No Roadmap.

Old age is not an overcoat I slip into easily,

I feel threadbare, uneasy in my own skin

Memories flood my mind of those beloveds lost

And never found except as dimly lit ghosts.

Daily challenges are suddenly mountainous

And steal more time from my meagre pantry.

I was feeling very tired recently. I never think to myself, there's something wrong. I always say to myself, well, it's old age, everything starts to break down.

And then I'm with one of my specialists yesterday and he tells me my hemoglobin has tanked and I need to get iron infusions from here on in.

And I ask myself, why do symptoms become so difficult to sort out from aging itself and I bet this also happens to others in the elder boat. Writing every peculiarity off to the aging process.

There is no roadmap that I'm aware of. It's a kind of hit or miss senior life. Is this serious? Do I sound like a whiny baby with an organ recital for every day of the week? Should I just up and get on (poorly) with putting one foot in front of the other while craving my bed at eleven in the morning?

I'll tell you a story about a dear friend of my daughter's who's a little older than I. She went off to the hospital to have her heart checked and felt very weak and sick after her treadmill test. So much so when she got home she had to use a walker (Zimmer frame to many of you). There is a shallow step between her kitchen and living area and the very next day (yesterday) the frame caught on this and tumbled her to the ground, unconscious. She has multiple fractures and had to be carted away by ambulance. 

And I ask myself why do elders go through awful testing sometimes - you might remember I went nearly blind in my right eye after one such procedure as it was so painful and I wasn't permitted anesthesia due to the medications I am on.

Needless to mention after her friend's accident, Daughter called me and asked me about surfaces and do I rest after getting upright from my bed, etc. And do I take my time going down steps or stairs. Next step, a videocam on Mother (joking).

Which got me writing the above poem and thinking at this precious time in our lives when time is in short supply we gobble up so much of it just in walking upright carefully and being vigilant in not tumbling or falling or stabbing ourselves with sharp objects.

 

Nothing for Granted

 The stuff we take for granted when we are in good health never fails to astound me now. I am so conscious that it can all be taken away in a heartbeat.

I had around two years of debilitating health deterioration, to the point where I had to buy those eggy frozen pre-mades for breakfast as I couldn't stand long enough at the stove to make my favourite porridge and cook my egg. Also because of the chronic anemia, I could only eat tiny amounts or I would go briefly blind as my blood was so bad. Literally. Frightening. I really never thought any kind of health and mobility could be restored. I'm still not too steady on the old pins but I can stand and do stuff now, hang pictures, wash the dishes, haul in groceries. Cook.

But enough of all that, I've written much about it here in the fervent hope that others don't need to carry their health challenges alone as the mental and emotional toll of that can be enormous.

So tonight I baked a spinach quiche. All by my little old self. And it tasted so good. Very simple old recipe - bits of bacon or ham, (4 eggs, 1/4 cup of real cream or less - mix these thoroughly), carmelized onions, mushrooms, chopped if you have them, 1 cup of finely chopped spinach or kale. Pour into a smallish pastry pie shell Top with a good cheese, grated or small lumps. Serves 4. Salad or coleslaw on the side. Omit meat if vegetarian. 

Confined to Barracks

 It's Day 5

A gradual sliding down the scale of energy to multiple unending naps and barest participation in a life much restricted.

Grandgirl and partner are out of quarantine and I am unable to participate in the celebration. Two (yeah two) interviews with CBC on two different topics had to be cancelled. As my computer also crashed and I need the large screen I've had to cancel tax clients too. And my podiatry. And other stuff. Life cancelled. There's a title.

Life is brutal sometimes. I tried to get hold of my doctor today but being Monday lines are constantly busy.

My big tests are on Tuesday 25th coming.

I'm  not worth much, I don't wish to see anyone. I finally consented to Grandgirl dropping by and then agreed to Daughter. They cheered me up a bit. They've booked a weekend away for all of us next weekend. Fingers crossed. It will probably mean just changing beds for me. *Hollow Laughter*

Mentally I'm a bit of a mess. Crying at the drop of a hat. Finding passive distractions when I'm awake. Knowing that I've been fighting depression for a while. Understandably.

Should we/I write about such challenges and downward spirals?

I made a long journal entry yesterday but haven't read it.

I note many bloggers don't write when they are suspended in illness and pain and mental disruption. And then they fade away. And I wonder.

I'm going to continue writing as much as I am able, I've decided.

I am grateful for the small things. A couple of texts from friends who care. My daughter and granddaughter who respect my boundaries (I  have difficulty asking anyone for help but they have found a balance that seems to respect that and not be intrusive or demanding). And I truly hate being "seen" when so low.

Any words of support would be lovely and feel free to talk about your own challenges and concerns about personal health, aging, and well being.

And the last time I was "out" in my neighborhood I took this pic of the rowers out practicing for the coming regatta. You might have to embiggen.

Limbo

I can't thank you guys enough for all the private messaging and comments during my recent bout of illness. 

What I find most beneficial are the affirming comments and emails. 

What  I find devastating (and interestingly none of these from fellow blog-mates but from long term friends) are messages lecturing me on my "poor choices" in not going to the hospital for a multiple day stay in isolation and denying my feelings on the matter and told to think only of my being less of a burden on my family. As if I am incapable of making carefully evaluated decisions on my own.

It's been a rough old time, guys. Not enough strength to write most of the time. And you know, a lack of interest in life and most of all participating in it.

I am back on my iron pills and the last few days have seen a small resurgence in my energy. I am awaiting news of a more planned approach to this multiple testing rather than the awful rush of the last which would have been a disaster. And not just for me but for my family.

Enough said about it all. I am back in the writing saddle so to speak and can hardly wait to get caught up your blogs.

I managed to get to my beloved beach with Daughter yesterday. We picked up some Mexican take out for a picnic and drank in the gorgeous air so much we forgot to take photos. It felt like the clouds of winter and Covid were lifting us onto a different plane which was affirmed later by zero new cases in the province.

With this first taste of spring at 6 degrees celsius, there were many like thinkers, hikers, babies, children and dogs on the strand and all the magnificent trails surrounding it.

I felt very much part of the land of the living and not of the dead.

Day 5

The worst of it is that thoughts don't leave me rest. Unbidden, often of the past. I occupied myself sorting out the android and its feeds. It wasn't doing what I told it to. Dropping favourites, reinventing newbies which were of no interest. That kept me in bad temper, but busy, for a while. It turned out there were two similar feeds clashing with each other. Order is now restored and so are favourites.

I Doctor Googled myself and found that my two underlying health issues were not helping this overlying issue: Da Bug. I may have to go to doc on Monday if I don't feel better. I see the specialist on Wednesday at the hospital which I feel quite hopeless about. I know. But it's the way I feel in this shallow-breathing painful world I live in at the moment.

Over the years I've gotten to know fellow bloggers in many ways. Often face to face or through emails and snail mails and gift exchanges. Many are of similar bent or political leanings. One, who has been a blog friend since I started blogging way back, and blogged frequently and eloquently, made the announcement today that she has terminal lung cancer. This hit me like a ton of bricks. I couldn't stop crying.

There have been a few such losses over the years. It surprises me how very close we can feel in the ether to each other. And the huge void that is created by absence.

I send her sustaining light and love through the challenges ahead. And yes, it puts my own tribulations at the moment into some sort of perspective.

Mind over Matter

I would consider myself fairly in tune with my body, my emotions, my mind, you know?

Imagine my shock when my doctor adamantly, adamantly disagrees with me.

I thought I was cruising along nicely, yeah, it's been a shyte year, so many losses I can't count them at the moment.

And yeah, I feel on the edge a lot of the time. The edge of what I couldn't tell you. Disaster I suppose. Another awful thing maybe looming around the corner ready to grab me by the throat.

And Doctor tells me my health is really, really suffering. My blood pressure is now worse than before, my blood sugars are all over the place, my body is not happy, my outlook is depressing. And to top it off my eyes are red like I've been on a bender.

Surely to gawd, I say to him, grief couldn't cause all this havoc in my body.

And he laughs at me.

List all the griefs for me, he says, pen poised.

And I do. And I was surprised, the list was so very long.

And he says: death of many major friends, loss of family, loss of emotional connections, a dying dog, a long-time missing daughter - you need grief therapy. Stat. Meanwhile I'll up your meds again, but this is it. There's no more up, we ran out of ups today.

I've obviously lost the run of myself.

Funny how a day goes.

I’m still not 100% well, this virus has been nasty and debilitating, sapping energy, making me snorfle unpleasantly and hearing myself bark and cackle and hack into callers' ears. Food has lost any taste. I had to cancel a whole week of client and social appointments and commitments. We only miss hale and hearty when our health crouches in a corner.

Last night I went out, aimlessly, in a snow storm in the car. I don’t know why. I’m stupid that way. I ate at a Chinese food place, ate is too kind a word, I sampled a plate of fish, peking duck and cold unidentifiable things that were meant to be hot, I left most of it and came home within 45 minutes. I couldn’t stand the excitement.

Then my nose opened up. A massive nasty nosebleed that took hours to stop and then opened up again an hour later after I forgetfully blew my nose. I lay in bed thinking of the headline :

Grandmother dies in bed asphyxiating on her own blood.

It kept me awake for hours. I tossed and turned. Cuddled with the dog. Went down and made cocoa at 3 o’clock in the morning. Snow fell. Ploughs thundered by. My nose is all clogged and I am now mouth breathing, terrified the dam will burst again. I must have fallen asleep at dawn, light was seeping in under the blind. I like being tired enough that I don’t care if I drown in blood in my sleep.

My last thought was: Why are you so afraid of working on your novel?

I got up at eight and called my client. I apologized. I said anything I told him about why I couldn’t work for him today would be TMI (too much information). He was fine. We changed the date to tomorrow. No one wants to hear about blood. No matter what the source.

I went back to bed, still mouth breathing. Slept until 10. Made breakfast of mueslix and pineapple.

I wrote in my journal: Why are you so afraid of working on your novel?

Answer: The muse is gone, writer’s block is major, it is a stupid crappy novel anyway and you can’t really write.

OK. We’re glad that’s out of the way. Now can you make one promise? Just one?

OK.

Can you not go into email, go into the web, go into blogs until you’ve sat for four hours at the keyboard reading some of the novel and maybe, huh, writing?

OK. Alright. But it won’t work.

4.00 p.m. I tear myself away from the keyboard. I am crying my eyes out. I’ve written the back story of one of the main character’s parents. Completely. How they met in Auschwitz. How they suffered. How they shaped him, their only child. How they live and breathe on my pages.

I can write.

And blow my nose again.