My recent surgery repaired a torn muscle in the hip abductor group, as well as removing a large bone spur. Now I'm counting the days to a recovery milestone--being able to ambulate without a walker. As I was waiting in the Post-Anesthesia Care Unit (PACU) after my surgery, the PT folks arrived to see if I could manage the required "touch-toe" routine to let my repaired muscle heal properly. The technique is to use my left toes for balance and bring the other foot forward while holding onto the walker. It didn't go well, as all I could manage was a little hop forward. The physical therapist felt that it was not safe to discharge me, so I was admitted for an overnight stay. Next morning, I had to demonstrate that while I was not able to do the "touch-toe" dance, I could scoot around seated on the walker Andy had gotten for me. I demonstrated getting to the potty and back to my hospital bed. This satisfied him and we headed home, just 10 minutes away.
It wasn't until I got home that I fully realized there would be very little I could do for myself. My daily routine consists of getting from bed to bathroom to lift chair in the family room. Fixing meals, doing laundry and doing any kind of household tasks were out of the question. Fortunately, our son Pete was on hand to help with all of these things and got very skilled at whisking me around the tight corner into our bedroom. Soon I was able to do it myself. Andy had to help me get in and out of the shower, where a non-wheeled walker gives me stability. I figured out the best way to get dressed and learned the most economical way to get through the morning routine and reverse it at night. It was all pretty exhausting, though. One night we decided to get out for some Mexican food. Pete loaded up the wheelchair Andy rented and off we went. It was a little complicated getting me into the restaurant, but what struck me were the stares I got as we headed for a table. "What's wrong with her? Does she have cancer? Did she have a heart attack?" I just smiled and ordered a virgin margarita and some guacamole. A few days before my two-week post-op visit with the surgeon's PA, I decided to try the standard walker and voila! Now in less pain, I quickly mastered the touch-toe routine. This has given me a bit more freedom. I'm able to get outside on the patio for some fresh air or take the dog out the front door so he can see the world. I switched to using the wheeled walker to get around. Still hard work, but faster. If fatigue sets in, I can always sit down for a few minutes. The surgeon had already told me that I would need six weeks on the walker, so it was no surprise when the PA confirmed it. In 24 days, I'll see the surgeon and get started with PT. I was sometimes depressed, tearful and even angry in the early days of my recovery. Then I reminded myself that I have lots of help from family and am in generally good health despite two trips to the OR in ten months. I know this frustrating situation is temporary and within a few weeks, I'll be pretty much back to normal. I've known plenty of people who never got the chance to regain their health, so I try to keep my head on straight and stay focused on better days to come.
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You may be wondering why I chose the number 21 for this post. No, it's not the name of one of Adele's albums or the age when you can drink alcohol without getting arrested. For me, it represents something entirely different. It's the number of surgeries I've had during my 76 years. I know, it's hard to believe. And it doesn't even count procedures which only required sedation, like having dental surgery. The only plastic surgery I've had was to lift my eyelids so I could see the world a little better and not have permanent wrinkles across my forehead--that did not involve anesthesia either.
The first three trips to the OR were actually happy events: C-sections which resulted in the births of my three children within a four-year span. As I got older, I needed surgery for a number of orthopedic issues, like bone spurs and knee replacements. The biggest of these was a major rebuild of my lumbar spine in 2017, a "360" procedure which meant 11 hours in the OR and three incisions. Now, in the space of about 10 months, I will have had two more trips to the operating room. Last July, it was emergency surgery to repair two kinds of hernias on my right side. Later this week, I will check in to Baylor Lakepointe Hospital for a repair job on a tear in one of the muscles that makes my left hip work. It will be an outpatient procedure that takes 45 minutes and I'll be home by afternoon. No idea why it happened, just that it has been causing serious pain for weeks. I've been using a cane to get around, taking a bit of pressure off the offending area and sleeping on my right side, which really sucks since it's not my preferred position for watching Friends re-runs before drifting off. Surgery doesn't scare me. It might be because my dad was a doctor and my brother David is one, too. I worked for hospitals most of my career, doing healthcare fundraising and communications. What does scare me is getting an IV started. I don't seem to have any available veins, so I'm always the victim of several "sticks" until the nurse finds one. It usually takes an ultrasound to locate the little sucker so they can start fluids and put me to sleep. After this go-round, the fun really begins. I'll be using a classy new walker ordered from Amazon (I tell you, what can't you buy there?) to get around for the next six weeks but only using my right leg and touching the toe of the other. This is so the muscle can heal properly. Then it's six weeks of physical therapy to finish the job. Not looking for sympathy or even a get-well card. This is not my first rodeo and I'm sure I'll come out on the other side of this lovely experience just fine. Just pray that they find a vein on the first try. My dad was a bit obsessed with death. Perhaps this was because he'd had a rather close call in his 40s --a tumor on his pituitary gland. It was benign, but I believe it affected his outlook on life long after. Whenever we were out in the farmlands around Clear Lake, where he and my mom had a summer cottage, Dad couldn't resist stopping at a cemetery. We'd wander through the gravestones, some of which were quite old, and note the dates and names. To me, it was kind of a history lesson. When I was in college, there was a large cemetery near the campus of Wittenberg University in Springfield, OH. My friends and I sometimes walked through it, fascinated by the occasional tombstone that had a brass "locket" containing a photo of the deceased.
Today, I was driving back from an errand and took a shortcut to the expressway on Big A road, which runs behind some commercial developments. I'd always wondered where the name originated. A quick Google search revealed there used to be a school along that road. One Halloween, the students painted a big A on the side of the building and the name stuck. Opposite the back end of the PetSmart store, there is an entrance to "Big A Cemetery." The land originally belonged to the Kirby family, one of a group of Kentucky settlers, and in 1857, William Kirby was buried in a meadow there. Most all of the earliest graves in the cemetery represented family members of the area's earliest pioneer families and their descendants. I couldn't resist turning in on the narrow gravel road to have a look. Some of the gravestones were fairly recent, with dates in the 2000s. A few graves had been enclosed by bricks or a little fence and many had fading plastic flowers. Some were decorated with stuffed animals, most likely marking the resting place of a child. The road looped around to the left and I continued to the back of the cemetery. At the very end, I spotted an unusual grave marked with a cement "log". I parked and got out to investigate. Unfortunately, the information of the plaque had weathered to the point it was not legible. I explored a little further and found gravestones placed there in the 1800s, when the area was being settled. One heartbreakingly just said "Infant" and I suspected the tiny tombstones without inscription were for babies. There were some obelisks and fancier gravestones, but most were quite modest. So there it is. I continued my dad's curiosity about cemeteries and got an unexpected history lesson. It left me wondering about those early settlers who bravely came West to North Texas and how they lived and died. Death comes to all of us, but its what we do with the days and years we are given that counts. P.S. To end this post on a more humorous note, I found that there is a gravestone in the Key West Cemetery in Florida that simply states, "I Told You I Was Sick." Nothing says spring like a visit to the Dallas Arboretum and Botanical Garden. Hannah and Reagan generously treated the entire family to a special Easter brunch there. We dined on the covered patio with a view of White Rock Lake, enjoying perfect sunny weather. First came a sumptuous buffet with tossed salad, charcuterie and cold marinated veggies, as well as traditional breakfast items like cheesy scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage and potatoes. Then came green beans, salmon, chicken Marsala and a carving board with sirloin beef. The kids had a great time sampling new foods and old favorites. The best was yet to come--a groaning outdoor table with chocolate cake, carrot cake, coconut pie, chocolate chip muffins, banana bread and petit fours. The grownups enjoyed endless cups of delicious coffee. We were all stuffed but lingered and talked. Just as much fun was watching all the kids in their Easter finery. Little girls in pastel frocks or navy sailor dresses scampered around the lawn. I spotted three small boys in matching powder blue quarter-zip sweaters. Our grandsons (and Reagan) were decked out in colorful Psycho Bunny polo shirts and Lena in a bright blue romper. Next came a tour of the gardens. Huge beds of pansies and violas created splashes of bright color. Many types of blooming trees lined the paths. Gigantic peacocks created from plant materials serenely surveyed the lawns, while water features made pleasant background music. The tulips were about finished, with just a few brave ones surviving, but the azaleas were still colorful--I especially like the candy-striped ones. Winding paths took you around the garden to the areas with the best lake views. We saw families picnicking on the hill, while their kids chased around. Because I have been getting around with a cane due to a painful hip, Hannah rented a wheelchair for the occasion. The kids took turns pushing it. Noah rode on my lap at times--because he had tired from doing cartwheels across the lawn. Booker amused himself by teasing me until I threatened him with the cane. Last stop was the gift shop where Alison treated each of the kids to a souvenir. The Arboretum is a real treasure here in Dallas. No matter what time of year you visit, there are different things to see. They are famous for their annual Pumpkin House and Twelve Days of Christmas displays. The 66-acre gardens were created by joining two estates that front White Rock Lake. The houses on those estates are still very much in use for special events. Spring and early summer bring a concert series on a hillside overlooking the lake. There is also a children's adventure garden with many interactive features. When my friend Claudia visited for Thanksgiving last year, Hannah took us to a Christmas tea which was delicious and lots of fun. Afterward, we toured the historic DeGolyer House with its huge display of Christmas creches and magnificently decorated trees. All in all, it was a glorious day to spend with our family. Thanks to Hannah and Reagan for their generosity in making such a happy Easter memory for us. Noah's eighth birthday celebrations netted him a $50 gift card. I was tasked with taking him to Target to see what he could buy with this largesse. With his family's upcoming trip to Disney World, I suggested that he might want to save it and buy some really cool things while they were there. "But Grandma," he protested, "I don't want to miss my opportunity." As if the gift card would melt away in the next few days. Off we went to our local Target. As we waited to cross the parking lot into the store, he informed me that he didn't need to hold my hand anymore since he was eight now. Ok, then. We headed straight for the toy department, although I had mentioned that there were other things he could purchase, like books, a new swimsuit or cool T-shirts. This went over the same way delaying the use of the card did. Noah went straight to the aisle where they had BeyBlades and Pokemon cards. For those of you who haven't spent any time with little boys lately, a BeyBlade is a kind of top. You insert a toothed plastic strip into it, pull and as Noah says, "Let 'er rip!" It spins and spins until it runs out of energy or smashes another BeyBlade in a plastic "arena." He has dozens of these and came name them all--names that are unintelligible to most adults. There weren't all that many to select from, so we turned to a display of Pokemon cards across the aisle. This is another game that is beyond me. It consists of trading cards with different point values and pictures of strange-looking creatures with even stranger-sounding names. Noah also has hundreds of these and knows all the names. Some were given to him by his cousin Booker and others have been acquired as presents or rewards for good behavior. First, he chose a white plastic-wrapped box containing the Pokemon cards. No price was displayed, so off we went to one of the many price scanners located throughout the store. The box would have eaten the entire value of his gift card. "What a rip-off," he exclaimed. We headed back to the aisle from whence we came and he selected another item. Another trip to the scanner where he learned that this, too, was a "rip-off". Finally, he found a box of cards that appealed to him. A third trip to the scanner revealed a price of $30. Although Noah was a bit anguished about the price, he reasoned that he'd still have about $20 to spend at Disney World--probably the price of an ice cream cone. Of course, as we neared the checkout lane, he had to make a side trip to see if there were any other Pokemon cards on display. No luck, so Noah scanned his purchase and we headed home, where he could brag about his cards. The next day, he was on the way home from soccer practice with Mom when he said that he'd really like to spend the night at Grandma's house "because she will miss me while we're on our trip." Done. Pancakes in the morning and he was a happy camper. Hannah told me that while they were on vacation, he announced that "Grandma is probably crying because she misses me so much." This statement from his eight-year-old heart got me right in my 76-year-old one. I can't get enough hugs from Noah these days. In about three or four years, he will be on to other interests and rationing his hugs like my older grandchildren. Ah well, time goes by. OK, I'm rephrasing that cheery carol for a post-Christmas season, all right? The cookie-baking and decorating are over, along with festive family meals and a performance of the Nutcracker. My ever-growing Santa collection and Christmas tree have been stowed in the garage, along with all the wreaths and decorations. The house looks downright bare. With below freezing temps some nights, I decided that my patio plants should migrate to the living room. Now it has the look of a small botanical garden, which lifted my spirits a bit. Sigh. What's a girl to do? First, I bought myself a new yellow orchid at Trader Joe's to liven up my office. Then I realized that the family room was starting to look a bit shabby. My pouf footstool purchased at the late lamented Pier One seven years ago was shedding bits of burgundy leather all over the floor. It took a while, but I finally found a replacement online and put in an order. The 36-bottle metal wine rack next to the kitchen dining area was home to only a half-dozen bottles and the rest of the shelves had become a catch-all for Noah's Legos, puzzles, crayons, games and assorted other items. Very sick of looking at it. Once again, I turned to the internet and after an exhaustive search, came up with an inexpensive (code for shipped in a flat box and you assemble the darn thing) cabinet with glass doors and criss-cross wine storage. It's a rich red and matches the kitchen chairs. Andy and I have been constructing it together on the quilt-covered kitchen table, which is going much better than the first time we tried to hang wallpaper with only a little cursing. Finally, my attention turned to the once-beautiful cotton dhurrie rug we bought when we moved into this house. Despite being hauled outdoors and hosed down a few times, it is now permanently stained from God-knows-what the kids have dropped on it. Some of the edges, which I have repaired a few times, are frayed beyond rescue. Time for something new. Without even stepping foot from the house (which is good because I've been clomping around in an orthopedic boot due to a stress fracture in my foot), I surfed through dozens of rug and furniture sites, looking for something appealing. It seems cotton dhurries are not available anymore, but I found a great-looking rug made of polyester, which will take a lot of abuse and can be hosed off. It's amazing what a little online retail therapy can do to relieve the winter blahs. I promise to stop spending money for a while (at least until Valentine's Day). Happy New Year, y'all. The kids were out of school, flowers were planted and we were enjoying a pleasant summer. Then out of the clear blue everything changed. Andy and I were at a doctor's appointment and as we were leaving, I suddenly began having shooting pains in my belly. I chalked it up to gas and at first didn't take it that seriously. We headed home with the pain getting worse with every bump and turn. I chewed a Gas-X and stretched out in bed, but the misery continued. So we headed for a freestanding Baylor emergency department where they started an IV, gave me some industrial strength painkiller and did a CT.
The hot appendix I thought I had turned out to be a hernia, of all things. I couldn't think of anything I'd done recently that could have caused that problem. It took until evening to find a bed, but I ended up in the hospital closest to our home. With paperwork and the CT disk in hand, I was admitted through the emergency department and taken to a nice comfortable room in their brand-new pavilion. Surgery was scheduled for the next morning. Everything went smoothly and I came back to the room to finally have clear liquids and later actual food. The surgeon, a very athletic woman in her thirties, came by and told me that she had laparoscopically repaired two different types of hernias. I stayed as an inpatient for three nights, as my pain was not very well controlled, but it was nice to come home to my own bed. Hannah came by to put clean sheets on the bed and fill the fridge with groceries. Alison helped out with household chores and her husband Matt tended to my neglected plantings. My grandson Booker even came by to do some tasks for me. Hannah and Reagan provided a lift chair, which made it much easier to get up and down. Getting in and out of bed was pretty miserable, but I remembered the "log roll" technique I learned when I had my spine surgery several years ago and that helped. Major surgery can deplete your energy like nothing else. The smallest activity seemed insurmountable, so Andy had to take over getting meals, doing laundry, etc. I was sleeping several hours a day and while I loved seeing my three grandchildren, I couldn't really tolerate the extra noise and confusion. Finally, after several weeks, the pain and fatigue began to lessen and by six weeks post-op, I was feeling fairly normal. Unlike other surgeries I've had, there was no opportunity to prepare this time around. I'm so lucky to have family nearby to pitch in when help is needed and access to excellent medical care. There's so much to look forward to this fall, and I'm ready to enjoy all of it. I always thought of Texas as very dry. Not this year. We've had nearly 20 inches of rain since January, with almost nine inches in May and June, which has barely begun. These are not gentle showers, but huge downpours with plenty of lightning and thunder. The backyard is a lake, with standing water that will take days to absorb into an already soaked lawn. Our pool is overflowing, sending water into the street. Local lakes and ponds are brimful of water.
The other night, we were having a serious electrical storm with lightning strikes and loud thunder. At midnight, the fire alarm went off, sending shrieks of sound. At the same time, our inactive ADT system, installed years ago by a previous homeowner, began emitting a continuous loud whine from three key pads in the house. No matter how many keys I pushed or combinations thereof, it just wouldn't stop. Next morning, with this irritating sound still going on, our daughter Hannah came by to see if she could help. We ended up turning off the main breaker, removing the panels from the wall and snipping the red wire that was somehow transmitting electrical current to the keypad, even though the entire system had been unplugged a while ago. There was no way to re-install the panels, so I nipped out to Home Depot and purchased three large, blank outlet plates to cover the holes. It won't be especially attractive, but better than the ancient panels that were immune to cleaning. About two weeks ago, during one of these midnight downpours, the soil in my standing garden newly planted with herbs and peppers, became too wet and heavy, collapsing the bottom and sending dirt and plants onto the soil below. Again, Home Depot to the rescue. I bought two large oblong plastic planters and popped out the drainage holes. Then I trudged into the soggy yard and filled them with some of the soil. I was able to salvage almost all the plants and re-homed them into the planters until we figure out what to do. (That is if it ever dries out.) We may detach the legs, set the box into the yard and replant everything. In the meantime, the plants seem to be thriving, I'm itching to get to my new perennial garden and deadhead the flowers. The plants and shrubs seem to be holding up, but all this rain is probably draining nutrients from the soil, so I'll fertilize as soon as I'm able. One piece of good news is that my dwarf gardenia is really going to town, covered with creamy white blossoms. This rainy, rainy spring is no doubt the prelude to a very hot, humid summer so I should probably be grateful for the temporarily cooler temps. Such is life in the Lone Star State. As noted in my last post, I've always loved to travel by rail. As we left Philadelphia, the train passed through industrial areas and junkyards, reminding me of the Arlo Guthrie song City of New Orleans where he sang about "graveyards of the rusted automobiles." Soon we were in New Jersey and then in New York City's Penn Station. My stop was Bridgeport, CT where I was met by my friend Claudia. We were overjoyed to see each other after a three plus year separation.
Unbelievably, Claudia and I have known each other since age 13. Her family lived just around the corner from our home on Orchard Road in Toledo, OH. Because she went to boarding school and then to college, we lost touch, but later I ran into her at a friend's party and discovered we were living a block apart! Claudia was a social worker and I was an elementary school teacher. Soon after, we both moved into another apartment complex, where we met two guys named John and Andy. Long story short, she married John and I married Andy. Although jobs took us to different cities in the decades that followed, we kept in close touch and visited as often as possible. Our combined five offspring became friends, as well. John's death from lung cancer ten years ago was a sad loss. Over an Italian dinner, we caught up on all the news and went back to her condo to watch News of the World with Tom Hanks, while I made friends with her cat, Miss Lily. After a lazy morning, Claudia took me through the pretty riverside town of Stratford, which has many lovely homes and historic churches. We enjoyed a seafood lunch by the Housatonic River and wandered through the Mellow Monkey, which featured nautical-themed gifts. On Tuesday, we did a bit of shopping before another reunion took place at Terrain, an upscale garden and gift shop in beautiful Westport. Joining us for lunch in their cafe were her daughter Kate and Nicoll, another old friend we knew from both Philadelphia and Virginia. Nicoll and her husband Charlie, who now live in Old Lyme, CT were great friends, and we had good times together. More hugs, laughs and lots of sparkling conversation around the table. Later that afternoon, we spent some time with Kate at her beautiful home and I got to see her three children and two very large Bernese Mountain Dogs. We picked up lobster rolls for dinner and had a wonderful evening. The next morning, we were off to the local airport so I could complete the last leg of this sentimental journey by flying to Charlotte, NC and connecting to Dallas. After being gone for six days, I was very happy to see Andy and get home to my dog, Toby. For me, this trip was, as Nicoll put it, "a vacation for the spirit." All of us had experienced a tough year with the pandemic and the complications it brought to everyday life. I was beyond thrilled to connect with so many good friends and remember how lucky I am to have them, even though we are at a distance from each other. When we do see each other, it is like no time at all has passed. It's the best kind of therapy for old friends! Last year, I was joyfully planning to see a long-time friend in Connecticut. Unfortunately, the visit was cancelled because she had a bad case of the flu. Then the pandemic hit. As life began to return to normal, my trip was back on! Since I was headed for the East Coast, I decided to add Philadelphia as my first stop and first visit another friend, one I had known for nearly 40 years.
Anne and I became acquainted through Junior League of Philadelphia. Our families became close and shared many good times. She was a health care marketing executive and I was in health care fundraising, and our paths often crossed. In fact, Anne recommended me for a job at Nemours Children's Health, where she had worked for many years. Our friendship only deepened during her late husband Rick's long illness. After more than three years apart, we were thrilled to see each other. First stop was an outdoor reception for a retiring Nemours doc, where I ran into a few folks I knew. Then it was off to dinner at a Wilmington seafood restaurant with my former boss, Lori. The three of us talked for hours, catching up on kids, jobs, retirement and life in general. The next day, after a wonderful lunch at the Merion Country Club, where we enjoyed watching golfers on the first tee, Anne and I toured the Philadelphia area, driving by our old house on Contention Lane, and many other places that were dear to me when we lived in the Delaware Valley for a total of 24 years. So many changes since then. We stopped at the upscale Di Bruno's Italian deli and gathered goodies for a picnic at Valley Forge Park. Sitting atop a rise, we enjoyed the densely wooded vista and talked to our heart's content. After breakfast on Anne's patio the next morning, we headed to Center City Philadelphia. She showed me the house that her daughter Abbe has just purchased in the hip neighborhood of Fishtown, as well as the big changes in the University of Pennsylvania's health care campus, Boathouse Row, the Philadelphia Museum of Art and Love Park, home of the iconic Love sculpture. I drank it all in. Many thanks to my good friend for making our brief time together so special. Then it was time to drop me off at historic 30th Street Station, Opened in 1933, the station has a soaring ceiling and boasts an enormous bronze statue that depicts a winged angel lifting a lifeless soldier toward the heavens. It was commissioned as a memorial to the 1,307 railroad employees who perished in World War II and was prominently featured in the movie Witness. As I boarded the train to Connecticut, I was reminded of the many trips I made from that station back and forth to Williamsburg, VA after I accepted a job with Thomas Jefferson University in Philadelphia. My husband Andy stayed put there with the dog while we sold our home. For ten weeks, I'd leave at noon on Friday and return on Sunday evening, a six-hour journey each way, that was relaxing after a busy week. More in my next post... |
AuthorI'm Chris Barabasz, retired from a 35-year career managing communications for health care development (that's fundraising for you civilians). I'm a wife, mother, grandmother and freelance writer. My husband Andy and I moved from Delaware to Texas to be closer to our daughters and three adorable grandchildren. Archives
January 2024
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