My Friend Had a Heart Attack

My friend Susan Bardwell, the painter of the picture in the previous post, had a heart attack today.
I've never met her in person.  She lives down near Houston, Texas, and is a funny writer/journalist as well as a talented artist. David and Jane Shepherd introduced us, via email, and we've had a daily correspondence for the last two (three?) years. Like me, she's a smart aleck; has two adult sons roughly the same age as our sons who live with her and her husband; and has a grandson who lives with them because his father (her older son) has custody, so she ends up being mommy most of the time. Our grand daughter lived with us for almost three years, age almost 2 to almost 5, so I got to be mommy again for a while, also. We relate.
She and her husband produce what she calls a "paperless," The Angleton Journal,an electronic web newspaper they put out every Monday, and she writes a humor column for it. I haven't written a humor column since Rick got sick, but know what it's like and commiserate with her on the misery of deadlines.
My favorite quote on deadlines, and I can't remember who said it, is: "I love deadlines. I love the wooshing sound they make as they go by."
Susan is NOT like me in that she is a pretty good judge of character. I tend to think that everyone's great, unless I take an immediate dislike to someone, and I've often been wrong in my first takes, mostly about that thinking everyone's great. Susan worked for years as a crime reporter for the Houston Chronicle. She certainly got well acquainted with the less attractive side of human character there, and minces no words when she expresses her opinion of same.
She's a fierce mama lion for her family, and loves her whole overextended family in a prodigal fashion.
We came up with the acronym FASTOB, which stands for, "fat, average, sarcastic, tough old broad." Our sisterhood.
Oh, carp, she's just a real great buddy, and I hate it that she had a heart attack. I know she had one, at least, before, in her early 40s, and had some stents put in, so I guess it's not totally out of the blue, but it stinks. It sounds like the EMTs and the local hospital got the clot buster (or whatever) into her before she was airlifted so the obstruction was removed - washed away - I don't know – soon, and by the time the helicopter has taken her to the big hospital in Houston (Herrmann, I think) she was feeling better.
Her husband said she was scared, but by the time they left her at the hospital in Houston this evening she was joking with them. She'll be in the hospital a couple of days at least.
I'm still praying, for her health, and in thanks for EMTs, techs, doctors, nurses, and hospitals. We've spent so much time in the precincts of these people the last year and a half, and have acquired such respect and appreciation for them.
I am hoping she continues recovering well, and after she's home I'm going to try giving her a call. We've never actually spoken to each other. I think it's time.

My Friend Paints; and Watch Out for That Tree

Greetings, Dear Hearts and Gentle People ~
Above you see a painting of a scene down at Tramp Harbor here on Vashon Island. You can see the mainland and a few pale peaks of the Cascades in the distance, off to the east. What's extraordinary about this painting to me is that it was painted by Susan Bardwell, my writer friend down in Texas, who has never been to Vashon Island, as far as I know. A couple of weeks ago when my friend Sonya was here to take care of me (us) when I had surgery, we went down to Tramp Harbor one day to commune with the water and the shore, and Sonya said, "Take some pictures to send to Susan to paint." So I did. I didn't know she'd paint something right away, but she did, and sent me the digital file, which you see here.
I really like it. A lot. Susan has started painting in the last few months, kind of to her own surprise. To hear her tell it she woke up one morning and decided it was time to do something different that was for her and for fun, and painting was it. She's been sharing some of her efforts since then.
In the foreground, the bottom left corner as you look at the painting, you can see the gabion cages, which are hefty wire netting that hold large rocks together to protect the beach and the road from erosion. That's one of the details of this painting that blows my mind. And one of the things you might look at and say, "What IS that?"
It's exciting to me. I am not a visual artist, but I love visual arts. When I try to draw, I can do okay, sorta - my best subjects have been sleeping dogs and cats, and chickens - but I've never been able to bring color into the mix. It is foreign territory. I'm a pencil and ink sketcher, and only every third or fourth year or so.
So watching Susan learn to use space and color and perspective the way she does - Rick says, "I wish I could paint like her. She's fearless!" - is an honor and a great pleasure.
And I'm hoping if I praise this painting highly enough she might send it to me for Christmas.

Watch out for that tree: It's a windy afternoon here on the island. I went out into the yard to whack a few weeds, and then sat in one of the old plastic Adirondack chairs that ornament our yard, and watched the tall trees that surround our house tossing in the gusts as they came and went. I like to sit out in the yard; it's peaceful, and because we are surrounded by trees and there is a circle of sky overhead, I can lay my head back and look at the clouds whizzing by and think about not much of anything.
That's what I was doing until I heard a crack. It was the crack of something in a tree breaking, some part of a large limb or trunk. When a tree goes down, or a big part of a tree, it starts with such a crack and then proceeds to make a lot of cracks which gather and multiply and crescendo until it sounds, I am told, like a barrage of small arms fire, and the noise goes on until the piece that is struggling lets go and falls free, plowing through the undergrowth with a sigh and a whoosh, taking a lot of smaller trees and bushes down with it.
In that undergrowth is exactly where you don't want to be when a tree lets go. Now, I am as foolish as the next person. I sometimes plan what I would do if I heard a tree begin to fall in my vicinity. My plan is to get to my feet and head for the house as fast as possible, on the assumption, perhaps mistaken, that the house would shelter me from the force of the blow. Unfortunately I have lived long enough to know that what I'd probably do is sit there frozen and hope that tree didn't fall on me. A tree went down about twenty feet from our bedroom during a night storm some years ago, and as I heard it go I did not move, just froze there in bed and waited for it to be over. It fell the other way, into the ravine. Lucky.
That is why when I heard that crack I decided to come inside. So I did. And that brings us up to date.

Good News Today

It is Monday, May 24, 2010, and today I went to see the surgeon who did my lumpectomy last week and got the news: NO CANCER.
Then Alice brought me home and we watched "Death at a Funeral" (British version).
It has been a very good day.

I Am No Longer Unemployed

Today was a milestone: I have been unemployed since the summer of 2007, but today that changed. Today I retired.
It wasn't as easy as they'd like to make you think when you go to the Social Security website. They have videos featuring Patty Duke and Chubby Checkers – talkin' about my g-g-generation – telling us how quick and easy it is to retire online. Do it now! It's easy!
It's easy if you aren't as easily confused as I am. I tried to retire last March, because I'd been told to apply a couple of months before I turned 62. Being the good girl I am, I went online and began the easy process.
It was easy right up until they asked, “Are you able to get a job?” I said, “No.”
Big mistake: suddenly I was off the mainline to Retirement City, and shunted onto the sidetrack of the 7% incline of applying for disability.
Why I said I was unable to get a job: first and foremost I have a full time job doing paperwork to make things happen for my husband.
Second, okay, so I can't walk or stand for long because of various accidents that have left me bunged up and arthritic, but I'm not entirely sure that counts because there are plenty of people who can't walk who are employed. In my present condition I admire them quite a lot for making the effort, because I now have an idea of what it takes, but my mind and my fingers still work – sporadically most days, but that's not uncommon at all at any age – and that's enough to work in this society. Except...
Third, I'm over 60. I'm not the employee most places want. It's hard to find a job at any age for most people right now, but more so for what my husband calls the nouveau elderly, and if you doubt me take a random poll of people over 60 looking for work.
So I didn't want to apply for disability, but suddenly I found I had. I screwed up, and I didn't fix it, because I didn't understand how badly I had screwed up. I might be able to get disability because I am kind of disabled, but it would mean more of the kind of paperwork I've been swamped with for the last six months, and I'm tired, and we're broke. I simply wish to retire.
Then, this morning I remembered that I had the number of the man at Social Security who processed my husband's disability claim (my husband qualified easily, and all I can tell you about that is that if you can qualify for disability easily, your life sucks and blows).
I tried calling that number, and the man answered, and I told him what I wanted to do, and he was kind and humorous and helpful and fifteen minutes later, I was retired.
My head's been spinning the rest of the day. My friend Sonya is here visiting and she's heard me say, “I'm not unemployed anymore! I'm retired!” so many times to so many people that I expect her to say, “Enough already!” but she's been a really good sport about it and says she's happy for me.
So if you're thinking of retirement and the Social Security website lures you in with their red, white and blue promises of how easy it is, go ahead and retire online, but be vewy, vewy careful (Elmer Fudd was big for my generation, also).
Be prepared, also: if you watch the cute Patty Duke video telling you how easy it is to retire, you might be walking around the next few months singing in your head, “Because they're cousins, identical cousins just the same...” And if you don't remember that, you might not be part of my g-g-generation.

The Grinding Wheel Grinds Slow But Small

Every year it seems that life has become so much more complicated that it couldn't possibly - watch out!
Know what I mean?
I learned today that I do not qualify for Medicaid because I am not blind, or 65, or disabled. Not being able to walk very well or to be able to stand up for long or to do much is not the same thing as being officially disabled. And even if I am, in fact, disabled, I still have trouble with the label, although I really appreciate my handicapped parking sticker on the days I really need it.
So I'm still uninsured, and I'm having surgery next Wednesday to remove the lump that probably isn't cancer but no one wants to take any chances. The good news: well, it probably isn't cancer, that's the good news. The other good news is that Swedish has a charity program that will take care of the costs of my surgery. So I'm told. This knowledge leaves me free to worry about the surgery itself, not paying for it.
It's enough to worry about.
I did qualify for a little food stamp credit, and that was good news, too.
We're reaching that point now, when most of our assets have been exhausted. The months of attrition are having their effect. Tomorrow I plan to cut off the cable and the land phone line. I will cling to internet a while longer, because I spend so much of my life on the internet, reading or answering emails, researching the odd questions that arise daily, looking up information which I have to save and print and pass along to other people - it is my connection to the outside world.
I was told to rest up before my surgery, so I would react to it better. I laughed. Rest up - yeah, that's a great idea. I must try that.
Seriously, I suppose I must. It won't be a great big surgery, but really, is there such a thing as "minor surgery?" Isn't having the body cut open and having a piece of it removed, doesn't that sound sort of "major?"
I am blessed in that my friend Sonya has agreed to drive me in to the hospital and back on the day. That was my biggest worry, truth to tell. I've done it so many times for Rick, but he's not healthy enough to do it for me - and he might have to do dialysis that day. So.
As a reward, Sonya will get to spend time with me after I have been given painkillers. I have been told I am quite amusing when stoned. Although I do tend to order things online and forget so I'm completely surprised when packages arrive. Oh well. That sort of mistake required credit. Remember credit?
Rick and I lay on the bed together tonight, holding hands, and talking about how strange it is that we cannot do everything for ourselves anymore. For so many years we took it for granted that what needed doing, we could do. No more. Suddenly we are, if not old, then unable. Disabled. Odious word, odious condition.
My beloved and beautiful cousin Nancy had her second round of chemo today. She said tonight she was tired. Some time soon, this summer or next, we'll go to the ocean together, and talk about our family, and how great life is, and how beautiful the ocean is, and how fortunate we have been to have one another.
How fortunate we all are to have one another. There, that's my profound statement du jour. Stick around. It's got to get better.

The Moon Is Bigger in New Mexico

My brother and sister-in-law, Allen and Barbara, have lived in New Mexico for many years. I've been there to visit twice, once back in 1993, when I took our sons, JD and Drew, on a train trip across the country to visit Rick's relatives in Ohio and to visit Allen and Barbara on the way home. It's very convenient to go by train, because the train stops in their town, Raton.
The second time, which I must have blocked from my memory when I first wrote this post, was three weeks before my mother's death, when she was staying with Allen and Barbara, in 2001. But that is a story for another time.
Their home is on a hill on the northwest side of town, where they have a view of the mesas in the distance where the interstate trails off to the south, to Las Vegas, and Pecos, Santa Fe, and Albuquerque. But from their house you see "miles and miles of nothing but miles and miles," sky and mesa and the land stretching out before you.
As perhaps you can see here.
My brother took this picture the other evening, and sent it out "with apologies to Ansel Adams." I told him that no apologies were necessary, and asked if I could share the image with people, and he said please do.
So here it is, Moonrise Over the Mesa, by my brother, Allen Litchfield.

Thank You for Listening to Me Bitch

Sometimes a catch phrase catches on:
"You might be a redneck..."
"Here's your sign,"
"Would you believe?"
"Where's the beef?"
"Did I do that?"
And so on.
I have decided that my new catch phrase is, "Thank you for listening to me bitch." Last night I was talking to Rick, and every once in a while I would realize I was complaining or ranting about something, and I would say, "Thank you for listening to me bitch." He says it's OK, I do the same for him, and that's true.
It's not written into the wedding ceremony, or at least any ceremonies I've seen, but part of being married is listening to each other complain, gripe, whine, bitch - whatever you're calling it in your relationship. It's a loving thing we do for each other.
Some people will abuse the privilege. Our older son, JD, tends to rant, and as he rants he builds up a head of steam and starts pacing around the room, and after ranting and pacing for quite a while he paces right out the door, ranting over his shoulder as he goes, and you're left sitting there in the silence wondering what that was all about.
It was about bitching. I wish he'd learn to say, "Thank you for listening to me bitch." I'd feel better.
You know how it is - you marry someone, you figure you made a choice. While you may have chosen to give birth, you were only the passive container of these little aliens who became your children, and their personalities often have traits that if you'd had a choice, you'd have said, "No, thanks."
If they're 28 and living with you again and subjecting you to traits you wouldn't have chosen, like marathon pacing rants, you might wish for a little acknowledgment on the kid's part that you're doing something for him while he sputters, pops, whines, and disgorges his discontent.
Well, he doesn't acknowledge that we've done anything for him, but it's made me think that when I'm ranting about something I owe my listener a thanks, at least, and if it's my husband, I owe years of thanks for listening to me. So the least I can do is say it.
Thank you for listening to me bitch.