A little better

    I talked to the social worker at the nursing home. Anne had suggested that maybe Dad could take weekend passes, and Gail confirmed that this is a possibility. I stress again that we all want Dad and Margaret to be together, and if possible for it to be in her home. We just want to be sure that they're safe there. Anyway, Gail said that they were planning to get started on Dad's discharge plan. I suggested that they might want to expedite the process. She also noted that leaving Against Medical Advice would adversely affect his chances of continuing dialysis. So hopefully he'll get over that whole "I'm free and over 21" thing.

Second breakout attempt

    Dad is again (or still) saying that it's time to get out of the nursing home. I don't think my English skills are up to the task of conveying how I feel about this. On the one hand, the idea thrills me beyond words. I want so badly for him and Margaret to be able to live together and happily. On the other hand, they cannot grasp that two largely blind, mobility-impaired people are not going to be able to live independently, particularly as one of them has totally draining dialysis three times a week.
    I'm trying to persuade them first that they shouldn't be driving and that they can easily afford a ride service. (PS: They can.) Then that they need some kind of live-in help for meals, cleaning, etc. Or that maybe they'd both be happier in Assisted Living at this or another nursing home.
    It would be easy just to say, "Great! I get my life back!" and let them just get on with it. But then I'd be worrying about them 24 hours a day. I don't think they grasp that other people really care about them, and that their welfare matters to us. Anyway, I'm hoping to adjust Dad's thinking such that he'll at least agree to a transition period, which he most desperately needs. Not too hopeful, but not hopeless either. Remembering what he was like in July, say, makes it easy to feel good about the situation. He may be infuriatingly stubborn, but he's all there. And that's just awesome.

The need for escape

    Not to harp on the dreaming mind exclusively, but I do notice that sometimes when things are bad I get nightmares but sometimes I get instead particularly delightful dreams. (Probably not what you're thinking, however.) Last night I had what should have been an anxiety dream (going back to college) but instead it was a hoot. For some reason, I was going back to college in Vermont. Or somebody was. Like the subtitles incident, I was sort of in the dream and sort of watching it. Sometimes both at the same time. Go figure.
    The delightful part was driving up to what should have been dormitories and finding instead little Airstream trailers. Or rather, the delightful part was going into the Airstream trailer and finding a multi-story house in there. Obviously, I'm reading too much Harry Potter. I was, yet again, tickled in my sleep, and the mood lift carried over into the morning. I think your brain knows when you've had too much, when you need a vacation, and when you can't possibly have one, it gives you one anyway. Or maybe my subconscious just ran out of nightmares. Anyway, I was grateful.
    Earlier I had a dream where for some reason I was laying out all my possessions in front of a gas station. The peculiar thing about dreams is that nothing is peculiar in dreams. I guess this could also have been an anxiety nightmare, but everything was totally relaxed. I even checked their mail to see if there was anything for me.
    Meanwhile, more or less in real life, Dad and I watched "2001: A Space Odyssey" on TCM. It didn't make a lot more sense to me than when I was 6. But it shore was purty. Unfortunately, all the beepy noises brought a nurse's aide running. Soooo not the ideal movie to watch in a nursing home!

Now with subtitles

    Excuse me, what is this? ---> ` ? It's the key next to the 1 key, at least on this notebook. There's a single quotation mark on the same key as the double quotation mark, so that isn't it. It isn't an accent unless you combine it with a letter, which I forget how to do. The capitalized version is ~, which could also combine with a letter, at least in Spanish, but otherwise just means "approximately."
    Sorry, just got bewildered there. And this blog entry is sure to be another thin one. I had another delightful dream, but the delightful part was just an instant long. Because for a second there, my dream had subtitles. I couldn't really read them, but in the dream I knew they were subtitles. I was fairly tickled in the dream, too. I also had some kind of odd dream about being in a shop picking out a parrot. I don't know where in hell that would have come from either, though I guess it might have some tangential connection with rereading Harry Potter. Or my recent worry about my constant use of non-stick pans. (They'll kill your parrot if you aren't careful enough with them.)

Clods

    No, not dumb people; the kind that come off your shoes. My favorite actual trail near here (as against boardwalks and concrete paths) is in Congaree Creek Heritage Preserve across the river in Cayce. Somehow, I always forget to wipe my feet when I get home. Thus, I'm always following myself around with a dust pan sweeping up the clods, as they look like something the kitty would interpret as food. Which makes me a guess-what?

More stress we didn't need

    Yesterday at suppertime, I got a call from the nursing home. Dad had come back from dialysis with very low blood pressure (70 over 30). So they just sent him on to the emergency room. (He's transported to and from dialysis by ambulance, so the ambulance was already handy.)
    Next was the joy of trying to get any information out of the hospital. They literally put me on hold for 19 minutes. When I hung up and tried again, I got more cooperation, but not much. "He's seen a doctor, but nothing has been ordered," was about the best I got, but they did take my number at least.
    Eventually, a doctor called back to say that Dad is fine. They gave him some sandwiches and his blood pressure came back no problem. The problem was getting him back to Rice Home, or getting someone to answer the phone there so it could be arranged. I told her just to keep trying and felt awful giving such lame advice. Then I looked in my package from Rice Home and found that though I didn't have a number for any of the nursing stations, I did have one for the director. Tried it and got him, too. And he said the same thing I did: sometimes the nurses are busy with residents; you just have to keep trying.
    I would have liked to go over and keep Dad company, but I had given out both my cell phone and land line numbers and I was also trying to get in touch with Margaret and my siblings. So I figured I'd be more use here. I couldn't get Margaret, as she was out visiting. By the time she got back to me, everything was better. And a minute later, Rice Home called to say that Dad was on his way back. Color us relieved.
    It's a question I can't answer whether the nurse at Rice just overreacted and was over cautious in sending him to the ER. Or for that matter whether the dialysis clinic drew off too much fluid. I just hope this never happens again, but am happy for the happy ending.

A hundred percent

    The parade of good news continues. Dad will not be receiving occupational therapy anymore because he graded out at one hundred percent on all the skills that they have been working on. Huzzah! Now, I'm not sure he can yet open a simple bottle, so there is some question whether the skills they work on actually have much to do with daily life (which is what occupational therapy is for when you're 90). But what the hell-- Huzzah anyway! We had a long wait for any damn good news, and we deserve it. Yay!

How to speak Johnese: A short course

    Lesson one is particularly straightforward. Just remember the conversion factor: Divide everything by a billion. (This doesn't apply to compliments; you can trust me on those.)
    Lesson two is even simpler: EVERYTHING is a song cue. Or a good band name. Or a good album title. You know, albums. Like CDs except bigger and blacker. ("Long and black and shiny...") See? Everything is a song cue.
    Simple, wasn't it? (I'd swear I posted this already, but Google indicates not. As they own Blogger, they ought to know!)

OMG! You mean peoples are reading this?!

    Got a comment from somebody I don't know for what I think was the first time. (Some of those anonymous comments might have been from some one I don't know, but I think they were all from my brother.) It throws me off a bit, to be honest. I was getting used to the idea that I was just noodling for Russian spambots.
    It's also disconcerting that my few blog entries that I find interesting are the ones that according to the visitor stats never get read. My own fault for pushing so much crap, I guess. All I can say is, trust me kids. I haven't had much to smile about in a month of sundays, but things are looking up. Hopefully, I'll be able to start writing more interestingly more often in the near future. Or, ya know, start predicting Lotto numbers.

Dad is ready to move out

    Dad asked Margaret yesterday if she was ready for a serious talk. She said yes, so he got out his list. He had made a lengthy list of things he wanted to talk about. The overarching point was that he felt he had gotten as rehabbed as he was going to get and he's ready to come home with her. It was interesting that he shared all this stuff with her, even things she couldn't do much about compared to me. Could be construed as an implied criticism of me, but I'm taking it to mean that he just made his list and ticked off every item even though some didn't really apply.
    I can't possibly express how thrilled I am that he's so much better that he's considering this step. Still, neither he nor she is really competent to drive, and both insist that they're going to do so anyway. I'm hoping somehow still to dissuade them. I think all their children would prefer it if they would both move into Rice Home or another nursing home. They would be so much safer. But of course it's easy to understand a desire for independence. Anyway, we'll see how things turn out. I talked to Gail the social worker on Friday and the nursing home would like a meeting to plan Dad's future, too. So maybe we can come up with a wise approach and a happy ending. Regardless, things are turning out a lot better than they looked like they would six or eight months ago. Yay!

So much for that whole Atacama Desert thing

    Further research (or rather, ANY research) revealed that all of North America south of the Arctic was unusually dry during January because the jet stream(s) decided to hang out in the Great White North for a while. However, the drought has been having a rest lately, at least here. So it's gloomy. But warmer. Always a silver lining!
    Last night, nightmares made an unwelcome return. The first batch was odd inasmuch as I was investigating a murder that I was simultaneously watching on TV. My investigation mainly consisted of comparing type fonts on a letterhead. So another of those peculiarly boring nightmares.
    Later I had another nightmare which I can't remember and said heck with this and decided to stay awake. However, then I dozed off. And dreamed I was in that bed, in this room, listening to cello music. (You can probably guess that I don't do a hell of a lot of listening to cello music in real life.) And somebody started banging on the door, yelling, "What the hell is that?" And bless me if I didn't start trying to turn off the cello music and go answer the door. Strange how realistic it all was. Not a nightmare really, but rather unpleasant. Maybe I should really start playing cello music.

Soda Mountain is no more

    The nursing home always sends a snack with Dad to dialysis. The other nursing home did, too. Oddly, they both sent Shasta sodas. (Also, not so oddly, sandwiches and chips.) Dad doesn't care for Shasta, so he never drinks them. At the other facility, I just threw them out. Here, I let them alone and they just piled up on his night table.
    Yesterday, the lady from dining services came to take his meal orders for the next week. She noticed Soda Mountain and asked him about it, and if they should stop sending drinks with his snacks. He said of course, and she said she'd send somebody around to pick up the cans, as they had run out of soda that day. She did and they are finally all gone. Funny that this took all these months, but at least they noticed finally. Farewell, Soda Mountain!

People always hitting Cary Grant on the head

    One rule of old-time radio seemed to be that when in doubt, you hit Cary Grant on the head so he either loses his memory and identity or gets them back. I have two such shows. One is a Suspense episode, a drama called "The Black Curtain." The other is a comedy called "I Love You Again." The latter is adapted from a movie. Listening to it, I was quite confused. "Wait! Didn't I hear this already as a drama?"
    So many of my old-time radio shows are movie adaptations, and Cary Grant was of course a huge movie star. So I assumed that both shows must have been Cary Grant movies, and thought again that boy, people sure loved hitting Cary Grant on the head! But a little research showed that there was no such Cary Grant movie. (Unless he got hit on the head in "North by Northwest" and only thought it was mistaken identity.)
    I should have been tipped by the fact that the co-star was Myrna Loy that William Powell starred in the movie version of "I Love You Again." "The Black Curtain" wasn't filmed under that title, but Burgess Meredith starred in the film version (the title of which I forget, but since it isn't available on DVD, it doesn't strike me as the most pressing thing to look up).
    So the answer to the eternal question, "How old Cary Grant?" is clearly, "Old Cary Grant is getting hit on the head on the radio. But not in movies."

Vanishing dog

    On the Riverwalk this morning, I saw a little white dog by itself next to a lamp post. Then I got a little closer and maybe the fact that it hadn't moved clued me that it wasn't a little dog. It was the electrical box for the lamp post, raised on four metal legs presumably because of the adjacent river. My eyesight is incredibly poor and my corrected eyesight is still not that great due to astigmatism. Still, this sort of thing doesn't happen all that often. I just thought it was a cool job by my brain to turn a box into a little dog, and then reassemble it into a box when little dogness stopped making sense. Pretty much what the brain is for, I guess.

GOT to start that dream diary

    Had great dreams last night, but I forgot most of them. There was some kind of business where my dad was in  a very, very different nursing home. To get back to his room, I had to jump some kind of chasm and then pull myself up about my height's distance up a wall. Presumably, he would have to do so, too. Makes the real nursing homes seem really great by comparison.
    Then there was some other kind of business where I was staying in some kind of vacation cabin. It had a whole lot of sofas in one room, each seemingly featuring a sleeping famous person. One was the late Robert Frost. One was Stephen Hawking. Then he transmogrified into some young (totally fictitious) TV star. And I got into an argument, or standup routine, with him about how people should pose as famous people by just making up some TV show they had been on. Well, it was funny in my sleep at least.
    My life has finally gotten quiet enough that I seem to be able to get through the night nightmare free. So I've finally started sleeping without either sports talk radio or tunes as an anti-nightmare safety net. Two nights  so far. Dreams are crazy, but not scary. Works for me!

Doxiadis

    When I was a small child back in the '60s, this town (Columbia SC, or Soda City) paid a city planner named Doxiadis for a plan for how future growth would be managed. From that point through most or all of the '70s, there would be periodic discussion in the press about the Doxiadis Plan and how it was coming along or how it wasn't.
    Such discussions never quite got around to including much in the way of specifics. I always sort of pictured the Doxiadis Plan as something out of The Jetsons, with flying cars and moving sidewalks. A Krispy Kreme on every corner for local color. Maybe a bit of casual nudity to bring the tourists in. (If that word brings in Googleites, you have my apologies. Yes, it does stay this dull.)
    I never quite found out what the Doxiadis Plan was really. Eventually interest in it petered out as did mentions in the press. If any plan has ever been applied to our growth, it was a bad one. I have the impression though that whatever the Doxiadis Plan was, there was never any serious attempt to implement it. Just as well; I can't have Krispy Kreme anymore anyway.

Flying

    The other night, I had one of those great flying dreams. Or perhaps levitating would be a better word. I just jump in the air and stay there. Float a little higher sometimes, but that's about it. Still, it's infinitely cool, even if it's always (inexplicably) indoors. Whenever I have these dreams, I have the sense that I could always fly (or levitate), but just forgot. You like to think that that's the takeaway message: I can.

No!

    Amelia the Monkey Cat can say a few English words. Her best two are "Hello" and "No." I am boundlessly amused when she answers a yes or no question with "No!" I am fully aware that it is very unlikely that she understands the question, or that it is a question, or that it is a yes or no question, or that she understands what "No" means. But it's still funny.
    In the night, I will raise the bedclothes and ask her if she wants to get under the blanket. This morning (or last night, or whatever), she said, "No!" And whether it was what she meant or not, she didn't. Maybe she isn't such a dumb monkey after all.
    (No doubt I've posted this ten times already. If so, forgive it please.)

Old time radio and spelling

    One problem with being a fan of old-time radio is that when you want to share a new (60-year-old) discovery, sometimes it can be a little tricky. One of my favorite shows was a WWII broadcast called "Jubilee." The show is problematical in that it was broadcast only to the black troops in a segregated military. But the result was brilliantly entertaining.
    Unfortunately, some of the numbers have beboppy titles that are hard to guess a spelling on. One of the more fun numbers was by the Charlie Barnet Orchestra, sung by trumpeter Peanuts Holland. I eventually found this specific "Jubilee" program on a record. They spelled the song title "Obble ee eebop." That's probably right, but I can't find the number on the Internets these days. The weird thing is that it sounds like a monster hit, like something I've been hearing all my life. Maybe they put it in a cartoon or something.
    On the other hand, it's one of the most nefariously catchy numbers of all time. If I did succeed in sharing it, I'd probably get murderated by somebody not liking earworms. So there's always a silver lining.

Pink roses

    I like when the weird wacky dreams turn out sweet. A friend of mine who in real life used to have a used bookstore, in the dream had taken over a bakery. He had moved it, too. (My dreams are always oddly detailed.) My brother William had liked a particular sweet from the bakery before the friend took it over. That sweet was made from protein bars. Anyway, I got the two fellows together to discuss it. But I never found out what happened, because I found that two separate people had sent me a dozen pink roses (each). I was very moved. Never found out what that was all about, but it was a very sweet dream on balance.

New Asperger's test

    My people, the Nerdese, have many things in common. The myopia, the books, the math skills... and maybe one more thing. Everybody I talk to (much the majority of whom are Nerdese) seems to hate autotune as much as I do. It just causes pain. It's like the squeal of a picture tube on an old-time TV (also a good Asperger's test).
    Over and over with new music, I find that the singer sounds perfectly fine, like he or she needs no help from technology. But the producers don't have enough faith. Thus autotune. From Bieber to the "Rent" movie soundtrack to just about all new gospel music. Ow. Color me old school.

Sleeping in a lot lately

    I guess it means that you can only go around stressed out for so long. I hadn't been able to sleep in for ages. I just popped up first thing and started breakfast. Lately I'm a little more relaxed, sleeping for a greater proportion of the night and getting back to sleep a little more easily when I wake in the night. I like to think that it's my body telling me that everything's going to be all right. Or possibly it's just what the DJs call good sleepin' weather. Regardless, I'm not complaining. But I hope indeed that everything's going to be all right. I get that indication, here and there.

Not overflowing with hope

    Dad just seems locked in place. He's still convinced that he just needs to get a little stronger and he can return to his normal life. But in the meantime, he just stays in bed the vast majority of the time. Which is hardly any way to get stronger, and a sure prescription to the kind of digestive problems he had at UniHealth, where he mostly did the same thing, but because he didn't have a choice.
    Thing is, it shouldn't take much to get him up and running. Just a little communication. As a doctor, he has to know that his body would work better if he got up and out of the room walking around more. I'm sure I talked to staff and they said there's no problem with him doing so.
    I also still want to get a loveseat for he and Margaret to sit together on during visits. Of course, if he would just move to Assisted Living this wouldn't be necessary, since the rooms are already so furnished. I'm going to try to resolve that situation as well if it can be done. But he continues totally uninterested in doing in-out catheterization. So somebody else is going to have to give ground. Hey, it could happen.

Rotten, ugly AND stinky

    Amelia's new thing is bopping me right in the sleep mask. I don't know what it means. I thought it meant she wanted to get under the sheets, or possibly that she wanted me to roll on my back so she could lie on my legs, much her preferred position. But she did it in the middle of the night last night and didn't crawl between the sheets when given the chance, nor did she lie on my legs when given that chance. So maybe it's just fun. I'm just glad that she pulls the claws in. Also that she doesn't do it when I don't have a sleep mask on. (Though the glasses would probably be far more protective anyway.)
    In a stupidity update, my back and neck have gotten a lot better since I started tying my shoes tighter. So efforts to find shoes that will actually fit my narrow feet are being redoubled. Just as soon as I stop hitting myself on the head and saying, "Dumb! Dumb! Dumb! Dumb!":)

Six years of ugly and stinky

    I enter my seventh year with Amelia the cat, her ninth or so. I have no idea why; never have I seen such an ugly and stinky cat. (In case you haven't heard, every day is Opposite Day at my house.) She hasn't noticed that she's aging. As far as she can tell, she's still a kitten. I wish I could give her play dates. She is terribly bored and pitifully eager to play, but I just don't have time anymore to give her as much kittyball as she desires.
    (Kittyball is a fascinating sport. You take a number of little foam rubber balls about the size of ping pong balls but decorated to look like soccer balls. You kick the kittyball across the floor. The kitty either chases it, bats it back, pounces it or ignores it. Better still is arena kittyball. It requires a well-madeup bed. You throw the kittyball on the bed. She chases it like a maniac. Someday, I'll get it on video.)
    Fortunately, the kitty brain is flexible and forgiving. She's up on the Kitty Condo watching some kind of Important Kitty Business out the back window. I guess I'll let her stay. I guess she'll let me stay. Another ten years or more if I'm lucky.

Brain freeze

    I don't know what's wrong with me. Or rather, I know exactly what's wrong with me, but I don't know how to fix it. What's wrong with me is that I hate winter. Not per se; I kinda dig the cold weather in a way. I hate how much the heat pump dries out the air in the apartment, and I hate trying to counterbalance it with humidifiers. I'm forever getting it too damp, so damp that no amount of heating will make it feel warm. And I can never get comfortable enough to sleep well.
    Hence the brain freeze. I can't think a lick. If these little epistles are getting littler and littler, in length and in quality, you have my apologies. Hoping for a brain thaw very, very soon. I'll just think about radiators.

Sure is pretty here in the Atacama Desert

    Hell, I remember when it used to rain sometimes. In fact, I have an old meteorology book that assures me that I live in a monsoonal region. Of course, that could mean that this is the dry season. Except that it used to be the wet season. And we don't actually have any wet season anymore. Just a hot season (8 or 9 months) and a less hot season. But it sure is pretty. I'm a fool for blue skies, me.

Thinking about letting the crazy go

    For years now, I've been using bottled water, either purified or distilled, instead of tap. This isn't totally crazy; my tap water is chlorinated to the point that it smells like a pool. Still, I could use a filter on the tap. Actually, I do, but just for my humidifiers and for pasta. But but but... this morning when I changed out the bigger humidifier, the remaining water again smelled like a pool. Of course, I haven't changed the filter on the tap in a year. That just might have a bearing.:)
    Point is, would I rather have fluoride and chlorine (or flourine and chloride) in my water, or PVC? Answer? Neither! I guess the brilliant move is to buy a glass pitcher and a distilling set. Or, you know, quit worrying about it and just go back to drinking tap water. In other words, let the crazy go. But who knows? Maybe it isn't all that crazy.

Cold snap

    The high on New Year's Day was 75. It hasn't exactly stayed that way. High yesterday in the 50s; today it's in the 40s. I am NOT liking this trend. However, it couldn't be more beautiful, and it's been that way all year so far except for the latter half of 1/1 when it was highly overcast and foreboding. The rain, if it fell, fell somewhere else, however.
    Tonight we get a hard freeze. I hate it only because Dad is likely to have an uncomfortable ride to dialysis tomorrow. Also the tea olive on Whitney St. just bloomed and I'm sad that the pretty smell will probably be frozen off prematurely. Then again, the way the weather's been going, it'll probably be 70 degrees again by the end of the week. So there's that!

Boy I'm dumb (x3)

    Apart from the whole inability to communicate in English thing, I've had a number of reminders lately that my status as a genius might in some ways be less than set in stone. As I've mentioned, I have narrow feet and have been unable to find narrow shoes to go with them. So I've been trying to tie my laces real tight (OK, very tightly. See what I mean about that inability to communicate thing?). Yesterday, the laces popped. As I have a lot of old shoes around that I haven't donated to thrift stores yet, I just recycled the laces from an old pair.
    Sneakers and walking shoes have this little slot on the tongue that you're supposed to run both laces through. The idea appears to be that this will keep the tongue from lolling around. But it also prevents you from tying the shoes particularly tightly. I skipped it, and magic: suddenly I could tie my shoes tight! Genius I tell you... if I'd thought of this three years ago, say.
    Even I'm embarrassed to admit the second thing. For ages now, I've been rinsing my dishes rather than washing them with detergent. Hell, it seemed sufficient, and I didn't want the taste of soap on my dishes and in my food. But the drain rack got just unbelievably foul, presumably from grease dripping off poorly cleaned dishes. So as part of my New Year's resolution not to be an idiot anymore, I've started washing dishes properly. Drain rack looks a lot cleaner, but then it takes a while for it to get really scummy. Maybe it'll turn out that detergent doesn't really make a difference. I'd be at least a little relieved to find that I'm not a total idiot.
    But not that relieved. The third thing? I completely forgot it. And I used to be fairly smart.
    One non-idiotic idea is to get Dad's dialysis days changed so that he and Margaret could go to the dances at the Senior Center on Friday nights. We've seen that he has no energy after dialysis, so Fridays would be a no-go at the moment. I'll have to see if it can be done, and how easy or hard it would be for them to be able to go on Fridays anyway. Anyway, it's a fun idea.

Real type of thing

    George Clinton's show on Main St. last night was fairly awesome, brilliant and colossal. It was a hoot hearing it with a few tens of thousands of my closest friends as well. If there has ever been a crowd that large on Main St. in Columbia I can't imagine when it would have been. The parade used to get a fair turnout, and Veron Melonas' Main St. Jazz brought a good number in every year for a while as well. This was more like Simon & Garfunkel's Concert at Central Park on a small scale. There might have been 100,000 there last night at some point.
    George didn't let us down. He pretty much stuck to the hits, unless "Maggot Brain" wasn't a hit. Phenomenal guitar solo, though. He played a short set from a little before 11 until a few minutes before midnight. Then there was a countdown and phenomenal fireworks (behind the building I was next to, but still). Then George did a second set. I promised myself to stay until "One Nation Under A Groove"; he did it second, after "Maggot Brain." I'd been on my feet for four hours, so I bailed. But an awesome time was had by all.
    Meanwhile, the weather is so gorgeous as to be unbelievable. Most beautiful year ever, so far. If this be armageddon, make the most of it.