Coffee heat rising

Health care

Done For!

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Continuing spectacularly sick. Ohhh well…by now I’ve gotten used to the what appears to be the fact that I’m never going to get well. The best that can be hoped, I reckon, is that life comes to an end in some reasonable period of time.

Though, it must be allowed, we’re well past any “reasonable period.”

This morning — it appears to be a Tuesday — I plan to call a venerable old-folkerie here in the Valley. Well…the place is what I regard as a prison for the elderly. They take everything you have: your life savings, the value of your home, any other cash you happen to have laying around. In return, they babysit you and feed you awful institutional food until you pass into Eternity.

Which, we must hope, will happen soon.

Soon as my mother died, my father signed himself into a similar place, one then called “Orangewood.” His experience was just hideous, but not because of the institution and its operators: he married a woman he met there, apparently imagining she could somehow take my mother’s place.

Well. No one could do that. He was deeply, truly in love with my mother, and she with him. This new broad…ohhhh my gawd! Long story short, that “marriage” promptly turned into a Horror Show from Hell.

For me, it had one advantage: taught me that if you get locked up in one of those places, you mind your own business and don’t get chummy with anyone. And especially don’t marry anyone!

I had hoped to save my assets to pass along to my son. Unless I drop dead in the very near future, that ain’t gonna happen. Clearly, this unholy ailment is going to drag on and drag on and drag on, as I get weaker and weaker, more and more unable to care for myself. Soo….might as well resign myself to the fact that he will get little or nothing from me, because the disease is going to eat up everything I have: the value of the house, the savings I’ve set aside for myself, the small but real inheritance from my father. Gone. All of it.

If I were little stronger, I’d bring an end to the horror show myself, right now. But I simply don’t have the nerve end my own life. Just plain not brave enough. Sooo…that which I have is effectively no longer mine. Shortly, it will belong to a prison for old folks.

What a world we live in! 

A Long Time Till Dawn of a New Day

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LOL! It’s 3:30 in the freaking morning!  How DO I manage to wake up at these crazy hours?

Ohhh well: Last night I got excused, once and for all, from the annoying hup-hup-hup physical therapy sessions. So that’s a relief, anyway: for me and for my son, who was having the schlep me over there and waste the evening waiting for me to get done.

So of late I learned that lifting fingernails — one of my current symptoms — can indicate diabetes.

No kidding… Diabetes is the family disease. I’ve been told several times over the years that I have “pre-diabetes” — whatever that means. None of our august physicians at the Mayo have condescended to explain what it does mean, if anything. And of course, with my son swamped in work and unhappy beyond words with me, there’s no way I would feel comfortable pestering him to drive me out there.

It’s almost an hour’s drive…two hours round trip. So you don’t even wanna know what a cab would cost.

There’s a neighborhood clinic a couple blocks down the road, though. Tomorrow I’ll walk down there and ask if they’ll test me to see if the prediabetes has evolved to full-on diabetes.

Speaking of the ‘Hood, here’s a fine event that happened within about two blocks of the Funny Farm.

Ugh! The apartments along Main Drag West have turned into serious slums. I really need to move away from here. Not a propitious event for not a propitious time…

I’m too damn sick — by a factor of about 110! — to find another place to live, pack up my house, haul out of here, unpack everything, put everything away, and set up housekeeping and yard maintenance somewhere else. So even if I wanted to move (which I sure don’t), I can’t.

Plus I believe M’hijito wants this house. In that belief, I do want him to have it.

It’s a lovely little house — not so little, actually: four bedrooms, a roomy yard, a pool, a corner lot… This is not something I want to lose, and not something I want to cut off from his future possession.

However, if the area is going to He!! on a Handcart, it would be foolish to stay here much longer. I probably should be looking for safer digs…or maybe for a place that will hold its value after I finally croak over and M’hijito inherits it.

So far, none of the neighbors seem to be in any hurry to move. The thing to do is to keep an eye on what the Romanian Landlord does, since he is smarter than the average snail and is not about to stand around watching his real estate investments go down the drain. Plus his daughter lives two houses down…I very much doubt that he would allow her to stay here if he thought the place presented much risk.

Surely, I don’t want to move: a sentiment multiplied times 100% by the presence of the weird pre-diabetes ailment. Or whatever it is. Really, I’m too sick to pack up my house, drag across the city, unpack, and organize a whole new dwelling.

On the one hand, I can only hope that I’ll die before things get a lot worse here. And before the house loses a lot of value for my son.

On the other hand, it is getting scarier and scarier here: the slum apartments; the stiff laying across the entrance to the neighborhood school; the constant cop copter fly-overs, the cops getting shot at, neighbors paying the city(!!) to gate off the alleys; the endless serenade of sirens and roaring engines….  I dunno. If I could move, I would. But I can’t…so I won’t.

Never a Frikkin’ Dull Moment

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Now we’re told that a slew of aluminum pots and pans — sold by different retailers under different brand names — will leak lead into your food. Jayzuz! Never a frikkin’ dull moment, eh?

Looks like none of my cookware falls into these categories. Probably because I bought all my spectacularly overpriced pots and pans at Pottery Barn and Macy’s: years ago.  When I had an income…  Sometimes there’s an advantage to paying way too much for that kinda stuff.  Plus I believe mine are all stainless, not aluminum.

How can I count the ways that I don’t wanna get up and start charging around?

Well, it’s only quarter after seven, so Ruby and I can loaf for awhile longer. But soon we’ll have to get on the road for the morning hike around the ‘Hood.

My revered (reverewared?) son came over yesterday afternoon and supervised tha AC guy’s activities. That was a mercy! I wouldn’t have had a chance of climbing up to the roof or tromping around observing what the guy was doing — because I wouldn’t have any idea what he was supposed to be doing.

So just now the system is pounding away. Back porch thermometer says it’s 46° out there. Not unreasonably chill for December. I guess. Doesn’t do much to inspire me to schlep the dawg around the park, though. 😮

This evening we have to traipse to the physical therapists’ gym and waste another couple of hours going hup-hup-hup. I do not see that this routine does anything whatsoever for the hip pain. What works is…yes: time and the river flowing.

Anyway, the aches and pains have faded to near-absence. So I figure that in another week or so I can put my well-exercised little foot down and call a halt to the PT shenanigans.

Meanwhile, in the absence of said aches & pains (most of them, anyhow), I need to hike to the nearby Sprouts this morning. Just what I wanna do… /s/  Still too early and too cold for any such expedition. Probably the dawg and the humann will just climb back into the sack and loaf for a couple more hours.

********

2;10 p.m.

Back from the Sprouts…and the Albertson’s…and various stores in the associated shopping center.

The outfit that sold me the shoes, one of which fell apart, claimed they’d  never sold any such shoes.

R-i-i-i-g-h-t…  Like I buy so many shoes I can’t remember where I get them. 

So I got nicely screwed there. And will never buy anything at that store again.

The skies are vibrating with the roar of military jets charging back and forth. Think most of them are coming out of the Sun City area, which is almost adjacent to Luke Air Force Base. However, a few seem to be lurking on the opposite side of the Valley — the east side, which would not be true if they were Luke planes.

Haven’t seen any nuclear bomb clouds, so I assume we’re not at war. For the nonce.

***

Sit your butt down in an easy chair, fire up the computer, start dorking around online and… RINGIE DINGIE DINGIE * RINGIE DINGIE DINGIE * RINGIE DINGIE DINGIE… Some a$$hole on the line trying to hustle you.

My GAWD but I’m sick of our idiotic phone system

Really, sometimes I think that I ought to just unplug the phones whenever I’m home, unless I’m using them to call out. But..of course…that will mean that friends and business acquaintances will never be able to call in to reach me on the goddam phone.

Let’s see if we can make the phone jangle some more by trying to take a nap between now and this evening’s hup hup hup session…

😀  😮  😀

 

 

Surely the End Is in Sight

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So, so sick. One can only hope this comes to an end fairly soon.

Not that I’m in any hurry to shuffle off this infamous mortal coil…but…dayum this old-age stuff hurts!

Need to find a way to get down to the nursing home/old-age factory, there to talk with the operators and figure out how to arrange to get myself in there when the time comes (which, I fear, is nigh…) and how to pay for it.

Horrors.

First horror: I truly detest institutional living. Hated every goddam minute of living in the college dorms. And now it looks like I’m going to have to end my life in exactly that kind of setting.

Yeah: hating every goddam minute of every goddam day.

Next horror: those places take everything you have in exchange for baby-sitting you into the Next World. And I do NOT want to have to fork over all the money my father left me and all of my own savings plus the value of this house for the privilege of being baby-sat into the Next World. I want that inheritance to go to my son, not to some baby-sitting factory.

As I mentioned a few posts back, Wonder Cleaning-Lady apparently spent some time coming into infirm people’s homes and baby-sitting them. Next time I see her, I’ll have to ask her about that, and where she worked.

It would be ideal if I could hire someone to come in and baby-sit me, at least during the day and at least until I’m a lot closer to the finish line. But it’s unclear to me whether that’s possible and, if so, how much it would cost.

Everything you have: that’s how much it’ll cost. Dontcha just  know?

And no, my son is in no position to chauffeur me into the Next World. He has a JOB. Can you imagine???

And it’s a pretty demanding job: his nose is on the proverbial grindstone all day, every day…and then some. So…somehow I’ve got to find some way get cared for without wrecking his life. And preferably without making me any more miserable than absolutely necessary.

So…I have no idea how to handle this. Asked down at the church, figuring social service work is a large part of a cleric’s job. They didn’t have a clue.

What would help a lot would be if I would just keel over dead, with a minimum of hassle and pain. Flop down on the living-room floor and be done with it.

BUT…we have this little problem of the dog. If I fell off the cliff into the Next World, she would be left here alone, with no one to feed her and care for her. And since nobody gives a damn whether I live or die, she might not survive until someone noticed.

I guess I could find a new home for her now. But gosh, I don’t wanna do it. Just now she’s my only companion and, frankly, about my only friend. If I give her to someone else, I really will be all alone.

All alone in an institutional setting. Doesn’t that sound jolly?

Mayo-Trapped!

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So here I am stuck inside one of the Mayo Clinic’s many blood-sucking rooms. Sunday morning again: once again.

Just asked my son why these appointments are always made on Sunday — one of the reasons I dropped out of choir. Got a crabby answer…but apparently he’s the one who’s been doing this. Like…he didn’t KNOW I had a standing activity on Sundays?

Innaresting.

***

Now they’ve got me trapped in a treatment room with a needle stuck in an arm, pumping some sort of gunk into me. The kid and I have been fighting — jolly fun — and so (reasonably enough) he has taken his computer and stalked off to the lobby, leaving me to sit here all alone with a needle stuck in my arm.

Dare not readdress the question of who repeatedly schedules these accursed appointments on Sunday mornings, guaranteeing that I can’t go to choir. That’s OK, I guess, because I dropped out of choir awhile back — for other reasons. But if that were not the case, by now I’d be outta there once and for all.

At any rate, I’ve come to hate this place with a passion — altruistic and marvelously scientific as it is. Actually, it’s a  sentiment that has a long backstory:

While I was growing up in Saudi Arabia, Aramco employees families and their families had to take rafts of shots every six months. None of those were pleasant, but some were notably painful — particularly typhus, typhoid, and cholera. The latter two REALLY hurt! So I learned to fear and hate clinics, hospitals, and medical staff.

That kind of prejudices me against this place, and against this seemingly ENDLESS stint of sitting here with a needle stuck in my arm, even though the treatment is pretty much painless.

Seriously: the infusion takes an hour…and that only covers pumping the gunk into your arm. Doesn’t count the hour’s driving time or any time spent sitting around in waiting rooms. Theee pitz! 

We squabbled on the way out here, so my invitation to take him to a late lunch/early dinner was rejected. Ohhh well: a lovely steak is sitting in the fridge, waiting to be barbecued.

But it’s only 1:30 in the afternoon, leaving a good hour (or more) to go. And GAWD, do I hate this place!

Summer Storm-time

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1:40 p.m.
November 18, 2025…still!

Fine freshet of an Arizona afternoon storm is y-rollin’ in. kerBOOM!  Thunder growls angrily in from the west. The sky has turned ash gray as clouds gallop ahead of the wind. Ruby the Corgi loafs on the bed, gazing out the window…apparently unfazed.

What un-fine timing. Tonight M’ijito is dragging me to the brain-banging booooring physical therapy studio, there to blow away another two hours going hup-hup-hup-hup-hup-hup-hup-hup-…..to amazingly little avail.

Ugh. If I’ve got to waste my time, I’d rather waste it loafing with Ruby.

Ohhhhh, well. It gets one out of the house. I guess. And presumably onto the rain-soaked streets…

Meanwhile, the pain is sloooooowwwleeee easing off, about an atom’s width at a time. Eventually it will go away. Then with any luck the ludicrous physical therapy antics will also go away.

The other evening I got SO frustrated with the mindless, pointless hup-hup-hupping that I sneaked out of the gym and ran off down the street. M’jito had gone off someplace (no doubt even more bored than his muther was), so I contrived to slip out and trot away without getting caught.

You can be sure he won’t let that happen again, eh?

Already it’s seemed a strangely long day. It’s only about a quarter to two. yet if feels like we ought to be rounding on 5:00 or 6:00 p.m. Why? Probably the thick cloud cover: the sky is a uniform dark gray, so you can’t estimate the time (not on a bet) by studying the height and angle of the sun.  And lookee there! It’s raining again!

How do I not want to drive through the rain, in the dark, for the privilege of a pointless hup-hup-hup session?  ARRRGH!  Let me count the pointless ways!