Cliffhanger

Do you ever watch The Amazing Race? The couples vying for a million dollars often have difficult tasks to complete, tasks that require getting over a fear (of heights, the water, etc.), or are physically exhausting. As I watch, someone will inevitably give up partway through, whining and complaining that they can't do it -- that it can't be done. Of course it can be done, and if they don't do it they will go home a failure and have no shot at the prize. I mock them from my couch. I tell them to stop saying it can't be done and just do it. Since they can't hear me, I feel free to show this total lack of empathy. I doubt I'll talk to the TV anymore, after today.

This morning I met a friend of mine, Alex (name possibly changed due to blog and privacy issues), to explore a fairly remote area of the wilderness. By explore I mean ride along as a passenger in his big truck with the high clearance and four wheel drive. By explore I mean go beyond where the public normally goes, but I don't mean backpacking to the ends of the earth or anything. Just a three hour tour, you might say.

We were miles away from any people, on a "road" that hasn't seen traffic of any kind in years, and we could only go so far, no further, due to a rock slide. But that didn't stop us from continuing on foot, walking down the road, down the mountain, to see where it would lead us. The road had pieces of pavement in random places, but more rocks and tall grasses and holes caused by erosion than any semblance of a street. Possibly for that reason, the "shortcut" looked appealing.

We were overlooking a lake as we walked along, and while it didn't appear that the road would lead to the water, a dry stream bed just might. We stepped off the long lost beaten path and onto the ankle-twisting sized rocks. They weren't boulders and they weren't stones. They were medium to large river rocks and tumbled into what only looked like a surface to walk on. In reality every other step felt slightly off kilter which slowed me down considerably. I like Alex and didn't want him to have to help me hobble back to the truck if I stepped wrong and sprained something. With care and consideration he held branches away from my face as we picked our way through the overgrowth. This was not a trail. But after a little effort we came out near the lake, and I for one was happy to have a meadow-like surface under my sneakers and an open space to walk freely and comfortably in.

Alex pointed out the various animal tracks, like mountain lion and bear and deer, and assured me that the critters were all likely sleeping and not interested in us at all. We sat near the lake and communed with nature and took in the gorgeousness around us. Here are two pictures that don't do the area justice.

Because I didn't know what the immediate future held in store for us, I had no interest in backtracking our way to the truck. Onward! Just because the road and the entire area hadn't been used by the public in who knows how long, "there must be a trail around here somewhere." I'm not sure who said it, probably me. I think it's a safe guess that Alex wanted to find me a nice, easy walk back. I wasn't whining (yet), but I had dressed for a drive in the big truck, not a hike. I wore sneakers and I was carrying my purse (for the love of God why is it always so heavy?). We walked along the shore until it disappeared. Rudely, I thought, there were just rocks. A hillslide (not a typo, but what I consider an apt description) of rocks all the way to the water. The choice was go back ("never give up! never surrender!"), or walk like some demented crab over the rocks while hoping they didn't come loose to land me, and them on top of me, in the lake. We were having fun now. Seriously. I felt excited by the unknown factor, and was literally giddy on the inside every time I stepped and didn't turn my ankle or fall down the slope. Okay, when I had to use my hands (call it crawling if you must) to keep my balance the giddiness may have been a bit manic, but I was getting it done!

The second or third time that Alex claimed that we'd be done with the rocks "just after the next bend" I realized that some of the whiney thoughts I was having might have been verbalized in something louder than a mutter. He was very nice, very encouraging, but all I could think about was how embarrassing it was that I was breathing heavily while he wasn't. I didn't want to be that part of the Amazing Race team that slows them down and gets yelled at and told to hurry up. I didn't want to be the weak link. It wasn't a race, and Alex wasn't suggesting there was anything wrong with our pace. But in my mind, where all the drama happens, the stress was building.

When we finally reached a clearing I was both relieved and slightly horrified. I was thrilled to be done with the unstable rocks but saw only a wooded slope and then more rocky shore ahead. I rather stridently, or so it seemed to me though Alex didn't react as people normally do to my stridency, said I'd had enough of the rocks. I didn't want to keep going along the shore. I wanted to go up to the road. And in my mind it should be a simple matter of walking up the wooded slope, possibly with some branches needing to be held back from hitting me in the face. It should've been like that.

First I pointed to an area that looked almost like a mini trail. It was. It was an animal path, and Alex didn't think it was a good idea for us to go that way. He was clearly being polite and not saying, "Do you want to wake up the napping bear, Mare?" He doesn't call me Mare, but it rhymes with bear and I had to write it that way.

So we found a different spot and started up. The *road* awaited. Road should be sung in a heavenly sounding voice in that sentence, followed by a deep *ahhhhh." Work with me.

It did not take long for disappointment to set in. The dirt was, quite possibly, even more slippery than the rocks. It skittered away and down the hill with each sneaker fall. I had started praying back on the rocks. I specifically requested several guardian angels be sent immediately to help us and get us safely back to the truck. We'd had an incident with St. Anthony earlier in the day (not worth going into -- suffice it to say that he took his sweet time helping us find what was lost), and I feared I might've taken a tone with the universe. As we went up the hill that wasn't really a hill, but a freakin' CLIFF, I apologized for the St. Anthony thing and stressed, stressed, stressed the need for angels. Roll your eyes if you like, but there were a couple of times when I'm sure the only reason I didn't pull a Romancing the Stone slide was because something supernatural held me in place.

I had been dealing with nervous laughter for some time. It's a vicious cycle. I'd get nervous, laugh, the laughter would weaken me and make me lose whatever grip I had, I'd get even more nervous, and I'd laugh some more. Alex must've thought he'd brought a lunatic along with him. He didn't show it, though. He kept trying to create toeholds for me by picking into the dirt with his boot. He was rewarded with a shriek of, "Hey, you're SIX feet tall! I'm five foot, four and three quarter inches here and when I leave off that last quarter inch you know the importance of how much shorter I am!" I normally like to round up to sound "taller" at five foot five. He'd apologize and try to accommodate me, and offer me his hand for a helpful pull up. I'd reward him with, "Forget it, I'll just pull you down to your death. Leave me and save yourself."

Alex: This is poison oak. Don't touch it.

Me: I can't remember that! I can't possibly remember what that looks like! Point out all of it you see!"

Alex: Don't touch the plant to your left.

Me: Oh my God! I can't touch anything! It's everywhere!

Alex: Don't touch this rock. It isn't stable.

Me: That rock? I wanted to touch that rock! You can't keep telling me not to touch things when I need to grab onto things!"

Alex: We're almost there. The road is close.

Me: You're lying! You're just saying that to try to make me feel better and keep going and it's not going to work, mister!

He never yelled at me. He never took a tone. He never left me to die.

As we got closer to the top of the cliff (I'm not kidding, it really was a cliff), I had tunnel vision. My adrenaline was pumping and I'd gone into a full-fledged panic mode. I saw a tiny tree, just the beginning of one really, but it seemed to have a firm grip on the earth. I grabbed it. Alex took a very large side step and then went up a bit. I didn't move. I tried not to say that I couldn't move, but the words came out anyway. I think it was about that time that he slipped a bit. Not a lot, and he quickly recovered, but he joked about what to do to call for help if he should go flying past me and land somewhere at the bottom. I don't know what I said, but I don't think it sounded appreciative of his humor.

I looked down. I have no idea if I vocalized what I thought or not but it was, "No no no! Looking down was a bad idea, a very bad idea!"

Poor Alex. In that kind of situation only one person can panic and I'd clearly called dibs on it. He had to be the strong one. And he was. He was a hero, even though he couldn't have known I saw him that way as I called him names and refused most of his offers of help. I do recall him saying something about my "trust issues" once when I couldn't take his hand. But he managed to say it with a smile.

Somehow he got me to let go of the tiny tree, take his hand, and he pulled me up and over to another precarious position that was a few feet closer to the top. Of course, I had only Alex's word for how close to the top we were. And I didn't believe him. I thought he was handling me, because I clearly required handling at that moment. He said he'd throw my water bottle up onto the road to show me. He threw it. I said something like, "What does that prove? So you threw the bottle. It could've gone anywhere!" He smiled and said I was doing great and I was almost there. The man has the patience of a saint.

I advanced to a medium sized tree. Tree is being kind, actually. It was several branches poking out at lots of angles, most of them hitting me in the face or chest, but it had a couple of sturdy limbs. I grabbed them and, again, couldn't move. My rational brain said I had to move, but my lizard brain said that sitting there forever was just the thing, made perfect sense, and was truly the only option. Alex worked his way around me, claimed to be at the top, (he was, I could see it with my own eyes, but panic does strange things to your logic), and took my purse (which I got off my body somehow without choking myself and handed to him) and threw it to safety. After I calmly told him that I couldn't move, that I meant it, he somehow convinced me to move. And I slipped.

I had absolutely no purchase under my feet at all. I was hanging on to the tree limbs with just my hands and knew I wasn't going to last long doing that. I don't remember clearly how Alex was next to me, then behind me, holding the tree and keeping his body between me and oblivion as he kicked at the dirt to make toe holds for me. I do remember that I couldn't wait for those holds and something told me to lean into the dirt. I did, and my knees somehow took hold. You don't have to believe in divine intervention if you don't choose to, and Alex certainly gave me support and time, but I believe an angel guided my panicked body into a position of temporary safety. Why the angel couldn't just lift me up and place me on the road is a mystery. Maybe they're drama queens at heart.

Alex got back into position between the tree and the top and made suggestions about where I should put my hands. I came back with things like, "The tree is in my way, Alex! I don't know how you expect me to do that! I'm going to kill part of this tree and I don't care!" I think the nervous laughter might've mitigated my stridency a tad, because he really should've been annoyed with me, but he wasn't. I did attack a few of the branches with one hand while keeping a death grip with the other. I managed to get my hands the way Alex wanted them, so that I was holding on but would be able to let go and grab his hand when ready. And that would be never. The lizard brain was firm on that. Letting go of the tree was not going to happen.

My rational brain decided to think about The Amazing Race again. Oh, so that's why they stop mid-way through a challenge. They're scared. They can't think logically. They may have safety harnesses on, but they probably don't feel safe at all. I have to stop mocking them. Finally, I realized that Alex would never leave me and save himself, that the only way out of the situation was to do what he said, and even though the idea of him hoisting me up and onto the flat, safe surface without both of us just crashing to our deaths seemed illogical, I had to trust him. The part where I let go and took his hand is a blur. The part where he pulled me up as if he did that sort of thing all the time and it was no big deal is crystal clear.

I laid on my back, barely able to speak because fear had taken all the saliva out of my mouth, and whispered, "I love you, I love you, I love you, you saved my life, I love you, I love you, I love you." Alex laughed and told me that I'd done well, that I'd climbed a cliff, and I should be proud of myself. Hero. Definitely.

He even seemed to think he should've found us an easier way back to the road. I guess the stress of getting me up that cliff had made him forget that I'd wanted to go that route. I'd been afraid of the rocks and didn't want to go another way. Afraid of the rocks. Oh, hindsight.

But if I hadn't had that fear of the rocks and falling into the lake I never would've conquered the cliff. So I'm glad we went that way. I'm grateful for guardian angels. And Alex will always be my hero (even if he doesn't want to take me hiking again).

What a day.

Making a Run for It

When Deb and I checked in at the airport in St. Louis yesterday we found that the first part of our trip back, the flight to Phoenix, was delayed. It meant we'd have only 35 minutes to transfer in Phoenix, and the gates we'd arrive at and leave from were nowhere near each other. Not comforting.

Once onboard we had to wait to be de-iced again, as it had been a certain length of time since the last de-icing, with precipitation (snow) falling in the meanwhile, and those rules are there to protect us as the cheery pilot explained. Having a window seat for the de-icing procedure is like having a window into how disgusting a sliming experience must be. The pilot said it would smell like "pancake syrup." I don't ever want to eat with that pilot.

Finally we were on the runway. And we stayed there. I don't know how long we waited, though the sniffing impaired pilot explained why. If there's a lot of traffic, and it might get backed up in the air, they hold you on the ground. It costs less than circling would at your destination. He didn't, however, explain why we didn't need another de-icing after an equally long amount of time and that pesky precipitation still falling.

Once in the air Deb and I leaned forward in order to do our part in helping to "make up time." It did about as much good as leaning forward in my Saturn does as it chugs up a grade. It goes no faster, but you sometimes can't help yourselves. I'm kidding here. I'm the only one of us who leaned.

As we taxied to the gate in Phoenix, the flight crew made an announcement. They said there were those of us who had very iffy connections to make (some time had been made up, but it was laughable to think we could still get on our flight), and if you had plenty of time to please let us out first. The flight attendant serving us said that if we got a cart, we might be able to make it. All we had to do was go nearly all the way down one wing, across to another, and nearly all the way down it to the other gate. Just, you know, an impossible distance. We got off the plane, a man was there with a wheelchair (Deb isn't up for long treks at high speed), and he took off with Deb at a fast clip. I looked at the time and it was 5:24.

The young guy pushing Deb was strong and fast and clearly motivated to get us there in time. I was motivated not to be left behind in the Phoenix airport. Literally running to keep up with him was one of those "damn, I wish I worked out regularly like I used to" moments. It was also an "I'm so glad I have this huge sweatshirt on" moment since I hadn't expected to need a jogbra on this trip. Every so often the guy would glance back to see if I was still there and flash me a thumbs-up sign. I hated him. There was one section of the airport that had a moving ramp. I got on and managed to come even with, then get slightly ahead of Deb. I panted out a smartass comment about her keeping up. Big mistake. The moving ramp ended and the young guy took it as a challenge to go faster.

Here's how sick my mind is, though. I'm running along, past all these shops and restaurants, and my thoughts went like this, "I'm so out of shape. How did I let this happen? I used to swim every morning and walk every night. I have to get back into the habit of doing cardio. I have to lose weight. Ohhhhh, there's a Carvel! I wish we had time to stop!" It is very hard to laugh at yourself when breathing has become a chore.

We skidded to a stop at the entrance to the jetway, and the ticket agent gave us some attitude about being late and the door should be closed already. As she scanned Deb's boarding pass I looked at the time and it was 5:32. Less than ten minutes to go what was quite obviously a mile or longer (I can't be certain, of course). As we headed down the jetway a man ran up behind me. He'd also been delayed on a flight and had made a run for it. We couldn't high five each other as it would've required energy we were using to catch our breath.

The second we were in our seats (it took a little longer for the man, as he was farther back in the plane), they shut the door. We were on our way in five minutes. So, while we marveled at how wonderful it was that we'd made the flight, we were prepared to get to San Jose and not have any luggage. We knew there was another flight, hours later, and I thought I'd have to drive back to the airport to get our stuff whenever it came in. Still, we weren't stuck in Phoenix, we were on our way back, and we were glad.

Obviously we went to baggage claim anyway, just being hopeful, when we got to SJC. The conveyer belt started moving, the little light flashed, and bags came up from the Great Below to be collected gratefully by their owners. Mine was third up, and Deb's was fourth. Now that's impressive! I know they have carts and can drive from gate to gate, but they have many to take off and transfer and they had about 15 minutes to do it in.

Air travel is stressful, but all in all it was a good trip. The big snow was over with before we got to St. Louis, I only had to clear the rental car off once, and the roads were clear the whole time. There were obviously still back-ups and issues leftover from those cancellations due to the couple of storms that hit a week or so ago, but the airlines are handling them. Deb got to feel snow on her face (something she apparently likes to experience once every decade or so), and I got to wear my heavy, cable-knit sweater. Both of us got to see Mary Lou again, and we returned home very happy.

I'm devising a new exercise regimen right now. I have to start burning a lot more calories, 'cause I'm never going to stop wanting Carvel.

Color me Irish

I used to think being frugal was a good thing. I could be nearly self-righteous about it, in fact. As if not buying the latest gadget or shopping at thrift stores made me a better person. Obviously that's just wrong thinking. Of course, my FICA score does make me better than most of you, but that's a different matter entirely. No, no, I shouldn't joke like that or the universe will teach me another lesson.

Last week, after I'd been back from Deb's for a couple of days, I colored my hair. This is not a new or strange activity for me. My Irish genes turned my hair prematurely gray long before I was 40, and I've been covering those pesky strands with auburn dye ever since my girlfriends forced me to see that nothing bad would happen if I did so. Until now.

I used the wimpiest form of color for a decade. The kind with no ammonia or peroxide or whatever makes it permanent, but that washes out after several shampoos. Then Clairol, for no good reason whatsoever, stopped making it. Just stopped. And while I was busy with issues like debt and death, enterprising and evil persons bought up the available inventory. Oh, I could still buy my beloved #80, but not for $50. a bottle on eBay. I'm quite mystified why anyone would pay that amount, but people did, and then there was none. I had to choose another option. Going natural was not one of them.

I spent a great deal of time in the beauty aisle, reading packages until I had to admit that no "safe" dye was available. They all had the dreaded chemicals that made the color last longer (apparently what the masses want), and I no longer had Gwennie to tell me I was being silly and reassure me it would look fine. I managed to pick one and do it anyway. Except for the awful smell, it went well. And everyone seemed to like the slightly darker auburn my hair became with this product. This new dye came out of the bottle in foam form, and cost a couple of dollars more ($8. a bottle), but I got used to it.

Last week, after I draped myself with an old towel and put the plastic gloves on, I mixed the nasty smelling formula and squeezed the bottle. Instead of a palm full of foam, I got liquid. I squeezed again, and again no foam. The directions say to keep squeezing until foam comes out. They don't cover what to do if foam never comes out. A less frugal person (or, you might suggest, a smarter person) would simply throw this malfunctioning product away and get another one. But my thought process was that the old stuff never foamed and it was fine, and I wasn't going to waste eight dollars, so what the heck. I poured the liquid on, covering all strands, making sure to get more near the roots. Then, even though the directions don't call for it, I put a plastic cap over my hair to really bake it in. It's what I always did with the old stuff -- the stuff without the harmful chemicals. I am thorough in my stupidity.

By the time the requisite 25 minutes were up, and I stepped into the shower to rinse and condition, I was dizzy. I was so dizzy I had to hold onto the shower door frame with one hand and rinse with the other. I made it out of the bathroom, managed to get dry and dressed, and laid down on the couch. When I closed my eyes, vertigo hit. For those lucky enough not to know the difference, dizzy is bad and vertigo is God's warning that Hell is real. The room spun as if I'd jumped onto a souped up carousel. Unfortunately, I know what this is like from previous experience, and I knew that keeping my eyes closed wouldn't help. Also, opening your eyes while the room is twirling is dangerous without an emesis basin handy.

I'm not sure how long it took for the vertigo to settle back down into dizziness, but once it did I carefully reached for my laptop and Googled "hair dye dizzy." I learned that the ammonia can, in fact, mess with one's head. I would have slapped myself, but I'm not a total masochist.

I talked to Deb, who is a font of knowledge, and she suggested ways for me to detox. The scariest one was to wash my hair again. I have always understood, intellectually, why old and/or frail people are afraid of bathing. Falling is a legitimate fear. Last week I got it on an emotional level. I couldn't get back into the shower. I got on my knees outside the tub and leaned over, using the hand-held shower to wash and rinse, scrubbing as if I could somehow lift the chemicals out of my scalp hours later.

I still didn't feel well the next day. A friend who visited took my mind off my head temporarily, but a general wonkiness had set in that isn't entirely gone, even now, a week later.

I will never be that frugal again. If something is off, I will buy another one. I've come to appreciate my overall good health even more, and to be thankful for a friend like Deb, who gave good advice and continued to email me and check on how I was doing. The friend who visited, who knew I felt so bad that I couldn't even go to the post office to mail a card to my aunt? Never called, never emailed to ask if I felt better, until yesterday. So, see, there's always good with the bad. I learned how little that person really thinks of me. It hurts, but it's useful to know.

I appear to be happy, or happier, to some of my friends. What I am is more thankful for my blessings and more willing to learn lessons. I'd still rather learn them without pain, though. So not so evolved, after all. :-)

 

I'm Fine!

Note to self: Don't be honest at the doctor's office.

This morning I had my initial appointment with the Santa Maria VA clinic. When I changed my address with the VA they assigned me to a new local office and set up an appointment. Since there's nothing wrong with me (I know, that's debatable), I figured it'd be a "why don't we mangle your arm and take some blood, just for the heck of it?" kind of meeting. At the Oxnard clinic they also liked to do pap smears at the drop of a hat, but I was prepared to say I'd had sex within the previous 48 hours to get out of that, if necessary. After all, I hadn't even laid eyes on these health care professionals yet.

As usual, the people who greeted me at the check-in desk were very friendly. They have cushy government jobs so of course they're happy. Then I was taken into an exam room to talk with the LVN and get my temperature, bp, etc. I'll call her Molly. Molly seemed very sweet and nice, with a sense of humor. Clearly I have no ability to read people.

She complimented me on my excellent blood pressure, then complimented me on not having a fever. Yes, because I work on that every day. Huh? She inquired as to why I hadn't had a colonoscopy done, since one had been scheduled for me some time back. I said, "First they want you to drive to LA to be taught how to do the prep. I already know how to swallow. Then they want someone to drive you to LA for the test. I don't know anyone who can take an entire day to do that for me. Now that I live up here, this is even less likely to happen." She nodded knowingly and said, "Yes, I've heard that they're thinking of allowing private waivers for that as they're so backed up in LA. Oh dear, I just said 'backed up.'" She tried several other ways to phrase it, for some unknown reason, before giving up in a fit of giggling. Molly is nowhere near 50 and has never had a doctor suggest this procedure for her, so from her perspective it's all a hoot, I'm sure.

After she got control of herself she asked, reading from a script on her computer, "During the past two weeks have you felt down or blue or experienced any sadness?" I said yes. She looked at me. I said, "It's the holidays," in a tone that clearly meant, "Duh!" Reading again she asked, "Have you found that you've lost interest in activities that usually bring you pleasure?" I believe I said I hadn't been engaging in those activities much. And that was it. We moved on to something forgettable, then I returned to the waiting room.

My nurse practitioner came to get me minutes later, and stood in the doorway shaking her head. I didn't know what I'd done, but she quickly explained that the problem was my gender. This woman, whom I'll call Penny, said that she'd see me today but not to get used to her as she didn't do "women's health." It was one of those rare occasions when I had no idea what to say. She ushered me into another exam room and explained that they didn't have many women patients there, but had decided to give all the ones they did have to one of two NP's who were versed in women's health. Penny wasn't one of them. So she would order some lab work (giving me a gold star for having fasted), and we'd just have a chat and a cursory exam and I could come back again to meet my real primary care person. I relaxed. Big mistake.

She looked at her computer screen, then at me, and said, "You're flagged as being suicidal."

I said something like, "Wha?"

She said they have a great psychiatrist there.

I said something like, "Wha?"

She said, "You told Molly you were depressed."

I said, "It's Christmas, for the love of God, of course I'm depressed -- isn't everyone?"

Penny laughed out loud at that point and said no, not really.

I said that my mom died two years ago, one of my dearest friends died last year, and my father died in July, which has forced me to deal with an evil spawn of a relative who's part vulture and part vampire (not the attractive kind), and I'm not married, and I've had a lot of time to think about where I went wrong in that regard, and I've done my best and put up a tree and baked goodies and invited people over, but excuse the hell out of me it's just not the best couple of weeks I've ever had.

She asked if I had a plan for my suicide.

I said, "NO! But I'm forming one in regard to Molly!"

Penny laughed again and said, "I have to ask. You're the one who said you were depressed. And we don't do much here. We have a cheesy physical therapy department, the lab, and the psychiatrist. For everything else you go to LA. If you change your mind you can see him anytime."

And I did kind of want to see him, just to possibly get some anti-anxiety drugs, after all that.

She told me to forget about the colonoscopy, since they were so backed up (no giggles) in LA that it'd never happen anyway. Wished me good luck finding a private doctor to look at my thyroid (I've been given a waiver to do that), since none will take what the VA pays. And asked me if I have regular pap smears. I told her that the woman in Oxnard is incompetent when it comes to finding my cervix and my results are always inconclusive after she has to take three or four stabs at it. Penny said, "Aren't you glad I'm not going to suggest it? I have no idea how to do one." Then she asked me to sit on the examining table.

I did, and she looked in my ears. She said, "Looks like your hearing is fine." I hope that was a joke. She made me say "ahhh," and said my tongue looked good. No, I am not making this up. Thankfully she said nothing after looking up my nose. Then she listened to my heart. She informed me that it wasn't beating too fast or too slow, but just right. Silently I called myself baby bear and nicknamed Penny Goldilocks. She had short hair that was mostly blonde, with odd bits of gray and brown throughout, rather randomly. As she talked she'd run her fingers through it and it would stand straight up -- and stay that way for a while. It was hard not to stare.

She wanted to feel my thyroid (everyone does), and commented on how it wasn't noticeable that it was enlarged on one side (all doctors say that, too). She said, "You said you're not taking any medication, only vitamins."

I said, "Yup. I told them I wouldn't take anything for this."

She chuckled and said, "Oh, I bet that went over well."

I told her about the back and forth with the LA doc, wherein she told me I had hyPERthyroidism and I said I did NOT, and she wanted me to take meds and I said they'd do more harm than good, and she said I could suffer bone loss and I said no freakin' way and she ordered a bone scan and I passed it like a 20 year old. This tickled Penny/Goldilocks immensely.

She said, "So you don't want anything for your cholesterol either?"

I said, "I'd like to stop wanting ice cream and cheese, and to exercise more. But I would not like any statins."

"Cardiologists love to prescribe them," Penny said. "That should tell us something."

She finally asked if I had any concerns or questions. I said I did, that I wanted some more information about menopause, and all the things I can do to make it easier.

This woman, this sixty-something if she's a day woman, said, "You'll have to wait till you see the women's health specialist. I don't know anything about that." Really? Nothing? Then she told me that she takes hormone replacements and doesn't really care if it's bad for her, since she wasn't happy with how she felt before taking them. Feeling good is what it's all about, right?

Then she sent me to the lab, where historically I have come out not feeling good at all.

First the blood-letter looked at the computer (a theme) and it directed her to lay several vials on the counter. Apparently there was an order in the system for the LA endocrinologist, and if it's in the computer it must be obeyed. I looked at the vials and said, "I haven't eaten in 13 hours. Am I going to be able to walk out of here when you're done?" She smiled.

I told her (let's call her Angel) that I have shy and retiring veins and that my left arm, on the top, not the crook of my elbow, is the best spot. She, of course, wrapped the elastic band around my right bicep and poked at that arm. I was torn between, "Your other left," or something more cutting, but I was at her mercy so I said nothing. I was prepared to physically grab her wrist and stop her if she proceeded to poke that right arm, though. I'm done with being bruised because of some point of pride on the blood-letter's part.

Angel moved the elastic to my left bicep and poked and stroked that arm, moving to the top only after the crook offered her nothing. Finally she said, "Ah. It's small, and it needs coaxing." Then she went to the cabinet and brought back a heat pack, which she pressed to my arm.

I said, "Well, this is a new low. I've never had to be heated first."

Angel smiled and said it would encourage my vein. Yes, sure, I can see that logic. Warming up is always a good idea. I felt even better when I saw her take the juvenile needle out to use on me. She removed the heat, swabbed me with alcohol, and for the first time in my life I decided to watch the needle go in. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's my new desire to be fearless in all areas of my life. Maybe I sensed it wouldn't hurt too bad this time. Maybe I thought passing out would make a good story.

She slipped the tiny needle into my skin and I wouldn't have known she did it if I hadn't seen it. I didn't feel it. Blood immediately filled the plastic tubing and she attached the first of many vials. Stupidly, I said, "That just worked on the first try." Angel smiled and said yes, it did. I can't remember the last time it worked so well.

I watched as each and every vial was filled and nothing bad happened to me. I didn't pass out, or feel queasy, and as it turned out she didn't take enough to make me lightheaded. What's next, public speaking?

One thing I won't be doing is telling the truth when asked, by a health care person, how I'm feeling. Just fine, thank you, and yourself? That's my plan.

 

Speaking One's Mind, Truly

My father held many jobs before I was born and when I was a young'un. But for the majority of the time I remember, he was his own boss. He became a real estate salesman, then very quickly thereafter a broker, and opened a business. He had a partner for a while, "Uncle" Harry, but eventually they parted ways. My father was not the kind of person who could get along well with others unless they were, as he saw it, subordinate to him.

For the most part I abhorred his way of doing business, but there was one thing I understood and agreed with: You cannot strenuously voice your opinion or take sides if you want to sell your services to the greatest number of clients. This was long before our country became as split down the middle as it is now, but it's always made sense. If my father put a sign up proclaiming he was voting for a Democratic candidate (and he was quite the Democrat before he got old and switched sides), he knew he'd be annoying his potential Republican clients, who could easily find another Realtor or, later, real estate appraiser. He actually gave money to both parties when he contributed, just to be fair.

Things certainly haven't changed in this basic regard. Sadly, I heard Richard Chamberlain quoted as giving advice to young, gay actors to stay in the closet. He said that no matter how far it looked like we'd come, the bigotry was still prevalent and the jobs would be fewer if they didn't pretend to be someone they're not. Since California, of all states, couldn't pass a law giving equal marriage rights to gay people, he's probably right. And if you want work, you do what you have to do to get it. It will vary depending on the work, but when selling yourself, with a service or a talent, potential buyers have to like you and see themselves in you. Or at least not see what's anathema to them in you.

I base my opinions and reactions on what people put forth publicly. After attending several writing workshops and conferences, I've seen plenty of the agents, editors, and authors on Facebook. I can find them charming and reasonable in person, then completely change my mind once I read their postings. An independent editor who doesn't seem to understand the difference between "its" and "it's" as they share their status? Once is a typo, more than twice confirms their ignorance. Or one who thinks it's a good idea to lambast those who disagree with a political idea s/he holds dear? Since we seem to be so evenly split in America, half of their potential clients just felt a slap in the face and decided to use someone else to clean up their manuscript.

Equally confusing, to my way of thinking, is why someone who has written a book, and wants to sell it to as many readers as possible, would then alienate a goodly number of them with bad "jokes." I know someone who does this. He makes what he must think are highly amusing remarks about how cats are good for tossing around and eating. Yes, eating. He thinks this is funny. He's an otherwise smart and resourceful man, with a high IQ. He'd like to be published and to entertain and emotionally move his readers. Yet he can't see, or won't see (because it'd mean being a bit more self-aware and using the discipline required to edit himself) that his public persona is the opposite of amusing. It's offensive.

Those who know and love (or even just like) us will get our jokes and/or put up with the bad ones because we have warm feelings toward each other. I have actually smiled at some of this man's cat jokes, even though doing so will surely go on my permanent record and only encouraged him when that was the last thing he needed. But I know he would never actually, literally, hurt an animal or eat a domestic cat (big cats, like any game, are another matter). I can smile, and so can his family and good friends, because we know him well enough to know that.

People, and potential readers of any book or books he may have published, don't know that. At best they will think cat jokes are hilarious, either because they don't particularly like cats, or because they have one and their cat doesn't like them. But the worst case scenario (in a marketing sense), is that they will think, "Wow, this guy is a loser. What sort of person says something like that? That's sick." And they won't buy his books. All because he couldn't control himself and what he put out there in the public forum.

I have tried, in a gentle way, to make this point to him. He didn't hear me. He'd probably also think I was being ridiculous if I said that agents and editors might, just might, look at a writer's Facebook page and/or website or blog when considering buying their manuscript. Employers do it all the time, and a public face is even more important to scrutinize when it can influence sales than when it can "merely" provide insight into a potential hire.

Or possibly he did hear me, and he continues to post obnoxious comments because then he can blame a lack of success on how misunderstood he is, how people are too sensitive and politically correct these days, rather than strictly on his mastery of craft. It's hard to say. I often look deeper than the bottom of the well.

I think it's also very hard to see our own faults. A friend kindly pointing something out doesn't always get through. It might take a Gibbs-like smack upside the head accompanying the words to drive home that something isn't wise. I wish I could get him to listen. So far, telling him that talent alone isn't enough hasn't made an impact.

Of course I also wonder what it is that I do. How am I shooting myself in the foot? I fear that my friends who can see objectively what I need to do or stop doing won't speak up, as I'm lacking in grace when confronted with uncomfortable truths. I will come around eventually, but it's a bit like waking me up by shaking my shoulder -- you will get a punch in the face for your efforts.

I know that I value honesty and frankness. I also believe in keeping quite a bit to myself, where Facebook or my blog are concerned. So, since I've put so much out there already, you can just imagine what I'm holding back. :-)

I think it's too easy to share, and we've become too accustomed to doing so casually. I wish self-editing would catch on as the next big thing. And, for Christmas, I'd like this writer I've spoken of to be given the gift of having all his cat jokes magically erased from cyberspace and memory. Hey, anything is possible at Christmas.

 

Those windshield wipers slappin' out a tempo...

The PSA "Turn around, don't drown" does not apply to driving in traffic on the freeway.  If anyone in a flow of traffic doing 55 mph or more hits their brakes for any reason, it's dangerous to some degree.  If someone driving in the rain sees water and stops, because they can't be sure how deep it is, they will find out one thing for sure --  what it feels like to be rear-ended.  If you're traveling on the freeway on a rainy day you know and accept that you'll drive through water.  

But there's water, and then there's WATER.

As I headed north today, on the 101, I drove in and out of showers.  The mist and rain softened an already scenic route and I was content.  I could see to drive and, on a rainy day, that's a major blessing.  Then something or someone upset the angels and they cried harder.  Much harder.  I could see the white truck in front of me and I stayed behind him, happy to slow to 50 mph (so you know it was bad).  

As we neared Chualar we slowed more, and more, and then we stopped.  Two lanes of traffic inched forward, and I had plenty of time to notice my surroundings.  I saw the dirt fields had morphed into brown lakes, the stream gushing alongside the road, the fact that few cars were going by in the southbound lanes, and finally a small, yellow sign on the edge of the shoulder that read: Flooded.  I'd pretty much figured that.  A police car squeezed by to my right and I wondered if he'd driven over the sign.

As a reminder (or for those who don't know),I drive a Saturn SL2.  It's a low car.  If your back is bothering you, you can't get in or out of my blue baby without pain.  No clearance is what I'm saying.  It's not a good car to be driving through a flooded area.  At that moment I very much wanted a Hummer.

Traffic wasn't stopped, after all, just moving very slowly.  I understood that this meant I'd have to drive through water, and a cop being nearby simply meant someone would be available to call a tow truck and write a report.  The raging river the stream had grown into was a big clue as to the amount of water up ahead.

I've driven through flooded areas before.  I know the rules.  Well, there's really only one rule: Don't stop or you'll stall.  Okay, two: If you're behind a truck, stay close or you'll go through twice as much water.  I was behind a truck.  I hate to tailgate.  It makes me nervous.  And if a trucker hits his or her brakes and a little Saturn is right behind?  Not a good scenario on a dry day.

All of us were in the left lane as we neared the spot where the berm had failed and the muddy lake sought its twin on the southbound side.  No longer crawling along, we picked up speed as vehicle after vehicle charged through the breach.  I saw, in quick succession, way too much water where the right lane had been ("Oh God, my car can't handle this, it's gonna die and the truck behind me will kill me! Shut up, don't think that, cancel, cancel, cancel!"), an 18-wheeler heading southbound throwing up plumes of brown water as high as the cab ("That's twice as high as my car!  I can't make it!  Shut UP! We can do this!), then the truck ahead of me hitting the water.  Adrenaline surged, tunnel vision set in, and I stayed as close as possible to the truck, chanting, "Thank you God" over and over and over --  it was the only positive thing I could think of to pray in the moment.  I was trying to block the fear of someone ahead of me stopping, or my engine drowning, or panic causing me to hit my brakes.  

I was truly panicked.  My guess is that we drove through two tenths of a mile of deep water.  It took forever.  Then it was over and I could see the road again and there was no traffic because everyone ahead of me sped off.  Just as I touched my brakes, to pump them dry, the song on the radio stopped and I heard a loud whine.  I was sure it heralded the death of baby blue and couldn't figure out why I still had power.  "This is an emergency report from the National Weather Service" cleared up the confusion.  They announced that there was a good chance of flash flooding in Monterey County.  

Good to know.

Santa, if you're reading this and I'm on the Nice list, I'd like an SUV.

Random Kindness

In the aftermath of any tragedy, such as the devastating hurricane Sandy on the east coast, people provide examples of the kindnesses of strangers and wish it could be that way all the time. I think there are just as many examples in normal, everyday life and we simply let them go by without remarking about them. After all, it's a lot more touching and dramatic when someone with power hangs out a sign offering to let others recharge their phones than if an average Joe does a good deed. Or is it? Someone going out of their way for you, for no reason other than being a nice guy, is touching in its own way. At least to me.

When I moved into my apartment I set up TV and internet service. I got a basic modem and used an ethernet cable to wire myself up to get online. It was fine for a while. But now I have my desktop computer set up, and the printer (which is supposed to work wirelessly -- another blog entry for another day), and I didn't want to have to buy a longer cable and switch back and forth between the desktop and the laptop. Merely for convenience sake I called Comcast to ask about going wireless.

The person I spoke to said I could get a wireless router at no extra charge. All I had to do was go to my neighborhood Comcast store and pick it up. She said I'd get instructions on how to set it up. I drove over to the store and a nice woman handed me the router and a cable. I asked about instructions. Oh, it was simple, and nothing extra was needed. If I called up for support I'd be charged, but I wouldn't need to do that as it was so simple. "All I had to do" was call in to be activated. All of that was bullshit, as it turned out. However, she did ask about my general happiness with Comcast so I told her that when I signed up I was told I'd get Showtime for 6 months and there is no Showtime on my TV. So she said she'd give it to me for six months. I checked, and she did that. Woo-hoo. Now I can watch Don Cheadle in House of Lies (when the season starts again in January).

I came home, looked at the pieces parts I now have, and connected the router to the best of my ability. Lights came on, but I had no idea if that was a good thing or not. I clicked on the list of available networks on my laptop, hoping one of them would say, "brand new, as yet unnamed network -- click here, Mary." Alas, none did. The top one on the list was Gutierrez, which meant nothing to me other than being the last name of my nephew. I called the 888 number the woman had given me "to activate" myself.

I spoke to a man who informed me that I had to configure my network, not simply activate it, and for that I needed tech support. A tad peevishly I asked him why that was, since I hadn't been told that. He said it was the way it was, and he'd transfer my call. I was on hold long enough to win two games of FreeCell and be in the middle of a third when my call was answered by a guy I'll call Robert (not his real name). He was surprised when he heard what I needed. He said tech support didn't support routers anymore, yet I was the second call he'd had today wanting that very thing.

I told him that I'd been transferred to him from some other Comcast employee, and I was a bit confused by this time, too. I managed to keep a tone out of my voice when I said that I wouldn't have waited so long to get through if I knew I was supposed to be calling somewhere else. He said there was nowhere else to call, literally, as Comcast doesn't support this antiquated system of using both a modem and a router anymore. There's a new "Gateway" system that the locals in Lompoc obviously don't know about yet. When he asked me for my phone number he said, "Sheesh, I have no idea why they routed you to me. I'm in Chicago." (Actually he was somewhere else, but I'm purposely not identifying him.)

I think I said, "oh." Small voice. I mean, it wasn't a tragedy. I could simply use my modem as I had been and get right back online, and figure out what to do later. It was simply a waste of time and an annoyance. But Robert said, "I'll help you. I'll walk you through this blind, if you want." I did want.

He proceeded to have me unplug and power down, then use the ethernet cable to get me to a place online where I could set up my network and security. The page was supposed to come up with an empty space where the network name goes, but it came up with Gutierrez. I could almost see Robert shaking his head in disgust as he told me that I'd been given someone else's router (that they'd obviously returned) and it hadn't been reset. We reset it. I named my network and picked a password, with Robert stressing that I'd better never forget it as getting help at that point would be impossible. We were joking with each by that time, and he told me he hadn't gotten my name at first so I told him again. He said, "Mary. That's a nice name. Mother of God and all that." I said, "Oh, there's no way I can live up to that." Then everything was powered down again, and I brought it all up in the order he told me to.

He explained a few things along the way. What certain lights meant, depending on their color, and how the order when turning things on was important and why. Once I was up and online, I asked if there was some way I could give him an attaboy so he'd get credit for this. He'd spent quite a bit of time with me, when it was obviously not his job to do so. He said, "Oh, no, don't give me any credit. I could get in trouble. I'm not supposed to do this. I just wanted to help you after all the incompetence you'd encountered."

So Robert went out of his way for me, a complete stranger, when doing so wasn't even going to win him points at work. When doing so would get him grief, instead. A kindness done because he's obviously a good guy, yet no one will take his picture and post it on Facebook to be shared a thousand times.

People are good all the time, they just don't get the press.