Froglegs and Eggplants

Early last Thursday morning Carol accompanied me to the hospital where I was scheduled for surgery to repair an inguinal hernia. As usual, our little hospital was fast and efficient, and before I knew it I was in a hospital gown, and under a warm blanket with an IV dripping into me. Carol sat beside me as the male nurse, Bill got me ready for the operation.

In my pre-op interview a few days earlier when an RN asked if I had any allergies, I answered, “None,” then I added, “Oh yeah, I'm allergic to frog legs!” (Being a slow learner it took me three tries of eating them and becoming deathly ill each time, to figure it out!)

Evidently, the nurse wrote it down on my record because Bill made a special arm band for me that read in bold letters: Allergic to frog legs! (Just in case the cafeteria had them on the menu, I guess.”)

After surgery, Doctor Larsen came in to give me my post-op instructions, he said that everything had gone hunky-dory. It was a good thing Carol was there to hear what he said because I was still pretty dopey. We were home by a little after noon and I hobbled around for a while and went to bed.

Friday was kind of blurry, but I remember that it hurt to bend over, and it hurt to sneeze, hiccup or cough. The pain pills worked pretty well, but I was out of it for most of the day.

Saturday morning, as per instructions, I grabbed some clean clothes, took a nice warm shower, dried off and started to remove the dressing over the incision so I could replace it. Looking down, I suddenly realized that something was drastically wrong.

Holy S**t! My p***er is purple!

Not only my p***er, but the family jewels were purple too! They weren't just a little bit purple, it looked like I had (rather small) eggplants hanging off of my crotch. I showed my technicolor thingies to Carol and she said, “It looks swollen, too!”

“Nah, that's normal size,” I said, trying to glean something positive from my predicament.

I thought about calling the doctor, but since it was the weekend, and since I had very little pain, I decided to wait and see what developed. My follow up appointment was on the next Tuesday and by then things were almost back to normal.

“Sometimes that happens,” doctor Larsen shrugged when I told him about my purple problem. Thanks for warning me about that, Doc! I thought, but since he seemed happy with my progress, I listened quietly while he warned me about lifting anything heavier than a gallon milk jug. (I didn't even ask him if that was a full or an empty one, but I was tempted.)

Hot Potato

In my usual morning hazy, daze, I stuck a potato in the microwave for three minutes so it could nuke while I fried some bacon, sausage and eggs. I got the bacon and sausage going, cracked a couple of eggs into another pan and stuffed some rye bread into the toaster.

The dogs decided that they wanted out again, so I opened the door for them and went back to cooking.

I poured a glass of milk, rolled the sausages around and flipped the bacon over. The eggs were almost done so I took them off the burner, buttered the toast and let the dogs back in.

I got a plate down and slid the eggs onto it. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed that the fire I had lit in the fireplace was merrily burning.

Oh crap! That's not the fireplace, it's the microwave!

I turned it off and realized that I had evidently double punched the three button and set it for thirty three minutes instead of three. I fumbled around under the sink looking for a spritzer bottle with water in it to put out the fire, but by the time I found one, the blaze had gone out. There actually wasn't much left to burn.

I put the last cremains of a Yukon Gold potato in the sink, ran water on it and started the exhaust fan to clear out the smoke. It doesn't smell too bad I thought, forgetting about the loss of my sense of smell.

When Carol got up she let me know that her sense of smell works just fine!

Slow movin old man

I've got to start moving around more.

Twice now while sitting on JC's deck sipping wine I've had spiders attaching their webs to me.

The other day one made me cross eyed as it slowly lowered itself from the bill of my cap. I guess getting up every now and then to pee isn't enough to let them know that I'm not a tree or a bush. Next thing you know I'll start growing... wait, what's that green stuff on the north side of my legs?

Why I don't like Facebook

I originally joined Facebook in Carol's name so she could have a way to contact relatives and friends beside email. She tried it and absolutely hated it, so I “deactivated” her account. (There doesn't seem to be any way to completely delete a Facebook account or your personal information.)

Later I decided to try it myself for a month or so to see what it was like. I found some other facebookers that I knew, or that I was related to, and became “friends” with them. It was kind of fun. Then I started receiving news from friends of friends, people who I didn't know and really didn't care to know. I tried adjusting the settings but how do you “de-friend” someone's relatives without feeling guilty about hurting their feelings. Pretty soon my page had so many strangers staring out at me it was like going to someone else's high school reunion.

Then came the proselytizers pushing their religious or political beliefs. If I really wanted to know their opinion, which I don't, I would have asked them. (To be fair though, the same people send the same crap in email.) Then there were “pokes” and “hearts,” on-line games to play and clubs to join.

I tried to join into the spirit of things, but I felt like a parent intruding on a game his teen aged daughter was playing at a pajama party. I did find a fellow Parkinson's Disease sufferer who started a Parkinson's club, and I joined it. All of a sudden I had all of his relatives and friends on my page updating, liking, hearting and poking their friends and relatives.

The people that we really care about have our email address, and I'd much rather get a note from them than get “hearted,” “poked” or “liked”.

I write about the boring stuff in our lives on this blog, mainly for our friends and family and I think there are maybe 3 or 4 people who regularly read it. If I thought that there were hundreds of strangers reading the silly stuff I usually write about, I'd probably quit in embarrassment.

I guess I'm just an old curmudgeon.

Bad Dog!

Yesterday while I was sleepwalking through my usual morning routine of taking the dogs out, making coffee, getting firewood, and starting a fire in the fireplace, I noticed Squeak playing with what I thought was one of her toys. She was tossing it in the air and jumping on it like a cat playing with a catnip mouse. I smiled and thought, Cute puppy!

I got the fire going, poured a cup of coffee and went in the bedroom to make the bed. I could have sworn that I'd put my partial denture on the nightstand beside the bed, and then as realization slowly sunk into my sleepy brain, I hurried back into the living room where the puppy greeted me with a toothy, Cheshire cat grin. She reluctantly surrendered my undamaged denture and after a half-hearted Bad Puppy! I forgave her.

Cowards

The wind really blew last night and I could hear rain beating against the bedroom wall most of the night. The dogs started trying to wake me up around 3:30 am, but I managed to ignore them until 4 when I gave up, got out of my warm bed and got dressed to let them out.

I put on a hoody, strapped my LED headlamp on and trudged through the backdoor to take them out and get some firewood from the woodshed. I looked back and both of the dogs were sitting inside on the enclosed porch, their heads cocked in curiosity, watching me get wet. I got an armload of wood and hurried back inside where the dogs sat, nice and dry, still looking at me like I was an idiot.

I dried myself off, built a fire in the fireplace, put on a pot of coffee and went in the den to turn on the computer, check the latest news and read our email. About a half an hour later I realized that they still hadn't been outside yet, so I decided that maybe a high-school coach pep talk would get them going.

I called them to the door and in an excited voice I told them,”OK, let's go get em now! Go get em! Let's go out there and show that storm who's boss!”

They began to get in the spirit of things; Taz was growling and scratching the floor, and Squeak was jumping up and down and squeaking. I built the excitement some more while I put on my hoody and headlamp, “Are you ready now?” The dogs were at a fever pitch when I opened the door, growling and squeaking like a mini-pack of mini-wolves ready for a kill.

They tore through the door and landed on the patio at full speed ahead. It only took a nanosecond for them to realize that it was still raining and they didn't even slow down as they made a u-turn and almost knocked me down on their way back into the house. I don't think they even got wet.

Finally around 7:30, the rain let up for a few minutes and they followed me out onto the back yard, did their business and came back in for their usual morning bacon-bit treat.

100 Push ups

A couple of days ago I decided to try and improve my upper body strength. Walking every day has kept my legs from going downhill, but as I found out on my first kayaking trip of the year, my arms are pretty worthless.

As usual, when I have a problem, I turn to Google, and I quickly found a link to a promising web site called “100 Pushups.” Maybe a little too ambitious, but I could probably settle for a little less than 100.

According to the instructions the first step is to take the initial test and determine what group you are in by, (guess what?) seeing how many pushups you can do.

I creaked my way into a face down position and relaxed. OK. Lets get started... I barely managed to do 2 shaky pushups and was rewarded by a cramp in my right leg. So that put me in the 1 to 5 group, (probably called the 'weenie' group) or as the instructions advised, maybe I should start out by doing “bench pushups” which are much easier. I found that the step going up out of my bedroom was just the right height and using the elevation of the step I could do 6 pushups, which in my mind at least, got me out of the “weenie” group. I went back to the computer and printed out the first weeks schedule.

The schedule called for 4 sets of pushups on Mondays Wednesdays and Fridays. The first set called for me to do 6, rest for 60 seconds, do 6, rest for 60 seconds, do 4, rest, do 4, rest, then to do as many as I could, (at least 5.)

On Friday morning I quivered and strained my way through the first two sets and started on the third when our puppy, Squeak spied me and decided that it was a great time to lick my ear. I steeled myself to ignore her and finished the set of 4. On the next set, after I got to 3, she put both of her front paws on the back of my head and tried to hold me down. She was successful. I still counted that as a 4 considering the handicap.

Now all I had to do was rest for 60 seconds, (or more if you need it, Weenie!) and do as many as I could, (but at least 5!) My arms felt like rubber and I didn't care any more if I was a weenie or not, so I took a five minute break.

After I was rested, I lowered myself down to the carpeted step and as Squeak watched, I pushed and strained, but try as I might, I couldn't raise my 150 pound scrawny self off of the carpet. There was nothing in the instructions about that happening, so I assumed that on Monday I'd just start over again.

I made it through all 4 sets on Monday, and on Wednesday I advanced to 8 reps despite having 2 dogs licking my ears. I doubt that I'll ever come close to 100, but if it helps me to paddle my kayak without getting pooped I'll be happy.

Rusty the Wonder Dog

There have always been dogs in my life. When I was born, part of our family was an Irish Setter named Baron. He was dad's pheasant hunting companion and a guardian over my brother, sister and me. When we moved from rural Ohio to the mountains of Colorado we had a bull terrier, Tippy. After we moved to the ranch we had Beagles, the most memorable being Beauregard, who was my rabbit hunting partner all through my high school years.

After Carol and I married and eventually moved back to the ranch with our four boys, Grande, a purebred Saint Bernard became a member of our family. He was one of the smartest, gentlest, easiest to train dogs I've ever had the privilege to know. When we took the kids out of school early one year and traveled the western United States he was with us. He was a joyful companion and a trustworthy guardian.

Next to join the family was Rusty, a Cocker Spaniel who traveled with us from Arizona to Oregon. Here's his story.

Kayaking with Parkinson's

I took the dogs out for their morning constitutional and instead of the usual rain, the moon was shining through wispy clouds. It looked like it was going to be a decent day, so I decided to get off my butt and drag my kayak over to the lake.

I've been making excuses for not kayaking for quite a while now; it's too windy, it's too rainy, I've got too much to do, etc., but I really need the exercise. Going for a walk every day has helped keep my legs in shape, but my upper body strength is fading away.

When I got to the lake, I removed the little lawn mower-wheeled cart off of the boat, tucked it in behind the seat and slid the kayak down the grassy bank to the shoreline. The lake was smooth and glassy with fog rising off the water. Just the way I like it!

There's a feeling that I never tire of, gliding out onto the water and quietly paddling, trying not to disturb the silence. For me it's a time for peaceful meditation. My mind clears and my arms and hands work the paddle on their own; I don't even have to think about it.

I got out to the middle of the lake before my meditation was interrupted by my once dependable arms and hands telling me that they were getting tired! I stopped and drifted for a while, resting. When I started paddling again I could feel the tremors in my left hand getting worse, and in a few minutes I had to stop again.

I slowly worked my way to the south end of the lake and into the little stream that feeds it. Paddling against the current was a chore, but I made it to the inlet where a culvert lets a road cross and I stopped for a long rest.

Letting the streams current do most of the work on the way back out onto the lake, all I had to do was keep the little boat between the banks, but when I got back to the open water a slight head wind had started up. I knew that I had my work cut out for me getting back to the put-in.

The tremors had spread to both of my arms and hands and it was difficult to keep a good grip on the paddle. With every stroke my arms had a cogwheel, ratchet feel to them. I was really tired and the boat dock where I usually get out looked like it wasn't getting any closer.

After what seemed like an eternity, I made it to the dock and slid in on the leeward side. Normally I can put my hands on the dock and roll up and out of the kayak, but I was almost too weak to do it. Somehow I managed to squirm up onto the dock without falling in or overturning my kayak.

I pulled the boat out, put the wheels on, and trudged back to the house. When I went to the kitchen sink to get a drink of water, my tremors were so bad I couldn't get the glass to my mouth, even when I tried using both hands.

Next time I'll take it a little easier!

Old Yellow

I'm thinking about renaming the old, yellow, beat up, threadbare recliner that Carol bought at a yard sale years ago. I loved that chair and spent many hours in it, dozing, reading, watching TV and dozing some more. I always thought of it as “Old Yellow.” The mechanism has broken several times, and the last time I fixed it by replacing the busted linkage with a piece of electric fence wire. Several generations of dogs have left their smell and some of their hair is embedded in it, but to me it smells like home.

Eventually we bought a new recliner and retired the old one to storage, hopefully for a yard sale of its own. The new one, while a lot better looking, just never felt right to me. After several failed attempts to sell the outcast, it sat forgotten in the back of our shop covered with other junk, until some friends who were furnishing a new house came over. They were looking for good deals on furniture so Carol took them out to the shop to see if we had anything that they could use.

They picked out a desk, some old end tables, an office chair, and the old recliner. I helped them load their pickup, but when we got to Old Yellow I suddenly felt like I was losing a dear friend. “Wait a minute,” I said, “There's another one in the den that you would probably like better!”

“You can't be serious!” Carol said, as we went in the house. A few minutes later we carried out the newer chair and loaded it up.

“I never liked that chair.” I said, “It just didn't feel comfortable, and I can fix anything that's broken on the old one.”

The old yellow recliner resumed its place in the den, and after I sat down in it for the first time in several years, I realized what I had been missing; all of the lumps, valleys and creases were in exactly the right place, and I could have easily dozed off right then and there.

Sitting down and pulling the foot rest lever back is like sinking into a comfortable cloud, and to read or watch TV for any length of time without falling asleep is a real challenge for me. Sometimes I'm awakened by a loud rattling noise and it takes me a few seconds to realize that it was my snoring that so rudely interrupted my dreams.

When the dogs hear the clunk of the footrest going out they know that my lap is available and it only takes a few seconds before they both have joined me. With them in my lap it's difficult to read, so I usually turn out the lamp, lay down my book and ...zzzzz.

Maybe I'll name it “Serenity.”