It's Saturday and I think I'll remember this one. Last Saturday was a blur of drugs, thankfully, and I did enjoy them as I was urged to do by one who's been here, done this. Thanks, Jan and Don for the card.
Flowers that I got from my dear friends Jane and Jerry are still brightening up my living room and mock the bitter cold a few feet outdoors. Hah. More than one way to beat the Iowa winter. Not quite as powerful a beating as escaping on a tropical cruise like my son Michael and his wife, Tracy, but me and my TED hose wouldn't be much of a draw on the beach anyway. And since I was asked, here's more than you need to know about TEDs:
TED stands for thrombo-embolism deterrent, among other variations, such as thrombosis-embolism deterrent. The stockings are used as a preventive measure against the formation of stationary blood clots (thrombosis) and blood clots which move (embolus).
Don't you feel enlightened now?
I'm also happy to report that the mystery of the strawberry-sender is solved. My son Joel jokingly told me, after reading my blog about receiving them and the surprise snow shoveler, that he actually sent a guy to do the shoveling and just had him bring the strawberries along for fun. So I thought he was kidding as he's known to do, but he wasn't. It doesn't change a thing. I still loved them, happy that I shared them with other women in his life - his sister, his sister-in-law, his Grammy - and still wish he'd been here to have some with me. Joel lives in Missouri, near KC, and he and his wife Amy are expecting their first baby in June.
Tomorrow's the red letter day for my son Jamie! He and his wife Sarah are having their boy by C-section around 7:30am if all goes as planned. I've seen 3-D ultrasound pictures and felt him kick and am so ready to hold him. If I'm this excited, imagine how they must feel. They were cleaning their house earlier, so I guess that means they're overcome with practicality. I'm glad that Beermas aren't bound to such mundane things as clean houses and being practical.
Time to grab a nap and dream up ideas for the next post. Any requests?
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Cure for low blood pressure
Hi there. It's nice to know there's someone reading - thanks for your comments. I enjoy them as much, sometimes more, than writing. I've received some very good writing advice and try to squeeze in the "homework assignments" from Tara, but it's going to compromise my sleep, gotta fess up. Naps are becoming luxuries now instead of the way of life. The inferno is of my own making.
Low blood pressure was a concern during my hospital stay, corrected with saline and two units of A negative blood. Then I got a message today from the insurance carrier for Short Term Disability (capitalized intentionally so you don't get confused when I say STD) insurance. Seems I don't qualify, a little factoid overlooked by my own HR department when communicating processes for medical leave. Reading the website policy, I was still convinced I qualified, and finally got an iota of satisfaction when three HR people agreed it was misleading. Now it needs to be rewritten, and they offered all their apologies for the misunderstanding that's just part of the "learning curve." Whatever that means. Low blood pressure is no longer an issue.
I think they're going to offer a compromise (HOPING!) that will allow me time to recuperate and do some work, albeit less than a full day, while still getting paid. If not, expect to find me schlepping along the Ave, plying the oldest trade known to horny men, all in hopes of finding money for the water bill and details to flesh out a fictional rendition of what's been dubbed my "sordid sex life." Gotta have one to be sordid, so I'll see what I can do about that.
Still no one taking credit for the awesome chocolate-covered strawberries, unless I buy the witty response of my acerbic coworker and writing taskmaster. Tara, is it really you? In all the hullabaloo the last day or so, I've forgotten to call Edible Arrangements for confirmation. Don't make me do it. Take your well-deserved bow, unless you already have. FYI, the delicacies have been devoured.
Night all.
Low blood pressure was a concern during my hospital stay, corrected with saline and two units of A negative blood. Then I got a message today from the insurance carrier for Short Term Disability (capitalized intentionally so you don't get confused when I say STD) insurance. Seems I don't qualify, a little factoid overlooked by my own HR department when communicating processes for medical leave. Reading the website policy, I was still convinced I qualified, and finally got an iota of satisfaction when three HR people agreed it was misleading. Now it needs to be rewritten, and they offered all their apologies for the misunderstanding that's just part of the "learning curve." Whatever that means. Low blood pressure is no longer an issue.
I think they're going to offer a compromise (HOPING!) that will allow me time to recuperate and do some work, albeit less than a full day, while still getting paid. If not, expect to find me schlepping along the Ave, plying the oldest trade known to horny men, all in hopes of finding money for the water bill and details to flesh out a fictional rendition of what's been dubbed my "sordid sex life." Gotta have one to be sordid, so I'll see what I can do about that.
Still no one taking credit for the awesome chocolate-covered strawberries, unless I buy the witty response of my acerbic coworker and writing taskmaster. Tara, is it really you? In all the hullabaloo the last day or so, I've forgotten to call Edible Arrangements for confirmation. Don't make me do it. Take your well-deserved bow, unless you already have. FYI, the delicacies have been devoured.
Night all.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Perfect timing
There's a new picture today. Note it well and eat your heart out. As for me, I'm going to cut the chocolate-covered strawberries into bite-size pieces and let the creamy deliciousness melt in my mouth before I savor the strawberry sweetness. I've already had one, four separate bites, and if you think that's fast, realize that I delayed long enough to take a picture of the arrangement before I indulged.
There's a story behind the strawberries. I was having a pity party for myself this morning. Boo-hoo, why do I have to be alone. Wah, it's so hard fixing my own supper. Dammitall, why do I have to make all these trips up and down stairs myself ... you can hear me, can't you? And then there's the snow blown across my sidewalks after yesterday's storm and no one volunteering to fix that for me. My daughter would, I know, but she's having a hysterectomy at noon so her day is tied up. My mother would, too, but that poor lady has enough trouble staying on her own two feet (she fell yesterday leaving my house). And how can I ask a 77-year old multiple-joint replacement woman to do what should come naturally to my whipper-snapper sons? In their defense, they're at work and would doubtless come over afterward, but the fact is the sidewalk was ankle-deep in snow when the Edible Arrangement gentleman stopped by with my fantastic - and anonymous - delivery a short time ago. He was so cheerful I forgot to feel sorry for myself, especially when I saw the goodies in the bag. And then he almost knocked my walker out from under me when he picked up a shovel and told me he'd take care of this snow. This man had never met me before, will probably never see me again, and I doubt he was looking for exercise (I'd guess his age at 70 or more), but he's etched himself forever in my Hippy Shake memory.
The person who sent the strawberries reads this blog and is firmly etched, too. The attached card was dedicated to "the reclamation of your chocolate habit with a little nutrition to boot." I love the sentiment as much as I love the taste treat. Well, almost as much. Thank you thank you thank you. If you want to stay anonymous, then I'll call the EA office and see if I can weasel a name from them. If you'd like to reveal yourself, I'm guessing you'll just confirm my suspicions. Either way, I sure wish you were here to share with me.
Another treat today: my friend and former co-worker Sherri is bringing lunch. In her honor, I got dressed up in clean sweats and a bra. I even put on some face paint. See the great lengths I'll go to for friends and food?
There's a story behind the strawberries. I was having a pity party for myself this morning. Boo-hoo, why do I have to be alone. Wah, it's so hard fixing my own supper. Dammitall, why do I have to make all these trips up and down stairs myself ... you can hear me, can't you? And then there's the snow blown across my sidewalks after yesterday's storm and no one volunteering to fix that for me. My daughter would, I know, but she's having a hysterectomy at noon so her day is tied up. My mother would, too, but that poor lady has enough trouble staying on her own two feet (she fell yesterday leaving my house). And how can I ask a 77-year old multiple-joint replacement woman to do what should come naturally to my whipper-snapper sons? In their defense, they're at work and would doubtless come over afterward, but the fact is the sidewalk was ankle-deep in snow when the Edible Arrangement gentleman stopped by with my fantastic - and anonymous - delivery a short time ago. He was so cheerful I forgot to feel sorry for myself, especially when I saw the goodies in the bag. And then he almost knocked my walker out from under me when he picked up a shovel and told me he'd take care of this snow. This man had never met me before, will probably never see me again, and I doubt he was looking for exercise (I'd guess his age at 70 or more), but he's etched himself forever in my Hippy Shake memory.
The person who sent the strawberries reads this blog and is firmly etched, too. The attached card was dedicated to "the reclamation of your chocolate habit with a little nutrition to boot." I love the sentiment as much as I love the taste treat. Well, almost as much. Thank you thank you thank you. If you want to stay anonymous, then I'll call the EA office and see if I can weasel a name from them. If you'd like to reveal yourself, I'm guessing you'll just confirm my suspicions. Either way, I sure wish you were here to share with me.
Another treat today: my friend and former co-worker Sherri is bringing lunch. In her honor, I got dressed up in clean sweats and a bra. I even put on some face paint. See the great lengths I'll go to for friends and food?
Monday, January 25, 2010
Criminal mind
It's been a while since I've written, hasn't it? Expecting an apology? Good that you're not. I'm so far away from surgery now that blogging on rehab almost seems moot. After all, I had a real shower today, hot water running over my face and wetting every inch of my grateful skin. Every inch, that is, except those protected by Press'n'Seal. (What it can do for keeping food fresh it can do for keeping incisions dry.) I've been up and down stairs as often as if I had important business afoot and I've even done laps on my front porch. These things are necessary for good recovery and to keeping my butt from falling permanently asleep.
I eat mostly normal, though I have yet to reclaim my chocolate habit. Stomach is still on the queasy side, so I make nutrition happen first. There's usually no room after that. So you think I'd drop a pound or two, right? Get this - after all the months faithfully adhering to my low-carb eating and consciously cutting fat calories, losing 63 pounds, I come home from the hospital weighing FOURTEEN POUNDS MORE than the day I went in. Believe me, I'm going googling to see just how much a fabricated hip joint weighs. Here's hoping the doctor didn't leave behind his chain saw.
I woke up this morning from a dream where I was writing some sort of exposé from a women's prison. Psychiatrists could be in diagnostic heaven analyzing that dream, but it led me to the realization that writing - even something as low-powered as this blog - requires the same basic elements as any crime: means, motive and opportunity. Figurative butt-kicking acknowledged previously accounts for motive, but what I've lacked lately are means and opportunity.
I have two computers available for my use in this house. There's the home setup upstairs, the warmest room in the house, good light from two big windows, new speakers to air my music, comfortable old chair and bathroom just down the hall. Downstairs is the laptop, the go-anywhere tool I could even take TO the bathroom if I were perverse enough. It would appear then that I have means. Until today, I've had about a dozen impediments to access these means in the form of caretakers and visitors. I've enjoyed all of them and sincerely appreciate their help, so I hope none who might be reading take offense when I say I'm also enjoying the quiet that dominates right now. So opportunity has been restored, and since I'm unable to write with people dangling over my shoulder or hovering just a foot away, I chose to celebrate my solitude right here in cyberspace with you. This need for the furtive just points out to me that writers might make good criminals, although I don't think it necessarily follows that criminals would make good writers.
Harking back to my dream, perhaps the message in all of this is that I'm pursuing the wrong path. Instead of writing my own story, should I investigate a career in ghost-writing the memoirs of an Iowa soccer mom who eliminated her son's team competition ala "Misery"? If I ever began to understand people like this, I'd hope there's some one among you cares enough to have me committed.
Off to nap, perchance to have another wacky dream. Let me offer my condolences to those of you who have to slog through the snow today. You don't think my choice of surgery date was an accident, do you?
Beerma
I eat mostly normal, though I have yet to reclaim my chocolate habit. Stomach is still on the queasy side, so I make nutrition happen first. There's usually no room after that. So you think I'd drop a pound or two, right? Get this - after all the months faithfully adhering to my low-carb eating and consciously cutting fat calories, losing 63 pounds, I come home from the hospital weighing FOURTEEN POUNDS MORE than the day I went in. Believe me, I'm going googling to see just how much a fabricated hip joint weighs. Here's hoping the doctor didn't leave behind his chain saw.
I woke up this morning from a dream where I was writing some sort of exposé from a women's prison. Psychiatrists could be in diagnostic heaven analyzing that dream, but it led me to the realization that writing - even something as low-powered as this blog - requires the same basic elements as any crime: means, motive and opportunity. Figurative butt-kicking acknowledged previously accounts for motive, but what I've lacked lately are means and opportunity.
I have two computers available for my use in this house. There's the home setup upstairs, the warmest room in the house, good light from two big windows, new speakers to air my music, comfortable old chair and bathroom just down the hall. Downstairs is the laptop, the go-anywhere tool I could even take TO the bathroom if I were perverse enough. It would appear then that I have means. Until today, I've had about a dozen impediments to access these means in the form of caretakers and visitors. I've enjoyed all of them and sincerely appreciate their help, so I hope none who might be reading take offense when I say I'm also enjoying the quiet that dominates right now. So opportunity has been restored, and since I'm unable to write with people dangling over my shoulder or hovering just a foot away, I chose to celebrate my solitude right here in cyberspace with you. This need for the furtive just points out to me that writers might make good criminals, although I don't think it necessarily follows that criminals would make good writers.
Harking back to my dream, perhaps the message in all of this is that I'm pursuing the wrong path. Instead of writing my own story, should I investigate a career in ghost-writing the memoirs of an Iowa soccer mom who eliminated her son's team competition ala "Misery"? If I ever began to understand people like this, I'd hope there's some one among you cares enough to have me committed.
Off to nap, perchance to have another wacky dream. Let me offer my condolences to those of you who have to slog through the snow today. You don't think my choice of surgery date was an accident, do you?
Beerma
Friday, January 22, 2010
Moving slow
And slow ends with ow. But less ow today than yesterday. So enough on my progress. I have a 4-inch incision which was greatly admired by the nursing staff. The bikini I'll never wear would hide it just fine.
My mother's stint overnighting with me is done and the next team has moved in. My daughter and her two boys, along with a cousin of theirs, are camping out with me tonight. It's pizza and Harry Potter. Maybe Pizza Hut grease will accomplish what the laxatives, stool softener and extra fiber haven't yet done. If you expect to hear all about that in great detail, swallow your disappointment right now.
I mentioned Tara's trickery last time, and you're witnessing it in action. I figured out that she'd get me hooked on this blogging thing so that I would experience pangs of guilt for not writing. Let's give her a hand for successful manipulation. To you, Tara, in the midst of my pain and wooziness, for the ability to kick me in the butt. Don't forget I'll be back at work soon with my own new and improved butt-kicking ability.
About my brief hospital stay: My room was where the fun happened. The nurses congregated frequently when they needed contact with a patient who could actually hear or whose primary concern wasn't the fact of not pooping. I also didn't scream like the elderly woman down the hall. One good thing about her bellowing, though - I'm sure she was clearing out her lungs and eliminating the possibility of pneumonia. I did narc on the old guy next door. I was in a good sleep about 1:00 in the morning and suddenly blasted awake by the sound of CNN news on his TV. I guess he missed the memo about quiet time between 10pm and 6am.
I did discover that none of the therapy instructors have any real good information about resuming sex. It's apparent that their teaching materials still assume a geriatric population where waiting three months for sex is called foreplay. Aside from the length of wait time, I'd like to know about the advisability of certain positions or levels of expended energy, but figured I'd better do some research on my own. After all, I have the next two months, 28 days, 12 hours and 37 minutes to learn. Counting down ...
My mother's stint overnighting with me is done and the next team has moved in. My daughter and her two boys, along with a cousin of theirs, are camping out with me tonight. It's pizza and Harry Potter. Maybe Pizza Hut grease will accomplish what the laxatives, stool softener and extra fiber haven't yet done. If you expect to hear all about that in great detail, swallow your disappointment right now.
I mentioned Tara's trickery last time, and you're witnessing it in action. I figured out that she'd get me hooked on this blogging thing so that I would experience pangs of guilt for not writing. Let's give her a hand for successful manipulation. To you, Tara, in the midst of my pain and wooziness, for the ability to kick me in the butt. Don't forget I'll be back at work soon with my own new and improved butt-kicking ability.
About my brief hospital stay: My room was where the fun happened. The nurses congregated frequently when they needed contact with a patient who could actually hear or whose primary concern wasn't the fact of not pooping. I also didn't scream like the elderly woman down the hall. One good thing about her bellowing, though - I'm sure she was clearing out her lungs and eliminating the possibility of pneumonia. I did narc on the old guy next door. I was in a good sleep about 1:00 in the morning and suddenly blasted awake by the sound of CNN news on his TV. I guess he missed the memo about quiet time between 10pm and 6am.
I did discover that none of the therapy instructors have any real good information about resuming sex. It's apparent that their teaching materials still assume a geriatric population where waiting three months for sex is called foreplay. Aside from the length of wait time, I'd like to know about the advisability of certain positions or levels of expended energy, but figured I'd better do some research on my own. After all, I have the next two months, 28 days, 12 hours and 37 minutes to learn. Counting down ...
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
How to prep for surgery
Important: Follow all the directions, get your x-rays, your blood tests, your EKG, even go the extra mile and get an echocardiogram just to make sure your heart is pumping properly.
Rather important: Make plans for recovery and caretakers to wait on your every wish, providing you have any wishes beyond going to sleep until it's all over.
Most important: The do. I did the do as promised and the "new" me is posted. Not radical, but a nice little difference that should perk me up when I face the mirror.
Other things to plan: Unload the computer from work. Have a leisurely dinner (last decent food for awhile, remember). Remove tags from the recovery wardrobe freshly purchased from Walmart, easy enough since it's all sweats and tags are peel-off, then wash the clothes for packing when done. Take your shower, scrub your hip hide according to the disinfectant directions. Wash your hair, blow dry, and style if necessary because 4:30AM is no time to care about your looks. Make sure your phone is charged, your hospital reading material is packed and crawl in bed early with some kick-ass drugs to help you sleep. Sounds pretty good, doesn't it?
Here's the reality: My daughter-in-law got in a sitter bind so I'm hosting a couple of grandkids. They got here just as I finished scraping some piles of snow from my walkway in order to get in the house after surgery. They were hungry. Beerma had to pee. Ran down to the bathroom, raced back upstairs to scour the freezer for kid food. I just realized I used two verbs that won't be part of my activities after tomorrow. Run. Race. Hah.
No chicken nuggets. No mac and cheese. They don't want peanut butter. I did find one kid's TV dinner and enhanced it with grapes, Cheetos and chocolate milk. Magic food. I even halved the stupid grapes and got the seeds out and promised Evan no cookie until he ate every single one of those damned things. I'm still irritated about the seeds. I thought I was buying seedless.
So it's 7:30, laundry still awaits, packing of some sort will happen, and if I get to bed by midnight, it means I can eat and drink right up to sleep time. Tomorrow is it. Folks at work were great today, wishing me well and even saying they'd miss me. The nice thing is, some of them really will.
Carly needs the Ninja costume zipped and Evan needs his butt wiped. Off to do my Beerma duty. And then see what I can find to eat.
I have an idea for my next post: Tara Trickery. Stay tuned.
Rather important: Make plans for recovery and caretakers to wait on your every wish, providing you have any wishes beyond going to sleep until it's all over.
Most important: The do. I did the do as promised and the "new" me is posted. Not radical, but a nice little difference that should perk me up when I face the mirror.
Other things to plan: Unload the computer from work. Have a leisurely dinner (last decent food for awhile, remember). Remove tags from the recovery wardrobe freshly purchased from Walmart, easy enough since it's all sweats and tags are peel-off, then wash the clothes for packing when done. Take your shower, scrub your hip hide according to the disinfectant directions. Wash your hair, blow dry, and style if necessary because 4:30AM is no time to care about your looks. Make sure your phone is charged, your hospital reading material is packed and crawl in bed early with some kick-ass drugs to help you sleep. Sounds pretty good, doesn't it?
Here's the reality: My daughter-in-law got in a sitter bind so I'm hosting a couple of grandkids. They got here just as I finished scraping some piles of snow from my walkway in order to get in the house after surgery. They were hungry. Beerma had to pee. Ran down to the bathroom, raced back upstairs to scour the freezer for kid food. I just realized I used two verbs that won't be part of my activities after tomorrow. Run. Race. Hah.
No chicken nuggets. No mac and cheese. They don't want peanut butter. I did find one kid's TV dinner and enhanced it with grapes, Cheetos and chocolate milk. Magic food. I even halved the stupid grapes and got the seeds out and promised Evan no cookie until he ate every single one of those damned things. I'm still irritated about the seeds. I thought I was buying seedless.
So it's 7:30, laundry still awaits, packing of some sort will happen, and if I get to bed by midnight, it means I can eat and drink right up to sleep time. Tomorrow is it. Folks at work were great today, wishing me well and even saying they'd miss me. The nice thing is, some of them really will.
Carly needs the Ninja costume zipped and Evan needs his butt wiped. Off to do my Beerma duty. And then see what I can find to eat.
I have an idea for my next post: Tara Trickery. Stay tuned.
Monday, January 18, 2010
My First Time
Hello, bloggers. I'm signing on for the first time (just what did you THINK the title was about???) at some insistent urging from friends and coworkers. It's not because I've always had a burning yen to blog - in fact, I find it curious that other people even care to read one person's thoughts without some solid evidence that it's worth the time - but I know a handful who will read this if for no other reason than to poke fun at me.
It's also not because I'm motivated by any political, religious or otherwise zealous fever to spread the word. Those who know me accept that spreading words isn't my reason for living. I think the reason behind this blog lies in the blog topic - laid up, over and out. Two days from now I undergo total hip replacement surgery and will be at home for at least six weeks. After initial recovery, I plan to start working again - from home - but there are a lot of hours in the day and my friends want to make sure I don't have time for mischief. As if there couldn't be plenty of mischief in words. Heh.
So, while I have no particular topic in mind at the moment, I have a tentative plan to chronicle activities, situations, inspirations and recovery progress during the next few weeks. After that, we'll see.
My first activity of the Hippy Shakeup is to color my hair. It's an unusual silvery hue right now, but my hairdresser has been pushing for an experiment, so today I turn myself over to her and let her transform me. Most likely, I'll look quite the same but with a wig.
Also happening this afternoon is the installation of handrails. If a THR (that's total hip replacement) doesn't impress one's age enough on the fragile psyche, handrails are guaranteed to decimate. Handrails! They're for OLD PEOPLE. Old people smell like cabbage. I don't smell like cabbage, so why do I need handrails?
One last word about my signature: seems I'm in the midst of identity crisis. Once upon a time, I was just Kendy. Then I had kids and became Mom. Then the kids started breeding and suddenly grandmotherhood was upon me. I became Beerma, which distinguishes me from the other grandmas in the family. Also because I like beer; as my oldest grandson said at the charming age of 2, it's Beerma's favorite soda. And the title was a gift from a former housemate. Jim, here's to you.
Thanks for reading,
KendyMomBeerma
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