Coffee heat rising

Health care

Marble-Loss Update

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Well, I found some stuff at Sprouts that contains the stuff called inulin, which supposedly staves off marble-loss to some degree.

Heh! We’ll believe that when we see it, eh?

Other than sometimes causing collywobbles or constipation, it apparently isn’t especially harmful. So I guess I’m gonna try it, just to see if it helps. How exactly I’ll know whether it helps kinda escapes me. But…nothing ventured.

M’hijito is furious with me because I’ve gotten stubborn about traipsing all the way across the Valley to sit in a half-baked support group at the Mayo Clinic. Members sit there all afternoon and tell each other what they can’t remember, for the love of God!

I know, already, that I can’t remember where I put my shoes. Dammit, what good is it supposed to do me that hear that a bunch of other old buzzards who are losing their marbles can’t remember where they put their shoes??

Less and less time remains to me as each hour goes by. And of the hours that do remain, fewer and fewer are going to be of much use. So…what good does it do me to listen to people who are also losing their marbles natter on about how their brains are going to Hell on a broken-down handcart? Forgodsake, let’s fill up the hours that remain with some quality time!

Much as my mother suffered with the cancer that carried her away, frankly…I think she may have been dealt a better hand than I seem to have collected. At least she died fairly quickly, and she retained her consciousness of those who were around her. Her passing was, I suspect, far more difficult for my father (who cared for her up until the end) than it was for her.

This business of turning into a mental vegetable but staying nominally alive for some indefinite period — probably imprisoned in an institution — looks far more horrible to me.

And, speaking of indefinite periods: I have no one to take care of me forever and aye. My father was retired by the time my mother fell ill. But…my son — my only surviving relative — has a JOB.

Remember those?

He can’t take weeks or maybe months off to care for a vegetable. Nor, I think, will Medicare cover the cost of the gardening tasks. All the assets I’ve accumulated to leave to my son may be consumed by this fine horror.

It may be time to start thinking about the Final Exit.

You have to be told this? REALLY?????

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It looks like my son has conceded the Battle of the Mayo Clinic Old Folks’ Chatfest.

This is a weekly meeting in which we all sit around a table and agonize about how we can’t remember our names, much less where we put our shoes. This morning I’m told it’s OK if we don’t make the 40-minute trudge out there for that eye-glazing purpose.

What a bore! And what a waste of time: 80 minutes of driving time, plus two or three hours diddled away listening to a tribe of elders recite how they couldn’t remember to eat their breakfast. If it were not excruciatingly boring, it would still be excruciating. And so far, I have not heard one thing — not a single strategy! — that would help one remember the crucial trivia of everyday life. You know: when are the bills due, did you water the roses, did you buy whole-bean coffee or ground coffee: the daily ditz of a world dominated by trivia.

And I do need to cling to the skill or mental functioning that helps one remember where the car is parked in an underground garage.

The simplest strategy is absurdly simple: WRITE EVERYTHING DOWN ON A NOTEPAD OR WHITEBOARD.

Duh!

Most of the time that’s exactly what I do. Occasionally, I do neglect to scribble down a to-do or a to-buy or a to-call or a to-pay.

Yes. 😀 Yesterday I did lose my car in the Mayo’s underground garage. And frankly, it never would have occurred to me to write down where it was parked. I’ve never forgotten any such thing in my life!

On the other hand, yesterday’s exploit had a particularly shiny silver lining: the campus cop who helped me find the tank was just about THE cutest and most charming critter I’ve ever met.

😀

Must remember to drive out there and lose the car again….

Today I’m supposed to schlep to the dermatologist’s, wayyyyy on the OTHER side of the Valley. I can’t remember (yep!) why I made this appointment. It may be a routine visit, but I doubt that. There’s a patch on one arm that has become de-pigmented: the normally brown skin is white as a piece of typing paper.

Apparently this phenomenon is called vitiligo. It seems not to be precancerous, not to be life- or health-threatening, and…not to be especially treatable.

:-0

aaaaaaaaah SHIT! Just spilled coffee all over my computer and slopped it on the arms of the leather chair where I was loafing. And all over me.

The damn stuff has soaked into the chair. Can’t wipe it off. Can’t dab it up.

So….ohhh goodie. Looks like I’ll be buying a new family-room chair.

The place where I bought this one has closed. That means traipsing all over the Valley searching for a store that carries similar (now no doubt very unfashionable) furniture.

Ugh ugh ugh ughity ugh!!

Well, with that mess dabbed up, now there’s no time left to scribble here. Better get up, get dressed, and start driving driving driving…

…nope! WRONG! … It’s only 8:40 a.m.

😀  Not to say :-0

or

{GASP!}

LOL! I thought the present time was an hour later than it is.

Which is not a good sign, I suppose.

On the other hand, it’s not something I can change. And — conveniently — it also means I don’t have to get up and charge around to get dressed and paint the face.

But in the Quitcher Bellyachin’ Department: a MIRACLE!! The spilled coffee did NOT stain the chair’s (already brown) leather! YAHOOO!

Now all I need to make my day is another ride around the Mayo’s parking garage with that gorgeous young security guard…

😀

Soggy Doggy Day

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Just back from a morning doggy-walk, waiting for the water to heat up enough to make coffee. Wunderground says it’s 93 degrees out there; 15% humidity; expected high: 113.

Wouldn’tcha know it: M’hijito and I have to traipse to the FAR SIDE of north Scottsdale to go to another brain-numbing, BOOOORING get-together of the mentally challenged. Since everyone but me has decided that I’m now non compos mentis, I have to drag out there and listen to these people go on about how they forgot to pull up their underwear or forgot to eat their breakfast…on and on and endlessly on.

What an agonizing waste of time. Two hours trudging back and forth, and then a good three hours listening to old buzzards tell us what they forgot. Forgodsake. I know, already, that I forget things!

  • I know, already, that it’s normal for old people to forget stuff that they never would have spaced ten years ago.
  • I know, already, that there’s precious little anyone can do about it.
  • I know, already, to keep lists of upcoming appointments and to-do’s.
  • I know, already, to make notes on important tasks and meetings and events.
  • I KNOW, ALREADY, GODDAMMIT!!!!!!!

And I do NOT need to kill five hours traipsing back and forth to listen to a bunch of old folks complain about being old. That’s five hours of time I need to spend on a client’s current book project.

Well, speaking of killing time: I’d better quit bellyaching and fix some food and coffee, so as to be fortified before the kid gets here. Ugh!

This is gonna be a bi!ch of a day!

Struggling Along…

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Wow! When they say the Land of Old Age ain’t for kids, they aren’t kidding! What a horror show the past few weeks have been.

And…no end seems to be in sight, except for the obvious one.

It’s not like gettin’ old isn’t bad enough in itself: you’re sick all the time, under siege from doctors who want to inflict treatments that are probably pointless, and the ordinary tasks of daily life come to feel like more than you can cope with.

And, speaking of “under siege,” you literally are under siege from every scam artist on the planet.

Apparently they figure that as your faculties fade, so does your skill at dodging crooks. And…they’re probably right. These lists appear to be pretty readily available to anyone who’s willing to pay a few bucks for them. There’s this, for example: for $325 cash on the barrelhead, any scammer on the planet can get access to phone numbers from some 52 million old folks. Conveniently organized by categories such as “pet owners,” “religion,” “gender,” “auto owners,” “new movers” — on and on and on — these things hand you over to the hustlers. No wonder the phone jangles every day!

I’ve had to block numbers from entire area codes. This is fine (sorta) when the area codes are in Los Angeles and waypoints, where I don’t know anyone and don’t do business. But the ba*tards spoof local area codes, trying to trick you into thinking their noxious advertising and scamming calls are from neighbors or local businesses. The Phoenix area, which prides itself in aping LA’s endless sprawl, has three area codes. Since I no longer work in the East Valley nor do I still have much of a social life, I’ve blocked two of them.

This prevents people in the East Valley and the West Valley from calling me. Only problem: my dermatologist’s office is on the west side and the Mayo is on the east side. Neither of these worthy outfits can reach me on the phone.

Same is true for certain friends who use only cell phones. One of my dearest friends has canceled her land line and uses only a cell phone…which has a banned area code. To get in touch, she has to email me.

I did try the strategy of BLASTING phone solicitors with the loudest, most eardrum-shattering noise you can come up with. Rather than carry an airhorn around the house all the time, I’ve found that SCREAMING into the phone as loud as you can, at the top of your voice, seems to get you on the pests’ do-not-call lists.

You shriek:

G-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A!!!!!!!!!!

It does seem to work, at least to a degree. In the weeks since I’ve started this li’l strategy, the nuisance calls have dropped from eight or ten a day — starting as dawn cracks! — to maybe one or two.

And speaking of BLASTING….

M’jito is dragging me to the Mayo next Monday, pretty much over my dead body, to be subjected to an MRI of my brain.

This entails sticking you inside a metal tube and BLASTING EXTREMELY LOUD NOISE into your ears. It sounds absolutely unholy. Apparently some people completely freak out from this “exam,” a procedure for which the term “torture” sounds a lot more appropriate.

And it also seems to me to be utterly unnecessary. Why subject a person to a test to prove…what? That you can barely remember your name, after you’ve told the dear doctors repeatedly that you can barely remember your name?

Well. You and I have a fair idea of why. It’s spelled $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$….

I do not want to be subjected to this. But he has threatened to have me declared incompetent if I refuse to submit.

Whether he could actually get away with this is unknown to me. But what IS known is that if he tries it, he will end our relationship forever and aye.

Since I don’t relish being permanently alienated from him, I’m going along with the torture scheme. But if I’m right and nothing is wrong with my brain (!!!!!), this will be the LAST time I go along to get along when someone demands that I subject myself to anything I don’t want to be subjected to.

Airplanes are roaring away outside: r-r-r-r-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-m-b-le …hour after hour of it. Apparently it’s coming from Sky Harbor: they must have changed the morning flight patterns. What a racket!

My mother actually used to enjoy the sound of fighter jets practicing take-offs and landings at Luke Air Force Base. The locals in Sun City got blasted with that gawdawful racket every morning. She would sit on the back porch, serenaded as she had her first coffee of the day. “The sound of freedom,” she called it.

Uh huh. And coming from Sky Harbor, what we call it is “the sound of cash.”

It pretty much obviates the scheme to move to Fountain Hills. Planes flying into Sky Harbor at dinner time and out of Sky Harbor at breakfast time BLAST YOU OUT OF YOUR SEAT if you dare to sit on the back porch to enjoy your coffee. And the houses out there are built so flimsily, that they barely block the noise even if you stay inside with all the doors and windows shut.

***********

And…speaking phones ringing at the crack of dawn: RINGY DINGY DINGY!

Pick up the phone, ready to blast the solicitor.

Nope: it’s the plumber. He’s sending his son over to dig up and repair the back yard’s leaking irrigation system.

Goodie. Nothing like a little chaos — preferably expensive chaos — to make your day.

WORSER & WORSER

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GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!  Want pain? Lemme tellya PAIN!

Spent the better part of y’day and this morning at the Mayo Clinic’s ER.

I fell face-forward on the tiled floor. Reflexively stuck out my left hand as I was going down. Whacked the Hell out of my hand. Busted the humerus, one of the long bones of the upper arm. Apparently didn’t break anything else (to my surprise). But oh!

Hurt?  Lemme tella HURT! 

And hurt and hurt and hurt and hurt and hurt and hurt… Holy mackerel, it hurts!

The little dog is accustomed to sleeping on the bed. But she’s too small to jump up here by herself: she has to be lifted.

They told me not to lift her onto the bed. (They who have no clue to what a corgi is…) So of course I’ve been lifting her onto the bed.

Just now: Slipped. Lost my footing. Dropped the dog. Wrenched the arm, And HURT!!!!!

Oh Dear GOD did that hurt.

This elicited a sky-splitting shriek of agony. Terrorized the little dog. She now refuses to come out from under the toilet.

That may be just as well. At least she won’t be out here banging on the bed trying to get up.

I don’t think Ruby got hurt. But I sure as hell did.

Ohhhhh well…  The worst of the screaming pain has about subsided

And hallelujah, brothers & sisters, Amazon carries little staircases to help a small dog climb on the bed!

heee! Have you ever seen such a thang?!?

I’m thinking that tomorrow, if I can drive (highly questionable), I’ll run over to the nearest Petsmart and grab one of these for Ruby. Failing that: order it up from Amazon.

Dunno, tho… Amazon shows several models that are cheaper. Oh, well. There’s plenty of time to think about that.

Another Fine Day y-Cumin’ In….

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Boyoboy, I can hardly wait. /s/

That’s /s/ with a vengeance. You know it’s time to go when you realize you’re unstuck in time: I’m a creature of the 20th century that most surely does NOT belong in the 21st century.

This afternoon I have to drive to a huge mid-town hospital complex to meet a new doctor. This, because I decided to go in search of a new GP, one that is not part of the Mayo bureaucracuy. Not that MayoDoc isn’t wonderful — she’s very good. The problem is that the Mayo is halfway to freaking Payson, over a huge main drag that is always under construction

No overstatement: I cannot remember when I haven’t had to weave and trudge and stop-and-start through mile after mile of roadwork on Shea Boulevard, the only way out there from here. This was worth it when my great old doc was out there. But the woman onto whom they foisted me when he retired has made it very clear she doesn’t like older female patients and she especially doesn’t like me.

No kidding. Last time I was out there, she actually grimaced when I walked in her office door.

I’ll keep my place in line out there by visiting once a year, but meanwhile, I need to get a doctor in town for routine stuff. So…today we’ll see if this woman at Good Samaritan will be a decent fit.

Good Sam is where my son was born. It was adequate…I guess. The main thing I remember about it…heh….this is soooo stupid:

When the kid arrived on this earth, I didn’t know I was in labor until he was about to pop out. Why? Because labor does not hurt as much as your period.

I’d been told ooooohhh dear ooooohhhh dear, giving birth would be SOOOOO hideously painful, eek awk be ready for serious torture.

Uh….well…no.

At no time, not from beginning to end, did delivering that nine-pound boy hurt anywhere much as a routine menstrual period.

Down at Good Sam, which was the closest hospital to where we lived at the time, I overhear some broad simpering — no kidding, these were her words — “How can she stand it?” 

Idiot. How do you think I could stand it every fuckin’ 28 days? 😀

This: the result of doctors not believing what women say. Many times I’d told doctors that my periods could drive me to the brink of suicide. And just as many times I got the pat on my pretty little noggin and the there there, little girl, it’s all in your head.

You wonder why I stay away from doctors as much as possible? Some of these folks do make Christian Science look good…

Oh well. I figure it’ll take about an hour to get downtown through the traffic, find the parking garage, navigate to the fifth floor of their office building…and how CAN i count the ways i’m not lookin’ forward to that?

In other sylvan realms:

Ordered up some rat repellent from Amazon. These finally arrived yesterday. Whenever I get off the computer and then have some breakfast, I’ll have to climb into the attic and toss a few of these things around — they come in the form of bags — and then place the rest of them in strategic places around the garage, where Ruby can’t get at them.

This appears to be truly nasty stuff. After I’d picked up the box to read the instructions this morning, I rubbed an itchy eye with my left hand. Understand: I hadn’t even opened the damn box!

The microscopic amount on my hands made my eye BURN AND BURN AND BURN. I thought I was gonna have to go to the ER! Finally, after I scrubbed my face twice with soap and water, it stopped. Thank the heavens for small favors!

Now we know, anyway, not to even touch the package without wearing disposable gloves.

***********

11 ayem…

Yes. Ever have one of those days? You know…where everything you touch goes

SPROI-I-I-N-N-G

???

Yeah.Well….this is turning into one of those days. Whatever I’ve tried to do and had to do has tangled itself up, unraveled itself, fallen apart. jammed together, whatEVER. 

Finally got the supposedly rat-repellent bags of aromatic mint deposited here, there, and everywhere around the garage. Yeah. Uh huh.

Frankly, I think have about a snowball’s chance of this stuff working. Or doing anything other than emitting a stink that probably annoys humans as much as it annoys rats. If it annoys rats, that is.

There are those who believe it does repel our furry little friends,. But apparently it’s a short-term solution.

Some have suggested we might as well give up the endless war on rats and learn to live with the li’l fellas. This would be fine if they didn’t chew up the wiring, rip out the insulation, feast on the citrus harvest, and carry one disease or another. Or another. And another….

At this point, I’m up in the air. From what I can tell after talking to a couple of exterminators, for a small fortune those guys don’t do anything more than you can do yourself.

The most effective tactic would be to put out poison. But I surely can’t do that with Ruby around. If she didn’t eat the stuff herself, she’d almost certainly take a taste of any dead livestock she found out there. And that would be the end of her.

The fallback tactic: Cat.

Not just any cat, but a Manx cat.

These critters, in addition to being very smart and highly active, are big enough to take on a damned rat.

Yes. But.

Heh. They’re big enough to take on Ruby, too.

Over the years, Ruby has learned that the Human is highly entertained when she chases Other Daughter’s goddamn cats out of the backyard.

(Other Daughter is Tony the Romanian Landlord’s less-favored adult daughter. Apparently she doesn’t conform to his expectations well enough to be in line to inherit the Romanian Empire. But he does care for her, so much so that he has bought her a house two lots to the west of the Funny Farm. She’s a cat lady. There have been times when she’s probably had six or eight cats down there. She doesn’t run the AC: she leaves the windows and doors open, so the critters roam in and out. And if you have a bird feeder, your yard is the first place the little kitties roam…)

Anyway, the result is that Ruby delights in chasing furry things around the yard.

Unlike cats, though, rats are unfazed. They shoot up a tree or over a wall and then shortly come right back.

*more to come*