A leap of faith!

I have been struggling with an arthritic knee and an aching neck for the past several months. These ailments and their associated pain have taught me many things, one being that I am not good with chronic pain, and second, that I am an excellent complainer. Just ask my husband (the word "whining" has been used)! I never really appreciated being in good health. Oh yeah, I always chimed in with nodding approval upon hearing, "nothing is more important than your health," or "if you have your health you have everything," but in truth, they were just words in my happy little healthy life. I have always been in pretty good health. I have had my broken bones, my surgeries, my parasites, things that were easily fixable. Now, I am dealing with degenerative bones, not so easy to fix.

The knee pain made me pine for the days when I could walk without a limp, climb steps without feeling like a razor blade was just behind my knee cap, get in and out of the car without wincing, and roll over in bed without fear. After a series of x-rays, an MRI, a cortisone shot, fluid drainage, four different doctors and hundreds of co-pay dollars, I was told I was a future candidate for knee replacement. Me and a million other baby-boomers.

Just as the knee was beginning to feel a whole lot better, I had a new ailment to complain about. My neck was killing me! Back to the doctor. I told him I was becoming a real regular and he joked we needed to stop meeting like this. Dr. Bass, or, as Harry calls him, Sea Bass, because his first name is Charles, gave me wonderful painkilling drugs that I wanted to take for the rest of my life. He said, no, no refills. (But you can get them over the counter in Mexico!!) He suggested physical therapy. I followed doctor's orders and went for physical therapy twice a week for a month with no real improvement.

This past weekend the pain was bad enough that the over-the-counter painkillers washed down with a series of gin and tonics gave me no relief. So on a whim, I thought I would try a little massage therapy. I found a therapist near our condo and opted for an hour-long session. The therapist said the muscles in my neck and back were rock hard. The massage was a bit painful, but it seemed to help. At the end of the session, she told me to drink lots of fluids in the next few hours and to consider a trip to the chiropractor. She said all I probably needed was a tweak or two and I would be fine. Wow! The quick fix I was looking for.

The next day the pain was back in force and I took my leap of faith. I have never been to a chiropractor and never understood why people go to them; but, being desperately open-minded, I called for an appointment. The chiropractor I saw did a series of x-rays of my spine and neck. He took a look at the results and made a face like the one the doctor and dentist made when they looked inside Harry's mouth to discover his jaw was floating around in his mouth. I said in my most calm panicky voice "What is it?" "What is wrong?" He said I should come the next day and bring my husband. This would give him time to present my x-rays in an understandable way to both of us. What did he have in mind, a PowerPoint presentation entitled: Jeanne Baxter your neck is a real mess?

Harry, who believes chiropractors are akin to witchdoctors, came with me to the appointment. We learned that my diagnosis is called F.H.P. chiropractic-speak for forward head posture. There was a slim ray of hope, he said, if I came several times a week for a month. He said if the treatments did not help, a neurosurgeon would be my next step. For what, I thought: are they now doing neck replacements? He then gave me an adjustment. The word itself was more than a little scary. I feared he could render me paralyzed.

I went back to my regular doctor and told him about my latest attempts to treat myself, leaving out the gin and tonic part. He gave me referrals to a spinal specialist and a neurologist. He said he thought it fine that I go for therapeutic massages and see a chiropractor if I felt it helped, though when Harry, whom I had dragged along for this one as well, implied certain limitations inherent in chiropractics, he did not firmly disagree. So, I have been to the chiropractor three times and have experienced some relief.

Both my knee and neck pains are probably related to injuries I suffered in my thirties that I thought at the time were no big deal. Harry says my big mistake was turning 60, since it has all been downhill from there and my trade-in value has been plummeting. I can hardly wait to see what 70 might bring if I make it that far. I only wish I had purchased that long-term-care insurance they tried to sell me at age 50.

*I wrote a blog about quilting called: NO EXCUSES! last week that was published after my blog entitled, A Week of Tears. It, for reasons I could not correct, did not appear last week in the right chronological order. It is listed on the list of March blogs however should you want to read it.

Lots of tears this week!

For me, this past week has been one of great shock, grief and joy. My childhood friend of 55 years-plus lost her husband to suicide a week ago last Friday while they were in the throes of a divorce. Our second granddaughter was born on Tuesday, March 15. My emotions have been all over the map. The phone brought news of both events. My friend called on Sunday morning to tell me what had happened and Ivan called in the wee hours of Tuesday morning, proudly giving us the news that our granddaughter had been born and all was well. I was unable to get back to sleep after Ivan's call as these events tossed and turned me in my bed until dawn, when I got up and went to work.

Life can be brutally painful and miraculously joyful, sometimes all within a few hours. Our grandson Ben, died four and a half years ago. When I saw the first pictures of our new grandbaby, Catie, tears filled my eyes. My first thought was how much she looked like Ben. At the wake I felt it important to be in control of my emotions as we talked with my beloved friend and her family. On Saturday at the funeral, as the family walked in together, I found my tears flowing uncontrollably.

I had some trepidation about the funeral. Suicide is different from death by accident or illness. I had no idea how the minister, who has known the family for decades, would conduct a service of this kind. It turned out he knew exactly what to do, honestly confronting all the pain and complicated circumstances which had now been left for family and friends to sort through and deal with.

The minister began the service by beckoning three children, all under six, to join him at the front of the room to hear a story. One of the children was the grandchild in the family. The story he told was about animals dying, to which all the children could relate, having had pets who had died. He asked the children about their thoughts on death. They immediately responded simply and truthfully with the innocence only a child can have. The children sat back down and the minister shared some favorite memories which family and friends had told him about Carter. He had his own tales, too. Many of the stories were very funny and we all laughed at Carter's quirky sense of humor.

Then the minister directed his attention to all of us grieving adults. He said that death beckons us to a higher level of thought, not to simple stories appropriate for children. We are challenged to see and accept the complexity, the horrors, and the unknowns of our human condition. He told us to remember that when we confront the darkness of the human soul, light and goodness are not obliterated. The light and the dark, the evil and the good, are often mixed together in this world of ours.

Today, Harry and I went to brunch with our friends, Brian and Vicki. It was a great comfort to be with them after such a week. The four of us are so at ease with each other after years and years of patiently and tenderly listening to each other's stories. Amidst a good breakfast and cup after cup of coffee we took turns telling of our most recent trials, fears, and joys. There were some tears today as painful stories were told from all sides of the table and there were tears from laughter too. Brian and I had both taken bad falls this past week that left us bruised but ambulatory. Harry pointed out we were amateurs when it came to falling. This remark sent us into hysterics. Our waitress came over and said that we seemed to be a group who knew not to take life too seriously.

Tears come flowing with the best, the worst and the most ridiculous parts of life. They can easily get all mixed up together. This was that kind of week.

Goodbye, Carter.

Hello, Catie.

*The picture is from a card my dear friend of 55+ years gave me for my birthday this year. Harry framed it for me. For some reason I saved the card of these two little girls playing dress-up as my friend and I used to do. I am grateful to have saved it: I find it comforting each time I look at it.

No excuses!

If you are lucky enough to live long enough, you run out of excuses for not pursuing your passions. I have had a passion for quilting for decades, though I have yet to make a quilt and my history with sewing machines is abysmal. In middle school I hated the sewing classes which, in my day, were compulsory for girls. My home economics teacher, Mrs. Berg, was a real witch, and we girls hated her. I was terrible at sewing and it disappointed my mother terribly (not to mention my husband, for whom I have not sewn on one button in over eleven years). She had always wanted to learn to sew and never had the opportunity. I think she hoped I would love it and be good at it.

The girls who did the best in middle-school sewing class were the girls with mothers who could sew. These girls could screw up in class, take their project home to Mom, and bring the project back looking perfect. I hated them as much as I hated Mrs. Berg. I had to live with my pathetic sewing project, Mrs. Berg's disdain, and my own embarrassment. My mother sent me to private sewing lessons the summer before 9th grade. The teacher was very kind and very good, but I did not find my inner seamstress. This kind and gentle sewing teacher taught me to sew a dress: that turned out pretty well, but I didn't like the dress. I wore it a few times to please my mother and never sewed another stitch for a very long time.

I have slowly begun my journey back to the sewing machine. I took it and a card table down to the hobby room in our building and set up shop next to a lovely window that overlooks the courtyard. Harry has been using this room on a regular basis since we came back from Mexico, creating a variety of shelves for the condo, picture frames, and his very own blackjack table. This table now takes up a big portion of our little library room, so there was no way I could quilt in the space. It turned out to be a good turn of events because the sewing mess is out of sight and the room gives me a nice little feeling of escape. I go down to the "room with a view" in search of creative quilting inspiration. I also took an old boom box down to the space and I love listening to the classical music station on public radio while sewing.

My first efforts at making a little baby quilt for our new granddaughter have been a bit rocky, to say the least. It has become obvious I could use a class and a good teacher. I have read up on quilting techniques and bought a video, but I am lacking in quilting common sense. The kind of sense that sometimes comes only with making mistakes, lots of mistakes. There are several women in our building who quilt beautifully and I know they are ready and willing to help me, especially Ann, just down the hall, who helped me with my granddaughter Eva's mittens at Christmas time.

I am grateful finally to have the opportunity to pursue a dream. I will probably never be really good at quilting, but that fact does not discourage me. My golf game has always been mediocre, but I never let that stand in the way of enjoying golf. Just ask my friend Cindy, with whom I have played many rounds of golf over the years. Early on in my golfing career, about 30 years ago, she told me, "Jeanne, if I had been as bad starting out at golf as you are, I never would have persevered at the game." Cindy, a natural and excellent golfer, used to tell me gently in my darkest moments of frustration, "just keep your head down." That advice always seemed to help and came naturally to me after growing up in an abusive home.

So, I am keeping my head down and learning to quilt! Perseverance, over excuses, sometimes can win the day. Thanks, Cindy!

Love the Irish!

I have always had a thing for the Irish, even though my Scottish grandmother always told us nothing was worse than the Irish, especially the Irish Catholics. Everyone needs to feel superior to somebody, I guess. I never understood her prejudice (although undoubtedly Harry would, believing that the English get the blame and that the Irish, who started the whole thing back in the eighth century, are sore losers) and instead fell in love with Irish music, Irish dancing, Irish beer, and the uncrushable Irish spirit. I even had our condo painted mostly green.

I taught with a lovely young Irish woman, Sheila, years back and we use to team up and try to make St. Patrick's Day fun for our inner-city first graders. On March 16th, I had the kids make little green ladders which we hung from the ceiling. I told these true believers that if we were lucky, we might catch a leprechaun on one of the ladders overnight. They would leave class hoping to come to school the next day and see a real leprechaun on St. Patrick's Day.

After school I sprinkled the ladders with chalk dust and the next day I told the kids leprechauns had visited our classroom the previous night. "How did I know that?" the kids would ask? Well, just look at the fairy dust on the ladders, I told them. The leprechauns always have fairy dust on the bottom of their boots. They would nod in understanding. Yep, they must have been here last night, but they got away. Sheila, who had taken Irish dance lessons as a child, would get on her kilt and dancing shoes and within minutes had all the kids up and dancing to Irish music. Our classroom was mostly kids of African American and Indian descent, but on St. Patrick's Day, we were all Irish.

For the last four decades I have dutifully cooked corned beef and cabbage the week of St. Patrick's Day. I would buy the brisket already pickled ready to cook and boil it up with potatoes and cabbage. I never liked it all that much, but everybody had to share my masochism and the corned beef sandwiches made from the leftovers were always great. Well, move over boring corned beef and cabbage, Martha Stewart has arrived!!!

Last month, while at the hairdresser's, I had a long wait for the foils to do their work and I began going through the large pile of magazines heaped on the table next to me. Martha Stewart Living Magazine has always been one of my favorites to look through, although I don't buy the magazine because I never get around to cooking anything from it; nor have I ever made any of her nifty craft projects. Well, there was the March Martha and I had read all the People and OK magazines so I began to page through. I found what looked like a very creative and interesting set of recipes for St. Patrick's Day written by television cook Lucinda Scala, from the Hallmark channel. I vowed to try the recipes and casually ripped the recipe out of the magazine, hoping no-one noticed.

In Scala's recipe for corned beef there is no boiling involved. You roast the brisket in the oven for three hours on low heat. It floats gently in orange juice and beer (I, of course, used Guinness) surrounded by onions and fresh beets. You can even make your own spice paste, but the list of ingredients is a mile long, so I skipped that part and bought the brisket pre-pasted. As a side dish you serve cabbage and carrots also simmered in beer and orange juice. Top this all off with what she calls Irish Apple Mash: boiled potatoes with a little cooked apple thrown in along with nutmeg and butter. This woman made my week. Never again boring boiled brisket! It was fantastic, the best Irish meal I have had in 40 years. No, actually in Cabo, my Irish friend, Liz, made me Irish pancakes that were right up there too.

Lucinda Scala also writes a blog at madhungry.com. I think I may become one of her followers. Now I just need to get that Irish pancake recipe from Liz.

*It will be a year ago on St. Patrick's Day that Harry took his terrible fall into the pit in Cabo. I like to credit the leprechauns with saving his life, though Harry thinks they tripped him in the first place. He obviously didn't notice the fairy dust I saw on his shoulders after the accident. I love the Irish!

Young fashionistas!

Elementary schools are not a fashion-free zone, at least not in the Minneapolis suburb of Edina. It is all about fashion at these suburban places of learning, especially the fashion on your feet. Nine- and ten-year-old boys are now wearing pajama-bottom-like printed pants, necklaces woven from tennis-shoe laces and the boots pictured on the right. The key to this guy fashion is to wear your boots unlaced, sockless, and a size or two too large. This is because when you walk across the classroom you make a lot of noise and then everyone looks at your feet. The teacher asks (screams) for you to make less noise, please, and that gets you even more attention. Boys like a lot of attention, sort of like peacocks strutting about. Girls wear boots, too, with their leggings and jeans, but they buy boots that fit properly. Girls like attention too, of course: displaying a little cleavage often does the trick. There is not much cleavage in 4th or 5th grade, but there is some, and those who have it often flaunt it.

Children need parents with a little discretionary income to afford this footwear. I asked students about the cost of these boots and learned they cost well over $100 a pair. Observing this footwear trend again brought back memories of my middle-school years and my and my desire for the trendy shoe. (much was said about this in a previous blog) Fashion: so fun, but so unpredictable!

Another cheaper trend in Edina elementary schools is a recycled trend: Hula Hoops from the 1950s. Yes, they are back! These well-booted children in a class I subbed in moved their desks very efficiently at break time and the small classroom became a twirl with whirling children. Nice to know that some inexpensive fun activities can recycle their way back. The need to look like clones survives intact also. Alas, some things never change.

Time to take Albert's advice......

I am obviously watching too much CNN. One night this week I dreamed I was in Libya with a group of people who were fighting against Gaddafi's militiamen. Harry was up and said he heard me mumbling loudly in my sleep, and he said I sounded extremely agitated. The truth was I was terrified. I am sure there are many Libyans who would love to be able to wake up and get out of the nightmare they are living in under their insane dictator.

That morning I went looking for some sanity with my coffee and television. Instead of CNN, I tuned into the Today show and found the world currently obsessed with the insanity of Charlie Sheen. Sheen wants his job back after his drug and hooker binge and anti-Semitic rant, demanding 3 million per episode rather than one million for starring in the sit-com Three and a Half Men. There is a rumor that Sheen is going to Haiti with Sean Penn, but it wasn't clear if the "goddesses" were going along or not. (These are the two early-20-somethings who now share his bed.) Most of the women in Sheen's life have been verbally and physically assaulted by him. He allegedly told his most recent ex that he would like to chop her head off and send it to her mother in a box. The mother of one of the goddesses was quoted as saying she hoped her daughter would soon come to her senses and take her leave of him.

Then on my prep time at school I downloaded the latest New Yorker to my Kindle, looking for news of something sane, or at least positive. I went to the weekly Talk of the Town section, which is usually light and interesting. The topic of the first article was economic inequality. The author wrote that in 1980, the economically best off Americans collected one third of the nation's income. Today this group, approximately one tenth of the population, collects half of it. The final point of the article was that with the growth of the economies in India and China, the concentration of greenhouse gases in our atmosphere will double or triple by the end of this century. (Talk about climate change!)

Lastly I came home and checked my email, and on the Comcast news page was the story that Mike Huckabee claimed he mis-spoke when he said Obama grew up in Kenya. Then he went on to say that growing up in Indonesia, Obama was surrounded by the evils of the Muslim culture, i.e.madrassas, not the "purity" of the Boy Scouts and Rotary Club. This is the reason our president has such a demented world view. One might argue that the Boy Scouts' homophobia is demented. Huckabee also took time to lash out at Oscar winner Natalie Portman for having a baby out of wedlock.

Is is just me, or does this qualify as a depressingly insane day? Sometimes it is just better not to turn on the television, your computer or your Kindle. But the next day, of course, I did all three again.

*a madrass is Arabic for school. In recent times the use of the word by conservatives means a school that promotes terrorism.