All He Wanted to do...

It occurred to me, as I was telling this story the other evening, that I had never blogged about it.

And as stories go, I think it's a pretty good true one.

Some time back, Husband had his  yearly doctor appointment for the dreaded physical.

You know what I mean: what might they find this time? As we get older, it seems the staff are rubbing their hands together with glee, anticipating the new diagnosis.

He'd had a 45 minute road trip, and being a male of a certain age, wanted to find a bathroom quickly. 

I guess the builders knew this, because once you go through the entrance double doors, all you a have to do is continue walking across the hall, and you'll walk right into the men's restroom.

So, Husband proceeds to go in. There's a rather large teen age boy at the sink. Husband goes into a stall. The boy, being an obedient son, did just what his mama said to do when you leave a room: He turned out the lights. 

Now, as you probably already know, this left Husband in the dark. And I ain't talking about the kind of dark when the stars and the moon are out. I'm talking about the can't-see-your-hand-in-front-of-your-face-dark. 

"What did you do?" I asked, suddenly horrified for him.

"I used the Braille method."

As he felt his way out the door, he began to plot what he was going to do to that  young man, but alas, the boy was long gone.

Husband proceeded to climb the stairs to the second floor. There he decided to go into the men's room and wash his hands, since he hadn't bothered with doing that on the first floor.

Upon opening the door, a lunging, snarling, large pit bull dog came for him. The elderly, frail man on the other end of the skinny leash said, "The dog is in service dog training."

Uh-huh. For what? A used car lot after hours?

Husband swiftly let the door close, and proceeded to the waiting room, where he was taken back to see the doctor right away.

"I'm a little concerned about your blood pressure," says the good doctor. "It's a little high."

"I should have had a stroke or a heart attack!" Husband exclaims. He then tells the physician what he'd just been through. 

The doctor claims, in that case, Husband is a fine specimen and sends him on his way.

As I've said before, you can't make this kind of stuff up.

Slow Down, World

I've been so overwhelmed, I don't know where to start.

Of course, the obvious, is Christmas. Shopping (what little we do), decorating (which is much less than what we used to do), a Christmas tea that Daughter decided she wanted to be the sole decorator for (using my stuff, but it will someday be her stuff, so it doesn't matter), a Christmas solo for me, getting sick and unable to hit notes on said song, thank you God that our piano can be lowered by two steps with a touch of the finger!, doing my part for Christmas dinner (Daughter and I made the dressing, coleslaw, deviled eggs and ice. Well, we didn't make the ice, the refrigerator did), doctor appoints for Mother, doctor appointments for Daughter, my yearly blood work and discovering everything was "wonky".

Wonky, you say? My liver enzymes were high. My triglycerides were WAY high. My ding dang blood sugar was just high enough I may be a diabetic.

Whoa, right there. Doc said he didn't think I was a diabetic, but that something else was causing everything to be off. He was most concerned about my liver. 

So, off I go to have an ultra sound. Which couldn't be scheduled till after one p.m. And I had to fast for at least eight hours. If you ask me, if I was a diabetic that woulda kilt me dead, right there.

Anyway, my liver is fine and dandy, which leads me to suspect that something went awry with my blood. Either my body was pulling a practical joke, the lab mixed my blood with someone else's or I was having a " high " day. Danged if I know.

Now I'm on medicine for my high triglycerides, which I'm not sure I need; and eating semi like a diabetic. Doc said, "Just don't drink soft drinks, eat sweets or pasta." I said I could live with that as long as he didn't mess with my potatoes. He said I could have a potato. 
For my birthday. Crazy guy, my doctor.

Of course, I'm more worried about Daughter. Just say a little prayer that she'll get better. 

She has a solo Sunday, but she doesn't know what she's singing yet. If this were me, I'd be a blubbering idiot, but she's cool about it.

Also, I have been accepted into the "First Families of Gilmer County" by the Genealogy Society. They are in the process of preparing a manuscript for a book about this. I've been scurrying around to find pictures, birth, death, marriage certificates and stories about people I remember to go in this book.

Oh, yeah. There was a book signing, too. Thank you for all who came, and thank you to those who continue to purchase the book. 

My  hope is things will calm down this week. Today was spent digging out from under mess. I have sat down a time or two and contemplated as I looked at our Christmas tree. In this cloudy weather, the lights show beautifully.

And you wondered why I hadn't blogged.

Busy, Busy!

Boy, I have had a busy time!

I spoke at a book club on Thursday as their guest author. What fun! If you have never done this, put it on your bucket list. All ya gotta do is write a book and get invited to one.

I had a doctor's appointment on Friday, and afterwards we went to see "War Room". It goes to show you don't have to be a Hollywood star, or spend a billion dollars on a film to make it good. 

We ate out several times, and my kitchen is still a total wreck. Even if we are only in and out, it seems like the old kitchen just can't stay clean.

Husband picked green beans, which I cooked today. I don't think I've ever cooked anything fresh from our garden on October 3 before. 

The above made the kitchen worse, so I  unloaded the dishwasher, loaded it back up and started it. There are still dishes in the sink.

Have you noticed it's raining? No? What the heck is wrong with you??

Other Brother went to the Braves game last night. He was only slightly drowned. 

Okay, I've put it off long enough. To the kitchen I go! Charge.

Really.

ARRGHHHHH!!!!

Today was one of those days where everywhere you go, everyone you see is all messed up.

Daughter was going for a flu shot. We got there just as they opened back up from lunch, and already three people were ahead of us. (Did they just sit in the waiting room through lunch, or what?) We knew we didn't have time to wait, because Daughter had a doctor's appointment across town (sorta). We got there with five minutes to spare and waited for 35 minutes in the waiting room. This, I don't like.

They called her back and she put on paper clothes and sat there, freezing for 35 minutes. This, I like even less.

The doctor had forgotten why Daughter was there and had to run back and forth to get what she needed.

By the time we got outta there, we were near starvation. It was too late to get the flu shot.

After we ate, it was too late to do the other errand.

It took forever at the restaurant, the guy who waited on us apologized (because they weren't that busy) and said something was going on back in the kitchen.

Daughter thought she saw one of the guys who works at the funeral home come out of the kitchen, but she was mistaken.

I still felt kind of funny about my steak.

So I came home an aggravated, disgusted, hurting and tired woman.

Maybe tomorrow will be a better day.

Get it together, will you people?

This Little Piggy Went To Market

I  had fallen asleep last night for twenty minutes when my back woke me up. I've been  having "worser" trouble than usual for a few days, so I wasn't surprised, just aggravated.

I took a "half a pill" and went back to bed. So, I was reading when Daughter came in the room, hobbling, white as a sheet and crying. "Mama, I hurt my foot."

I looked down and she had certainly hurt her foot. I told her to lie down across my bed and hollered for Husband, who was still downstairs.

The Little Piggy that cried wee wee wee all the way home had a reason to cry. On Daughter's right foot, that particular piggy was sticking straight out, over the edge of her foot, as though the other piggies had pushed it.

We got ice, taped her toe back together with its siblings and made her eat crackers so she could take a whopping dose of ibuprofen.

She called the doctor this morning and was given a four o'clock appointment. Then they called back and changed it to eleven thirty. The time of that call was ten fifty, and Husband was gone to town in her car. Our car is in the shop, plus I don't think it was wise for she or myself to try driving. So the doctor's office changed it to three fifteen, then called right back and said it would be Wednesday before she could be seen!

We immediately called another doctor Daughter had used, and that office couldn't see her until tomorrow at four.

I know the emergency room will take three or four hours.

So, she settled for tomorrow.

The funeral of one of our long time doctors, who passed away this weekend, is this afternoon. I suppose all the offices are closing and attending the service, which I think only right and proper.

But I wish The Poor Little Piggy hadn't slammed up against the door frame.

Maybe tomorrow we'll find out if he's broken or if he just got his snout out of joint.

Meanwhile, ibuprofen, here we come.

Let's Get Newsy, Shall We?

Did ya'll know it's supposed to snow up to two inches tonight? 

Do NOT shoot the messenger. Not even with one of them stupid little cupid arrows that is oh so popular on this historic day of the year.

Did ya'll know I was almost a Valentine's baby?

That's right. Born a week earlier, Mother said every gift she received from flowers to cards had something to do with Valentine's Day.

Most of  ya'll don't know I spent the biggest bulk of today at a doctor's office. Daughter to the left of me, Mother to the right.

I was done having me some serious back pain, so you can imagine what sitting in those really expensive plastic chairs that doctor's offices spend so much on for two and one half hours did for me.

Cured me right up, you say, laughing.

May a pox be on your head.

Speaking of poxes, (or is it poxi?) Mother had shingles more than a year ago on her head and around her eye.

She was seeing this doctor for a terrible inflammation of her colon she suffered a few weeks back, and he was diligently trying to get to the root of what was wrong.

But  you'll never guess what Mother wanted to talk about.

At first he tried to interrupt, but he finally saw the futility of this when that woman gets on a roll, so he subsided and just hung his head and said, "Okay."  Silence from him, talking from Mother. "Okay." Silence from him, talking from....well, you get the picture.

She ended all her history of ailments with a question and he brightened up. "First," he said, "You must answer my question." 

Poor thing. He walked right into that one.

So he finally (did I mention two and one half hours) sent us on our merry way to have blood drawn from Mother.

He asked her if it was okay if, when he found out the blood results for her and another test already done on Daughter, if he could just call me.

They both said yes. He looked unbelievably relieved.

Then he turned to me and said, "Call me Monday and remind me to call you Monday."

Did I mention the doctor is a man?

Lord!

Of course, I want Daughter and Mother to be medically fine. I want all their ailments to desist. I don't like people I love suffering.

I love me pretty good, too. I don't like my suffering either.

So, I'll call the doc Monday and remind him to call me Monday.

And we'll see where we go from there.

Meanwhile, where's the hot pad and the muscle relaxants?

Suffering Amongst Us

My poor old brother has suffered a lot, and continues to do so. I have everybody I even remotely know praying up a storm (I hope) that he will get well, for goodness sake.

Of course, this has my elderly mother worried sick. She can't be there, she isn't able to ride that far, walk that far, or even stay, which of course, since he is still in ICU they wouldn't let her anyway.

As you know, I had me a kidney stone a few days ago, which resulted in lots of infection, which has resulted in them powerful antibiotics.

Which has resulted in all sorts of problems.

I woke up in the  middle of last night curled into the fetal position with pain right smack dab where an old ulcer used to live.

I knew I had to have food. But Daughter saw me, and went downstairs for me, and brought me a sugar cookie and a glass of milk.

Awwww.

This worked for about three hours, and I awoke again, in more pain than before. I went into the bathroom and slung junk asunder under the sink until I found a bottle of Zantac and took myself a pill.

In about twenty minutes the pain eased enough for me to go to sleep.

Today has been uncomfortable, but I hope I can tolerate the medication, because I need to get rid of the infection.

However; I am swolle up.

If you ever wondered what a fifty-nine year old woman looks at five months pregnant, I'm your poster child.

And it ain't pretty.

You know it's bad when your sweat pants are too tight.

But in spite of all the misery, there is good news: The doctors have found what the problem is with my brother and hopefully can correct it now.

My first column is coming out in the local paper "The Best of Ellijay Blue Ridge Jasper".

A very popular store in Blue Ridge is taking one of my books, "Out on a Limb of the Family Tree" to sell because they think it will do great.

Daughter  has responded to antibiotics and her throat doesn't look like Armageddon anymore.

See? There is always a silver lining.

Or two.

A Work of Art

I worked for several years with a man named Art.

He was a big, strapping guy, well over six feet tall. In fact, everything about him was big. His personality, his movements, his voice.

He was one of the therapists in my office. I often would tell him he needed to use his inside voice, for I could hear him through a closed door and down the hall.

He would laugh his big laugh, hug me from the side, and say, "All right, Mama. I'll try."

Although Art was old enough to be my daddy, he called me mama. He said he'd never had a boss like me. Said I knew exactly how to be a boss, and that was just like being a good mama. I knew when to love, I knew when to discipline, I knew when to say 'good job!', and I loved all the staff.

Now, those words were his, but it is true, I love(d) them all. I didn't think of them as my children, though, sometimes it was a little hard not too. They were professionals: nurses, therapists, doctors, secretaries, van drivers and techs. And every one one of them, for the most part, did an excellent, professional job.

Many of them are my fast friends, even today.

Art was a southerner, but not a southerner like me. He was a Mississippi bayou southerner.

His past was somewhat mysterious. I knew he'd been a minister in the church, that he had a really crazy wife (she tried to run him down with the car while their little children were with her), and that somehow because of her insanity and accusations directed toward him, he left the church - or was asked to leave.

We talked some about our spiritual, Christian beliefs. He told me once I was one of the deepest people he'd ever met, I knew more than I let on about spiritual life. That came from discussions I won't go into here.

We also shared books.

He was so proud when my first book, 'Falling', was published, he couldn't wait for them to arrive. So he ordered one off  Amazon. I think he was just tickled he could order a book by me off the Internet.

He came to the book signing, hugging every woman twice and more if  he could get away with it.

The day he died just about broke my heart. You see, Art also had a big vain streak. He was  not about to admit to his severe health problems, therefore he did nothing about them.

He was on his way to work and  had to pull over. He was able to call 9-1-1 from his cell phone so an ambulance could get him to a hospital.

He died very shortly afterward.

He had called me about two weeks before when he was in town. He wanted me to meet him for lunch, but I was not well that day, and was still in my pajamas. He had to get back somewhere fairly quickly and couldn't wait on me to get ready. I even suggested he could get us food and come out to the house, but he said he was too pushed for time. "Now, I love you, darlin', we have to get together soon, you  hear?"

I agreed. Made him promise to call me on his way in so I could get ready next time, not to spring it on me. He laughed and promised that's what he'd do.

That time never came, of course.

I went to his house for a memorial service by invitation of his family. I received a phone call from  one of his cousins who was going through his address book. She found my name, checked out my relationship to him through a person she and Art knew who also knew me, and told me she wanted me to attend.

He owned a little house that he was very proud of. He'd remarried late in life and loved her very much, but she had died just before I was introduced to Art. So his house, and all that was in it, was going to some family that really had no interest in most of his belongings.

They had his pictures everywhere. Man, he was a real looker in his youth! He was Mister this and Mister that in high school, and no wonder. Stories were told, most of them funny.

Neither of his children attended. He'd been estranged from them for many years.

Some of us sat around and pieced together parts of his mysterious life. He had shared a little piece with one person, another little piece with someone else. We ended knowing a lot more than we did, but nowhere near who he may have really been.

Towards the end of the evening, the family announced they wanted us to browse Art's bookshelves and take whatever we wanted.

I was looking for my own book, thinking I'd like to have it with what I had written to him on the inside cover. But his cousin said one of the young girls in the family had already chosen it, and I said for her to keep it by all means. She told me they had found the book on his bedside table.

For some reason, my eye was drawn to a particular book, and I pulled it from the shelf. On the inside cover, written in Art's large scrawl the words: "Recommended by Kathi Hill as a must read". I got chills all over my body, because there were  hundreds of books to choose from.

Leave it to Art to find a way to tell me good-bye.

Good old Art. I loved him so, and I miss  him still.

I hope I see him again someday.

I hope he's where he can use his big old laugh and outside voice all the time. I don't think God would mind.

I Am Done All Swolle Up

I've been on some antibiotics for eight days (supposed to take them for ten). I have had a UTI (I know, I know, TMI).

So, anyway, I had some more than usual joint pain Sunday, but with me, one never knows what my body is going to do next, so I just endured it.

This morning around five I awoke with terrible joint pain in my fingers, hands, wrists, ankles and tosies.

I had to take my mother to the opthalmologist, and while in the waiting room noticed my ankles, especially my left one, was swollen.

That's a new one.

I finally got alarmed enough that I called my doctor when I got home. The nurse called back pretty quickly, which is odd, and they wanted to see me. Dang, I'd just got home....but anyway, I went.

I'm having a reaction to the antibiotics, so I have to stop. She figures I'm all better any way, having taken them seven and a half days worth.

So, doesn't that beg the question (not that I asked it), why come I was supposed to take it for ten days?

Anyway, I knew you were just waiting with baited breath as to why I hadn't blogged today (ha).

That's why. I'm all swolle up and it hurts to type.

Until next time.

There's Nothing More We Can Do

Reckon how many thousands of people have been told by their doctor, "There's nothing more we can do."?

I was told that yesterday. Not that I'm dying (well, anymore than usual). But that I am "stuck" where I am with the disability I have unless some new breakthrough comes down the pike. And he didn't seem too hopeful of that.

He'd had a bad day anyway, he said. He said I'd better be glad all the windows in the building were the kind that couldn't be opened, and I told him to go no further because I was a mental health professional and I knew there were other doctors in the building and we could take care of that. Then he laughed and said he'd always been misunderstood.

He's that kind of guy, I really like him. He's funny, down to earth. He made fun of my shoes. (Don't worry, everyone who sees my shoes makes fun of them).

He's also touted as one of the best in the field, and when one has something wrong with them, that's who you want to be treating you, of course.

And I'm grateful that "There's nothing more we can do" said to me isn't referring to a terminal illness. It's referring to a chronic condition.

I don't often get all weepy about it, I try not to dwell on the shape my shape is in because self-pity is very destructive. But I did, a little bit, with him.

And he was truly sad. He was truly sorry.

So am I, doc. So am I.

The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly

I can't go in chronological order, so bear with me.

The Bad: Best Friend's Father becomes quite ill and is taken to the emergency room. He is then admitted to the hospital, and because his kidneys are in bad shape has to wait before they can do a heart cath. He has a mild heart attack while awaiting the cath. When kidneys are cleared to have the cath, he has another mild heart attack during the procedure. 

Doctors recommend open heart surgery to this 87 year old, kidney diseased man, whose heart, by the way, has 3 or 4 total blockages while the rest of his heart blockages are 80 to 90% blocked. Surgery? I should have titled this The Good, The Bad, The Crazy, The Greedy, and The Ugly.

The Ugly: Doctors (all of them) have been barely civil to the elderly patient and his wife. His wife was asking a question to one of the doctors and he WALKED OUT while she was in mid-sentence. 

There has been no ice or water in the water pitchers. Family has to go down the hall and fetch it themselves. A nurse might help the patient onto the potty, but by golly, there is where he stays unless a family  helps him clean up and go back to bed. 

When the patient told the doctor he decided he was not going to have open heart surgery, the doctor became angry. "You know if you walk out of here I can guarantee fifty-fifty odds you will die a sudden death."

Patient tells doctor: "Son, are those the best odds you've got? I prefer one hundred percent guarantee of a sudden death. Besides, I've got a son I ain't seen in two years, and I am looking forward to seeing him and My Savior both." The doctor WALKED OUT without saying another word.

And you might guess only two out of a dozen or so doctors could speak the native language well enough that family could understand them.

The Good: In a word, hospice. They were there on time, they had the room set up before the family got home, they  have been respectful, clear, and kind. 

They told my friend's daddy that from  now on he was back in charge. If they suggested something he didn't like, he could tell them so, and they would suggest an alternative. They've made him comfortable. They've explained everything from  how the bed works to medications. They are pursuing possible veteran's benefits that the family didn't know about. 

And more important than that - or anything else, for that matter - they have truly listened to two elderly people that need to be listened to. They need to tell their stories.

They need to be heard.

To all you folks out there in the medical field: Is that too much to ask?