My Latest and Greatest Fear

There is an older man a block or so up the road that I see nearly every morning.  I’m usually on the opposite side of the street from him as he walks back and forth to the corner, only covering about a 15 foot span of sidewalk.  This morning I saw him when Charlie and I hobbled out on our morning walk and he was still walking back and forth about 10-15 minutes later when Charlie and I turned back for home and breakfast. It seems strange that he just walks back and forth rather than walking the length of the street or down a different path to get a change of view.  Then again, maybe it is no stranger than spending hours on a treadmill. I’ve never talked to him – the way he turns his head when we near makes me think he’s not the biggest fan of dogs – and I’ve never seen him talk to people that pass him.

So my latest and greatest fear is this man.  Not the man himself but the idea of becoming like him.  What I fear is becoming some cantankerous spinster who mutters to herself and her dog about “kids these days” and becomes the resident neighborhood crazy lady/busybody.  Every neighborhood has them.  Mine has one already –you know the type, she knows what everyone is up to, she hardly ever leaves the house, and she has an opinion on everything. 

I feel like I could be shaping up to be her apprentice or mentee.  I find myself talking to my dog more and more frequently.  I feel that somehow this is normal in the house, but I became a little alarmed at my willingness to talk to him openly in public.  If I start using a cutesy voice or imagining he is talking back, I hope that someone – my sister probably – will have the nice men in white coats come get me.  I have also taken to falling asleep on the couch fairly early in the evenings – definitely not a good sign.  And sometimes, when I’m supposed to be meeting up with friends to hang out and its rainy or gross or I’m just a little cranky or tired, I end up looking longingly at my yoga pants, sofa, and glass of wine and/or ice cream carton and wishing I was staying home.

This fear of cranky spinsterhood and notoriety as neighborhood nut has replaced, or at least bumped down, my other formerly heightened singleton fear of choking on something in my house and not having anyone to give me the Heimlich.   For while I love my dog perhaps a little too dearly, and know that he would save me if he could, he is somewhat lacking in the opposable thumbs and height departments that would be required to save me from choking on an improperly chewed chip.  I used to have an agreement with a similarly single friend that we would call each other every other day or so to make sure that neither of us had perished in our homes without anyone realizing, but we gave up our macabre mission after a few months.

On the questionably bright side, my fear of becoming a curmudgeonly singleton has not replaced my fear of falling down the steps and having to wait until my dog walker came to get Charlie the once or twice a week she stops by or until the sounds of my yelling and Charlie’s whines and barks to get outside, alert the neighbors to my demise.  That fear has intensified since my multiple foot and ankle injuries that have taken me out of the running – literally – for my half-marathon plans (see numerous posts, including This Boot Ain’t Made for Runnin’ and I Hate To Run, for more information).  Thankfully I will be heading back to the sports orthopedist on Monday for a check-up, hopeful (fingers crossed) removal of this lovely fixed ankle walker/ginormous boot thingy, and starting of physical therapy soon so I can get back to actual activities instead of staring wistfully at runners, walkers, and toddlers who can totally smoke me as I hobble along.

Naming my singleton fears like this has added yet another fear, that maybe I’m starting to sound more abnormal than the guy I dated that was afraid of electricity (see There Is Nothing to Fear…but Electricity Itself?).  Or the one that hated seat belts and the disabled (see At Least I Got To Hit Some Balls).  Nah, he is still way weirder.  And on that note, I will haul my weird singleton self to the gym for some bumpy and awkward recumbent bike riding and then off for a few errands.  Tonight I have plans for Moroccan food and some much needed time with my DC ladies who will hopefully take the pity out of this party and add some funk to my dysfunctional state.  This time I will remain strong and no matter how bad the rain and how comfy my yoga pants lounging would be, I will brave the elements and socialize.  Who knows, I may even attempt to chat up some single guy who possibly has his own fears of persishing alone in his apartment until he is eventually eaten by wild dogs.  Do single guys even think like that?  There are so few left in this area to ask.  And I probably shouldn't use that as a pickup line, right?

But before I sign off, thanks to those that have contacted me about my post earlier this week, For Better or Worse. It has been a hard road for my family and the past few months have been especially difficult, but it helps so much to know that we're not alone.  Whether it is Alzheimer's or another disease or trauma facing your families, sharing your stories and your time with me means so much. My thoughts and prayers are with you even when I am not physically there.  When it gets rough, remember to laugh whenever you can. The old adage is corny but true nonetheless, laughter is the best medicine.

For Better or Worse

It had been well over a month since Charlie and I visited the nursing home where we volunteer.  I felt the familiar pangs of guilt building over the weeks, but since I had sprained my ankle it was difficult to get around and nearly impossible to get Charlie enough exercise where he would be calm enough for a visit to the home.  Yesterday I decided we had to attempt it, especially because after the weekly “running of the dogs” Charlie was reasonably tired.  The weekly “running of the dogs” is what takes place on Sunday mornings at the field near my uncle’s house.  Since my aunt passed away over a year ago, these weekly meetings had become even more important –not just to keep my uncle from being too lonely, but to have fun connecting with the family and let the dogs be their most fun, doggish selves.

So after leaving my uncle’s house and getting Charlie and me reasonably cleaned up, we headed out.  My dog absolutely loves these visits and I enjoy them myself (although sometimes it’s a little awkward when I run into the relatives of dates gone wrong – see Putting the Aww in Awkward for more details on that one).  He almost can’t sit still long enough for me to get us in our uniforms – him with a blue bandana with a picture of a wheelchair and a dog, me with a name tag indicating my volunteer status and a bag of treats nearby to entice him to tricks or hold his attention if need be.

We have a routine down and make our way through the lobby and upstairs to see our regulars, then back to the common living areas to see if anyone else wants to see Charlie.  It was a little trickier this time since I’m still hobbling around on this ankle boot and since it had been so long since we’d visited, Charlie was even more exuberant than normal.  Our first regular is actually more of a cat person than a dog one, but she likes looking at him and seems to enjoy our conversations so Charlie puts up with her feline preferences. 

It was our second visit that has me thrown still, over 24 hours later.  Mr. Vince* is the regular we’ve been visiting the longest.  He has a picture of Charlie on his refrigerator and arranged for me to meet his oldest daughter and her husband so they could see the canine superstar.  I’ve seen him slowing down with each visit, but the past year it seems his decline has sped up even more with a diagnosis that meant he couldn’t get a needed hip replacement, lessening his mobility and dampening his spirits.

He used to be a bit of a rascal –stirring up trouble in the nursing home like when he didn’t care for the fare at Easter dinner and made a poster in protest.  He loved giving the dining staff a hard time.  He went on all the field trips and loved to sit outside; seriously he had the tannest knees of any person I’ve ever met, from sitting out on the bench for hours.  When Loretta* moved next door, suffering from a recent stroke, he really seemed to pick up, piling on the charm.  They were inseparable.  He even devilishly told me he had painted her toenails one summery afternoon.  I noticed that her picture started appearing on his walls with greater frequency.  But as she started to improve and he started to worsen, I heard less of Loretta’s* charms. 

When we visited yesterday, he wanted to catch up on all that he had missed in the past month.  He was very concerned about my ankle and warned me to take care of myself so I didn’t end up in a wheelchair like him.  I assured him that I was being a good patient and switched the topic back to him, to hear what I had missed.  I figured he would tell me of a few visits with his daughter or about how his other daughter never comes by, and he did talk about those things.  But he also told me that in the month since I had last seen him, his wife had died.

I was completely floored – I had no idea his wife was still alive.  He had been alone in the nursing home since I met him about 3-4 years ago and while I had seen pictures of his wife and he mentioned her occasionally, it was generally in the past tense, or in talking about the last dog that they owned.  The way he talked about her yesterday, it was clear that she hadn’t been well for several years and that she had been in some sort of home or institution for a long time, apart from him.  And in the years I’ve known him, he’s told me about every trip to Cracker Barrel, every concert, every bus trip to Pennsylvania, but he’s never told me about visiting his wife. 

Not wanting to pry or be callous, I wasn’t sure what to say.  I think I just held his hand and offered my sympathies and coaxed Charlie over to sit closer to Mr. Vince* and do what I couldn’t do with my clumsy words and uncertainty.  As best as I can figure, her illness must have been severe with the onset happening earlier than his decline.  There was something about the way he described the beginning of her illness and her behavior that reminded me of how my family sometimes refers to my mom, and I wondered if his wife had some sort of mental or emotional illness that had eventually consumed her. 

A confirmed singleton who’s longest relationship clocked in at under a year, I can’t imagine what it would be like to spend all your life with someone and then to have move apart, not because of changing affections, but because you could no longer take care of each other or take care of yourself.  When discussing this last night over dinner with my sister, we both said we could never see our parents making that decision.  In this case, we said we could never see our mother agreeing to put our father in a home, even if it was the best thing for him, for it certainly will come to that as his Alzheimer’s rages on, robbing him of himself and us of our father.  But years ago, before he became ill, he never would agree to get our mother help for what now seems to be obvious to everyone, a very severe case of bipolar disorder, self-medicated by way of the bottle. 

Some people might think it sweet –not that my parents each have their own illness, but that they won’t let each other go.  I can’t see it that way, because for me it is more than just some impossible and enduring love story.  For me, they are my parents and father’s unwillingness to come to grips with my mother’s problems, now too late as he can’t hold on to anything longer than a few minutes, and my mother’s unwillingness to be separated from him, even to get him help, doesn’t seem sweet.

But then there are days like today when I see them together, and I think, what the hell do I know anyway?  I think that I know best, that they could get better treatment, be more active, not fade so fast, were they not together.  But really I have no way of knowing that is true.  And there is a part of me, I don’t want to admit it really, but this part of me that thinks or maybe even knows, that were they to be separated, they wouldn’t survive.  So even if because they stay together, they don’t get out of bed or eat or take their medications for days on end, maybe they wouldn’t get any better if they did it my way.  Sadly that is most definitely the case for my father as this vicious disease takes hold and there is no cure.  But even if I can’t understand how they choose to live, and I fight against their seclusion and slipping further into illness, maybe to them, being together is more important than being well.  And even though I want to scream and jump up and down until they hear me about taking their medicines and getting some exercise and eating, and the way they choose to keep going on makes me want to bang my head into a wall, in their own way, they’re happy.  Considering everything, happiness is not a small feat.

This post is dedicated to all those that have Alzheimer’s disease and those that spend their days and nights caring for Alzheimer’s patients, through good days and not so good days. 

And this post is in honor of my father.  I can still see you in there and I love you more than I can say. 

Don’t forget Alzheimer’s Action day is 21 September.  It is far past time to put an end to this disease.

The Day Before the Day

I was going to talk a little bit about that elusive prey, the single man in the DC-MD-VA area, and how unlike a single gal such as myself, he manages to go about his life probably un-self-medicated by the numbing blissfulness of the Twilight Saga and season two of the Gilmore Girls.  But I’m struck by the day or rather how this is the day before the 10^th anniversary of when everything changed. 

There are these moments that define generations, for better or for worse, and September 11^th certainly was that.  Such horrible acts of destruction and hate followed immediately with such selfless acts of courage and sacrifice do not occur frequently and when they do, the command our attention and sear their images into our collective memory.

Everyone of a certain age most certainly remembers where they were when they heard the news.  I was in a nondescript, windowless government building in a not-so-nice part of Washington D.C. and in the melee of orders to move to the first floor, then outside, then back in, I saw the smoke rising from the Pentagon.  And when we were finally released and the Metro was closed, as a very kind friend drove me home, I saw that sign of my country’s strength and power burning.  Watching the coverage numbly on television, I tried to get in touch with a roommate visiting her family in NY and my best friend from high school who lived in the city that had been so brutally shut down.  I dimly remember talking to my cousin in South Carolina who wanted to make sure I was ok and hearing tearfully of how my big strong brother had to be restrained from driving his truck through barriers over bridges to come rescue his baby sister from out of harm’s way. It felt surreal to me and I couldn’t even begin to imagine how it felt for those whose personal worlds were shattered, ended, or forever and inextricably altered.

And then I went back to work.  Grimly and fearfully and with the idea that what I was doing was supporting our nation, but so afraid that due to my inexperience and youth I would fail and people would be hurt.  It was a long couple of months and then suddenly and strangely things sort of went back to something approaching normal.  At least for me.  I knew that things would always be a little different than they had been– whatever feelings of safeness and sureness that had comforted me before, that was gone.  This new reality of different types of alerts, and searches and seizures, and wondering if when you flew, or rode the train, or worked in your office building, if that would be the last thing you did, that was hard to shake.  I tried very concertedly not to watch repeated coverage of the events or panic about what terrors lay in store for us next. 

But now, all the scenes are being replayed as we prepare for the 10^th anniversary.  New alerts, new terrors, new worries, old fears.  What stands out, though, are the stories of hope.  The man who on 10 September promised a man tickets for a sporting event for his son to see his first car race, and made sure that even after the planes went down and the father never returned home, that the son still got to have some type of adolescent joy amidst the grief.  How the man in charge of security for a financial firm evacuated his group from the South Tower and then went back in to make sure everyone was safe and sound.  The chaplain who ran into the building along with the firefighters he served and who some survivors picture as leading the angels to greet those that were lost and take them safely to their eternal rest. 

And the countless men and women who were moved the events of that fateful day to lead lives of service and duty and remind us that although there are people in the world who are capable of unthinkable acts of violence and hatred, there are those who see all that and yet choose to care, to love, and to work to make things better. 

That is what I will try to do in remembrance of 9/11 and in looking to the future.  For although I don’t think we can go back to the way things were 10 years ago today, I do think we can choose compassion and hope instead of fear and anger.

And on that note, I’m going to hop-along outside with this glorious walking boot that so firmly encases my left leg and take my faithful canine companion out into the glorious sunshine that has ended the deluge of the past several days.  And then I’ll be off with my wondrous sister for one of the best sing-alongs imaginable, the Sound of Music.  I apologize in advance to those sitting near us as I plan on singing my heart out in my own special, tone-deaf manner.  I promise to at least make it entertaining.

This Boot Ain’t Made for Runnin’

Before I get underway in this latest post, I have to ask, where are the pickup lines that I so humbly requested in my last post?  C’mon, friends, help me out here!  Do you really want to set me loose on unsuspecting dudes with such winning lines as “You look really sweaty?” Well, maybe you do, but I’d be a little more likely to try this if you give me some better advice in terms of opening lines I could try out. 

And now back to our regularly scheduled program.

It is with great sadness and no end of disappointment that I must announce that I am no longer training to run a half-marathon in November (see I Hate to Run for more details).  Turns out that I didn’t just twist my ankle as over-achiever that I am, I sprained my left ankle, tore my ligaments, and yes developed plantar fasciitis in my right foot.  I twisted my ankle that fateful Tuesday when confronted with a neighbor callously singing DW’s praises (see Love Hurts) and although I did stop running and wore a brace for a while after the initial injury, I didn’t take as good of care of it as I should.  So after a weekend in West Virginia where I only slightly modified my usual walks and hikes and a week of taking longer walks with Charlie than I should have, it is perhaps not surprising that I messed up the same ankle again so easily. 

The Friday before Hurricane Irene I was already scheduled to see a podiatrist for my right foot and I was a little behind schedule that morning so when I saw the guys come to pick up the recycling, I hurried out of the house with my blue container, stepping precariously in a new hole in the parking lot, and seriously rolling my ankle.  I’m proud to be environmentally conscious, but seriously this was a little ridiculous.  Hobbling back to the house nearly in tears I hopped upstairs to get my brace, iced my foot briefly, ran into work and then made my way to the doctor’s. 

The podiatrist’s office looked a little like someone’s older aunt’s sitting room.  It was jam packed with weird chachkas, art and furniture from the 1970’s, and all the other patients were older and teetering around on canes and walkers.   I shouldn’t have been surprised when her receptionist, whom I’m convinced was more than a little stoned, decided that he had to chat me up incessantly as I attempted to fill in all the required forms.  I heard pretty much his whole life story, including how he really hated office work and was getting ready to go on a massive hunting trip in Colorado and I figured out why such an unlikely sort was the receptionist at an older podiatrist’s office: he was her nephew.   

The doctor was perfectly nice, but I wasn’t too thrilled with her attitude toward all physical activity as she said not only would I not be running or walking distances for a while, but that she would advise against it period even after I had recovered.  She said I could swim a bit but that was it.  After taking an x-ray with a machine that was probably new sometime in the early 1960’s, she decided I had sprained my ankle and possibly had a small fracture, put me in an air cast and wanted to see me in a week and I hauled my increasingly unhappy self back to work.  I wasn’t too convinced though as she said she wasn’t used to treating acute injuries so thankfully I talked to a colleague a few aisles over who was recovering from some serious injuries and trying to get back into shape for a half-marathon and he recommended I try out the doctors he went to so I got an appointment for the following Monday.

In the meantime, all hell broke loose in the form of Hurricane Irene.  Along with almost everyone else in the region, I lost power Saturday night.  I don’t know how this happened, but I woke up a little before 3:30 in the morning, convinced I had to check out my sump pump.  It’s a good thing I did as it was nearly flowing over.  Now I recommend you sit down before you read this next part, as the picture I’m about to put in your head could have you rolling on the floor in laughter.  At that point, I was wearing a sleep shirt, air cast, crocs, my glasses, and a head lamp that I used both for light and to keep my hair back as I bailed out my sump pump hobbling back and forth from the pump to the sanitary tub.  I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror and I almost busted a gut laughing at how ridiculous I looked. 

I bailed pretty much non-stop until 11:30 in the morning.  A while before 10am, my neighbor took pity on me and sent her husband and father over to spell me for a while and then my sister came over to help and to walk Charlie.  I almost wept with joy when the power came back on at noon and the sump pump starting churning away. 

Monday morning I drive to Annapolis to meet my new BFF sport’s orthopedist who had the most awesome first name ever (hint: she also doesn’t like the movie Rocky) and unfortunately she discovered that I had badly sprained my ankle, torn ligaments, and would be in this ginormous fixed ankle boot for at least the next four weeks.  24/7 except for showers.  And then we’ll have more x-rays and see how I’m doing.  She said that the air cast the other doctor recommended would actually make me worse in the long run as my ligaments would heal improperly and I would be more likely to sprain it again.  And that I most definitely should not swim as the kicking motion would not do lovely things for my ankle.  The boot is not a lot of fun in the day and it becomes even less so when I attempt to sleep in it.  To add to the fun, my power went back out Monday night, just a little bit after when my sister had departed the house after putting her groceries in my fridge for safe keeping since she lost her power the day before.  I became seriously more dangerous in the dark. 

What I’ve noticed and what is a little disconcerting, is that quite a few men –upon seeing me in the boot—ask me if I hurt myself from kicking a man.  At least five men have asked me this so far – some ask how many guys I kicked, some ask if I kicked him in the head or in the shins, some ask if he learned his lesson.  I just talked with a friend who had to wear a similar boot for two months (!!) and she said men had also asked her the same thing and she thought it meant that sometimes, men admit that they deserve kicking.

And that brings me to the sad sight that just greeted my eyes, DW leaving his house with some Slutty McSluttrash (ok, she didn’t look slutty at all – she looked vaguely like a model from an L.L. Bean catalogue – they kind where she would be hiking through the woods or petting a golden retriever) and getting into their 4wd vehicle to go off and do fun summer activities in the lovely non-hurricane weather.  I think I would not have let this bother me as much if I wasn’t so couch-bound in my current hobbled state but as it was, he was lucky that I didn’t have a bag of dog poo handy as I would have nailed the car as they drove off.

So right now I have to admit that I’m feeling more than a little sorry for myself.  Natural disasters and injuries seem to suck a little more when you’re on your own.  Although a lot of husbands and partners probably let their wives/sig others do most of the work when cleaning up after a disaster, I’d like to think that they would at least help out in bailing out a sump pump for hours on end, especially if their wives were injured.  And it would be nice to have someone help me walk Charlie more.  I’m not supposed to walk more than ¼ mile at a time and Charlie is used to way more exercise than that, as am I.  He doesn’t look particularly thrilled with me now so I better take him out for one of those brief jaunts and then try to play a little fetch with him in the casa.  And then I promise, I’ll try to put a halt to all the whining and focus on some wining instead.  It would help if I had some good pickup lines to ponder whilst I recover and figure out what, if any, will be my next moves in the dating arena.

Before I go, two things I learned during the hurricane.  First of all, have a head lamp ready at all times.  It is pretty much the best accessory known to man.  I like mine more when I’m wearing it whilst outside in WV, drinking with my family and watching the dogs run around or geocaching, than I do while attempting to prevent my sump pump from overflowing.  But it is always one of my favorite things.  Secondly, never underappreciate your sump pump.  In my opinion it is one of the most underrated appliances as you never really think about it ‘til it’s gone.  And I’ll throw in a third as I try to shake off the pity party, no matter how bad you have it –whatever it is—someone else always has it worse, so try to keep some perspective.  I may have had no power, an overflowing sump pump, and an injured leg, but I know of people who lost much more and are still recovering. Thanks to good neighbors and as always to the best sister ever, things never became impossible.  I still have my faithful dog at my side and although I lost a lot of food with the power out, I did not lose anything from the bar J