in town to use cell phones.

You have to develop sense of humor about the way others stereotype you but I will admit sometimes I’ll use their stereotypical view of me for my own amusement. I’ll say things that shock even me. Yesterday I had an appointment to get my elbow break x-rayed and to get a bone density test. In the waiting room a woman, upon seeing my arm in a sling says to me, “Poor dear, how did you hurt your arm?”

“I’m on a roller derby team,” I told her. “And I forgot to put on my elbow pads one day and wouldn’t you know it that would be the day I took a fall. It’s hell getting old and forgetful.” I no more got those words out of my mouth when the nurse called me back to a room so I didn’t have time to tell the woman the truth, assuming I would have been inclined to do so. This exchange took place the day after I’d been gusted all over with ‘cutes’ from the hairdresser and I’d reached my weekly quota for endearments people reserve for old people.

Accepting our age and the stereotypes that go with whatever age bracket we’re going through at the time can be ego deflating. Back when Don turned 50 he got on a kick where he’d tell waitresses that he’d just turned 60 and did he quality for a senior discount now?  These waitresses knew us as regular customers and they would reply something like, “Wow, you sure don’t look your age!” After joking back and forth Don would admit the truth and we’d all have a good laugh. This went on for several weeks after his birthday until one day we went to a state park where the girl taking the money at the entrance didn’t know us. After Don pulled this fishing-for-compliments routine, the girl looked Don squarely in the eye and gave him the senior discount rate. That was the very last time he pulled that joke.

Since old people are stereotyped as always talking about their medical conditions I don’t want to disappoint anyone who is still reading this blog entry. So here’s an update on my arm/wrist. The sling is gone, the elbow break is healed, but I can’t lift, push or pull on anything for a week while I take another round of Prednisone for my hand and wrist. The trauma of the fall may have caused carpal tunnel and I’ll have to get tested for that if the Prednisone and babying my wrist doesn’t cut down on the pain and throbbing I get in two fingers and my wrist. (I’m not the type to give anyone the finger, but right now I couldn’t if I wanted to.) The orthopedic doctor says that the carpal tunnel like symptoms could go away if I didn’t have a mild case of it before the fall, but if I did have mild CT before it won’t go away now without treatment. I spend a lot of time on my computer and have for many years---a common cause of CT---but from day one I’ve always had an ergonomic keyboard and I’m fairly sure CT was not present before my fall. That makes me hopeful that it will go away on its own and that some day, if I lose my impulse control as I age, I’ll be fully capable of giving the finger to an aid in a nursing home who is trying to force-feed me medication-laced applesauce for lunch. ©

Broken Arms and Plan Bs

I’ve always known I can’t successfully do two things at the same time and Monday I acquired a broken bone to prove it---the head of the radius in my elbow. Note to self: trying to hook a water bottle on to a fanny pack while walking causes you to trip on you own feet, fall down and fracture bones. On the good side, I didn’t hurt the elbow that I broke years ago and is screwed back together in three places. On the bad side, the break is on my dominant arm so writing, eating and brushing my teeth have all been adventures in patience. Typing one-handled is coming along good but I discovered Windows 7 on my laptop has voice recognition so if I get to a point where I want to challenge my aging brain to learn something new, it’s there for the taking. If nothing else, life teaches the importance of always having a Plan B because you never know when you’ll need one.

When my husband first had his stroke and was learning how to live in a one-handed world I taught myself how to do many things one-handed so I could then teach him by example. I even have a book on the topic, but cooking one-handed is something brand new to me. The first night I tried to fix dinner one-handed I cooked a large beet in the microwave and trying to cut it up caused my kitchen to look like a crime scene. Even the floor was red with beet juice skid marks. The dog got to the fallen beet half before I did and he managed to track red paw prints as he escaped to the living room to eat it. It was a juicy sucker and Levi looked good with red lips. Thankfully that caused me to remember the high sided cutting board and rocking knife made especially for one-handed cooks that was storage in the garage. (It was a gift someone gave to my husband who didn’t know that in his entire life Don never did anything more complicated in the kitchen than make coffee.) So now I have no reason to get frustrated cutting stuff up. But I’m worried I’ll impale myself on the deadly looking spikes in the middle of the cutting board that holds your food still. What would life be like if worry-warts like me didn’t have something to worry about?

At one the three medical facilities my broken bone took me to this week someone called me “sweetie.” Getting called sweetie struck me the same way it did the first time I got called “madam” instead of “miss”---like I’d just crossed over the border into the Land of Irrelevance with no return ticket in hand. I don’t know what came over me, maybe pain, but I stopped in my tracks, stepped back to her window and said, “Now, you don’t know if I’m sweet. I could be the crankiest old lady you’ve ever met.” She laughed (along with her co-worker) and replied, “I took a chance.” I had no come back for that so I laughed, too, and went on my way. But I do worry if someday I’ll bitch-slap someone for just trying to simplify her life by calling everyone over a certain age the same thing.

I saw my orthopedic doctor on Friday. He did both of my knee replacements and I love the guy. He said in a week when the swelling goes down in my wrist and elbow---thanks to his handy packet of Prednisone---I can try writing, typing and eating with my dominant hand again. He took away the rigid splint formed to my arm at the urgent care center that went from my fingertips to my armpit and he’s not making me have a permanent cast to replace it so long as I promise not to pick up anything heavier than a fork and I keep my arm in a sling when I’m not sitting or sleeping. I would have signed that pledge in blood if he’d asked me! He’s also setting me up for testing that could lead to me to get some treatments to strengthen my bones. Hallelujah! Maybe I won’t end up in nursing home someday with a broken hip and an aid that calls me “sweetie” or “dear” or some other bogus endearment that only means she does know my name. Life is good again…or it will be in 4 to 6 weeks when I can ditch the sling. In the meantime it could have been so much worse and I am grateful to the gods of good fortune that my streak of bad luck could actual end with something good---bones of steel! Wouldn’t that be too cool for words! ©