It's an odd night here.
Part new phase of detoxing: Ken was sound asleep when I got home. Katie's gone so CBS News has a stand-in anchoring tonight.
Even the TV News anchor has changed.
The end of the week routine -- dinner out or sometimes a movie -- won't happen. Last week, we were headed to Sedona with Amanda here on a quick vacation from London. This week she's in Paris and we're deeper into detox. I played solitaire watching the news. This time of quiet and peace and solitude has arrived and it feels unwanted. Like a party to which you have not been invited.
And word comes again of possible lay-offs at work. People are weepy, anxious. We'd had a month or two of relative calm. As much calm as you can have in these economic times when you are employed in an industry that has been circling the drain for a while.
So, we all wait. Supposedly, the announcement of 10 percent layoffs is expected July 8.
I am tracking time mostly by remaining miligrams of oxycotin in Ken's blood stream. Now another factor has been added to this complicated equation.
My friend Margot is grieving the death of her sister. My friend Kathleen is grieving the end of her daughter's childhood. I am missing my father who watched the demise of the steel industry and wishing he were here to talk about the evaporation of the daily newspaper, the bankruptcy of GM and Chrysler -- something this man born in Kokomo, Indiana, City of Firsts (firsts being claim to the first automobile) would find as incomprehensible as Continental Steel closing.
I am deepening my once shallow knowledge of loss.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Deeper knowledge
I am accumulating numerous topics for my Shallow Knowledge book, but an area in which I am gaining deeper knowledge at too fast a past is detoxing. Ken's not mine.
We have definitely moved past the easy part of this process. He began decreasing his pain meds several weeks ago at an impressive clip.
But during that process we flew to Chicago to visit Amanda and Lucas and my mother, not an easy trip, and other than being more tired than usual, he didn't skip a beat. He's managed to handle a weekend while I went away on a girls' spree to California and wine country and left him running the coffee and treat tent at church one Sunday. He's hunted down the last portable carrier on sale at ACE hardware. He's kept up his attendance at the men's 6:30 a.m. breakfast on Wednesdays and the ROMEO lunch on Thursdays.
But Tuesday, after we put Amanda on the plane back to London, he surrendered to the pain and exhaustion of steadily weaning himself from a three times daily down-the-hatch shot of oxycotin.
His handsome face is etched with a grimace of wearing, wearying pain. Yesterday, he fell asleep in the middle of playing Oh, Hell. He got up at 9 p.m. only to return to bed at 9:15. He was too tired, hurt too much to even pull the sheets up over his body. This morning he made his way to the kitchen for his bowl of cereal and milk. I cut the strawberries. He hurt too much to lift the knife. We aren't through with this. Harder days lie ahead. I'm grateful he can sleep.
For now.
His doctor said it would be like a very hard case of the flu. Maybe swine flu without the swine. You'll hurt so bad you wish you could die. The pain pops I've nagged him to quit sucking, I now find myself looking for to give him.
I will work from home today writing about xeriscape gardening about which I do have shallow knowledge but luckily good sources.
For detoxing I have a titch more knowledge and shakier resources, my self.
We have definitely moved past the easy part of this process. He began decreasing his pain meds several weeks ago at an impressive clip.
But during that process we flew to Chicago to visit Amanda and Lucas and my mother, not an easy trip, and other than being more tired than usual, he didn't skip a beat. He's managed to handle a weekend while I went away on a girls' spree to California and wine country and left him running the coffee and treat tent at church one Sunday. He's hunted down the last portable carrier on sale at ACE hardware. He's kept up his attendance at the men's 6:30 a.m. breakfast on Wednesdays and the ROMEO lunch on Thursdays.
But Tuesday, after we put Amanda on the plane back to London, he surrendered to the pain and exhaustion of steadily weaning himself from a three times daily down-the-hatch shot of oxycotin.
His handsome face is etched with a grimace of wearing, wearying pain. Yesterday, he fell asleep in the middle of playing Oh, Hell. He got up at 9 p.m. only to return to bed at 9:15. He was too tired, hurt too much to even pull the sheets up over his body. This morning he made his way to the kitchen for his bowl of cereal and milk. I cut the strawberries. He hurt too much to lift the knife. We aren't through with this. Harder days lie ahead. I'm grateful he can sleep.
For now.
His doctor said it would be like a very hard case of the flu. Maybe swine flu without the swine. You'll hurt so bad you wish you could die. The pain pops I've nagged him to quit sucking, I now find myself looking for to give him.
I will work from home today writing about xeriscape gardening about which I do have shallow knowledge but luckily good sources.
For detoxing I have a titch more knowledge and shakier resources, my self.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Shallow Knowledge
I don't know where this is going but I think it's a great title for a book: Shallow Knowledge by Susan Felt.
I had breakfast with my friend Fran today and she said to start blogging this so that this book idea I'm always talking about doesn't fall in the "good idea'' bin like the rest of my conversational books. "Your blog readers will nudge you to keep going,'' she said. She's a teacher. One of the wisest women I know so I'll follow her suggestion.
The idea for the book began like many good ideas, spontaneously and in the backseat of a car. I was driving home from Lake Tahoe (another post) last weekend during my girls' weekend (another post) when I began talking about the weirdness of turning 60 (another post.) We were talking about the list of 100 things you most want to do and how annoying those lists are when I began talking about how surprisingly difficult it's been turning 60. Besides the obvious (you really do have to take calcium pills now (another post) is the realization that I have accumulated no real hard, solid, deep knowledge about any topic like, for instance, cooking pasta. (What is al dente really?) Molding (is cove molding the one that curves in and crown the bumpy one?). How do you pronounce clesetory or however you spell it?) Which Shakespeare play has the line Something's rotten in Denmark? (See. We're talking shallow and I'm an English major.) And don't even start on the books of the Bible.Bible. I have shallow knowledge about a lot of different things (2 cups of water to one cup of rice and dead head your geraniums so they'll keep blossoming) which I am quite willing to share and shamelessly elaborate on regardless of how shallow the knowledge. And Dave, who was kindly chauffeuring us up and back to Lake Tahoe for the day, suggested that would make a great title for a book.: Deep Thoughts. Shallow Knowledge. The idea brewed through the night until the next morning pretty much everything I saw, heard or talked about became fodder for the book. I would have categories: food, geography (this would be very shallow); medicine (again, dangerously shallow); health, literature, entertaining (my depthiest chapter); relationships (again, deep); American history (pretty shallow); World history (see American history); basketball (I'm really good at faking this one.) Music (paralyzingly shallow.) And of course, gymnastics (here I verge on outright falsehoods.) And so on.
This would be more than a tips book. It would be actual shallow knowledge. Lists of things I consider as knowledge under a variety of categories. (See above.) Thus begins the book.
I had breakfast with my friend Fran today and she said to start blogging this so that this book idea I'm always talking about doesn't fall in the "good idea'' bin like the rest of my conversational books. "Your blog readers will nudge you to keep going,'' she said. She's a teacher. One of the wisest women I know so I'll follow her suggestion.
The idea for the book began like many good ideas, spontaneously and in the backseat of a car. I was driving home from Lake Tahoe (another post) last weekend during my girls' weekend (another post) when I began talking about the weirdness of turning 60 (another post.) We were talking about the list of 100 things you most want to do and how annoying those lists are when I began talking about how surprisingly difficult it's been turning 60. Besides the obvious (you really do have to take calcium pills now (another post) is the realization that I have accumulated no real hard, solid, deep knowledge about any topic like, for instance, cooking pasta. (What is al dente really?) Molding (is cove molding the one that curves in and crown the bumpy one?). How do you pronounce clesetory or however you spell it?) Which Shakespeare play has the line Something's rotten in Denmark? (See. We're talking shallow and I'm an English major.) And don't even start on the books of the Bible.Bible. I have shallow knowledge about a lot of different things (2 cups of water to one cup of rice and dead head your geraniums so they'll keep blossoming) which I am quite willing to share and shamelessly elaborate on regardless of how shallow the knowledge. And Dave, who was kindly chauffeuring us up and back to Lake Tahoe for the day, suggested that would make a great title for a book.: Deep Thoughts. Shallow Knowledge. The idea brewed through the night until the next morning pretty much everything I saw, heard or talked about became fodder for the book. I would have categories: food, geography (this would be very shallow); medicine (again, dangerously shallow); health, literature, entertaining (my depthiest chapter); relationships (again, deep); American history (pretty shallow); World history (see American history); basketball (I'm really good at faking this one.) Music (paralyzingly shallow.) And of course, gymnastics (here I verge on outright falsehoods.) And so on.
This would be more than a tips book. It would be actual shallow knowledge. Lists of things I consider as knowledge under a variety of categories. (See above.) Thus begins the book.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Risk
We were in Sedona a couple of weeks ago. We snagged two days in this incredible place at a time share that's come as close as anything else to replacing the cabin we had in Prescott and that we sold about five years ago.
Arroyo Roble sets on the banks of Oak Creek, a beautiful creek that runs through the canyon between Flagstaff and Sedona and farther south.
After sleeping the first day, I took a walk the afternoon of the second day. I made my way down the bank (about three feet) and across the rock-strewn wash to creek side. A couple of ducks were in the babbling creek. A red rock canyon wall rose on the other side. Where I was a large red rock was in the middle of the creek. It was about maybe 10 yards from one side of the creek to the other. The large red smooth rock was just a few feet from my side of the creek. You could step your way to it on the tops of smaller rocks. I did. Sitting there in the middle of the stream, watching ducks, the small waterfall upstream, the widening brook downstream. And eventually my eyes fixed on the other side of the creek and the wide red ledge and path that led upstream and down.
There were two limbs lying across the river within steps of the rock where I perched. I could easily walk along those limbs to the other side.
I thought about it for a while, walking along those logs to the other side. My heart began to beat a titch faster anticipating the walk, imagining the risks. If I fell, it was shallow. The current wasn't too swift. I wouldn't die. I'd just get wet.
It seemed a bigger risk to stay put and only imagine reaching the other side. Only imagine looking at the bank where I had stood from the other side. Only imagine walking on the path that afforded a closer look at the waterfall upstream.
I thought about this for a really long time considering that the risk was laughably small except to me and the distance something a younger person could probably leap.
I finally lifted myself down from the rock and tiptoed to the two logs, one which immediately rolled. I decided that I would crawl across and not walk.
I stooped to all fours, managing the rocking log that was less troublesome than the image of a 60-year-old woman crawling across the creek on two logs.
I made it to the other side, pleased but more conscious of what constituted a physical risk for me at this point of my life than even five years earlier.
I don't know what I think about this. Other than for a minute I realized I hadn't thought about making it back across to the other side. I began the crawl back, anticipating the rocking log and the more cumbersome dismount off the logs onto the rock. But it happened without mishap.
The next morning before we left, I walked down to the creekside and took a photo of those two logs. I would post the photo here but I don't know how to do that yet. But I wanted a reminder of the moment and what presented itself as a risk to me.
Arroyo Roble sets on the banks of Oak Creek, a beautiful creek that runs through the canyon between Flagstaff and Sedona and farther south.
After sleeping the first day, I took a walk the afternoon of the second day. I made my way down the bank (about three feet) and across the rock-strewn wash to creek side. A couple of ducks were in the babbling creek. A red rock canyon wall rose on the other side. Where I was a large red rock was in the middle of the creek. It was about maybe 10 yards from one side of the creek to the other. The large red smooth rock was just a few feet from my side of the creek. You could step your way to it on the tops of smaller rocks. I did. Sitting there in the middle of the stream, watching ducks, the small waterfall upstream, the widening brook downstream. And eventually my eyes fixed on the other side of the creek and the wide red ledge and path that led upstream and down.
There were two limbs lying across the river within steps of the rock where I perched. I could easily walk along those limbs to the other side.
I thought about it for a while, walking along those logs to the other side. My heart began to beat a titch faster anticipating the walk, imagining the risks. If I fell, it was shallow. The current wasn't too swift. I wouldn't die. I'd just get wet.
It seemed a bigger risk to stay put and only imagine reaching the other side. Only imagine looking at the bank where I had stood from the other side. Only imagine walking on the path that afforded a closer look at the waterfall upstream.
I thought about this for a really long time considering that the risk was laughably small except to me and the distance something a younger person could probably leap.
I finally lifted myself down from the rock and tiptoed to the two logs, one which immediately rolled. I decided that I would crawl across and not walk.
I stooped to all fours, managing the rocking log that was less troublesome than the image of a 60-year-old woman crawling across the creek on two logs.
I made it to the other side, pleased but more conscious of what constituted a physical risk for me at this point of my life than even five years earlier.
I don't know what I think about this. Other than for a minute I realized I hadn't thought about making it back across to the other side. I began the crawl back, anticipating the rocking log and the more cumbersome dismount off the logs onto the rock. But it happened without mishap.
The next morning before we left, I walked down to the creekside and took a photo of those two logs. I would post the photo here but I don't know how to do that yet. But I wanted a reminder of the moment and what presented itself as a risk to me.
New shoes
I haven't seen Ken this giddy since his surprise 50th birthday party 11 years ago. He was standing in the garden, watering plants and giggling. Or nearly giggling. It was a hot May day. He's reduced his pain meds by 30 percent, so giddiness was not exactly the mood I expected from him.
But he had new shoes. Black dorky tie ups and his new orthotic foot and leg braces that help straighten his back and almost completely correct his gait, ruined since tumors were removed from his spine 11 years ago. He hasn't been able to wear anything but sandals since the surgery because his feet are too sensitive to anything they sense as cumbersome. He's managed to wedge them into black wing tips for two weddings and for an occasional church service, but mostly it's sandals.
But his orthotics guy knew about a whole line of shoes for people like Ken and he ordered him a pair of these black tie ups that are roomier, canvass and give him a lot more support that the velcro sandals.
And he was giddy. Giddy. Giddy with the support, with the ease of walking and with the ability to wear something as normal as tie up shoes.
He's waiting for the tennis shoe variety to come in the mail.
But he had new shoes. Black dorky tie ups and his new orthotic foot and leg braces that help straighten his back and almost completely correct his gait, ruined since tumors were removed from his spine 11 years ago. He hasn't been able to wear anything but sandals since the surgery because his feet are too sensitive to anything they sense as cumbersome. He's managed to wedge them into black wing tips for two weddings and for an occasional church service, but mostly it's sandals.
But his orthotics guy knew about a whole line of shoes for people like Ken and he ordered him a pair of these black tie ups that are roomier, canvass and give him a lot more support that the velcro sandals.
And he was giddy. Giddy. Giddy with the support, with the ease of walking and with the ability to wear something as normal as tie up shoes.
He's waiting for the tennis shoe variety to come in the mail.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Filipino food and line dancing
Last month, our Global Dining Club (six couples with adventurous appetites) ate at a small Filipino bakery and restaurant in an otherwise nondescript strip shopping center that dot Phoenix intersections.
We were the only diners but the place still had a sense of bustle about it. As we ended our meal (delicious except for the dish I ordered that had a bitter taste people were talking about days later) a woman in a swirling black skirt and serious looking dancing shoes began leading two other women and a little girl through a line dance, calling out the steps in a careful, clear way. Evidently, Friday nights at the Filipino restaurant are line dancing nights. No cover. Instruction is free. The woman in the black swirling dress walked through each segment of the dance, calling out the beat and the step, repeating it until she saw that her students had it. Others joined in and she easily incorporated them into the dance, careful to repeat and correct before moving on. She was encouraging, completely understandable and patient without being patronizing. She was like a combination of Cheryl and Julianne on Dancing with the Stars. This woman was a skilled dance instructor.
After 38 years of marriage and endless weddings receptions where I had to bow out of the Electric Slide because I could never get the sequence, I realized this was my chance.
When she was through with one line dance she moved to another and then finally to the Electric Slide, a standard that most already knew but which she nonetheless methodically taught me, anticipating when I would mess up and inserting a reminder before the tricky part arrived.
By the third round, when I was at the head of the line and not following, I had it.
I had it. I could do the Electric Slide.
We were the only diners but the place still had a sense of bustle about it. As we ended our meal (delicious except for the dish I ordered that had a bitter taste people were talking about days later) a woman in a swirling black skirt and serious looking dancing shoes began leading two other women and a little girl through a line dance, calling out the steps in a careful, clear way. Evidently, Friday nights at the Filipino restaurant are line dancing nights. No cover. Instruction is free. The woman in the black swirling dress walked through each segment of the dance, calling out the beat and the step, repeating it until she saw that her students had it. Others joined in and she easily incorporated them into the dance, careful to repeat and correct before moving on. She was encouraging, completely understandable and patient without being patronizing. She was like a combination of Cheryl and Julianne on Dancing with the Stars. This woman was a skilled dance instructor.
After 38 years of marriage and endless weddings receptions where I had to bow out of the Electric Slide because I could never get the sequence, I realized this was my chance.
When she was through with one line dance she moved to another and then finally to the Electric Slide, a standard that most already knew but which she nonetheless methodically taught me, anticipating when I would mess up and inserting a reminder before the tricky part arrived.
By the third round, when I was at the head of the line and not following, I had it.
I had it. I could do the Electric Slide.
Detox Part II
I tell people, in grave tones, that we're detoxing. That means Ken will eventually eliminate all opiates in his bloodstream. He appears his usual sweet, endlessly curious, open self which seems at odds with the tone and gravity of my "We're detoxing,'' statement.
But I notice he's sleeping a lot more these days. And that his eyes seem tired and his steps more labored.
He's reducing his pain meds 20 milligrams a dose in a stepped down six-week schedule that makes my brain seize in its complexity.
At the end of this withdrawal he'll be off opiates for two weeks and then he'll have a pain pump inserted. We did this before and he wound up with spinal meningitis. But he really has no choice. He's getting less relief from the pain meds and his surgeon thinks that's why he's had a spate of falls recently. So, with a great degree of courage, stamina and blind faith he's begun the process. It's a steady march for the next six weeks.
But I notice he's sleeping a lot more these days. And that his eyes seem tired and his steps more labored.
He's reducing his pain meds 20 milligrams a dose in a stepped down six-week schedule that makes my brain seize in its complexity.
At the end of this withdrawal he'll be off opiates for two weeks and then he'll have a pain pump inserted. We did this before and he wound up with spinal meningitis. But he really has no choice. He's getting less relief from the pain meds and his surgeon thinks that's why he's had a spate of falls recently. So, with a great degree of courage, stamina and blind faith he's begun the process. It's a steady march for the next six weeks.
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