It isn't often that I have a dream I remember, but a couple of mornings ago just before I woke up, I dreamed that my big idea for a retirement activity was to open a game store. It would have board and card games of all kinds except those associated with gambling and those depending on electronics. Kids would flock here after school to play board games with their friends. The store would sponsor tournaments in Scrabble, Monopoly, Boggle, Battleship, etc. and even teach people how to play bridge so they could get together and make friends with other bridge players. This place would be all about having fun.
But the really big draw would be that it would sell snacks for you and your guests to eat while playing the games either at home or at the store. There would be a taffy pulling machine in the window to attract customers featuring a flavor of the week, a big popcorn wagon with a flavor of the day, candies of all kinds, plus baked (NOT packaged) goods like doughnuts, muffins, cookies and cupcakes, made by me personally. Customers would love the free samples.
Never mind that a game shop in Richfield opened and closed within six months a couple of years ago. Never mind that I don't know anything about running a business. Never mind that I'm too restless to be tied down like that. Never mind that it's totally illogical as so many dreams are. For a minute or two it made perfect sense, but I'm not going to do it.
What do you think this dream says about me?
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Happy Birthday, Son
This is the 30th anniversary of our famous recording for posterity when Roger tried to prove that Jordan's first word was "light."
We had the big party and dinner for the one-year-old and Dad turned on the tape recorder and asked Jordan what that thing was above the table. "Can you say light?" Silence. He had said it before, but not on tape for posterity, and Roger was determined to prove that his child was sophisticated enough to say this word instead of the usual ma-ma, da-da. "Say light." More silence. It went on for several minutes like this.
So after much coaxing and no response, the conversation went on with Jen and Elin talking about other things Jordan could do, and what the family was doing. When the attention left him, Jordan decided to "perform," but the rest of us were so busy with our conversation that we didn't hear him. Only when we played it back later did we realize that in his background babble he was actually saying "light." We were talking about something else, and his little voice can be heard repeating, "Yite, yite, yite." We have laughed about it over the years and tried not to ignore him anymore when he finally does what we ask him to do.
He is the light of our lives, and that's one reason I sent him a lamp for his birthday. It just seemed like the thing to do.
We had the big party and dinner for the one-year-old and Dad turned on the tape recorder and asked Jordan what that thing was above the table. "Can you say light?" Silence. He had said it before, but not on tape for posterity, and Roger was determined to prove that his child was sophisticated enough to say this word instead of the usual ma-ma, da-da. "Say light." More silence. It went on for several minutes like this.
So after much coaxing and no response, the conversation went on with Jen and Elin talking about other things Jordan could do, and what the family was doing. When the attention left him, Jordan decided to "perform," but the rest of us were so busy with our conversation that we didn't hear him. Only when we played it back later did we realize that in his background babble he was actually saying "light." We were talking about something else, and his little voice can be heard repeating, "Yite, yite, yite." We have laughed about it over the years and tried not to ignore him anymore when he finally does what we ask him to do.
He is the light of our lives, and that's one reason I sent him a lamp for his birthday. It just seemed like the thing to do.
Monday, May 11, 2009
TV or Not TV
We have been keeping a viewing diary for the Nielsen TV ratings organization since last Thursday and while it's annoying and such a big hassle, it also tells us a lot about our viewing habits. It amused me to see that there are two columns to mark – one for when the TV is on, but another when it's off. Logic would tell us that if it isn't one it's the other, but the Nielsen people just want to be sure. Of course there isn't a lot you can view when the set is off, but I guess that's beside the point.
Full disclosure: my favorite channels are the Food Network and HGTV. I've learned a lot about cooking, even tried some of their recipes, and a lot about home decorating, and I've exercised some of those principles in redecorating my home, quite successfully, I might add. Sometimes Roger watches those shows with me, and we critique as we go. It's nice to learn, after all these years, what his tastes are in food AND home decor.
While I am one to sit down and watch specific shows, Roger tends to have the TV on ALL. THE. TIME. To him it's background music. He's a genius, of course, being able to correct papers and watch Poirot or Sherlock Holmes at the same time, and then tell you the plot, the red herrings, and who after all done it. This is amazing to me because otherwise this man has a one-track mind and is easily thrown into a heart-stopping dither when multitasking is required. But that's another story.
When he doesn't have a second task, TV dial spinning is a form of recreation. He starts at one end of the dial and channels up or down, stopping sometimes for several minutes on programs I know he doesn't care about, like baseball or a countdown of the top ten submarines on the military channel. Soon he moves on, lingering again at some other channel with an odd topic he isn't interested in. And he does all of this with the sound muted. That's right, muted. Even if it's a channel and topic he might be interested in, there's no sound. He stares at it, trying to figure out if maybe it's something he might want to watch, and doesn't turn the sound on.
He kind of does the same thing when an unexpected piece of mail comes. "Wonder who that's from," he'll frown. "Read the return address," I'll say. "Who do we know that lives in Provo," he'll puzzle. "Maybe your sister," I'll say. "Oh. Maybe it's a birthday card," he'll say. "The only way you'll know is if you open it," I'll say.
Since most of daytime TV is insanely boring, like pouring wet cement into your brain, the diary shows the TV is usually off more than 12 hours a day. If I'm suffering insomnia I might watch late shows or movies to bore myself to sleep, but there's nothing worth watching during the day before Glenn Beck comes on in the late afternoon. I'm done with the TV when that's over, but when Roger gets home, the dial spinning begins. There aren't many shows we watch in the evening, outside of cable news shows, and I have a short tolerance for those. Roger can always find something. Today it was an documentary on the history channel about the dark ages. Fascinating, but I'd seen part of it before.
From past experience, I know the TV is on much more during the day when Roger is home than when I'm here alone. I think the TV is on too much, but he is a local news junkie, especially weather reports. Local news makes me crazy. I have to leave the room. I can foresee a problem with this when he retires (in two weeks) and we're together all the time. We will have to have a discussion about this if I expect to maintain my sanity.
It's quiet now. He went to bed an hour ago and I can enjoy the silence or play music of my choice on my computer if I'm so inclined. We will mail our TV viewing diary on Friday, and the Nielsen people will probably draw the conclusion that anybody who watches Fox News that much is probably a scary freaking redneck. I'll be glad not to have to keep track anymore. But it has made me think about what I do with my time.
Full disclosure: my favorite channels are the Food Network and HGTV. I've learned a lot about cooking, even tried some of their recipes, and a lot about home decorating, and I've exercised some of those principles in redecorating my home, quite successfully, I might add. Sometimes Roger watches those shows with me, and we critique as we go. It's nice to learn, after all these years, what his tastes are in food AND home decor.
While I am one to sit down and watch specific shows, Roger tends to have the TV on ALL. THE. TIME. To him it's background music. He's a genius, of course, being able to correct papers and watch Poirot or Sherlock Holmes at the same time, and then tell you the plot, the red herrings, and who after all done it. This is amazing to me because otherwise this man has a one-track mind and is easily thrown into a heart-stopping dither when multitasking is required. But that's another story.
When he doesn't have a second task, TV dial spinning is a form of recreation. He starts at one end of the dial and channels up or down, stopping sometimes for several minutes on programs I know he doesn't care about, like baseball or a countdown of the top ten submarines on the military channel. Soon he moves on, lingering again at some other channel with an odd topic he isn't interested in. And he does all of this with the sound muted. That's right, muted. Even if it's a channel and topic he might be interested in, there's no sound. He stares at it, trying to figure out if maybe it's something he might want to watch, and doesn't turn the sound on.
He kind of does the same thing when an unexpected piece of mail comes. "Wonder who that's from," he'll frown. "Read the return address," I'll say. "Who do we know that lives in Provo," he'll puzzle. "Maybe your sister," I'll say. "Oh. Maybe it's a birthday card," he'll say. "The only way you'll know is if you open it," I'll say.
Since most of daytime TV is insanely boring, like pouring wet cement into your brain, the diary shows the TV is usually off more than 12 hours a day. If I'm suffering insomnia I might watch late shows or movies to bore myself to sleep, but there's nothing worth watching during the day before Glenn Beck comes on in the late afternoon. I'm done with the TV when that's over, but when Roger gets home, the dial spinning begins. There aren't many shows we watch in the evening, outside of cable news shows, and I have a short tolerance for those. Roger can always find something. Today it was an documentary on the history channel about the dark ages. Fascinating, but I'd seen part of it before.
From past experience, I know the TV is on much more during the day when Roger is home than when I'm here alone. I think the TV is on too much, but he is a local news junkie, especially weather reports. Local news makes me crazy. I have to leave the room. I can foresee a problem with this when he retires (in two weeks) and we're together all the time. We will have to have a discussion about this if I expect to maintain my sanity.
It's quiet now. He went to bed an hour ago and I can enjoy the silence or play music of my choice on my computer if I'm so inclined. We will mail our TV viewing diary on Friday, and the Nielsen people will probably draw the conclusion that anybody who watches Fox News that much is probably a scary freaking redneck. I'll be glad not to have to keep track anymore. But it has made me think about what I do with my time.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
I'm Back... Well, Sort Of
Be of good cheer. I'm all done talking about my knees.
My brain hasn't fully recovered from the anesthesia and I'm having a hard time writing anything, so I'm just going to plunge in and force myself to make my fingers move on the keyboard. I am feeling a little smug, however; another blog I've visited recently hasn't had a new post since September, 2008. I've only been 'away' a couple of months.
When I was in college many years ago, a distant cousin I met there used to take me to art shows and parse out all the paintings for me, give his mini-reviews of the artist's capabilities, and put art in context for me. I loved it so much! I decided then that some day I would get to know real artists, collect their work, and have a little art gallery in my home. I didn't know then how I would do it, but I would. Sounds wacky, doesn't it, high minded and idealistic and maybe it bit unrealistic.
Fast forward to 1976. After living out of the country/state for six years, we decided to return to Utah to be closer to family. Roger drew a circle of a 100-mile radius from Provo where his parents lived, and started applying for jobs in those school districts. He got a job in Sevier School District… Richfield… south-central Utah, 111 miles from Provo. When we came to look for a place to live, I felt I was going back in time a year for every mile across the Gunnison desert, 30 miles in all. As we made inquiries about housing, most people literally opened their doors just a crack because we were strangers, and all of them asked one of two questions: who were we related to locally, and did we have temple recommends. The answers were nobody, and yes, but that was none of their business. We just wanted a place to live. There were few apartment buildings, but an unfortunate availability of trailers. I was horrified, but we moved into one with two bedrooms, smaller than the one we had come from in our previous place. It was insanity waiting to happen. I agreed only on the condition that we build a house as soon as possible. We used the small bedroom for storage and put Jen and Elin, ages 4 and 1 at the time, in the large bedroom; we bought a hide-a-bed for the living room and slept on it as long as we could - until we couldn't pretend anymore that the iron bars were comfortable. Then we slept on two twin bed mattresses on the floor, which we purchased for the girls to use later when we moved to a real house.
We moved into said house February 10, 1977. We were welcomed into the ward, and as we got to know people I found some were involved in getting a community theater going. That suited me, and I got involved. Having planned to be a gardener, but being thwarted by spring allergies, I soon realized I'd have to put my energies somewhere else. Eventually I volunteered for some other community activities, and that led to a part-time job with the school district, writing news for the adult education program and helping the director. He got me involved in an arts celebration, and by 1981 I was doing an art show. All I knew about it was what my cousin taught me all those years ago, but ignorance has never stopped me before. I went to the county commission, convinced them of the worthiness of the project, and they agreed to sponsor it. We could hang the show in the community meeting room in the basement of the courthouse - no natural light, but plenty of artificial light. We were going to be unique as art shows go and leave space for children's art as well as experienced artists' works. I wanted it to be a place where children could learn that art didn't end with the cut-and-paste projects they did in school; art could go on for their whole lives. The commission chairman, whom I later discovered to be a closet weekend painter, apologized that they could only lend their names. For the purchase of ribbons and certificates, he opened his wallet and handed me a $20 bill, and wished me luck. For the first five years I did the art show entirely by myself. Eventually the commission included in their budget a modest amount for the show. I knew we had arrived when commission candidates began including in their campaign literature that they supported the art show.
Over the years I became acquainted with many wonderful artists, purchasing several works of art which now hang in my home. I treasure these friendships and honor these talented people. I am a word artist, but not a visual artist, and yet I believe my appreciation gives them a reason to continue doing what they do. They have enriched my life beyond measure, beyond what I thought would happen as I pondered my future in Richfield, lying on a mattress on the living room floor of that trailer and crying myself to sleep more than once.
Twenty-five years later, in 2006, I retired from the Commissioners Art Show and handed it over to a capable, knowledgeable successor. And it has continued. When I gave my 'farewell' speech at my last art show awards dinner, I told this story:
Although Henri Matisse was nearly 28 years younger than Auguste Renoir, the two great artists were dear friends and frequent companions. When Renoir was confined to his home by almost paralyzing arthritis during the last decade of his life, Matisse visited him daily. Renoir continued to paint, and one day as Matisse watched the elder painter fighting torturous pain with each brush stroke, he blurted out, "Auguste, why do you continue to paint when you are in such agony?"
Renoir replied simply, "The beauty remains; the pain passes."
I will be thinking about that story again when I go to the 2009 Commissioners Art Show on Saturday morning. I will see art work done by many of my friends of all ages, and by some new artists I don't know. But I will remember the beauty and pleasure I have experienced as I made this effort through the years to contribute to my community, to have some reason for being in Richfield. I have received much more than I have given.
My brain hasn't fully recovered from the anesthesia and I'm having a hard time writing anything, so I'm just going to plunge in and force myself to make my fingers move on the keyboard. I am feeling a little smug, however; another blog I've visited recently hasn't had a new post since September, 2008. I've only been 'away' a couple of months.
When I was in college many years ago, a distant cousin I met there used to take me to art shows and parse out all the paintings for me, give his mini-reviews of the artist's capabilities, and put art in context for me. I loved it so much! I decided then that some day I would get to know real artists, collect their work, and have a little art gallery in my home. I didn't know then how I would do it, but I would. Sounds wacky, doesn't it, high minded and idealistic and maybe it bit unrealistic.
Fast forward to 1976. After living out of the country/state for six years, we decided to return to Utah to be closer to family. Roger drew a circle of a 100-mile radius from Provo where his parents lived, and started applying for jobs in those school districts. He got a job in Sevier School District… Richfield… south-central Utah, 111 miles from Provo. When we came to look for a place to live, I felt I was going back in time a year for every mile across the Gunnison desert, 30 miles in all. As we made inquiries about housing, most people literally opened their doors just a crack because we were strangers, and all of them asked one of two questions: who were we related to locally, and did we have temple recommends. The answers were nobody, and yes, but that was none of their business. We just wanted a place to live. There were few apartment buildings, but an unfortunate availability of trailers. I was horrified, but we moved into one with two bedrooms, smaller than the one we had come from in our previous place. It was insanity waiting to happen. I agreed only on the condition that we build a house as soon as possible. We used the small bedroom for storage and put Jen and Elin, ages 4 and 1 at the time, in the large bedroom; we bought a hide-a-bed for the living room and slept on it as long as we could - until we couldn't pretend anymore that the iron bars were comfortable. Then we slept on two twin bed mattresses on the floor, which we purchased for the girls to use later when we moved to a real house.
We moved into said house February 10, 1977. We were welcomed into the ward, and as we got to know people I found some were involved in getting a community theater going. That suited me, and I got involved. Having planned to be a gardener, but being thwarted by spring allergies, I soon realized I'd have to put my energies somewhere else. Eventually I volunteered for some other community activities, and that led to a part-time job with the school district, writing news for the adult education program and helping the director. He got me involved in an arts celebration, and by 1981 I was doing an art show. All I knew about it was what my cousin taught me all those years ago, but ignorance has never stopped me before. I went to the county commission, convinced them of the worthiness of the project, and they agreed to sponsor it. We could hang the show in the community meeting room in the basement of the courthouse - no natural light, but plenty of artificial light. We were going to be unique as art shows go and leave space for children's art as well as experienced artists' works. I wanted it to be a place where children could learn that art didn't end with the cut-and-paste projects they did in school; art could go on for their whole lives. The commission chairman, whom I later discovered to be a closet weekend painter, apologized that they could only lend their names. For the purchase of ribbons and certificates, he opened his wallet and handed me a $20 bill, and wished me luck. For the first five years I did the art show entirely by myself. Eventually the commission included in their budget a modest amount for the show. I knew we had arrived when commission candidates began including in their campaign literature that they supported the art show.
Over the years I became acquainted with many wonderful artists, purchasing several works of art which now hang in my home. I treasure these friendships and honor these talented people. I am a word artist, but not a visual artist, and yet I believe my appreciation gives them a reason to continue doing what they do. They have enriched my life beyond measure, beyond what I thought would happen as I pondered my future in Richfield, lying on a mattress on the living room floor of that trailer and crying myself to sleep more than once.
Twenty-five years later, in 2006, I retired from the Commissioners Art Show and handed it over to a capable, knowledgeable successor. And it has continued. When I gave my 'farewell' speech at my last art show awards dinner, I told this story:
Although Henri Matisse was nearly 28 years younger than Auguste Renoir, the two great artists were dear friends and frequent companions. When Renoir was confined to his home by almost paralyzing arthritis during the last decade of his life, Matisse visited him daily. Renoir continued to paint, and one day as Matisse watched the elder painter fighting torturous pain with each brush stroke, he blurted out, "Auguste, why do you continue to paint when you are in such agony?"
Renoir replied simply, "The beauty remains; the pain passes."
I will be thinking about that story again when I go to the 2009 Commissioners Art Show on Saturday morning. I will see art work done by many of my friends of all ages, and by some new artists I don't know. But I will remember the beauty and pleasure I have experienced as I made this effort through the years to contribute to my community, to have some reason for being in Richfield. I have received much more than I have given.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Whacked, Part II
Every surgery is different, even if it’s the same kind of operation, and that was certainly true of my second knee replacement surgery. The first one took about 90 minutes, but the doctor said with the second one he encountered something he’d never seen before in this situation – one of the bones was trying to re-grow a cushion where the cartilage was supposed to be. It took two hours and 19 minutes to get it all taken care of. I had a different anesthesiologist this time and told him I wasn’t interested in hearing the whole thing again. He was good. I heard nothing, but I felt the mallet again. It was kind of reassuring, in a way, that the prosthetic was there, was mine, and was firmly in place.
Because it was only four weeks after the first surgery, recovery has been a little slower and a little more complicated. Oh, they had me up and on an elliptical bike within 24 hours, and I thought I was going to collapse a couple of times, but there were some other differences. I was transferred over to rehab as before, and my room was closer to the physical therapy room this time – not such a hike to get there twice a day – but in its infinite wisdom, my primary insurance decided I didn’t need to stay in residential treatment as long and after a week they sent me home. I was lonesome for my husband and friends and familiar things, but in a panic because going home meant going down stairs and I didn't think I was ready for that. Home health care (i.e. therapy) was arranged for me, but again my sweet Heather came to my rescue. She went to the patient advocate at the rehab facility to arrange for me to go to LaVerkin instead, where there are no stairs. I spent the last couple of rehab sessions practicing stairs so I wouldn’t be afraid when I actually went home.
In the meantime, Roger scurried around getting the rails on our stair replaced, adding a second one on the lower stairs. He moved me from the rehab facility to Jordan and Heather’s house on Friday afternoon when he arrived for a visit. That night we got on a three-way iChat-type connection with Elin and Jen and talked for quite a while about my recovery and the changes I’m going to have to make in my lifestyle. It’s all rehab all the time from here on. In high school PE I learned to hate exercise, so I have never done much on my own. Walking in the water at the pool has worked well for me so far, but I’ll need to do some other things as well. Jen and Elin decided to come out to see me and help me get back on my feet. I’m going to love that!
Since both Richfield and St George home health care is under IHC, I could be admitted in one place and treated in both. The nurse who admitted me changed the bandage and we observed a lot of pinkish drainage from two or three spots along the incision. Heather didn’t have any hospital materials but she sent Jordan out to get over-the-counter stuff that worked pretty well. The drainage continued, annoying but not large amounts. I figured at my Wednesday follow-up appointment with the physician’s assistant, a very nice fellow named Bruce, he would be able to deal with it. I was still on Coumadin, the blood thinner knee replacement patients take to avoid blood clots. I was supposed to be on it two more weeks, but when Bruce took the bandage off, he decided the drainage might have something to do with the Coumadin. He called the pharmacy at the hospital, which controls the use of the drug, and found that the numbers from my last blood draw were good enough that I didn’t need to take it anymore. I was glad of that. Bruce put butterfly bandages along the incision and covered it with a thick non-stick pad that he taped on securely. He also wrapped an elastic bandage around the leg to add some compression and gave us some supplies to change the dressing and keep it as dry as possible. He also put me on an antibiotic to avoid getting an infection.
When we got back to LaVerkin, the bandage was loose and drooping, so Heather re-wrapped it much tighter, using two elastic bandages, and by the time I got home to Richfield that night and descended the stairs without incident, the drainage had slowed noticeably. It has continued to diminish. One thing I learned is that my skin doesn’t like adhesive tape. I’ve developed a couple of sores where the tape was. I noticed before that the skin around the bandage itched, and absent-minded scratching made it worse.
A very nice therapist came to see me on Tuesday in LaVerkin and he had me walking around the island in Heather and Jordan's kitchen without the walker, just holding onto the edge of the countertop. He was right there with me, of course, but it was a grand feeling, something like being on a precipice where I could launch into flight.
Without such luxuries as a big kitchen island at home, therapy is a greater challenge. Someone from home health came on Thursday for a therapy session and will come again Tuesday. Getting up from low chairs is still a challenge but I'm developing strategies. I try to move and stretch and wiggle my feet and legs as much as possible, and do the muscle stretching exercises the therapist taught me. Right now I'm house-bound (literal translation: stir crazy) but hope to get out and walk down the block with a friend if the weather will allow.
My followup appointment with the surgeon is April 1, and I've set a goal to retire the walker by then.
Because it was only four weeks after the first surgery, recovery has been a little slower and a little more complicated. Oh, they had me up and on an elliptical bike within 24 hours, and I thought I was going to collapse a couple of times, but there were some other differences. I was transferred over to rehab as before, and my room was closer to the physical therapy room this time – not such a hike to get there twice a day – but in its infinite wisdom, my primary insurance decided I didn’t need to stay in residential treatment as long and after a week they sent me home. I was lonesome for my husband and friends and familiar things, but in a panic because going home meant going down stairs and I didn't think I was ready for that. Home health care (i.e. therapy) was arranged for me, but again my sweet Heather came to my rescue. She went to the patient advocate at the rehab facility to arrange for me to go to LaVerkin instead, where there are no stairs. I spent the last couple of rehab sessions practicing stairs so I wouldn’t be afraid when I actually went home.
In the meantime, Roger scurried around getting the rails on our stair replaced, adding a second one on the lower stairs. He moved me from the rehab facility to Jordan and Heather’s house on Friday afternoon when he arrived for a visit. That night we got on a three-way iChat-type connection with Elin and Jen and talked for quite a while about my recovery and the changes I’m going to have to make in my lifestyle. It’s all rehab all the time from here on. In high school PE I learned to hate exercise, so I have never done much on my own. Walking in the water at the pool has worked well for me so far, but I’ll need to do some other things as well. Jen and Elin decided to come out to see me and help me get back on my feet. I’m going to love that!
Since both Richfield and St George home health care is under IHC, I could be admitted in one place and treated in both. The nurse who admitted me changed the bandage and we observed a lot of pinkish drainage from two or three spots along the incision. Heather didn’t have any hospital materials but she sent Jordan out to get over-the-counter stuff that worked pretty well. The drainage continued, annoying but not large amounts. I figured at my Wednesday follow-up appointment with the physician’s assistant, a very nice fellow named Bruce, he would be able to deal with it. I was still on Coumadin, the blood thinner knee replacement patients take to avoid blood clots. I was supposed to be on it two more weeks, but when Bruce took the bandage off, he decided the drainage might have something to do with the Coumadin. He called the pharmacy at the hospital, which controls the use of the drug, and found that the numbers from my last blood draw were good enough that I didn’t need to take it anymore. I was glad of that. Bruce put butterfly bandages along the incision and covered it with a thick non-stick pad that he taped on securely. He also wrapped an elastic bandage around the leg to add some compression and gave us some supplies to change the dressing and keep it as dry as possible. He also put me on an antibiotic to avoid getting an infection.
When we got back to LaVerkin, the bandage was loose and drooping, so Heather re-wrapped it much tighter, using two elastic bandages, and by the time I got home to Richfield that night and descended the stairs without incident, the drainage had slowed noticeably. It has continued to diminish. One thing I learned is that my skin doesn’t like adhesive tape. I’ve developed a couple of sores where the tape was. I noticed before that the skin around the bandage itched, and absent-minded scratching made it worse.
A very nice therapist came to see me on Tuesday in LaVerkin and he had me walking around the island in Heather and Jordan's kitchen without the walker, just holding onto the edge of the countertop. He was right there with me, of course, but it was a grand feeling, something like being on a precipice where I could launch into flight.
Without such luxuries as a big kitchen island at home, therapy is a greater challenge. Someone from home health came on Thursday for a therapy session and will come again Tuesday. Getting up from low chairs is still a challenge but I'm developing strategies. I try to move and stretch and wiggle my feet and legs as much as possible, and do the muscle stretching exercises the therapist taught me. Right now I'm house-bound (literal translation: stir crazy) but hope to get out and walk down the block with a friend if the weather will allow.
My followup appointment with the surgeon is April 1, and I've set a goal to retire the walker by then.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Whacked
Ankle deep in loose sand, I looked at the descent before me and at the beach beyond and knew I couldn’t do it. Instead, Roger and I turned around and went back to the house. I wanted to walk on the beach with my grandchildren and identify the barnacles and crab shells and seaweed; after all, we’d put six months of planning into this vacation, and I wanted to be part of the action. Even the slow ascent up the stairs couldn’t crack the denial. Something was wrong with my legs and I was the only one who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, see it. I was now an observer of life.
Behind the scenes, the kids ganged up on me, giving Heather the assignment to find a doctor and get an appointment for me. Heather is Jordan’s wife, a gift to our family, and we all love her very much. She convinced me that even if there was nothing wrong with my legs, I should have a confirmation from a medical expert. I agreed and she made the appointment. Jordan came the Sunday before Thanksgiving to drive me to their home in LaVerkin where I would stay until Roger came Wednesday for the holiday. My appointment was Monday.
We waited a long time. Finally we were taken to an examining room, and in a few minutes, a nurse took me to x-ray my knees. Then we waited for the doctor, Scott Parry. He came in, talked to us for a couple of minutes and then began to tell me about my knees. He saw bone spurs and arthritis in the joints, but very little cartilage. This did not make me a candidate for a new procedure that would simple plump up the cartilage with injections and restore the cushion between the fibia and the tibia. There was no alternative but surgery. I’ve had major surgeries before and always bounced back, so I wasn’t concerned about that. I’m essentially a very healthy person. Dr. Parry told me that his mother had this surgery several months ago and was able to go on a long bike ride and a hike with the family. I was sold when he said I would have 80 percent mobility and that I’d get my life back. Oddly enough, I have never experienced much pain in my knees. Mostly my muscles have hurt, preventing me from standing for long periods of time or from walking very far. Dr. Parry identified it as compensatory pain, because the muscles were trying to compensate for what the knee joints could no longer do.
Since I have injured my left knee so many times, I decided to have that surgery first. The doctor does seven surgeries every Tuesday, but the earliest date available on his calendar was two months away, January 20. He works two ORs at once so he doesn’t waste time. As the secretary wrote in my name in the last blank space and I realized it was inauguration day, I thought about inaugurating a new, more active life. I was given a pre-op appointment, and scheduled for an orientation a week before surgery to learn about what would happen and what to expect from the procedure. I began counting down the days.
On January 7, I met with Bruce, the physician’s assistant, who wrote “YES” on my left knee with a medical permanent marker, and gave some instructions about medications and other preparations for the big day. I would come to Jordan and Heather’s house Monday and wait for a phone call from the doctor’s office telling me exactly when to arrive at the hospital Tuesday. I went ahead and scheduled my post-op checkup and pre-op for the other knee on the same day, Feb. 4. There was one last spot on the surgeon’s calendar on Feb. 17, so I took it. I was reluctant to wait any later in the spring because of the danger of pollen allergies interfering.
Bobbette and I did our visiting teaching on January 12 and then she took me to lunch, since it’s my birthday. The next day I went to St. George with my friend Faye, and Heather joined us for the two-hour orientation session at Dixie Regional Medical Center, River Road campus. People from several departments came to talk to us about medications, the hospital routine on 4-West where we would stay for four days, and post-op therapy. We were given a foil-wrapped surgical sponge to shower with the night before surgery. They gave a physiology lesson on knee joints and passed around a model of what would be placed in our legs. It was heavy. One of the fascinating factoids I learned is that the bone, which is porous, sends out feelers or tentacles into the porous material of the artificial joint and bonds with it. I also learned that my new knees will set off security alarms in airports, but I will be given an ID card that will allow me to go through the “handicapped” security line and be wanded separately. A pharmacist talked to us about coumadin, a blood thinner we would have to take for two or three weeks after surgery. I was fascinated and not grossed-out at all by everything I learned. Heather was eager to learn about it since she hadn’t been assigned on 4-West very much.
Roger and I went to a website Elin recommended to look at an animated interactive video of the surgery. Roger almost fainted, but I was fascinated to learn that a saw, mallet and drill are involved. I was detached somehow, not associating with my knee the things I saw in the video. I had seen the surgery in sketches on WebMD, but this was more detailed. Apparently, technology has made knee replacement surgery a more exact science. A computer analyzes patient x-rays so the doctor knows exactly where to trim bone and drill the holes to receive the prosthetic. It figures the “Q” factor and tells the doctor what angle to install the prosthetic. “Q” is for quadriceps, the muscle on top of the thigh, and in men and women it’s different.
I went confidently to LaVerkin. The call from the doctor’s office instructed me to come in at 11:45 the next morning. I was sixth in line. Roger and Jordan gave me a blessing, and I felt my confidence justified.
The surgery is done with the knee bent at a 90-degree angle. A tourniquet on the thigh cuts off the blood supply so there’s less blood loss. After making an incision and pulling the kneecap aside, the doctor disconnects the joint, trims the tibia and fibia of bone spurs and arthritis damage, and then using a saw, prepares the surface of each bone for the prosthetic device. He drills holes in each bone to accept the device, then fits a sample device in and bends the knee to see if everything is going to fit. Removing the artificial device, he fits the prosthetic in place with special bone glue. Then he puts the kneecap back in place, stitches up the dermal layers and closes the incision. In my case, I had 23 staples. He told me later my surgery took 90 minutes. I was wheeled into the operating room at 2 p.m., had spinal anesthesia and some supplemental ‘happy juice’ to make me forget.
Having had major surgeries before, I dreaded recovery from general anesthetic. It leaves you groggy for days. The anesthesiologist gave me the choice of spinal or general. He said two-thirds to three-fourths of joint replacement patients choose spinal because they can wake up and be alert right away. It’s true. I was awake in recovery at 4 p.m. and ready to get on with my life. I suffered minimal nausea, but nothing serious. There was a drainage tube in my leg, a catheter, and – incidentally – a new cell phone. Jordan and Roger had gone out and signed us up on Jordan and Heather’s plan. They installed all the family phone numbers so I could speed-dial everyone. Nice.
On 4-West, patients have the best food in the hospital, prepared by a personal chef. We had breakfast in bed only on the day after surgery. After that we were up in a wheelchair or walker going to meals at 8, 12 and 5, and to morning and afternoon therapy sessions. A guest or ‘coach’ is welcome to have meals with the patient. Within 24 hours of surgery I was on a semi-recumbent elliptical machine for 15 minutes – my left knee felt great, but my right knee began to suffer with the pedaling action. I also had mat exercises to increase the range of motion, and for six hours a day I had to be on a motion machine that kept the knee flexible. I didn’t mind that, but my short legs don’t really fit in it. The doctor said some people walk out of the hospital four days after surgery and rehab at home without another problem. I wasn’t one of those. Medicare allows for 20 days in rehab every quarter, but since I had other insurance as my major coverage, and since I was planning to have the surgeries so close together, we decided to allow ten days for each knee. In the end, my insurance only allowed nine.
Elin came Friday morning and she was really a godsend. I realized soon after I got to the rehab facility that I brought all the wrong things. She went out and bought what I needed and went to therapy with me and was a cheerleader all the way. Jordan and Heather came that night with a beautiful bouquet of yellow and lavender tulips. Jordan downloaded Skype on my laptop so we could talk to Jen on the internet and see each other. We called her that night and they showed her my room, my bandage, the flowers and everything.
I was so excited to see Roger the next day for the first time in a week. He couldn’t stay long, but the kids engineered an escape to go out to lunch. We chose a Chinese place on the other side of town. Getting me into the car wasn’t easy or painless, but I made it. I had to go to the bathroom while I was at the restaurant, and I learned a lot about bathrooms that aren’t handicap-equipped. My fortune was hilarious, considering my helpless state: It would be wise at this time not to seek too much help from others. (Elin framed it and brought it to me the next day.)
Jordan and Heather brought me a toy to cheer me up – a purple toucan that sings two different operatic selections when you squeeze its tail, and the mouth opens to reveal a flashlight. It gave me endless amusement. I also enjoyed my new laptop computer which helped me stay connected.
Another somewhat amusing aspect of the rehab center was the food. “It’s very institutional,” sniffed the cook at the hospital 4-West unit. She was right, and although some of it was good, some was very bizarre. One side dish that sounds weird but was actually good was chopped celery and diced pears poached in milk. Since I was on coumadin to head off blood clots, I was supposed to avoid foods high in Vitamin K, such as lettuce and other dark green leafy vegetables, asparagus, peas, etc. One night, however, I was served a chef salad – lots of lettuce with a couple of pieces of tomato and some chopped cheese and ham. The side dish was a side salad. Really. I couldn’t believe it.
Elin and I had some good talks together and I was sad to see her leave on Tuesday. However, Heather came and spent the day with me on Wednesday, going to Walmart, taking me out to LaVerkin for lunch and a nap in the best sleeping chair ever – a new chair-and-a-half leather recliner they just purchased for their home. I could almost get my own foot in and out of the car. After cheering me on in rehab, she helped me have a shower and wash my hair. Then she lotioned my feet, curled and combed my hair and made me feel fabulous.
Jordan came Thursday and Friday nights to watch the new DVD Jen sent for my birthday, The Great Race, my favorite comedy. On Thursday I found out that my insurance wouldn’t approve the number of days the therapists wanted me to stay at the rehab center. Roger came again Saturday, and we went out to dinner at The Olive Garden with Jordan and Heather. By now I was able to get my own feet in and out of the car. After morning rehab on Sunday, the director of therapy brought me a number of canes to choose from – pink paisley, etc. I chose a black one, confident that I wouldn’t need it long enough to make it a fashion statement. Then Roger brought me home. On Monday afternoon I was in rehab in Richfield, where I went four times a week for the two weeks I was home.
Tomorrow (Feb. 16) we are headed for St. George again, and I report to the hospital at 7:15 Tuesday morning. Stay tuned.
Behind the scenes, the kids ganged up on me, giving Heather the assignment to find a doctor and get an appointment for me. Heather is Jordan’s wife, a gift to our family, and we all love her very much. She convinced me that even if there was nothing wrong with my legs, I should have a confirmation from a medical expert. I agreed and she made the appointment. Jordan came the Sunday before Thanksgiving to drive me to their home in LaVerkin where I would stay until Roger came Wednesday for the holiday. My appointment was Monday.
We waited a long time. Finally we were taken to an examining room, and in a few minutes, a nurse took me to x-ray my knees. Then we waited for the doctor, Scott Parry. He came in, talked to us for a couple of minutes and then began to tell me about my knees. He saw bone spurs and arthritis in the joints, but very little cartilage. This did not make me a candidate for a new procedure that would simple plump up the cartilage with injections and restore the cushion between the fibia and the tibia. There was no alternative but surgery. I’ve had major surgeries before and always bounced back, so I wasn’t concerned about that. I’m essentially a very healthy person. Dr. Parry told me that his mother had this surgery several months ago and was able to go on a long bike ride and a hike with the family. I was sold when he said I would have 80 percent mobility and that I’d get my life back. Oddly enough, I have never experienced much pain in my knees. Mostly my muscles have hurt, preventing me from standing for long periods of time or from walking very far. Dr. Parry identified it as compensatory pain, because the muscles were trying to compensate for what the knee joints could no longer do.
Since I have injured my left knee so many times, I decided to have that surgery first. The doctor does seven surgeries every Tuesday, but the earliest date available on his calendar was two months away, January 20. He works two ORs at once so he doesn’t waste time. As the secretary wrote in my name in the last blank space and I realized it was inauguration day, I thought about inaugurating a new, more active life. I was given a pre-op appointment, and scheduled for an orientation a week before surgery to learn about what would happen and what to expect from the procedure. I began counting down the days.
On January 7, I met with Bruce, the physician’s assistant, who wrote “YES” on my left knee with a medical permanent marker, and gave some instructions about medications and other preparations for the big day. I would come to Jordan and Heather’s house Monday and wait for a phone call from the doctor’s office telling me exactly when to arrive at the hospital Tuesday. I went ahead and scheduled my post-op checkup and pre-op for the other knee on the same day, Feb. 4. There was one last spot on the surgeon’s calendar on Feb. 17, so I took it. I was reluctant to wait any later in the spring because of the danger of pollen allergies interfering.
Bobbette and I did our visiting teaching on January 12 and then she took me to lunch, since it’s my birthday. The next day I went to St. George with my friend Faye, and Heather joined us for the two-hour orientation session at Dixie Regional Medical Center, River Road campus. People from several departments came to talk to us about medications, the hospital routine on 4-West where we would stay for four days, and post-op therapy. We were given a foil-wrapped surgical sponge to shower with the night before surgery. They gave a physiology lesson on knee joints and passed around a model of what would be placed in our legs. It was heavy. One of the fascinating factoids I learned is that the bone, which is porous, sends out feelers or tentacles into the porous material of the artificial joint and bonds with it. I also learned that my new knees will set off security alarms in airports, but I will be given an ID card that will allow me to go through the “handicapped” security line and be wanded separately. A pharmacist talked to us about coumadin, a blood thinner we would have to take for two or three weeks after surgery. I was fascinated and not grossed-out at all by everything I learned. Heather was eager to learn about it since she hadn’t been assigned on 4-West very much.
Roger and I went to a website Elin recommended to look at an animated interactive video of the surgery. Roger almost fainted, but I was fascinated to learn that a saw, mallet and drill are involved. I was detached somehow, not associating with my knee the things I saw in the video. I had seen the surgery in sketches on WebMD, but this was more detailed. Apparently, technology has made knee replacement surgery a more exact science. A computer analyzes patient x-rays so the doctor knows exactly where to trim bone and drill the holes to receive the prosthetic. It figures the “Q” factor and tells the doctor what angle to install the prosthetic. “Q” is for quadriceps, the muscle on top of the thigh, and in men and women it’s different.
I went confidently to LaVerkin. The call from the doctor’s office instructed me to come in at 11:45 the next morning. I was sixth in line. Roger and Jordan gave me a blessing, and I felt my confidence justified.
The surgery is done with the knee bent at a 90-degree angle. A tourniquet on the thigh cuts off the blood supply so there’s less blood loss. After making an incision and pulling the kneecap aside, the doctor disconnects the joint, trims the tibia and fibia of bone spurs and arthritis damage, and then using a saw, prepares the surface of each bone for the prosthetic device. He drills holes in each bone to accept the device, then fits a sample device in and bends the knee to see if everything is going to fit. Removing the artificial device, he fits the prosthetic in place with special bone glue. Then he puts the kneecap back in place, stitches up the dermal layers and closes the incision. In my case, I had 23 staples. He told me later my surgery took 90 minutes. I was wheeled into the operating room at 2 p.m., had spinal anesthesia and some supplemental ‘happy juice’ to make me forget.
Having had major surgeries before, I dreaded recovery from general anesthetic. It leaves you groggy for days. The anesthesiologist gave me the choice of spinal or general. He said two-thirds to three-fourths of joint replacement patients choose spinal because they can wake up and be alert right away. It’s true. I was awake in recovery at 4 p.m. and ready to get on with my life. I suffered minimal nausea, but nothing serious. There was a drainage tube in my leg, a catheter, and – incidentally – a new cell phone. Jordan and Roger had gone out and signed us up on Jordan and Heather’s plan. They installed all the family phone numbers so I could speed-dial everyone. Nice.
On 4-West, patients have the best food in the hospital, prepared by a personal chef. We had breakfast in bed only on the day after surgery. After that we were up in a wheelchair or walker going to meals at 8, 12 and 5, and to morning and afternoon therapy sessions. A guest or ‘coach’ is welcome to have meals with the patient. Within 24 hours of surgery I was on a semi-recumbent elliptical machine for 15 minutes – my left knee felt great, but my right knee began to suffer with the pedaling action. I also had mat exercises to increase the range of motion, and for six hours a day I had to be on a motion machine that kept the knee flexible. I didn’t mind that, but my short legs don’t really fit in it. The doctor said some people walk out of the hospital four days after surgery and rehab at home without another problem. I wasn’t one of those. Medicare allows for 20 days in rehab every quarter, but since I had other insurance as my major coverage, and since I was planning to have the surgeries so close together, we decided to allow ten days for each knee. In the end, my insurance only allowed nine.
Elin came Friday morning and she was really a godsend. I realized soon after I got to the rehab facility that I brought all the wrong things. She went out and bought what I needed and went to therapy with me and was a cheerleader all the way. Jordan and Heather came that night with a beautiful bouquet of yellow and lavender tulips. Jordan downloaded Skype on my laptop so we could talk to Jen on the internet and see each other. We called her that night and they showed her my room, my bandage, the flowers and everything.
I was so excited to see Roger the next day for the first time in a week. He couldn’t stay long, but the kids engineered an escape to go out to lunch. We chose a Chinese place on the other side of town. Getting me into the car wasn’t easy or painless, but I made it. I had to go to the bathroom while I was at the restaurant, and I learned a lot about bathrooms that aren’t handicap-equipped. My fortune was hilarious, considering my helpless state: It would be wise at this time not to seek too much help from others. (Elin framed it and brought it to me the next day.)
Jordan and Heather brought me a toy to cheer me up – a purple toucan that sings two different operatic selections when you squeeze its tail, and the mouth opens to reveal a flashlight. It gave me endless amusement. I also enjoyed my new laptop computer which helped me stay connected.
Another somewhat amusing aspect of the rehab center was the food. “It’s very institutional,” sniffed the cook at the hospital 4-West unit. She was right, and although some of it was good, some was very bizarre. One side dish that sounds weird but was actually good was chopped celery and diced pears poached in milk. Since I was on coumadin to head off blood clots, I was supposed to avoid foods high in Vitamin K, such as lettuce and other dark green leafy vegetables, asparagus, peas, etc. One night, however, I was served a chef salad – lots of lettuce with a couple of pieces of tomato and some chopped cheese and ham. The side dish was a side salad. Really. I couldn’t believe it.
Elin and I had some good talks together and I was sad to see her leave on Tuesday. However, Heather came and spent the day with me on Wednesday, going to Walmart, taking me out to LaVerkin for lunch and a nap in the best sleeping chair ever – a new chair-and-a-half leather recliner they just purchased for their home. I could almost get my own foot in and out of the car. After cheering me on in rehab, she helped me have a shower and wash my hair. Then she lotioned my feet, curled and combed my hair and made me feel fabulous.
Jordan came Thursday and Friday nights to watch the new DVD Jen sent for my birthday, The Great Race, my favorite comedy. On Thursday I found out that my insurance wouldn’t approve the number of days the therapists wanted me to stay at the rehab center. Roger came again Saturday, and we went out to dinner at The Olive Garden with Jordan and Heather. By now I was able to get my own feet in and out of the car. After morning rehab on Sunday, the director of therapy brought me a number of canes to choose from – pink paisley, etc. I chose a black one, confident that I wouldn’t need it long enough to make it a fashion statement. Then Roger brought me home. On Monday afternoon I was in rehab in Richfield, where I went four times a week for the two weeks I was home.
Tomorrow (Feb. 16) we are headed for St. George again, and I report to the hospital at 7:15 Tuesday morning. Stay tuned.
Monday, February 9, 2009
25 Random Things About Me
What I did for Facebook:
1. I can’t stand the smell, taste or texture of fish or seafood.
2. The smell of coffee nauseates me. I have to hold my breath when I walk down that aisle at the supermarket.
3. My first child was born on Guam.
4. I never went to a high school prom. However, I went on to live a normal life anyway.
5. The boyfriend I had during the school year when I was 14 – the only boyfriend I had in high school – grew up to become an expert in human sexuality. I think that’s hilarious.
6. I’m a bit Monk-ish. (Monk is my favorite TV show.) I LIKE to have a place for everything and everything it in its place; however, unlike Monk, I don’t fall apart when it almost never is.
7. My feet are short and wide, making it impossible to go into a regular shoe store and find something that fits, other than a box. One of my feet is size 6 1/2 and the other is size 7.
8. Halloween is by far the stupidest holiday on the calendar and I refuse to buy into it. Every year we plan to be otherwise occupied somewhere else so we can avoid the shameless little blackmailing beggars.
9. I have experienced religious persecution. In my high school of about 2500 kids, I was one of only a handful of LDS. In my senior year, when I announced I was going to BYU, one of my friends said, “You know what they say – I don’t care how you bring ‘em as long as you bring ‘em young.” It really hurt that someone I considered a friend for the last four years would be so disrespectful. I tried to discuss religion with people in high school, but no one wanted to listen. One girl, a minister’s daughter, took every opportunity to manufacture and spout lies about the LDS church, and people listened to her more than they listened to me. Many years later I did reconnect with one of my high school LDS friends, which was wonderful.
10. I love word games and jigsaw puzzles. I have found a lot of people feel the same way but are reluctant to come out of the closet and admit it unless someone else brings it up first.
11. I have taught creative writing for Snow College outreach and adult education. I especially like poetry, drama, essays and novels, of which I have written a lot.
12. I wish someone would explain this to me: “We are the change we’ve been waiting for.” Does that actually make sense to anyone? It’s total baloney to me. If the change is to socialism, I’m opposed. If the change is improvement, I’ll listen. It’s the morality, stupid.
13. I used to be a TV news junkie, but now I prefer going online to National Review Online, Newsbusters.org, townhall.com, Glenn Beck, and Fox News. If I feel my blood pressure getting too low I look at CNN.com. Obviously, I’m wildly conservative.
14. Chocolate is my favorite indulgence.
15. The internet is wonderful! I have been known to do ALL my Christmas shopping online.
16. I have to most wonderful husband in the world.
17. Before I had bad knees, I used to cook and make menu plans and everything. Then I deteriorated into fast food and quick stuff from the deli. Sometimes I’d spend a day cooking a bunch of stuff we could freeze for later. When my knee joint replacements are coordinated and functioning together, I expect to cook again.
18. My total, complete, unequivocal most favorite place on earth in the Oregon coast, and beachcombing is my favorite pastime. August and September are the best times to go there.
19. I never had a cell phone until January 20, 2009.
20. My knee replacement surgery was done on inauguration day, January 20, 2009, and I was released from the rehab facility on February 1, 2009, Super Bowl day. My next surgery is February 17, 2009, the day we all go digital, and I will be in rehab until March 1, 2, or 3. Who knows what memorable event will happen that day?
21. I have many nicknames, and my verbally creative daughter Elin is always making up new ones – I never know what she’s going to call me when she calls on the phone. My original name is Pamela Gay Stott, but I have also been known as Pammie, Pammie-wammie, Stottie-wottie, Pamalia, Miss Pam, Momster, Pamalamadingdong, Mommie, GramPam, and the Pamster, which is how my kids most often refer to me. There are many variations and permutations surfacing all the time. (By the way, Roger is sometimes known as Rogerbil. He and I are the furry little pets in the family.) When I was in high school, some of my sillier friends started calling each other by our names spelled backward. Then I was Alemap Yag, and many variations of that.
22. I love puns. Once when I was in college I lived in an attic apartment with three other girls, and with all the odd ceiling angles in the place it was hard to decorate and personalize. One day I came home to find my roommates sitting at the table enjoying apples and peanut butter (our favorite snack) and grinning with anticipation to see my reaction when I noticed the life-size poster of their favorite Russian ballet dancer someone had mounted on the wall. I looked around at their giddy faces and sniffed with mock disgust, “Well, you’ve got your Nureyev.” They exploded in laughter that went on for ten minutes.
23. If I were a Winnie the Pooh character, I’d be Pooh. I love honey and I’m afraid of heffalumps and woozles.
24. I love making other people laugh. I prefer to do it deliberately with wit rather than with pratfalls.
25. I have serious acrophobia as I get older. (Roger calls it ‘high-drophobia.’) Even in my dreams, if I’m going down stairs, the stairs suddenly become steeper until they’re like a ladder, and I fall. But I don’t mind having a window seat in an airplane; I love flying into Portland and seeing Mt. Hood as we approach the airport.
1. I can’t stand the smell, taste or texture of fish or seafood.
2. The smell of coffee nauseates me. I have to hold my breath when I walk down that aisle at the supermarket.
3. My first child was born on Guam.
4. I never went to a high school prom. However, I went on to live a normal life anyway.
5. The boyfriend I had during the school year when I was 14 – the only boyfriend I had in high school – grew up to become an expert in human sexuality. I think that’s hilarious.
6. I’m a bit Monk-ish. (Monk is my favorite TV show.) I LIKE to have a place for everything and everything it in its place; however, unlike Monk, I don’t fall apart when it almost never is.
7. My feet are short and wide, making it impossible to go into a regular shoe store and find something that fits, other than a box. One of my feet is size 6 1/2 and the other is size 7.
8. Halloween is by far the stupidest holiday on the calendar and I refuse to buy into it. Every year we plan to be otherwise occupied somewhere else so we can avoid the shameless little blackmailing beggars.
9. I have experienced religious persecution. In my high school of about 2500 kids, I was one of only a handful of LDS. In my senior year, when I announced I was going to BYU, one of my friends said, “You know what they say – I don’t care how you bring ‘em as long as you bring ‘em young.” It really hurt that someone I considered a friend for the last four years would be so disrespectful. I tried to discuss religion with people in high school, but no one wanted to listen. One girl, a minister’s daughter, took every opportunity to manufacture and spout lies about the LDS church, and people listened to her more than they listened to me. Many years later I did reconnect with one of my high school LDS friends, which was wonderful.
10. I love word games and jigsaw puzzles. I have found a lot of people feel the same way but are reluctant to come out of the closet and admit it unless someone else brings it up first.
11. I have taught creative writing for Snow College outreach and adult education. I especially like poetry, drama, essays and novels, of which I have written a lot.
12. I wish someone would explain this to me: “We are the change we’ve been waiting for.” Does that actually make sense to anyone? It’s total baloney to me. If the change is to socialism, I’m opposed. If the change is improvement, I’ll listen. It’s the morality, stupid.
13. I used to be a TV news junkie, but now I prefer going online to National Review Online, Newsbusters.org, townhall.com, Glenn Beck, and Fox News. If I feel my blood pressure getting too low I look at CNN.com. Obviously, I’m wildly conservative.
14. Chocolate is my favorite indulgence.
15. The internet is wonderful! I have been known to do ALL my Christmas shopping online.
16. I have to most wonderful husband in the world.
17. Before I had bad knees, I used to cook and make menu plans and everything. Then I deteriorated into fast food and quick stuff from the deli. Sometimes I’d spend a day cooking a bunch of stuff we could freeze for later. When my knee joint replacements are coordinated and functioning together, I expect to cook again.
18. My total, complete, unequivocal most favorite place on earth in the Oregon coast, and beachcombing is my favorite pastime. August and September are the best times to go there.
19. I never had a cell phone until January 20, 2009.
20. My knee replacement surgery was done on inauguration day, January 20, 2009, and I was released from the rehab facility on February 1, 2009, Super Bowl day. My next surgery is February 17, 2009, the day we all go digital, and I will be in rehab until March 1, 2, or 3. Who knows what memorable event will happen that day?
21. I have many nicknames, and my verbally creative daughter Elin is always making up new ones – I never know what she’s going to call me when she calls on the phone. My original name is Pamela Gay Stott, but I have also been known as Pammie, Pammie-wammie, Stottie-wottie, Pamalia, Miss Pam, Momster, Pamalamadingdong, Mommie, GramPam, and the Pamster, which is how my kids most often refer to me. There are many variations and permutations surfacing all the time. (By the way, Roger is sometimes known as Rogerbil. He and I are the furry little pets in the family.) When I was in high school, some of my sillier friends started calling each other by our names spelled backward. Then I was Alemap Yag, and many variations of that.
22. I love puns. Once when I was in college I lived in an attic apartment with three other girls, and with all the odd ceiling angles in the place it was hard to decorate and personalize. One day I came home to find my roommates sitting at the table enjoying apples and peanut butter (our favorite snack) and grinning with anticipation to see my reaction when I noticed the life-size poster of their favorite Russian ballet dancer someone had mounted on the wall. I looked around at their giddy faces and sniffed with mock disgust, “Well, you’ve got your Nureyev.” They exploded in laughter that went on for ten minutes.
23. If I were a Winnie the Pooh character, I’d be Pooh. I love honey and I’m afraid of heffalumps and woozles.
24. I love making other people laugh. I prefer to do it deliberately with wit rather than with pratfalls.
25. I have serious acrophobia as I get older. (Roger calls it ‘high-drophobia.’) Even in my dreams, if I’m going down stairs, the stairs suddenly become steeper until they’re like a ladder, and I fall. But I don’t mind having a window seat in an airplane; I love flying into Portland and seeing Mt. Hood as we approach the airport.
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