Baby Giraffe

My first connection with the outer world since my sabbatical in the hospital was this lovely photo of Brookfield Zoo's Newest Baby Giraffe, shown with his papa.

Yes, it is true, Lyrica seemed like the answer to a prayer, it was relieving pain, but making me dizzy and stupid. It made my ankles swell more and more huge until I was sure the skin would burst. Then, to add insult to injury, I woke up the other morning feeling that post seizure ick I've seen in my two sisters most of my life. My tongue was shredded.

I called the Neurologist who prescribed the Lyrica, and begged him for not the emergency room. Bootless cries, that. My poor house guest had to get up early and drive me to the hospital, where she sat with me from 11A.M. until almost ten at night. Bless her heart With my blood pressure int he toilet, I managed to stay three days. It's like that with Medicare. Three days, whether it is an ingrown toenail or heart surgery. Many thanks to Beedith for finding me again in the hospital. I was relatively incoherent when I called her.

So, what do you think of our new Giraffe? I think he's real cute.

Beedith and Her Robert Came to Visit Me

They came to my house and swooped me up, and after Robert put me in the car, and my walker in the trunk, off we went in search of Brunch. I ordered an omelet with chicken, broccoli, onion and cheddar cheese in it. (Concentrated protein.) I asked for a fruit plate.

I forgot to tell them NOT to send hash browns, so they sent a pile of hash browns high enough to feed a family of four. I sent it right back, asked for some carry out containers, immediately packed up most of the omelet, and most of the fruit, and ate a reasonable, small portion of my breakfast. What came home with me will feed me for a week. People who are post Gastric Bypass surgery eat minuscule portions of food, and take lots of vitamin supplements. That's what I do, anyway.

I was fortunate to be having an excellent day, so going out was not a stress on me at all. I only had pain medication three times today. Missy Edith had brought me a gift, but it waited in the hotel room while she visited me, so it will go back to Arizona and be there when I visit in November/December. Yippie! Something to plan for and save up energy-spoons toward. If you don't get the reference to spoons, go to this link: It is a 2 page PDF that explains a lot about being disabled to the Temporarily Able-Bodied population.
http://www.butyoudontlooksick.com/navigation/BYDLS-TheSpoonTheory.pdf

We had a very nice visit, and I took some quite silly photos of them to lighten up their day. The cause of their visits to the Midwest is the ill health of one of Robert's parents. That they made time to visit me was a kindness on their part, and I appreciate it more than I can say! In the immortal words of Bob Hope: Thanks for the memories...

Beedith and Robert

Curly

Curly Phebeetz

I have known Curly as long as I have known Eric and Beedith and several other friends. Curly is special, has always been Autistic. He was raised by television, after his dad "got tired of being a father" and left Moe, Curly and Larry to be raised by their mom, who worked three jobs to feed her sons, and only saw them on vacations from her job. When I met Curly, he was going on seventeen. It took me two solid years to get an entire sentence out of him.

When he walked into my house and said "I saw a Harley Davidsom Motorcycle on my way here and it was beautiful!" I tossed him in my car and we drove to our neighborhood Harley Dealer. I briefly explained about Curly to the salesman, who then took Curly for a ride around the block, and spent half an hour talking to Curly about Harleys. Turned out Curly knew the history of Harley from day one, all in his head. The guy said he had to go, but to come by any time. Curly went back, and to other Harley Dealers, for years, just to talk, mind you.

On vacations, Mom took them to Disneyland in California, and to see the oceans on both coasts, Yew York, The Statue of Liberty, the Grand Canyon and the Old West. She was a woman who worked too hard and received little reward, saved as much as she could from what she made, left her sons fixed for life, and had a long, slow, unpleasant death.

Did I mention that Curly had a girlfriend, a woman he intended to marry? Yes, He did. Curly had a job at a bar, and had told me all about this girl, and his plan to buy her a ring. We consulted about jewelers. It never happened. She was kidnapped, murdered and dismembered by a horrible man who, through the offices of the criminal justice system, has now done it several more times, and is out on bail again as I type this. She was dragged off the street into a van, and her body was found many days later, in pieces, frozen in the street. I guess you could say that was the moment Curly decided to cut all ties with reality as the rest of us know it.

Curly was devastated beyond bereft. He went to visit her family, and they all mourned together. The little sister of his girlfriend mourned with him so deeply that nine months later, she bore Curly a son. They all moved to California. For the first few years of their child's life, Curly was permitted to live in the parents' home and provide all the care for the little boy, on the condition that he not have any contact with it's mother.

At some point, the baby's mother went cuckoo crazy and decided her son should have no further contact with men, and moved away. Curly returned to Chicago and worked as a bartender. [Replay this part countless times.] So Curly has a son who is of legal age, and has no contact with him except to ask for money. "Get a Job." is his father's constant refrain. This is foreign language to the son.

Mom had figured the boys would fight over the money, so she gave it all to the oldest one, hoping he would look out for his brothers. But the Sufis, with whom he said he "had been studying for 5,000 years", directed him to use it otherwise. Translation: "He had read one of Gurjeiff's Books." Well, the Sufi's bled them bone dry of money.

Being out of cash on hand, mom had to go to the local nursing home for the indigent. When Curly found the bills, later, he learned the Sufis had directed Moe to spend over sixty-five thousand dollars at a local K-Mart. Hmmm. Doesn't SOUND like a Sufi, but who am I to judge? Please God, tell me what K-mark has that costs $65,000.00? I suspect Moe's wench was a tippler, but who am I to say for sure?

Mom had nailed down the house, though, so that whatever remained after the sale of her real estate in a very desirable neighborhood, and payment of taxes, was, according to the will, to be paid out in three checks of equal payments, to her three sons. They gathered at the Lawyer's office to get their checks, and then parted ways; Moe, the Sufi, going back to his Trailer home, Larry, to his secret apartment, which he believed no one suspected where it was, (but there were receipts for years of Mom paying his rent,) and Curly to rent a basement in a friend's home for cheap, no view, manageable rent.

Curly was not clueless, but avoided the black holes who were his siblings. I told him to stash all the money into bank notes and not touch it, that he would be old some day and need it. So he did.

Curly wanted money to live on. I told him to get a job. He did. He has a job, he lives on it. He drinks the odd beer, goes to cheap concerts, hangs out with his friends and lives on what he earns. He saves up and travels, he visits friends everywhere. The rest of the money does not exist for him. It is for when he is "OLD".

Years have now passed. Curly's Brother Moe (the Sufi) went through his (almost a hundred thousand dollars) quickly and showed up at Curly's house in begging mode. Curly, at my direction, told him: "No" is a complete sentence." He went away, only returning every few years to see if "No." Still meant "no." It did. Curly suggested his brother get a job. The brother hasn't been heard from since.

Now the Younger Brother, Larry went through his money fast too. Soon he was at the door in begging mode. And Curly, knowing the drill, told him to get a job. There was some ugly defamation of Curly's character, followed by another sincere "No." Larry was gone, in a blaze of fury that Curly would not support his two poverty stricken brothers, who were not about to get jobs if he (Curly) had money for them to live off.

The thing is, Curly, in fact, IS getting old. And still he works, lives on what he earns, and hasn't touched a penny of all that money. And I can't convince him that he is getting old enough to begin to spend it, slowly, to meet his simple needs. He hasn't had a complete medical examination since before his mother became too demented to tell him to get one. He has decided to keep enough money to bury his siblings. And he might as well keep the rest until he really needs it, when he is old. I suspect I need to talk to a money manager to figure it out from here. Like so many criminals, I meant well at the start.

Photoshopping

Photoshopping

a new photo

Today I played with Photoshop. It' s fun. I made myself look like an Andy Warhol picture, Twenty five years later, any kid can do it in Photoshop! I have suddenly a bluu background, with bright orange and red and yelloe face. What a silly program to play with images. Warhol was no Genius, just a six year old with fancy developing equipment.

Aging At the Speed of Time

Time to face the fact that we are all aging at the speed of time. We just are so busy we don't even notice the little changes.The last time I went out onto my patio, there were crowds of day lilies blooming. This morning there are dried up stumps of flowers. I happen to believe Poor Richard's Almanac. If it says there will be cold, and heavy snows, I'm getting ready already!

Got extra comforters for the bed and the spare bed, enough for the couch, should several folks visit in a blizzard. Collecting dried fruits and nuts like the squirrels. I worry about getting enough spinach in winter, but they sell it frozen. Then it is Energy Bars, chicken soup, vegetable stew with a bit of beef for flavoring, and those lovely root vegetables, some couscous here and there, my oatmeal and yogurt, and I'm set. Well, some biscotti and dark chocolate couldn't hurt, and fresh fruit and vegetables are always a treat.

It's just another endless Chicago Winter. If one is fortunate enough to be warm, it is not so bad. I have had to seal off my two north windows with film, for warmth. It keeps heating costs down. Now that I don't get out so well, I am basically a shut in when winter comes. That's when I gear up my reading. I have a little fireplace. It burns gas. I have put a loveseat in front to keep out breezes from the chimbley. I wore my Autumn socks this morning, the ones in hues of oranges and light browns and golds and greens. I noticed this morning that the Robins have left. One day they are here, and then, gone. I wonder where robins go? I think I will investigate that today.

After Gastric Bypass Surgery, one full freezer will get me through the winter. Even as little as I eat, I worry about food prices going up so much because of high gasoline costs.

Mark my words, they will have to bring back the railroads. The teamsters will fight it, but that's the only way to go now. We are a nation out of gas. It had to come. We were all banking on it being our grand-children's problem, but it's ours. We made the mess, we will have to clean it up, or set a course for cleaning before we die, to give our kids a future and a hope. Better than this:

Go see the movie Wall-E and see what can become of us, or perhaps already has.

Why I don't Iron, By Stephy

The last time I touched an Iron was 1969. It was a long, hot summer, Chicago was in a heat wave with killer high humidity. I was pregnant, overdue, miserably uncomfortable. On this wretched day, I dragged the laundry out to the laundromat, and brought home all 47 of Larry Westermeier's work shirts, damp, to iron them.

I put away the laundry, dragged out the ironing board with it's shiny silver "nonstick" cover. We had a break from the heat, living in a basement apartment. I spent the afternoon Ironing shirts, the sweat dripping from my face to between my breasts. On I went, Ironing shirt after shirt, back, front, sleeves, cuffs, collars. Light spray starch on everything, a bit more on the collars. Moving almost automatically until all of them were done and hanging from a pipe in the living room, nice and neat.

I then stretched out on the cot Larry let me use, so he and Freda could use my bed. It was complicated. I was reading my book, Barbara Tuchman's "The Proud Tower," when Larry came home, he looked at me, and said, "You sat here all day doing nothing, you useless fat pig." Then he grabbed a quick shower, smoked some dope, and went out looking for action.

I sat there in stunned silence after he left. For maybe five minutes. then I got up, got my water spray bottle and the laundry bag, and in the cool of the evening, sprayed all his shirts, wadded them back up, shoved them back into the laundry bag, and stuffed it into the closet in my (then his) bedroom. I went back to my book, and didn't give it another thought.

The next morning, he came out and said "Honey, I need a shirt for work." I replied, from my cot in the living room, "Oh, they are all stashed in a bag, in the closer, waiting to be ironed. I don't feel good. Have Freda iron one for you." And rolled over and went back to sleep. Freda, on being awakened to iron his shirt, bitched a fit and fell over it. She grabbed her things and left.

Again came "Honey, I need a shirt for work." I told him the iron was in the oven, cooling from the day before, and the ironing board was in the hall closet. A bit later he came out and said "They all smell funny." I told him to put on a tee shirt and buy a shirt on the way to work. He said "I need that money for dope. I responded: "I don't feel so good. I think I'm gonna throw up." I sat up and reached for my puke bucket, (this was not an easy pregnancy) and out the door he went. Yea verily, I have never since put hand to iron. I have known people who do, but I am not one of them.

Barbara Tuchman's book led to other interesting books, the basics of early feminism. That was my "click" moment. The next night, I slept in my bed, and told Larry he and Tara, who had replaced Freda,"could certainly use the cot, goodnight."

My life is NOT Wretched

My whole family came this morning to collect me , to take me out to brunch! To be more exact, my nephew came, in his big red pickup truck, with the little step stool so "old people" can get in. I'm the old people.

His manners are impeccable politeness, his dialog a litany of the stupidity of other drivers, what he is studying, reading or doing in general. The ride is smooth, accompanied by many gentle darts and swerves to avoid bumps and rough places. He know they hurt me, but we don't speak of it. I thanked him once, and he explained it was to protect his truck. Right.
And away we went, to a place called Wildberries.

The plates were large enough to serve a plate of pasta with pignola pesto with lemon to six people. My blood glucose was 105 this morning. That's way high for me. So I ordered a Spinach Cobb Salad. I asked for a carry-out container before we are, and packed in it about six days of food away before eating my much more manageable portion of salad. It was a wonderful salad with mashed berries as the dressing. Rarely have I enjoyed a salad more. And I will again ! For dinner tonight. My food plan excludes iceberg lettuce but allows spinach, so it was a perfect match! This was a very large adventure for me! I went out with my whole family at once!

My life has good moments, as well as the bad moments I ranted about yesterday. I can't explain it. something in me snapped, and all this poisonous rant got dumped on greasy. I planned to remove it after my nap, but Beedith's judgment is really good, so there it stands. Yes, it is true. I came home from brunch and slept until four o'clock, I was so exhausted from the adventure.

It's Summer still, a few more days of it, anyway.I get out enough to see flowers. These were at the hospital the other day. There is happiness, even great joy at unexpected beauty.

Today the great beauty beauty is Lee Murdoch playing "The Great Lakes Song" as I type this. Like an old friend , coming in and tossing his woolly coat over a chair and taking out his guitar to play and sing, just for me. What luxury, to have music at the touch of a button and a switch!

Twice in three weeks I have been taken to visit my sister. She is six years my elder, and was diagnosed in March with Multiple Myeloma. It one of those we can't touch it yet cancers, and if they wait three days too long, she dies. Well, she dies ultimately, as we all do. Since I didn't take down the ugly post yesterday, I at least owe you some flowers from my life. So before I go get dinner, here's one more I shot this at the grocery store. My poor nephew was so horrified that I was taking pictures of the groceries, I thought he would swallow his nose.But they are mighty pretty. The picture will last lots longer than cut flowers!

Tired

I'm tired of being cheerful, brave, disabled, "wheelchair bound". gimpy, special and "deeply inspirational". When my friends say, "You're so strong, I don't know how you do it", I say to myself, "Neither do I, and sometimes I can't, and don't, but you don't see that."
cripple, helpless useless and lame. I'm tired of having a happy face when I hurt enough that when I am alone I howl like an animal from the pain. I am so, So Tired. I'm weary unto death of not knowing until I was 33 years old that not everyone's feet hurt terribly all the time! Brave and smiling through it all. Losing all my friends to AIDS, caring for them as they died, and being soothing and comforting to them outside while I raged inside at the government which did NOTHING! And then leading groups for people who were HIV+, and their families and friends, talking about how to grow together through this period of grief. Knowing that about every 200 years Nature just swallows up a million or so people with some damned thing or other. Watching it called first a gay disease, then a Haitian disease with the work sick with blame the victim thought. I'm tired of that too. Just tired.

'm tired of surviving my childhood and adolescence with many ugly, abusive, and frightening times. And Smiling doghammit, through it all. I'm tired of having been a street rat so long ago, and never once getting a break, being exploited by people I thought were my friends and bartered away for a bag of dope. And dear god, Smiling through it all! I'm so, so tired. I have such well instilled manners that I have been polite to a police officer who wanted me to give him a blow job. I didn't do it, but by golly I was polite. "Will you please excuse me for declining your offer, but it makes me want to throw up all over your nice police car." Tell me about tired. I hate that when I fall I have to lie there until I can get myself up because: "If you need round the clock care it's the nursing home for you. Hiding my bruises isn't that hard when the only person who actually touches me is a massage therapist. That's the worst Part, being untouchable and untouched.

I'm tired of my father being dead, and my mother being dead, and my sister being dead. I'm especially pissed that Kenosha County, Wisconsin's Medical Examiner hasn't managed, in almost SIX MONTHS to determine my little sister's CAUSE OF DEATH! And is still telling me, all these months later, in that same, cheery voice, "If you call back next Monday I'll have better news for you then" I could even live with am honest and sincere "We can't figure it out."

And I am weary unto death of wearing braces from the second I leave my bed to the moment I go back to bed. I am just really damned tired of it all. I am not looking for pity, nor comfort,not even kind, understanding words. I just want to say out loud that I am heartsick from smiling through the pain.

And what triggers this tonight? The government has decided that we crippled Medicare patients (I almost wrote victims) only need new braces ever three to six years. So if I need a new pair of braces before they think I need them, it is almost a thousand dollars a leg to get to walk my thirty steps in less pain.

Or I could get the cheaper ones, which only come up half as high, for about $475.00 per leg, which sounds suspiciously like a thousand dollars total.

I want the people who make these decisions to have my pain for one week. To have attendants wash their private parts because they need both hands and feet to stand up so it is possible to be cleaned. to reach for the pain medicine before doing anything else in the morning and waiting for it to work so I can get out of bed. I'm very, very tired.
I'm tired of doctors and even my family thinking I am a junkie because I need such serious medication for my pain. I didn't choose this! This happened to me I didn't do anything wrong! And I am sick to death of always being so poor I wonder if there will be money for fresh fruit or fresh vegetables this week but never both.

And clearly, if I am saying all this out loud, I am in desperate need of a pain pill, because my happy ass face has slipped off, so I will take a pain pill and get all straightened out before I come back to face you all again.