Day 2

London, full day

Today we got our bearings a bit. We started with a £5 breakfast that was not included in the price of our room and I’m not sorry about that because it means I don’t have to eat it. For my money, I got to choose from baskets of packaged snacks – yogurt, a granola bar, juice, packaged muffin, cookies – a veritable chemical feast of inert ingredients, designed to keep my flesh from rotting should I keel over. Our reaction was “bleagh” followed by “eeeeuuuuwww” when we peeked into the electric kettle and saw chunks of corrosion floating in the water.

After showers in the tiny bathroom, we eat a decent breakfast at Le Pan Quotidien in the San Pancras station. Well worth the expense.

From there we tube it to the V&A Museum, wearing our masks because we are paranoid Americans. We did not exit at street level but followed signs along a lengthy tunnel that rang with the cries and shrieks of a group of schoolchildren on an outing. Silently I prayed that they were headed for the Science Museum (they were) and we were the only two to traipse to the end of the line. This exit took us into a quietly beautiful gallery filled with sculptures and light.

The museum is dedicated to decorative art and craft in the highest sense. Statuary galore – greco-roman, medieval, religious – silent and cool, inviting the curious gaze. There are a few floors dedicated to Asia and Islam. We follow the maps and head to the top floor to see the pottery and it is….it’s…..cabinets?

Yep. Floor to almost ceiling glass cabinets crammed with pottery of every ilk. The cabinets and shelves are numbered but there’s no signage to tell us what we’re looking at. Imagine a giant antiques mart without the dust. It’s overwhelming. It’s uninteresting. It’s….a warehouse.

The warehouse analogy gives me some context and soothes my feelings. I’m able to hone in on a few details. I see a grotesque figure of a woman/beast reclining on a platform. There are many devil-faces. Some strikingly modern place settings. A full shelf of Royal Albert China. It’s mind blowing and worthless. Les remarks that it’s like someone just dumped a box of grandmother’s china, and it’s on display with no finesse.

The computer catalog is accessed with an industrial keyboard and I am a highly trained research librarian. But after a few minutes of trying keyword searches and cabinet/shelf combinations, I give up. We are not meant to learn from where the delicate pieceworked cup came. Perhaps that is intentional.

There are two special exhibits on tap – one is Beatrix Potter and we’re scheduled to visit her farm late in the trip – so we buy tickets and wander through a gallery of prints, letters, sketchbooks and first editions. Because we’ll be visiting her home later, this seems like the thing to do. I find a quiet bench and listen to a mother read The Story of Jemima Puddleduck in strongly accented english to her child while she nurses. It’s soothing.

Even with a map it’s easy to get lost at this museum. There are mysterious stairways that lead to obscure halls and you know you’re on the right floor but somehow you can’t get to the right gallery. The helpful volunteers are hanging out by the entrance and not the galleries. It’s exhausting.

We march through a gallery of impressive ironwork and admire a flying crucifix from above. Finally we find a working lift and emerge on the ground floor (aka ‘0’). We pick up wraps from a food stall and settle in on steps near the fountain. Toddlers are wading in and locals are sipping beverages from thermoses and reading on their lunch break. I would totally do this if I worked near here.

It’s weird how a mystery sandwich that I would never eat at home can taste so good on vacation. The Mediterranean wrap is edible, with some spice, and I think it’s a fine light lunch snack for a sunny interlude at the V&A.

We leave the museum feeling happy and board a tube for Liberty of London. Unfortunately, our directions are off and we disembark in Islington. By this time, my knee is inflamed and sore and I’m gimping quite a bit. After a lengthy walk we realize our error, find a bus and ride overground to San Pancras. We fall on the bed and collapse. Jet lag overcomes us and we sleep.

Around 5 we rouse and set out again, back on the Victoria Line to Oxford Circle. We arise from the underworld into light and noise and chaos and a million Union Jacks flapping in the breeze. As we try to get our bearings, I spy the timbered facade of Liberty and, tendonitis be damned, I dance down the street to nirvana.

Liberty is history. It is craft. It is a full on brand experience. Things cost way more than we are willing to spend. In 1990 the store sold beautiful accessories at an affordable price. The accessories are no more and a scarf starts at £175. I can’t. I could? I won’t. We slowly explore the fabric floor and I feast upon tana lawn and cotton challis fabrics. They glide under my fingertips and beg to come to America. It’s only £40 a yard! (a meter?) With my meager sewing skills, I can’t justify the cost. I leave with empty hands.

We are at the top of Carnaby Street – fabled for the trendiest of fashions in the swinging 60’s. There are high end shops and lots of tourists. A line of people are queued up at Birkenstock. I leave Les to capture a photo of a psychadelic mural high on a building and peer up and down the block at the Rolling Stone store (large red glitter tongue), Fendi, Swatch (corgi at attention) and more. We decide to find Whittard’s of Chelsea for gift tea and head down Regency Street which is awash in flags and bunting and lined with high end shops: Gucci, Versace, Burberry, Kate Spade – you name it, it’s here. It’s aspirational? The opulence is wasted on me, I’m not that fashionable and I’m unwilling to throw money at goods that will depreciate as soon as I touch them. Several blocks later we find Whittards, about to close, and pick up a tin of English Rose tea for a work friend.

Then it’s time to figure out dinner. Most places are hopping and we’re offered wait times of 45-90 minutes. Wearily, we board the tube and exit at San P. We trudge up the hill behind the station where we’ve been told there are many many restaurants and options. It’s a newly built mixed use area of offices, shops, restaurants, greenscapes, fountains…reservations only. This is an area designed for the new tech workers of Google and Warner Music, both of which have high profile digs on the mall. These restaurants are all booked and have zero room for tourists who didn’t make a reservation. We reverse our journey and walk into an Italian joint inside San Pancras. I don’t care what the price is. I just want to eat and have someone bring me food.

Dinner exceeds my expectations. I have a solid piece of seared cod on a bed of mussels and Les has a seafood pasta. We enjoy bitter Italian beer and slowly start to unwind. It is a good end to the day.

Lobby of the San Pancras Adjacent Hotel (not our hotel)

Statue Detail showing literate commuters

The soaring view from inside Liberty….rafters built from ships decks

On the road

Day 1

I am in a tiny London hotel room, not much bigger than the infamous Hotel Metropole where Vickie and I stayed a hundred years ago when we were on our Catalina adventure. You can’t quite touch both walls at once, but the suitcases and jackets require wrangling. The chair barely fits my butt, the pillows are wafer thin and the bathroom is best enjoyed with an open door.

We are weary, jet lagged and not quite able to believe we made it. Our 10.5 hour flight was mostly sleepless and mostly uneventful. I broke up a gang of passengers who were looting the mid-cabin galley for liquor. The air stewards were pretty dismissive when I mentioned it to them but one of them decided to check out the crime tip and then there were reinforcements hustling up the aisle. Much later I got a grateful thank you for bringing it to their attention. My fantasy is that they will upgrade me to business class for the flight home. (They do not)

For a wonder we packed early so there was a minimum of last minute drama and crisis. Everything fit and I don’t think we forgot anything. Of course, one of us was feeling his feelings, but we made it onto the plane, and later we got through the endless halls of Heathrow and onto the right train to London.

The Heathrow express dropped us at Paddington where we caught the Circle Line to San Pancras/Kings Cross. Then an exhausting bumpy walk to our lodgings. They are not luxurious but should do for a start.

The latest jet lag wisdom is to nap for 30 minutes and then get on local time. We manage the nap and find a neighborhood bistro for some much needed food. I have a delicious egg with salmon and hollandaise and start to feel human. The eggs are that peculiar bright orange that one finds in the UK but since I’ve seen this before, it doesn’t quease me out. My tea is hot and strong, milky and sweet and my consciousness comes back.

The streets around here are filthy – it’s a well used neighborhood. There’s grime, trash and homeless people. A polyglot of cultures. A street preacher reminds us that God loves us and some Muslims line up for prayer. A Hassidic couple with baby check both ways before crossing the street. Suitcases are everywhere because this is a great crossing place in London and people have places to go.

We pause at the Black Sheep coffee house and I see “brown cheese with jam” on the menu…is this the trip where I finally try brown cheese? (It is not).

Day 1 – we made it, we have lodging and caffeine, we are good to go. Adventures await!

Migraine city

Some day I’ll write about my migraine journey – it’s been a hoot, let me tell you. But today I wanted to talk about my current migraine. My current painful migraine. I haven’t had pain like this in…years.

In a few weeks I’m having a medical procedure that requires me to go off all anti inflammatories for two weeks prior and 8 weeks after. So of course my head decided to play games and as I was working on Tuesday I felt my brain flip over. That’s the only way I can describe it. I was sitting in a chair and my brain flipped. There was a brief moment of vertigo and I felt a bit lightheaded and I knew that the migraine was on its way (I’m very familiar with this phenomenon so I know it wasn’t a stroke or an aneurism or anything)

I went to my first line defense: Relpax. Swallowed it and went back to work. It seemed to be working – the pain didn’t progress by much and I was still able to concentrate. I cut out of work a bit early and rested a bit, babied myself, felt the pain grow….dug out some peppermint tea to drink with honey (an old, old tactic suggested to me by a chiropractor back in the dark ages)….had some chamomile and valerian to help myself sleep. Hoped it would diminish by morning.

It did not. My migraines are generally less intense after a night’s sleep, then the pain builds as the day wears on. This was my Wednesday. I took a few tylenol, drank more tea, started pounding water to make sure I was hydrated, got a neck rub, did some yoga, dug out the essential oils…the pain continued to build and grow. I managed to join the evening dog walk but it was slow going and I had a very light dinner. Sleep was painful – I’d nod off and the pain would wake me up.

I seriously considered taking Thursday off to rest, but I had a lot of work to do and I wanted a distraction from the pain. At this point it was sharp, all encompassing – like a tight iron cap over my head with tiny thumbtacks poking into my skull. I put an ice pack on my head, drank some strong black tea and tried some biofeedback. (40 years of migraines has given me a lot of pain mitigating options.) Mid morning I asked my hubby to source some Hot and Sour Soup. This is another remedy (possibly folklore) for migraine management. The story goes that a man noticed his wife’s headaches got better when she ate spicy food so he brought it to his doctor’s attention and it made the news. Dr. Google tells me that studies have shown that capsaicin is effective in pain management AND that spicy foods can trigger migraines. Such is the way.

Two ineffective drug and three ineffective non drug interventions. Or maybe this would be much, much worse if I’d done nothing.

I had some spicy soup for lunch and felt better for 90 minutes, then the pain returned. Took a couple of non-NSAID pain pills that haven’t touched the pain. So much for that. Sigh.

So Why am I sharing this? What’s the point?

This is not a plea for pity or understanding, it’s my way of grounding myself during a trying week. If you’ve ever wondered about migraines, maybe this will help you understand the sufferers in your life. If not, aren’t you glad you don’t get them?!

So, what have I figured out about migraines this week? I’ve had to cut pain medications in the past for various reasons and I am always reminded that even though I feel like the meds aren’t doing much to treat my headaches, they ARE actually helping because there is reduced pain with medication. Going without reminds me that what I’ve been doing works pretty well.

I am amused at myself because while I know that exercise, stretches, ice, regular sleep schedules etc. will help my migraine life, I get lazy and careless and don’t do them regularly. And then when I don’t have the crutch of pain meds, I go back to the tactics that served me in the past. They may not be terrifically effective, but at least I feel like I’m doing something to help myself. They distract me. And the cat and I had a nice floor interaction when I was yoga-ing.

I always fought through my headaches and do my best not to become an invalid. I would say most of my friends have seen me in the midst of a migraine and not noticed the difference. As much as I can, I want my life to be about more than pain, more than sympathy, more than this condition. It’s my own business.

Chronic migraines – they’ve been a life journey. I’ve tried many therapies and talked to a lot of people who have the solution. My observation is that the cause is complex and combinatory and sometimes I can have a little citrus and cheese but most of the time that’s a ticket to Pain Central. I won’t even FLIRT with dark chocolate and red wine – the reward can’t begin to compensate for the damages.

Curious to see where this one goes and how long it will last. Time for another mug of peppermint tea with honey. And I give myself permission to take a sick day if I need one to kick this pain to the curb.

Day 4 – pain is better and I had a few hours of energy and a clear head. And now it’s back. Hoping it breaks by the weekend.

Spring Tea

Many many years ago, (were we even married yet?) my husband and I took a trip to Vancouver and Seattle. One day we headed for Chinatown to source Ten Ren Spring Tea. My sister in law had tried it and raved over its flavor and vitatility. We set out on our quest.

The Ten Ren tea shop was quiet and beautiful and I asked the hostess about the tea. She beckoned us to a low table and invited us to sit down. She disappeared into the back and returned with a teak tray laden with delicate cups, a tea pot, a small cache of tea leaves and other accoutrements. We didn’t know it, but we were about to be educated.

First she poured hot water into the pot and swirled it around to warm the pot. This went into a discard bowl.

A small pinch of shriveled leaves went in next along with more hot water. This was allowed to steep while she told us about the origin of the tea. After a few minutes, she poured the tea into the discard bowl and explained that the first pot was just to awaken the buds. More water, more explanation and we were handed handleless cups and told to sip the tea. This was the first cup and it was delicate, almost tasteless, the palest of greens and too hot to sip. We nodded politely, inhaled, and sampled. Honestly, we didn’t appreciate it.

Meanwhile, she’d added more hot water and swirled the teapot again. We chatted about green tea and its many healing properties and she took our half drunk first cups, dumped the tea, and poured again. This cup was more substantial – still light, but more aromatic, floral with a vegetal hint below the surface. We nodded politely as we sipped our tea and she explained its rarity and value and lifted the teapot lid so we could see how the tiny dark buds had unfolded into beautiful green leaves that danced in the water.

“You can keep drinking it all day” she told us – “The leaves can be steeped more than once and the flavor deepens.”

She asked us if we wanted to make a purchase and it seemed churlish to refuse, even if we weren’t fully appreciative of the product. The cost was an astonishing $125 Canadian dollars for four ounces. My husband handed over his Visa card and we left the shop feeling like maybe we’d been conned. What just happened?

The tea sat in the cupboard a few years until I brought it into the office for a tea ceremony with a Korean coworker who was interested in my Spring Tea. She knew the ropes and handled the first cupping and second serving and told me that this was a very fine tea with “lots of caffeine. LOTS of caffeine” The green tea drinkers seemed to like it, but it was not really to my taste.

20 years later I found the tea packet in the back of my tea cupboard and decided to give it a try. I decided to forego my usual brisk black morning cuppa and babied the leaves until they unfolded and produced the palest green cup.

I’ve evolved. I’ve been drinking a jasmine tea from Peet’s for a few years as a light afternoon pick me up. Now I could appreciate Spring Tea’s delicate floral aroma and light taste. The second cup was more assertive and even more delicious. And I could feel myself awakening gently. I felt centered and alert. It was a gradual effect, but after cup two, I realized that I felt even better than I do after drinking a few cups of black tea.

Brawny brisk black teas are a punch to the face, the equivalent of a ringing alarm clock that brings your system to life and rocks you into the day. Spring tea is sneaky, its effect is graceful but no less effective. It’s the difference between tossing back a shot of bourbon and sipping a fruity drink that’s loaded with rum and vodka.

I sip this tea and remember Vancouver, cool and cloudy, at a time when we were young, in love, and full of life. The walk to Chinatown and the cobbled streets crowded with vegetable stands, clothing, tourist tchochkes and lots of people in a hurry. The intimidating professionalism of Ten Ren and the kind hostess who educated two clueless Americans about the right way to nurture dried leaves into silky life.

I’m really happy that I didn’t carelessly give away this precious gift. Sometimes it takes a while to grow into something.

Top leaf is straight from the package, bottom leaf has fully bloomed

Pruning (delayed)

I pruned my roses today!

3 days into the new year and my green can is almost filled with rose canes, studded with thorns and leaves green and brown.

This is an accomplishment.

I know that roses require yearly pruning and that time is January. But I usually procastinate because there are always a few roses in bloom, promising buds, and I hate yardwork. By the time I’m geared up to do the deed, my gardener has gone through like a bulldozer and left a few dead canes in his wake. This leads to sadness and disappointment on my part, followed by internal recriminations and a faint hope that the roses survived the brutality.

(I prune more deliberately, opening up the center, cutting out cross canes and leaving enough so they can grown in a nice shape rather than a haphazardly dangerous mish mosh of sprouting canes from every direction with a few roses that graze the rooftops. It’s a choice.)

I’ve been down and out this week so when the weather was beautiful and the sun was not too warm, I armored up with a flannel shirt to protect my arms, a baseball hat and sunglasses to protect my eyes, and thick gloves to protect my hands.

I started on the side, our “secret rose garden” with Mr. Lincoln, Queen Elizabeth, and two sunny yellow roses that I haven’t identified. Mr. Lincoln was very prolific this year so I pruned him with care and praised him for his heavily scented deep red blooms. I saw that he’s headed into QE’s territory so took off some growth on that side. I hope that 2021 brings more beautiful blooms – there were many years when he only gifted me with ONE, so his schedule has been sparse. I keep him around because that one rose is perfection itself. How could I take out a healthy Mr. Lincoln just because he’s sparing with his gifts? Mr. Lincoln stays.

Queen Elizabeth is one vigorous rose. Perfectly formed, deep pink, no scent to speak of, but she speaks volumes with abundance. It took a while to work through the canes and thorns to get to the center and there were canes that laughed at my hand clippers and nipped me with thorns. “Fine” I told her. “I’ll be back. But let me warn you to leave Mr. Lincoln alone. He’s got priority.” Her disdain was palpable as I moved onto Yellow 1 and Yellow 2.

Ms. White next to the garage is a party girl! I think her given name is Iceberg and that family grows wild throughout the neighborhood, adorning fences, trellises, side yards and more. In any event, she sends out deceptively delicate canes with multiple buds and offshoots. Two perfect blossoms greeted me and I gently cut them and set them aside. I decided to take a few buds as well, but steeled my heart against leaving the rest. The gardener comes tomorrow and I didn’t want him touching her. So I clipped and wrestled thorns and detangled her canes from my flannel as I brought clarity to chaos.

Queen Elizabeth 2 was waiting and I know she is as tough as her sister, so I pulled out my big clippers with the long handles. QE1 might have regretted her pertness as I approached. “Maybe you shouldn’t have been so rude” I said, reaching in to get a big cane. She retaliated with whip sharp thorns that snagged my cap and arm. I backed off and realized I needed a plan, and this time I started at the outside, pruning the medium canes and making a path to the big ones that really required a small saw. I didn’t have a saw so it might have been a bit painful when my blades bit down, but it had to happen for her health and mine. I left behind a nice framework with just a few raw edges….okay, sorry your highness! I don’t have a saw and if I did I’d probably cut myself in the process so this is the best I could do.

QE2 stood still as could be and I got the job done quickly and with minimum fuss.

I headed up front and spent a few moments loving on Double Delight. She is my most favorite favorite rose and I’ve had her for….heavens! 30+ years! We bought her as a container rose when we first married and transplanted her at the front of the house. She doesn’t get enough sun (faces east) but she produces maybe half a dozen fragrant, colorful blooms that make both of us so happy. I whispered encouragement as I cleared out very few canes and then turned to a crazy red rose that came with the house.

I think crazy crimson was originally root stock to a tea rose, but someone or something pruned away the graft and the rootstock took off. Long trailing canes, flat single blossoms with a dash of yellow – she does as she pleases and never comes into the house. She lives between warring rosemary bushes and somehow has kept enough real estate to thrive. I snipped her back, breathed in the scent of her pungent neighbors and turned to another unnamed bushy red rose. He was in a pissy mood and slapped me hard with thorns and recalcitrant canes. I stepped back and silently promised him a session with the big cutters.

But not today. The green can is at least half full and the gardeners will be hard put to get all the dead leaves and seedpods in. I decided to leave him for another day.

On my way back, I paused to greet Mr. Olympia in the neighbor’s side yard. He’s been sadly neglected for a few years and I adopted him. I couldn’t water my own and ignore his thirst so I’d slop a bucket or two on him and on his partner who has never produced a bloom. Oly had some lovely blossoms and the new owners should be moving in next week, so I told him I hoped they would provide care (so far their gardeners have treated the side yard like it’s mine and the weeds are knee high). I clipped a few final roses before I left.

I could get really deep into the symbolism of me taking charge and pruning my roses to fit my taste. It’s not unlike taking charge of my own life and making decisions myself instead of letting others do it for me. 2020 showed how uncertain life actually is and how little control I have over it.

I’m so fortunate to have a job, shelter, family and friends. But life is short and I need to, I will spend 2021 shaping my future. It’s time for me to dig in and make some choices about what is important to me and what needs to go so I can finish my life in a good place. I want a life of purpose and impact. 2021 is going to be the year I define that and put purpose into action. If I don’t, it will be done to me, and I’d rather shape my own life thankyouverymuch.

New Normal

I am beyond tired of this pesky pandemic.

I am tired of masks. Tired of surveilling my surroundings at all times to make sure I’m not getting too close to others in the vicinity.

Tired of my judgey brain when a shopping cart barrels by, narrowly missing my hip.

Weary. I am weary.

So, I got one of my deepest desires – I am working from home and no longer face that miserable commute to Westwood every day.

But my neck is still tight and my sciatica still flares and I’m taking my 2.5 hours of reclaimed time to sleep and play video games on my phone.

So much for the dream.

In fairness, 2020 has been unkind. Some of us are just starting to notice social injustice, with millions of people risking their lives to protest the murders of unarmed people of color. Social and traditional media are more polarized than ever. Since we can’t hash things out in person we are lighting up the Twitterverse/Instaworld/Facebackward with memes and inflammatory posts. People have revealed themselves in surprising ways – or is it that now we have time to pay attention to how they’ve always been? And that may not square with my personal beliefs.

When I look back at this year, what will I see? I think I’ll see layers peeling off and truth exposing the lies. I will think about my failings as a friend and family member and note that my pandemic priorities have shifted. 2020 is the year that I’ve made a significant effort to be with my mom. In that sense, it’s a bonus year because everyone (including mom) thought she’d never live to 91. But she has and her needs have shifted. (My sister still carries the primary load, and I’ve done my best to support her in that endeavor which means miles on my Honda going from the SFV to Riverside County)

2020 is the year I’ve seen my husband at work – his job – and it’s been eye opening to witness his process. I don’t mean that in a bad way. The ways in which he interacts with me are not that different than the way he interacts with others. I’ve come to realize that he’s someone who works best in what I consider a chaotic and overwhelming pile of paper. We’ve struggled with this for years in our home life and I truly now understand that this is integral to his personality and I need flow with it or be forever in a state of fury.

I’ve discovered that some of my friends need to be checked on and other are great at checking on me. We’ve had to work at our relationships this year and figure out the core. The activities and busy-ness that we took for granted are unavailable, so the core values and commonalities rise to the top. We are going deeper and increasing intimacy. I do not find this altogether comfortable but it’s a journey I’m willing to take.

Most of all, 2020 has been a year when I’ve learned to let go. I choose my battles and realize that standing my ground over trivialities is wasted energy.

Who do I want to be in the future? I’ve always gotten through today by looking to the future – making plans, scheduling trips, postponing a cookie today for a chocolate sundae next week. But now, surrounded by NOW, I ask myself, what do I want?

I had vague plans for retirement and used those to endure my current situation. But I see that retirement and the rest of my life is less about activity and more about who I am. I don’t want to argue people about politics. I don’t want friction because something that should have been filed is buried in a book. I want a warm comfortable home that suits me. I want room to grow and blossom – and there is no reason those things can’t start now.

2020 is a watershed year, and as the commercial says “let’s not go back to the way things were.” It would be a shame if we canceled 2020 and went right back to careless consumption, unvarnished racism and the push pull between what’s right and wrong. Surely there is a way for us all. Surely we don’t need to double down on issues. Surely we can look at the person behind the mask and at the person who refuses to wear a mask. The change is upon us and we’ve had months to prepare.

Time to get to work.

11/20

Judge-y

It is so easy to be judgy when you have no skin in the game. Easy to have scruples, follow the rules, sit in judgement of decisions that someone else has made.

She is our fifth corgi, rescued from a neglectful family. We call her our “feral one” because she was a yard dog who escaped an coyote attack

And then, if you are lucky, you find yourself in a parallel situation and suddenly life and death decisions have to be made in the blink of an eye.

And then, you get to sit in judgement of your own decisions, your own choices, your own outcomes.

“Never judge lest you be judged” said Matthew in his book. And yet, humans do. I do. My brain runs in all kinds of judgement. I try to keep it to myself but I know it leaks out.

For years, YEARS, I have judged pet owners. When I am waiting at the PT place with my dog Fiona I see dogs in slings, dogs in carts, paralyzed dogs, injured dogs, owners of every stripe and kind. I look at the aged German Shephard dangling from a sling and think “oh, put that poor dog out of its misery.” I assumed that a damaged dog was better off dead. What was the quality of life for for an aging, disabled pet?

In the blink of an eye, I faced that decision. My 12 year old corgi, whose been getting physical therapy for at least two years, lost control of her hindquarters and couldn’t stand. She tripped coming into the house and her legs slipped to the left while she drank some water. In an instant we had to decide on a course of action.

Our vet was overbooked and the PT place was closed “due to Covid” and, with Fiona on ice, we started typing and texting whoever we could. One of our former vets got back to us and told us the first 24 hours is critical and we should take her to one of three hospitals for a workup.

We hung out in the car while our little girl was taken inside by a stranger.

The first hospital had a broken MRI machine. We went to a second hospital and waited over an hour in their parking lot, perspiring, filled with nervous energy and a very quiet corgi. Another stranger reached for our pup and we gently removed her harness and collar. Then we waited.

They recommended an MRI in the morning immediately followed by surgery if, as expected, the scan showed a disk problem. And there was our stake – had we just said goodbye to Fiona and let a stranger take her into a foreign building, never to be seen again? What if she needed surgery? We were on the cusp of becoming the people who spend extravagant amounts on our aging dog.

We are a frugal family and can afford to pay a large vet bill without going into debt. So money was not at the root of the decision. But our values were front and center. What kind of animal parents are we? Would the surgery afford Fiona a good quality of life? Or would she be on pain meds and steroids for a few years before dying. How willing are we to roll the dice with her life?

She passed an uneventful night and the MRI started around noon. Then the call “As we expected, her disk is damaged and is putting pressure on the spinal nerve. We also found a large cyst on her bladder. There’s no way to tell if it’s cancerous and she might have had it since birth so we think it should be left alone. Do you want us to do the spinal surgery?”

An agony of decisions. My husband texted Fiona’s rehab veterinarian. I listened numbly to the neurosurgeon’s prognoses – 50-50 chance of regaining 80% of her mobility. Rehab Vet was cautiously optimistic and that Fiona might “walk like a drunk, but have a good quality of life.” What to do?

If we had learned of the cyst because of bathroom issues, we wouldn’t have operated. Our feeling has always been “no heroic measures.” We wouldn’t consent to abdominal surgery – at 12 we’d feel she’d had a good life and we’d let her go when she showed signs of distress.

But this had happened in an instant – and it’s an insidious slope. We looked at each other, eyes pleading for a decision. “Go ahead,” I said. “Do the operation. Be careful.”

The surgeon signed off and I asked the question “How will we feel if she’s crippled and needs a sling? How will we feel about owning a damaged dog? What if she’s in pain for the rest of her life?”

There’s the crux of it. The nub. Is a damaged dog worth less? Is our love for Fiona predicated on her being healthy and whole? If we put her down, would it be for our sake or for hers?

It’s such a personal decision. Les threw himself into work and emails from Rehab Doctor. I texted my animal parent friends who were carefully supportive – whatever decision we made would be the right one. The day was emotionally exhausting and part of me had already said goodbye to my little feral friend while part of me magically hoped she’d be cured with no aftereffects.

I woke up the next morning realizing that for better or worse, our life with Fiona is forever changed. We’ve taken a sharp turn to the left and her new normal will be different. Her new normal will be more PT and slower walks. No more drag races around the living room. I’ll look carefully before I get up because she’s been wrapped around my ankles since I started working from home. The cat will have to direct his restless energy elsewhere.

She’ll be our “Frankencorgi” this Halloween

But our sweet girl….the one who endured a horrendous first year, who survived a coyote attack and knew Owain, who knew Jeeves, our first corgi. When she’s gone our last link to our perfect gentleman will be gone too which brings a new type of mourning.

I wrote: “if you are lucky, you find yourself in a parallel situation and suddenly life and death decisions have to be made in the blink of an eye.”

Yes, lucky. Self awareness and empathy are never bad and life is better if you learn those lessons early. I have hope. I now have experience and hopefully more empathy for friends who have to weigh the cost and benefit of expensive veterinary care. Next time I’m at the Rehab Center, I’ll have new eyes for the other patients and their humans.

So yes, lucky.

Update: Fiona’s first day post surgery is promising! She has movement in her hind legs and sensation in her toes. They are replacing IV pain meds (I wonder if she had a self administration pump?) for a fentanyl patch. She should be able to come home in a few days. I’m breathing again.

Another Update: She’s home and on bed rest but her pain is being managed and she seems happy to be with us. Her little stump wriggles furiously when we lean over her crate for a word and a pet. She can eliminate with assistance and her appetite is voracious. We are all breathing.

She and I have been bonded since the day I rescued her from the Gulag in Newhall. My sweet precious Fiona.

Blech, Change

I recently joined a service organization, was asked to serve as Treasurer, and agreed, which probably wasn’t a good idea.

But that’s not the subject of this post.

When I agreed, it was with the understanding that the group had a certain way of doing their books and they wanted to fully leverage their QuickBooks investment. There were several years of transactions in the system and it was up to date, but reports were still being copied into Excel. The Board didn’t care for the way the Excel sheets were formatted and wanted a better presentation of current and past expenditures.

I agreed, for many many reasons (which are not the subject of this post) and spent over 100 hours learning to use QuickBooks, tracking down accounts and procedures for accepting money/recording money/writing checks etc etc. Thank goodness I had a mentor! My first report to the Board, based on emails and random Excel spreadsheets was an unmitigated disaster.

I pulled my grown up panties on and kept going. I made good progress. I began to understand basic accounting principles like income and expenditure and accounts and subaccounts. I saw the relationship between subcategories of income and subcategories of donations. It began to fall into place. I felt good. My mentor felt good. I generated a financial report at the next Board meeting and it was another unmitigated disaster. There was loud outrage and pushback. They wanted their spreadsheets!

I had a solid alcoholic drink and regrouped. I set a meeting for my Budget Committee to discuss the situation and get some answers to outstanding questions I had about how some of the deposits. All went swimmingly until we got to the report. Lots of noise. There may have been some shouting. A standoff ensued of “we want our spreadsheets” vs “I’m not keeping two sets of books for you ladies.” That devolved into “If you really want spreadsheets, then you need to find a replacement.” I admit, I secretly hoped they would replace me (I’d already written a letter of resignation and it’s a beaut).

To close this out – cooler heads prevailed and the old guard started to listen and realized that everything on their beloved spreadsheets was in the new report – it just looked different! The decision was made to carry on because change is inevitable. The organization needs to modernize and take their money seriously and having multiple versions does not serve that end. As the new kid on the block, I was frustrated and annoyed and ready to chuck it all and have another drink. But for now I’m going to forge ahead.

Meanwhile, at work, I was trying to help out a local staffer who got some information from one of my colleagues, who is new, and still learning the ropes. I was inwardly indignant and snarky that the new person hadn’t followed the procedures and there were missing pieces, her work hadn’t been documented and I essentially had to start over to get my person on the road. Then I slid off my high horse and laughed at the universe for showing me both sides of the equation.

I’ve been in my job since 2011 and, honestly, it took me 2 years to figure out our convoluted processes and filing systems. I’ve been raked over the coals for not knowing something and my boss has said, thoughtfully, “I realize you don’t know this, but I don’t know how you would know you don’t know this” (Because you don’t know what you don’t know).

I understand the systems now and I’ve paid dearly for that knowledge, so changing anything up is not a pleasant prospect for me. I think of how things were and how they are now and I assume the process is so easy everyone can do it. But they’re not. Things still aren’t streamlined, and there is a steep learning curve for anyone coming on board. But I digress.

Change is hard! Learning is hard! Our brains find shortcuts and soon we’re on autopilot and we cruise along thinking we’re following the same set of rules, but we’re not; not really. We’re human and we all want things done the way we want them done.

And for many, the reaction to change, is resistance. Change is threatening. Change is different. We don’t want to put ourselves out, other people have to accomodate us. We forget that change is a constant and refusal to adapt results in others bypassing us and soon we are all alone while the world goes whizzing by.

I remember how hard it was to learn my job. I remember deciding that my purpose there is to be compassionate and empathetic to my coworkers, or as I phrase it “to be a calm and steadying influence in the workplace.” That means keeping my snark to myself.

And in my new organization, I’ve been there less than a year (oh, why did they ask me and why why why did I say yes?) I bring a fresh eye to their process and mad organizational and project management skilz to the table. There will be adjustments on both sides, no doubt. Both sides need to move.

Meanwhile, the world goes on and we’re looking at all kinds of external change. I recommend you take a deep breath, exhale, and figure out your bottom line. Then find alignment and a way through. Life isn’t going to stop while you’re screaming about the new.

/dsh

9/16/20

Cancer cookies

I’ve been baking cookies.

Oatmeal raisin, molasses, espresso chocolate chip, brownies, blondies.

Some of this is anxiety baking – I’m so tired of being cooped up while a pandemic rages outside. I ask myself if it’s worth getting Covid over a box of stale cookies, and it isn’t. So I bake for myself and my carb-avoiding husband is also stressed out because he’s snacking too. The pre-pandemic cycle of denial and rules has been fractured. Every other week I bake my feelings and we stretch out the results.

Early in the quarantine, I did some Covid crafting and made tie-dye items for a friend. I delivered them with a dozen oatmeal raisin cookies. She loved the items and her family loved the cookies. Then her mom got sick and wasn’t eating. I delivered a few dozen espresso chocolate chip cookies without nuts because her mom couldn’t handle the chewiness and abrasiveness of walnuts. Those were well received. Her mom has good days and bad days and last week was not so good. I offered more cookies to tempt the appetite. I gave her a choice of Snickerdoodles or Lemon Bars. Her eyes lit up and she eagerly asked for Snickerdoodles.

I stood in my hot summer kitchen packing dough into balls that would be rolled in cinnamon sugar and felt the supreme satisfaction of taking simple ingredients and creating deliciousness. There is something about cooking for people, even people you haven’t met, that warms the soul. The time I used to spend on the road, at work, shopping, dining out, distracting myself from my emotions and body pains can now be used to plan and cook healthful meals. I can do a yoga workout at lunchtime or spend it reading with the cat. Time feels more elastic and forgiving.

My mind and thoughts however, are not.

I am a caretaker by nature and I want to heal the world with neck massages, comiserating chats and baked goods. I don’t really have an outlet for that right now and I worry that I’ve become the crazy cat loving touchy feely sugar dealer who thrusts unwanted home crafted tchochkes and indifferent baked goods on people who are too nice to say no thank you. (That’s not really true; the cookies are outstanding but everyone’s taste is different and maybe you don’t want my particular brand of oatmeal raisin) [I know this is psychosis]

I ask my husband if I’m overdoing it out of a deep rooted sense of insecurity or if I’m just an amazing caring friend. Is this my ego, I wonder. Or is this my manipulative nature – I’m not baking these for US (as if that’s a bad thing) I’m baking for my friend’s MOM. She’s the recipient of the bounty. You can’t complain about unnecessary snacks when they are cancer cookies.

In the end, I’m going to do what my heart tells me to do. I have friends who can’t get my healing back rubs, silly jokes or nourishing food right now. I wish I could bake for all of them, near and far. Some day I will be in need of cookies or companionship or compassion and I believe that my deeds will circle back around.

The Snick’s were a huge success….mom said she hadn’t had them since she was a girl. I had one with my tea this morning. It was gently crunchy, buttery and not too sweet. A nugget of love, baked with caring, seasoned with kindness.

/dsh; 8/10/20

#Winning

We are halfway through the summer and the pandemic continues. Still mostly confined to home, wearing masks, ordering takeout twice a week to support small local businesses. Am I winning the pandemic? Time to take stock.

Sun ripened organic figs are a joy each summer

I am extraordinarily fortunate to have a job that lets me work from home and acutely aware that not everyone has that. So I practice gratitude for the petty annoyances via email and chat. I roll my neck as I boot up a program that I’ll use for the next hour to download data for a project. I bite my tongue when the team comes back and changes the parameters and I have to redo that work. Job? Definitely in the positive column.

I’m also fortunate to live in a nice home with multiple places to isolate. We are getting through some home tasks that have been put off for years – cleaning out closets, shredding papers, re-stucco-ing the outside. My bed is comfy and I have a few places to stretch out and read or watch TV. Home situation? Positive.

I’m not by myself – I’m married and still interacting with my spouse (I’ve heard STORIES). Tempers are a bit short and patience is something we have to dig for. But we’re civil and of like mind. He’s been heroic in taking on the job of getting supplies and interacting with the public. I’ve prepared nutritious and usually delicious meals for us and planned 3 meals a day, every day, since the quarantine began. Marriage? Positive

But there are things that haven’t happened and they overtake me in random moments making me want to rage or stomp or tantrum. Like, where is the #justiceforbreonnataylor? Why haven’t I lost 10 pounds? Why is my bicycle still lost amid clutter in the garage? Where is our vegetable garden? Why am I not meditating/stretching/excercising/praying/learning/sewing/writing in my newly found free hours that used to be spent on the 405? Where are my new crafting skills? That nuno felting kit is still unopened. I should have finished double the number of scarves for soldiers in this time. Why, oh why am I still getting migraines when I should be feeling amazing now that I am getting sufficient sleep and time to rest?

As my best friend says – there are days when we are “digging deep” to get out of the funk. And we are angry that we still need to dig deep when we should be grateful for our blessings.

I miss my friends. I miss the scent of suntan lotion mixed with grainy sand and an ocean breeze. I miss hanging on a patio drinking craft cocktails. I miss chicken wings and garlic toast.

I have a physician who gently questioned me about my mental state and asked me what I missed. I appreciate his concern and I get what he was trying to do. But there are no substitutes for lunch with my 90 year old mom. Zoom calls are difficult when one of you is mostly blind and partially deaf. We sort of expected this to be her last year, but what a way to live your last year – under lock and key with very little interaction.

Digging – My cat is a joy and entertainment all in one. He is thriving with the extra attention and the freedom to roam the house. The corgis snooze nearby, generating fur drifts that gather in the corners.

Deep – The fig tree is loaded, and figs are ripening a few at a time. Cherry tomatoes are coming in and zucchini blossoms are bright yellow accents against green leaves. My church has amazing livestream services and small group sessions (#hopeshouse). Our neighbors have posted Black Lives Matter signs and drawn rainbows and hopscotch grids on the sidewalk. It’s summer and I’ve got boozy grapefruit popsicles in the freezer made with our own organic fruit.

I am indeed “digging deep.” Fortunately there is a flinty vein of positive gold in my character. And it shines.

7/29/20