Flying Solo

Yesterday Eva and I were pushed from our safe little nest at the hospital, and relocated to the Homewood Suites hotel where we will be staying until her follow up appointment on Wednesday.

Nervous and exhausted, we plunged headfirst in to our first solo flight with Eva’s post-op wound care.

Strip drain. No, wait! Disinfect hands. Clean tube with alcohol prep. Drop prep on floor. Open another prep with one of my hands and one of Eva’s. Try again. “Ouch!” “Sorry!” Strip drain. Drain clogged with a clot. Clean tube with alcohol prep. Drop prep. Open another. Clear clog. “Ewwww!!!” Disinfect hands. Clean tube. Drop prep. Open another. Clean tube again. Put drain and pouch back together. Restore suction. Put pouch in pocket. “Damn! The pouch came open again!” Drain pouch. Restore suction. Open alcohol prep. “Oops! Don’t need one for this.” Put pouch back in pocket. Betadine drain wound. Toss betadine swab in trash. “That’s the supply bag, not the trash!” Move swab to trash. Cover with bandage. Drain number one (of four!) done. Repeat until funny.

Eva quipped “It was like a hospital horror flick directed by Woody Allen.”

Ultimately we both survived,  and this morning’s sojourn to that particular territory went a lot more smoothly.  It’s amazing how much getting some sleep helps.

I think it’s best for all concerned if I pass on attaching a photo to this particular blog entry.

2012 Mardi Gras…..sort of

To New Orleans I’ll be flying
Not for beads there will I be vying
I’ll empty her tubes
and tend her new boobs
’cause my love for my sister’s undying

View of parade float from the Hospital Window

My flight to New Orleans was scheduled for 0-dark-thirty in the morning, so I had to get up at 3am. Since I didn’t even start packing until about 10pm the night before I ended up fairly sleep deprived, but I arrived Saturday morning safe and sound, if somewhat groggy. The airport was a blur with a couple notable exceptions.

The signs directing folks to the Baggage Claim area was printed in three languages, although it took me a few minutes to figure that out. When my tired, un-vision-corrected eyes saw “Retrait des Bagages” my fogged brain interpreted it as “Restrain the Bagpipes”. I wasn’t sure what such a message was doing on major airport signage, but it seemed like good advice none-the-less.

Further down the concourse, I spotted an older woman inspecting some cheap plastic Mardi Gras beads being sold from a kiosk. I had a bite my tongue to keep from calling to her “Show ‘em your tits! You’ll get them for free!”

It was a short the trip from the airport to the hospital where my sister is currently recovering from a double mastectomy. She looked great and was getting around well when I got there. Much better than I was anticipating considering she’d had 9 hours of surgery mere days before.

My first impression of New Orleans itself is that it smells really good. Like everything you’d ever want to eat prepared to perfection.

It’s the week before Mardi Gras here, but it turns out the parades start early. The hospital is right on St. Charles St on the parade route. We watched three parades yesterday from the window. The majority of float riders were good naturedly tossing beads to the waiting crowds, although some were more forcefully pelting them. A few seemed to be going for distance an accuracy. We watched one lone gentleman in a parking lot across the street, far back and all by himself, giving an impromptu dance tribute to Michael Jackson.

With amazing foresight, Eva arranged for her breasts to be Mardi Gras colored for the event. Lovely shades of green, purple and gold!

VooDoo BBQ for dinner (yum!) and a restful night, and I’m back to my perky self. Later today Eva and I will be moving from the hospital to a near by hotel. No doubt more blog posts and limericks will be forthcoming.

Shopping with Dad

I have a nearly compulsive tendency to second guess myself, but I’m a rank amateur compared to my father. Don’t get me wrong,  I love him dearly; but he could turn analyzing your options into an Olympic sport.

With my parent’s help, we’re currently giving our kitchen a face lift.  Nothing major, just refinishing the existing cabinets and putting in new counter tops.  At least, it’s not supposed to be anything major.  Shopping for supplies with my Dad is an experience.

Our latest foray to Home Depot involved buying new trim for the top of the cabinets.  We are replacing some of the wall cabinets with wider units, so the old trim can’t be re-used.   The existing trim is just a plain, inch wide strip of wood.

As we’re heading towards the trim aisle, Dad casually says “You know, if it were me, I would put in crown molding.”

“Crown molding?” I ask.  Being somewhat new to the world of do-it-yourself home remodeling, I have a vague idea of what this means, but not with regards to kitchen cabinets.

“Yeah. You put it around the top of the cabinets. It really dresses them up.”   Dad proceeds pulling out wide, fancy strips of wood that would not look out of place gracing the top of the Chrysler building.

Becoming faintly alarmed, I say “Um…  I’m not so sure about this.”

“Here, I can show you!” he says with increasing enthusiasm, and drags me over to the area where they have all the “demo kitchens” set up.  Sure enough, every cabinet has crown molding around the top.  It is, indeed, lovely.

“But Dad, all these cabinets are a lot fancier than mine. And they also have molding around the bottom. Mine is all plain. Wouldn’t I need bottom molding to balance it?”

“Maybe” he says, sounding less sure “not necessarily.  It would depend on which molding you chose I suppose.”  He shrugs and we had back to the trim aisle.  “Well, it’s your house, you should do what you want.” His tone implying I’m making a grave mistake in not adding the crown molding.

Maybe I could have a little molding, I think. Nothing quite as fancy, but something a little more elegant.  I start cautiously pulling out strips of wood that are still relatively narrow, but have a bit more shape and style to them.

We’re looking them over when Dad pipes in,  ”You know, if you choose a different molding, you’re going to have to replace all the molding in the kitchen, not just on the new section, or it won’t match.”   We spend a few minutes looking at my drawings, figuring out how many feet we’d need.  “It’s not that much” I reply. “It’s not a big kitchen.”

I’m just reaching for the pretty trim when Dad interjects again.  “This fancy trim is a lot more expensive than the plain trim.  Are you sure you want to spend this kind of money?”  His tone now seems faintly disapproving to me.  Should I be spending money on fripperies when our budget is so tight right now?  My hand pulls back.

After giving it some thought, I finally settle on a trim that is the same width as our old trim, but has a slightly more elegant shape to it.  Doing the whole kitchen with it will cost less than $20.   As I’m reaching for the pieces Dad notes “They only have 8 foot sections.  One of your sections is over 10 feet long.  You’re going to end up with a seam.”

“Maybe Lowes has longer sections of a similar trim” I say, thinking maybe I could sneak out and buy the trim without my Dad in tow.

As we’re leaving Home Depot, without any trim, Dad says “I did crown molding on our cabinets in our old house.  After the first week, I don’t think anyone ever noticed it again.”

Peachtree Road Race 2011

The Peachtree Road Race on July 4, 2011 was an intimate little affair.  Just me, Steve, Katy, AJ and 60,000 of our closest friends.     Acknowledged as the largest 10K run in the world,  the race has been an annual Independence Day event in Atlanta for over 40 years.   This was my very first time.

About six months ago I decided to participate in the Peachtree as a way of motivating myself to get out there and exercise on a regular basis.   At the time, I could barely walk one mile.   10K (6.2 miles) seemed a Herculean task.    Since I freely admit that I do not run unless something is chasing me, I knew I would be walking it.    My only goal was to finish the thing, not beat any land speed records, so that was fine.  And I was far from alone.  There were at least as many walkers as runners, if not more.

10k… the big lie

They will tell you the race is 10K or 6.2 miles.  What they fail to mention is that you have to get from the Lennox Marta station to the race start.  Then, after the race, you have to get from Piedmont Park to the Midtown Marta Station.  Next year I’m taking my pedometer.  I want to know how far I really walked.  I’m betting it was at least 13 or 14K.

AJ, Katy, Pam & Steve waiting to start

We were in group “P”, which put us 15 groups back from the starting line.  The groups were started in waves with approximately a five minute delay between each group.  We had electronic tags attached to our shoes which were matched to our bib numbers and recorded our start time when we crossed the starting line.   They also recorded our ending time when we crossed the finish line, giving us our “official time” for the event.

I didn’t labor under any illusions as to how I was going to stack up time wise.   We saw one of the early starters running  back along the course, brandishing her official Peachtree T-shirt (which the do not give you until  you complete the race) before we even saw the first mile marker.

I'm 90 and I just passed YOU!

There are a number of Serious Competitors in the race, of course; but for most people it’s a party.   The course was lined with well-wishers, music both live and canned, cow bells, and signs of encouragement.   The racers themselves competed for attention with costumes and clever t-shirts.    I was glad I’d brought my camera and really had a blast the whole way.

It was 85 degrees and 70% humidity, so yeah… it was HOT.  And my hips did start complaining about two thirds of the way through the race.  But I finished!   I made it!   My official time was 2 hours, 1 minute and 9 seconds. Not too shabby for my first time out!

We made it! Our official Peachtree Road Race T-Shirts.

Click here to see more photos and commentary about the event.

Why I Don’t Read On Flights

My curse began innocently enough.  Steve bought me a Kindle for my birthday.  Traveling as a reader has always been a challenge. I always have a sizable pile of books waiting to be read, and I never know what I’ll be in the mood for. In the past this has translated to a carry-on and suitcase weighed down with pounds of books.  The Kindle seemed the perfect solution. I could have ALL my books with me in one light weight e-reader. 

I spent the next few months collecting a virtual mountain of ebooks and happily anticipating my first trip to Europe. 12+ hours of uninterrupted reading time en-route. Bliss! 

Then disaster struck…repeatedly. Just a week before my trip the on/off button on my kindle broke. Amazon was great though, and got a new one out to me the next day. Kindle number two lasted only a few days. All I will say about that is, if you plan to read in the tub, put the kindle in a ziploc bag. 

At this point I was fully committed to ebooks. I had tons of them waiting to be read. The day before my flight I ran out to Best Buy and picked up yet another kindle.  I got it home, charged it up and downloaded my books. Ahhhh…..

I arrived at the airport early and spent some time reading while waiting to board.  No problems.  After boarding I had to turn it off for take off.  That’s when it froze up. The little power indicator light would not go out, and I could not get it to do anything.  12+ hours and no books. About the third day of my trip the battery finally died and the light went out.  I recharged the kindle and it worked fine…for about an hour. Then it seized up again. No books for the turn flight.  

At this point we decided the Kindle gods hated me. I returned the device to Best Buy and got an iPad. Bliss!

My next trip was also to Europe. Another long flight ahead of me. iPad in carry-on bag? Check. Charger also? Check. Device working properly? Check. I arrived at the airport and found my gate. I sat down to read a bit while waiting to board…and discovered I’d forgotten to download any books! Now the race was on to find a WiFi connection and download some reading material before I had to get on the plane. WiFi abounds at Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport in Atlanta. Every little food stall offers free WiFi. Finding one that offers a fast enough connection to download a book before it times out is another matter.  Six connections later, Caribou Coffee came through for me. I had just enough time to download a couple books before racing back to my gate. Whew!

The plane took off, I tipped back my seat, and promptly fell asleep. What little time I did spend conscious I spent playing with my new toy, not reading. The iPad offers countless diversions in the form of games, art programs and other apps. Since I just got the thing I was more drawn to messing around with it than reading. 

My current trip, following hard on the heels of the last, is just a short jaunt from the east coast to the west coast. I have my iPad, my books are loaded, and I have one I’m currently engaged in. I boarded the plane, we took off, and I turned on my pad in anticipation…and then realized I’d forgotten to pack my glasses. They are still sitting on my desk at home.   sigh.

It’s an unavoidable fact that something will go wrong when you travel. If the gods of travel have decreed “not reading” is going to be my cross to bear, I can live with that. There are certainly worse things.

Oddly enough, even though I can’t really see well enough to read for any extended period of time, I can still type. Proof-reading on the other hand is another matter. I here-by absolve myself from any errors in this blog.

Random vignettes from Prague – Pt 2

The Charles Bridge is a “must see” in every Prague guide book, and honestly, you would be hard pressed to miss it, seeing as it’s the main thoroughfare between Old Town and the Castle. We crossed it several times during our trip.  Cobblestoned adorned with 30 statues and easily as many little artisan kiosks, it was always packed with tourists.  The most intriguing of the statues was John of Nepomuk, a 14^th century saint who purportedly refused to divulge the Queen’s confessions. The King, in a fit of pique, subsequently pitched him from the bridge. What made this particular statue interesting has more to do with the folklore that has sprung up around it than the murderous activities of frustrated kings.  The statue has two plaques at the bottom which have been burnished to a gleaming shine from all the people touching them.  We had two different tour guides tell us why people do this.  Both guides agree that touching one of the plaques is supposed to bring good fortune, but they disagreed on the purpose of touching the second plaque.  One told us it ensured we would return to Prague, while the other was sure it would guarantee pregnancy.  I decided to pass on this particular tourist ritual, just in case.

Went up to the top of the Astrological Clock at night. The whole city was brightly lit and breath-taking. The view of the castle from up there was just amazing.  Well worth the 200 crown entry fee. I wish we’d gone up there in the day time as well.  There’s a young man at the top who’s sole job is to blow a few notes on trumpet every hour.  He sat quietly reading magazines between performances.  It seemed a rather quiet existence, despite being surrounded by tourists all day.

We spent a fair chunk of Thursday exploring the Jewish Quarter.  When we purchased our tickets for the various synagogues, cemeteries and other points of interest in that sector, we saw that for an extra 80 crowns we could also join a guided walking tour. Since no others showed up at the appointed time, this turned out to be a private tour for Steve and I.  Maggie, our guide, was born in Prague.  She looked like a flower child out of time in her tiered and tie-dyed skirt, and carrying a large sunflower as opposed to the usual tour guide umbrella or flag.  She was extremely knowledgeable and informative about the history and sights in the Jewish Quarter.  The holocaust memorial, with it’s additional gallery of children’s artwork made in a concentration camp, was particularly heart wrenching.  My two favorite locations in the Jewish Quarter were the Cemetery with it’s jumbled piles of headstones, and the Spanish Synagogue where ever surface was carved, painted and embellished.

Beer is excellent and cheap in Prague. In fact, it’s the cheapest beverage on the menu, significantly lower than coke or even bottled water.   A large beer was only one or two dollars.  Steve was very a happy camper.

Not sure exactly how it happened, but we ended up exploring the Sex Toy Museum one evening. The beer haze may have had something to do with it.  I can sum up this particular attraction in one word…   Comprehensive.

We spent a lot of time just allowing ourselves to get lost in all the twists and turns of the narrow streets of Old Town Prague.  The architecture and embellishment on the buildings is unbelievable.  The humblest of establishments are still ornately decorated and adorned.  My only regret is that we did not find an architectural tour of the city. I think that would have been fascinating.  After our rambling, we came to the conclusion that there must be a city ordinance demanding that every building house a hotel and a minimum of at least one restaurant.

European Exchange Rates

The exchange rates for Europe are not only cutting in to my wallet, now they are going after my time as well. 

A couple weeks ago we sprang forward the requisite hour in observance of daylight savings time, an annual event I deeply resent.  I long for that lost hour, and anxiously await it’s return every fall. 

This year I had the dubious pleasure of having to undergo this ritual twice.  Central European summer time, as it is called here, began last night and I had to set my clock forward yet again.  In my determination not to be late for breakfast, I reset all my electronic devices before going to bed last night.

When my alarm went off at 6am this morning I was deep in REM sleep and it felt like my eyes were glued shut. The lost hour was hitting me hard.  I showered, dressed, packed up my supplies for the day and headed down to the restaurant…. Only to discover they weren’t open yet.  What???   Breakfast is supposed to start at 6:30am…  A quick check of hotel clocks revealed it was only 6:20am.  Our devices, evidently more in tune with local happenings than we are,  automatically set themselves forward…on top of the hour we’d adjusted manually.  I lost TWO hors last night, instead of one!!

So now I have sacrificed a total of three hours to the gods of arbitrary time change, and I’m only getting one of them back in the fall. Not fair!!!     

yawn…….

Random vignettes from Prague – Pt 1

 

Arrival at the Movenpik hotel. Our room has two small beds instead of one large one. A call to the front desk produces a prompt and courteous response. “We will take care of that for you right away, Sir!”. A staff member shows up within moments… And carefully moves one of the beds so they are now touching…..

Niles, our charming young tour guide yesterday, is from Ireland. He’s evidently touring the world by following the girls he meets. His dad owns one of only two pubs in a small college town that hosts a summer international study program, so he meets a lot of girls. So far he says he’s ended up in Paris, Poland, North Carolina, and now Prague.

Dogs. They’re everywhere. Not stray dogs. These are well loved czech dogs. Mostly off leash, but always close to thier masters and in control. A couple had their dog in the restaurant where we had dinner last night.

Found a flyer for a classical guitar concert. Finding the venue among the twists and turns of prague’s old town streets proves challenging, but we ultimately succeed. After purchasing our tickets we are directed into the building where a small sign with an arrow sends us up the stairs. Following the signs we proceed up three flights of stairs and then down a set that appears to take us out of the building all together and into another building, Through a series od twisting narrow corridors, up another flight and into a third building. A few more twists and I’m expecting to find Brigadoon, but we do find the concert room. It’s a very small room with maybe 30 folding chairs set up in three rows. Wood floors and a high ceiling ornately painted. Elaborate carved lintels over the doors. I think this may be typical for interior rooms in Prague old town. Jana and Petr Bierhanzl, “Most famous Czech guitar duo”, perform a selection of classical and flamenco music for the small group gathered there. They are excellent!! I bought a CD.

Looking for a pastry. Can’t find the bakery. I see a couple of police officers and suggest asking. Steve suggests asking the cops where to find the donuts is probably a bad idea no matter what country were in.

10 pm. Waiting for the tram to get back to our hotel. A group of James Dean youths, in their leather jackets and slicked back pompadour hair, are drinking assembly line screwdrivers. A swig out of the orange juice carton followed by a swig out of the vodka bottle.

Legs screaming with fatigue, we finally make it back to our hotel and collapse (into our twin beds which we returned to their original configuration). Loving Prague. Can’t wait for tomorrow!

The Deceit of Memory

Memory is an odd thing.   It is not, as most people believe, a precise photograph of a time, place, or events.  Rather, it is an invention we create on the fly.   Give the subconscious a few isolated impressions and it gleefully fills in the details, making it up from whole cloth while lending it the substance of absolute fact.  You remember, therefore it must be true… but it’s not.  It’s a deceit, a trick.

I have a particular memory of watching the Academy Awards and seeing Daniel Day-Lewis win the Oscar for Best Actor in My Left Foot.  I remember they showed a clip of the movie, and in that clip, a voice-over narrated some of Christy Brown’s writing.  The quote started off  ”Can’t Chew…”.  The voice was impassioned, the words a powerful expression of the frustration of a brilliant mind trapped in a body crippled by cerebral palsy.

I never saw My Left Foot, but that one clip haunted my memory.  What must it be like to be imprisoned in your own body?  What sort of person does it take to triumph over such extreme adversity?  I could feel Christy Brown’s amazing dedication, persistence, and drive. He achieved so much, and in a time that did not cater to people with disabilities.  All this I extrapolated from a one minute movie clip and an acceptance speech, and the experience was powerful enough to stay with me for years.

Last night I finally rented My Left Foot.  Finally I would experience this incredible story and Daniel Day-Lewis’s Oscar-winning performance.  The story was, indeed, amazing; and Daniel Day-Lewis most certainly earned his awards and accolades.  His performance was brilliant.

Except…. the scene that stood out so starkly in my mind, the scene that made me want to see this film for all these years, did not exist.  Nothing even remotely similar to it appeared anywhere on the screen.  After the end credits rolled, I spent several hours searching the internet, reading articles about Christy Brown, watching YouTube clips from the academy awards, interviews, and other related material.  Nothing.

Eventually I did find the quote I remembered, although in written form, not audio or video.

“Can’t chew, can’t swallow, so why chew? Can’t call–can call, a famished moan maybe yet it suffices…..can’t cry–can cry, can cry, can cry, wet pillows full but who cares….can’t laugh–can laugh, can can can.”

The words, at least, really did exist outside of my imagination; however, it turned out they are not the words of Christy Brown.  They are the words of Christy Nolan.  Nolan, also a great Irish poet with Cerebral Palsy,  used a unicorn stylus attached to his head to type, rather than a left foot, but the similarities between their lives are stark and unmistakable.  It’s no coincidence I confused the two.

I am quite certain I heard Nolan’s poem read aloud with great passion, and I was transported for a moment in time.  The power of the experience was real, even if the memory was not.  So how does the mind react when presented with something of great import, but the surrounding events lack any recallable substance?  Easy.  Attach it to something momentous, something so close to true as to be nearly indistinguishable, but unique enough to trigger the memory.   The events are woven together so seamlessly, I can not hear the name “Daniel Day-Lewis” without recalling the movie “My Left Foot”, which in turn reminds me of hearing that poem… even though Daniel Day-Lewis, and by extension Christy Brown, never uttered those words.

Our memories do not give us truth.  That is not their purpose.  But in the deceit of fabricated events and recollections, they give us something more important.  They give us a way of holding fast to what’s truly transcendent in a landscape that would otherwise bury us in the minutia of washed dishes, folded socks, and the gray, featureless building blocks of our daily lives.  They give us honesty.

The Spring of Intellect

There is an old spring in my mind.
It’s dried out, stagnant with disuse, choked with weeds.
Bit by bit, I pull the weeds with the exercise of writing on diverse topics
Now, just barely, I can feel clean water rising to the surface clearing away the detritus of years of disuse.
My parched intellect revives.  It’s still there, buried under the minutia of life.
I can still think, create, imagine. I still have the ability to weave words into new thoughts and ideas.
Skills and excitement I have not felt since my college years, thought lost to age and atrophy are regained.
Today I am a Writer