Dad news is not bad, but not great. The new catheter quit working after 2 1/2 hours, so he only got a half dialysis, and this after missing the previous one. However the nurse assures him that this is normal for a first session with a new catheter, and that the next session Saturday should go fine. Moreover, he feels fine. So I didn't have to wait this time, and am in fact done for the day. Time to start painting the town!
The other day I found to my surprise that of the horribly overplayed megahits of the '70s, one has left the brotherhood, at least to my ear. I'm ready to listen to "Just the Way You Are" by Billy Joel again. This may have something to do with the fact that, unlike in the '70s, I can hit the notes now. Or maybe time heals all wounds, including even Billy Joel fatigue. It's a great song except for one thing: I still can't figure what's so hard about clever conversation, why anyone wouldn't want it, and what kind of woman would be interested in a schmoe who didn't? Paging Christie Brinkley!
Thursday, February 7, 2013
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
Different day!
So I can be mistaken! The nephrologists actually noticed that clotting at the access (what they call the fistula that is the access point for dialysis) three times in a month is sort of excessive, and might require a different approach. So instead of doing the same thing that had caused great stress twice already this year without actually, you know, working, they switched to a simpler approach. They just put a catheter on his jugular vein. This didn't require any sedation, so he didn't have any aftereffects or weakness. Also, his labs were OK and anyway you aren't supposed to use a catheter for dialysis the first day, so he was excused from having to go to dialysis to make up for missing yesterday's session. We felt like kids let out of school early.
Also, we didn't have to wait 3 hours before they started doing anything, either. The whole deal took less than two hours. Now, it's not like this is the end. He still has to see a surgeon and get a new access installed. This will probably entail a short hospital stay some time in the coming weeks or maybe months. But hey; at least we're having a good day today!
Also, we didn't have to wait 3 hours before they started doing anything, either. The whole deal took less than two hours. Now, it's not like this is the end. He still has to see a surgeon and get a new access installed. This will probably entail a short hospital stay some time in the coming weeks or maybe months. But hey; at least we're having a good day today!
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
SSDD
The first S is "same," while the Ds are "different" and "day." Got the call, later than ever. Up until now, if it's past 1 pm and I haven't heard anything from the dialysis clinic, all is go and we're going to have a good, or anyway not a bad, day. However, it was after 1:30 this time. I was just coming in from taking my walk. Margaret called, as the dialysis center had again called her instead of me. Dad had clotting again, so he wasn't able to have dialysis. I needed to come pick him up. We have to go to the nephrologists again at the crack of dawn.
This is now the third time in this very short year. Admittedly, it had happened once before so it isn't entirely unprecedented, but this is starting to get ridiculous. At least now we know the drill. This time, if he's still weak by Sunday, presumably we'll know better than to call an ambulance and hit the emergency room. (The hospital is asking for $4K for that adventure, by the way.) So you know, not a crisis, not a big thing; just another something we would be just as happy to avoid. And obviously a step backwards in his physical therapy program. Ah well.
This is now the third time in this very short year. Admittedly, it had happened once before so it isn't entirely unprecedented, but this is starting to get ridiculous. At least now we know the drill. This time, if he's still weak by Sunday, presumably we'll know better than to call an ambulance and hit the emergency room. (The hospital is asking for $4K for that adventure, by the way.) So you know, not a crisis, not a big thing; just another something we would be just as happy to avoid. And obviously a step backwards in his physical therapy program. Ah well.
Monday, February 4, 2013
Puddin', Button, Punkin and Peanut
Long ago, Alice and I used to enjoy visiting the Dillard House in Dillard in northeastern Georgia. The Dillard House is famous for a buffet that comes to you. They call it family-style dining; the staff brings you everything all at once: meats, sides, bread. It's family-style in that it's like a Thanksgiving dinner for two (or however many are in your party. The menu is preset, slightly different every day, but extensive. I remember fried and barbecued chicken. I remember excellent cornbread. I remember never being able to finish it all but being allowed to take doggy bags.
They have a motel alongside, which is pretty large. We always crazy-mad loved staying there. While it isn't in the strictest sense in the country, Dillard is a very small town and it's a lot more like the country than we're used to. And the mountains are nearby. Not too far away they have vacation chalets, also excellent and much more private. We very much enjoyed staying there once.
There's also a farm, with sheep and goats and I think one cow. And farm cats. Every time we went, there was a new crop of kittens. They had a way of hanging out at the front door of the restaurant, as if they thought that being ultra-cute was going to get them leftovers out of generous and well-fed patrons of the restaurant. You know what? I think they may have been right!
It was here that Alice and I determined that all kittens should be named Puddin', Button, Punkin or Peanut. And every time we came, a new set of kittens would find themselves saddled, for an hour or two or a day or two, with these names. "Just hand over the fried chicken," I'm sure they were thinking.
They have a motel alongside, which is pretty large. We always crazy-mad loved staying there. While it isn't in the strictest sense in the country, Dillard is a very small town and it's a lot more like the country than we're used to. And the mountains are nearby. Not too far away they have vacation chalets, also excellent and much more private. We very much enjoyed staying there once.
There's also a farm, with sheep and goats and I think one cow. And farm cats. Every time we went, there was a new crop of kittens. They had a way of hanging out at the front door of the restaurant, as if they thought that being ultra-cute was going to get them leftovers out of generous and well-fed patrons of the restaurant. You know what? I think they may have been right!
It was here that Alice and I determined that all kittens should be named Puddin', Button, Punkin or Peanut. And every time we came, a new set of kittens would find themselves saddled, for an hour or two or a day or two, with these names. "Just hand over the fried chicken," I'm sure they were thinking.
Sunday, February 3, 2013
Up a creek
So today was a lovely and a warm day, and as I so often do I decided to go hiking at Congaree National Park. Normally, I just go around the very, very, very easy boardwalk loop and call that enough exercise for anybody. (It's all of 2.2 miles, but at least I usually go fast.) Today, however, that was just not possible. It was just too great a day, particularly considering that it's February the freaking third. So I opted for adventure.
The trails at the park all interconnect, so you can easily turn a one-hour hike into an all-day one without thinking too hard. My problem is that I skip right from "not thinking too hard" to "not thinking at all." I decided to leave the boardwalk and head out on the longer Lake Weston loop trail. Then when I hit the intersection with the Oak Ridge and River trails, I decided that one of those would be even better. I wasn't going to do anything crazy; I checked my watch and decided to turn around in fifteen minutes. Like that's going to happen!
After the fifteen minutes, the Oak Ridge and River trails split and I decided to follow the former for an even bigger loop. It was early and it was turning into a truly spectacular day. It couldn't be prettier out nor could it have been nicer for hiking. I marched on with a song in my heart and Cary Grant in "Suspicion" on the iPod. Then arose the serpent. (No, not Cary Grant.) A very nice couple came from the other direction and told me that the trail was blocked by water ahead. The lady said that I could get around it by going 300 yards to the left, hopping across and beating my way 300 yards back. I thanked them and carried on.
It really was a very long way before I hit the water, but it couldn't be mistaken. When your trail markers are on trees sticking up from the middle of a creek, it's a hard sign to miss. I took her advice and headed left, got across no problem, but couldn't find the trail again on the other side. I kept looking and looking and struggled through a lot of vegetation and mud.
Finally, I came across what had to be the creek that represents the canoe trail through the park, which I'm pretty sure is called Cedar Creek. A great thing about the park is that they let trees that fall decompose naturally. A problem with this is that some of them fall next to streams and in the distance look like pedestrian bridges. So I kept heading upstream thinking I was seeing a bridge (and therefore the trail) only to find that I was mistaken. However, one of the rules of life is that if you're lost in the woods, follow a stream and you'll find a path or a road or a settlement eventually.
There were a couple of trees fallen all the way across the stream, and I gave some thought to trying the natural bridge route. I mean to the point of climbing up and testing my footing; not to the point of testing it over actual water. My well-developed sense of self-preservation (also known as my deep strain of cowardice) came through, however.
Eventually, my trips away from the stream to avoid mud, muck and switchcane put my feet on the trail again, which turned out to be the way that I had come. I can't say I minded even an iota. It was still about an hour's hike out, but the day had gotten even more fabulous as I had been getting ever more lost. Being found again made it maybe slightly easier to appreciate.
You would think that at my age, I would have been cured by now of penchant for trying to get lost in the woods, preferably someplace out of cell phone range if not someplace where I don't speak the language. You would be wrong.
The trails at the park all interconnect, so you can easily turn a one-hour hike into an all-day one without thinking too hard. My problem is that I skip right from "not thinking too hard" to "not thinking at all." I decided to leave the boardwalk and head out on the longer Lake Weston loop trail. Then when I hit the intersection with the Oak Ridge and River trails, I decided that one of those would be even better. I wasn't going to do anything crazy; I checked my watch and decided to turn around in fifteen minutes. Like that's going to happen!
After the fifteen minutes, the Oak Ridge and River trails split and I decided to follow the former for an even bigger loop. It was early and it was turning into a truly spectacular day. It couldn't be prettier out nor could it have been nicer for hiking. I marched on with a song in my heart and Cary Grant in "Suspicion" on the iPod. Then arose the serpent. (No, not Cary Grant.) A very nice couple came from the other direction and told me that the trail was blocked by water ahead. The lady said that I could get around it by going 300 yards to the left, hopping across and beating my way 300 yards back. I thanked them and carried on.
It really was a very long way before I hit the water, but it couldn't be mistaken. When your trail markers are on trees sticking up from the middle of a creek, it's a hard sign to miss. I took her advice and headed left, got across no problem, but couldn't find the trail again on the other side. I kept looking and looking and struggled through a lot of vegetation and mud.
Finally, I came across what had to be the creek that represents the canoe trail through the park, which I'm pretty sure is called Cedar Creek. A great thing about the park is that they let trees that fall decompose naturally. A problem with this is that some of them fall next to streams and in the distance look like pedestrian bridges. So I kept heading upstream thinking I was seeing a bridge (and therefore the trail) only to find that I was mistaken. However, one of the rules of life is that if you're lost in the woods, follow a stream and you'll find a path or a road or a settlement eventually.
There were a couple of trees fallen all the way across the stream, and I gave some thought to trying the natural bridge route. I mean to the point of climbing up and testing my footing; not to the point of testing it over actual water. My well-developed sense of self-preservation (also known as my deep strain of cowardice) came through, however.
Eventually, my trips away from the stream to avoid mud, muck and switchcane put my feet on the trail again, which turned out to be the way that I had come. I can't say I minded even an iota. It was still about an hour's hike out, but the day had gotten even more fabulous as I had been getting ever more lost. Being found again made it maybe slightly easier to appreciate.
You would think that at my age, I would have been cured by now of penchant for trying to get lost in the woods, preferably someplace out of cell phone range if not someplace where I don't speak the language. You would be wrong.
Saturday, February 2, 2013
Mrs. Ruff
When I was in elementary school, I had a teacher named Mrs. Ruff. I had her for both fourth and fifth grades. Desegregation had just happened (I mean de facto; de jure had happened decades earlier) and there were comparatively few black teachers in the formerly (practically) all-white schools.
Mrs. Ruff's husband owned the Blue Ribbon Cab Company, the largest black taxicab outfit in the area. Unfortunately, he died while I was in fourth grade. So for two years at least, Mrs. Ruff was teaching elementary school and at the same time running a large and successful taxicab business.
I don't remember much about her as a teacher; there wasn't colossal amounts of teaching going on in elementary school in those days anyway. Also, I desperately needed glasses but held out until I absolutely could not any longer, which was latish in fifth grade. So it was all literally a blur. But what I remember about her was that she was a great person. Sadly, I don't think she lived all that long after I left her classes.
Today I saw a Blue Ribbon cab with a white driver. It's not necessarily a sign of changing times, or revolution or even evolution. But I felt good about it. I like to think Mrs. Ruff would have, too.
Mrs. Ruff's husband owned the Blue Ribbon Cab Company, the largest black taxicab outfit in the area. Unfortunately, he died while I was in fourth grade. So for two years at least, Mrs. Ruff was teaching elementary school and at the same time running a large and successful taxicab business.
I don't remember much about her as a teacher; there wasn't colossal amounts of teaching going on in elementary school in those days anyway. Also, I desperately needed glasses but held out until I absolutely could not any longer, which was latish in fifth grade. So it was all literally a blur. But what I remember about her was that she was a great person. Sadly, I don't think she lived all that long after I left her classes.
Today I saw a Blue Ribbon cab with a white driver. It's not necessarily a sign of changing times, or revolution or even evolution. But I felt good about it. I like to think Mrs. Ruff would have, too.
Friday, February 1, 2013
Duckweed meditation
Today was a chilly but a beautiful day, and I very much looked forward to going for a hike. One of my favorite hiking trails in the area is at Congaree Creek Heritage Preserve. One of the great things about it is that there are very few visitors, so I can sing as loudly and obnoxiously as I like.
This time, however, there was another visitor. She was an attractive young woman all in purple. The trail at Congaree Creek consists of a short connector trail that leads you to a longer (2.5 mile, more or less) loop. She was ahead of me since I had to hook to the iPod and zip my jacket. I wasn't going to follow her anyway (not being all THAT creepy) but was pleased when she went counter-clockwise, thus allowing me to go clockwise without bothering her.
I made it more than halfway around the loop before encountering her again. Congaree Creek has these rather Paul Bunyanesque benches every now and again on the trail, and she (or anyway somebody female wearing purple) was sitting on one facing a duckweed-covered pond. Duckweed, they tell me, is the smallest flower in the world; however, most people seem to think it looks more like pond scum. I can't say that I'm a fan. It struck me as a strange place to take a rest, but maybe she's a huge fan of ducks. (I've been there a lot and seen a lot of duckweed, but if I've seen any ducks I don't remember it.) It's a great place to see great blue herons, but I think you're more likely to do so by keeping moving. Anyway, I appreciate that none of this is earth-shattering. It just struck me as weird. Maybe she was just tired; maybe she finds duckweed an aid to meditation. Regardless, it was a lovely hike. I hope she enjoyed her day as much.
This time, however, there was another visitor. She was an attractive young woman all in purple. The trail at Congaree Creek consists of a short connector trail that leads you to a longer (2.5 mile, more or less) loop. She was ahead of me since I had to hook to the iPod and zip my jacket. I wasn't going to follow her anyway (not being all THAT creepy) but was pleased when she went counter-clockwise, thus allowing me to go clockwise without bothering her.
I made it more than halfway around the loop before encountering her again. Congaree Creek has these rather Paul Bunyanesque benches every now and again on the trail, and she (or anyway somebody female wearing purple) was sitting on one facing a duckweed-covered pond. Duckweed, they tell me, is the smallest flower in the world; however, most people seem to think it looks more like pond scum. I can't say that I'm a fan. It struck me as a strange place to take a rest, but maybe she's a huge fan of ducks. (I've been there a lot and seen a lot of duckweed, but if I've seen any ducks I don't remember it.) It's a great place to see great blue herons, but I think you're more likely to do so by keeping moving. Anyway, I appreciate that none of this is earth-shattering. It just struck me as weird. Maybe she was just tired; maybe she finds duckweed an aid to meditation. Regardless, it was a lovely hike. I hope she enjoyed her day as much.
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