My First Bacon & Egg Burger

Not the greatest photo, but trust me--it was wonderful.

Grilling dinner poolside

Every time I am in Florida visiting my daughters I hope to try out a new restaurant or two and plan a menu that involves my son-in-law displaying his grill skills.

With summer coming, the magazines and blogs have been featuring lots of ideas for beefing up burgers. I have also been watching a few episodes of "The United States of Bacon."

So when I was in the Orlando area for Mother's Day weekend I was inspired to buy ground beef, bacon and eggs. I decided to beef up the burger with chicken (eggs) and pork. We chopped the bacon into small pieces, mixed it in with the ground meat along with some ground salt and pepper and grilled the burgers to well done. They were still juicy from the extra fat!

Rebecca showed me how to poach a perfect egg and the two of us were brave enough to top our burgers with one, the yolk running just a little. (I don't know what would be wrong with just frying the egg--fried in the grease from an extra strip or two of the bacon!)

We also added white cheddar, grilled rings of onion, and sliced tomato. Grilled asparagus filled out the menu. Dessert was a small portion of vanilla ice cream topped with a compote of recently picked Florida blueberries. All eaten poolside in perfect evening temperatures.

I personally thought my burger was delicious and can't wait to try this again sometime, maybe sans poached egg.

We discussed appropriate names for the creation--such as the Farm Burger, since it included all the animals my father had on our farm (except for the dogs and cats and peacocks!) It even included cow's milk in the cheese.

Another Blood Drive

My heart (or at least its life-blood) had been promised to another. This past Friday, by mistake, I broke my promise, spilling out a precious pint to a competing organization.

I learned recently during that short memory-loss episode that my blood iron level was sufficient to once again donate. Michigan Blood had been calling and I promised that I would come in to make a donation soon. It has been busy and it is an easy thing to put off, especially since it seems to zap my energy for a day or two.

So when I learned that my church was having a blood drive I thought that that would be a convenient way to donate. What I didn't know is that I had signed up to give to the Red Cross. They use the blood in their disaster relief efforts--and there has been quite a bit of that lately, so I should have no regrets, I suppose. They had a little different system and it was fast--a pint was drained in about 5 minutes flat as I was gently squeezing a ball to facilitate the flow. They measured hemoglobin, not calculating hematocrit level. I was at 14.5. I didn't feel dizzy afterwards, but later had little energy. I went home to lay down for a bit and promptly fell sound asleep, in the middle of the afternoon. My arm bruised a little and is turning many colors, but otherwise it was pretty easy and I am glad to have been able to donate and once again reduce my iron level to a low normal. I previously referred to this as my plan for blood-letting. I hope that some day it will be common knowledge that this is "a good thing."

 But having started my donation history (one donation and two failed attempts because of low iron) with one blood organization, I felt a certain loyalty to Michigan Blood. Like a woman once bitten by a vampire is forever changed, I was now connected, in a way, to the first blood-taker (sucker?). I had a donor card. I learned shortly before the donation that I had indeed now promised my blood to another--it was a completely different organization, but it was too late to turn back!

Oh well--how bad can one feel, really, for having given a successful donation to the American Red Cross? I called Michigan Blood to tell them to stop calling me now--for at least a year.

I wonder how much of my natural or acquired immunity (I claim to even have had West Nile virus) was transferred in that donation? I think I should get at least a hundred bucks per donation for my pure blood, tainted only by that daily baby aspirin. That seems only fair. What do you think?

Blue Screen of Death and a Greening Rain of Life

My neighbor added an owl last week to watch over our shared "heart" garden

I learned a new phrase last week. My computer displayed a lovely BSOD after a failed download.  After trying various delete and restore operations we called a tech guy. Today I picked up my laptop from the office of Patrick, who had done the work "on the side." He didn't have to wipe it clean--my files were preserved. There had been a problem with an old security system which he eliminated and replaced. I now have avast! Antivirus, he added a defraggler icon and cleaned it up a bit.

Along the way I heard a few horror stories of other cases (at least one terminal) of Blue Screen of Death. We had managed to save all my files to a new flash drive using safe mode, just in case it would need a "wipe."

I am so delighted to have my computer home again and completely functional. My last post here was early May and I have yet to tell my wonderful adventures in Florida on Mother's Day weekend. Now, if I could only find my glasses, and if only Mike would come over with some freon for the air-conditioner I would be happy--for at least a day or so!

It was cool and rainy today and we didn't need the air. I found my old glasses in a drawer. And the grass on the other side of the fence--and especially in my yard--could not be any greener. (See above)

And I am so happy about all the rain, even though the bathroom ceiling leaked a little today.

 I managed to mow all the long green lawn grass by Saturday. I also seeded a large section of lawn at the rental house, and on Wednesday and Friday I helped plant dozens of flats of annuals in the church garden. (Frank died in February, but all his flowers were already growing in the greenhouse.) The cool rainy weather is just perfect for the new plants to settle in and for the grass seed to germinate.

I also transplanted hostas and more in Marissa's garden last week. Hostas three feet wide popped right out after the gentle spring rains. I also helped my pastor divide old clumps of daffs and tulips at his recently purchased home. At Aunt V's I planted dahlias, cannas, callas and leftover Easter lily bulbs. All things green and growing are getting a good boost from the thunder-cloud rains.

So lots of volunteer work, too, last week and by Saturday night--utter exhaustion.

But, I sat around eating bad (indulgent) food and birthday cake all holiday weekend. My muscles are well rested now--except for my stomach muscles, which are once again stretched way too far.

We ate our first Costco cake (new members this year) on Memorial Day--pretty decadent, all decorated in white and purple roses for Aunt V's birthday. I took home the remaining couple of pieces, which are now demolished.

After our Memorial Day picnic lunch, it once again started to rain--more glorious rain.

I heard once, over a decade ago, that Martha Stewart did her transplanting in the rain and I make no apologies for occasionally gardening in the rain--or mowing the lawn after dark! Now, of course, Martha has a full time head gardener and many helpers on her farm, but I respect that she worked hard for years doing the nitty-gritty stuff, too--like de-lousing her chickens. Wow, I don't even know what that means. I don't remember our chickens on the farm getting lice or needing to be de-loused.

(I always manage to include some of my recurring themes in these posts! Lousy chickens. The farm. Martha Stewart. Rain and watering. Eating too much good food. The weather. My aching/aging/retirement body. Flowers.)

Life moves on, with another birthday on the horizon. Three friends join me for a July birthday and I hope we can celebrate with cake only once--or less!

 A church member died this week. A new baby joined us at the family picnic Memorial Day.

New baby birds (and their attentive parents) have lately been loud and chirpy. My neighbor Lynn picked up a fat worm from the wet sidewalk and dropped it into the wide open mouth of a baby robin who had jumped ship but could not fly. We still have a nest of baby sparrows that are surviving, their nest rimmed in poop. I took a photo today. They are staying dry and warm in their nest atop a porch light. A low-wattage bulb doesn't seem to bother them.

Lol. I even managed to fit in a "poop" reference in this post!

A Walk in the Woods

trillium

It was quite a May Day today. It reached the lower 80's. By 7:00 PM we relented and turned on the air for the first time. Earlier in the day I enjoyed a walk in the park.

bloodroot

ramps

All the trees and  buds and flowers are popping. The forsythia seemed to explode in just one day.

The garden club had scheduled a walk in the woods to see the trillium and other wild flowers, which were not really open last week when the event had been originally scheduled. I am still learning about wild flowers but came to recognize a few more. I saw ramps, which I had enjoyed as a soup garnish of ramp pistou earlier in the week. I took many photos and will share just a few. The untended wild flowers are a testament to their creator, faithfully and gloriously sprouting up each spring, pushing through the layers of messy leaves and fallen logs that are strewn about the forest understory.

trout lily

Calipers on my Car?

I knew something was very wrong with my car and getting worse. But I was in denial. I knew the horrendous scraping noise was getting louder, especially when I braked. But hey, the brakes still worked. I tried to glide through stop signs and hit all the green lights in order to avoid braking.

Like an old man who has a pain in his gut and is too afraid to go to the doctor and be given a life-altering diagnosis, I neglected my old car--afraid of the bad news I knew was coming. I have needed new brakes before but I have never before heard the excruciating sounds of metallic friction that were emanating from my Montero Sport's left rear end.

So finally last week the car went in to the garage. I had a friend pick me up at the shop in her school bus. We went out for coffee and a club sandwich as I awaited the dreaded phone call and she awaited her next run. Ouch. Two hours later I took the call--I had a broken caliper. They come in pairs as I learned. Only one was broken, but they recommended replacing both. What the heck were calipers? My gearhead brothers will laugh at me. I don't think I have ever replaced my calipers before.

And then it gets worse. I needed a new alternator, and belts as well. The battery had already been replaced and the car was starting fine, but I guess it was only a matter of time--it was not charging.

At some point during the final phone call informing me that my car was ready, the man at the shop called me hon. I appreciated that he was trying to be accommodating to me, but a tiny tinge of feminism reared its ugly head. My hackles were aroused...but my calipers were fixed!

The bill. $1398. And that was for only the one caliper. The car is now as quiet as a good dream and I can once again slam on my brakes without cringing from the screeching sounds of metal on metal.

For another couple hundred they would have replaced the pump for my windshield fluid. I have invested in a cheap squirt bottle to keep in the car.

I don't often write about my Dad. His name was Melvin and I liked him very much. My husband lost his father less than two years ago and sees him every day when he looks in the mirror. My parents have been gone so long that I can go days without thinking about them. And I try not to look in the mirror very often. But my bad brakes reminded me of my father. To save on brakes, he would go dangerously fast around corners. He careened out of our driveway onto the highway sans brakes. I recall that it felt dangerous.

I was also reminded that he delighted in freaking me out by navigating the ditches and ridges on the farm at a tipping angle. I'm sure he knew what was safe, but he delighted in trying to frighten me. 

I wonder if he did the same to those old gearhead brothers of mine?

I wonder if he would be amused by my bad caliper and braking-avoidance technique?

Fire and Ice in April

It's snowing--let's turn up the heat!

Today was a terrible, horrible, very bad April Day. I look at photos from last year when we had an early spring--too early really, as the apple blossoms bloomed and froze--and I marvel at the contrast. This is ridiculous. It was windy and cold this morning and then this afternoon--snow pellets began to blow about. You can see the accumulation on the ivy outside the window.

Tomorrow we will be a month into Spring. Nearly 10 inches of April showers have swelled the rivers and lakes, but it has been so chilly that the grass is hardly greening. One yellow pansy is trying to bloom in a half whisky barrel I planted last fall, a few primroses are peaking out pink and of course, the plucky crocuses and Lenten roses have been blooming for awhile. But it is pretty grim out there and spring cleanup has ground to a halt.

Inside, I have one bright spot. My amaryllis is indeed spectacular. I have photographed its progress as the stalk grew to 27 inches before opening up to bloom in triplicate.

Here is my blooming beauty as of today, April 19, 2013:

Fitness, Friends and Failure

When I was in my twenties I could eat a whole pizza every Friday night (and did for awhile when we were living in our Oak Park, IL apartment) and never think about gaining weight. Now I eat a small thin crust pizza and know it will make me gain weight.

I never learned the discipline needed early in life, when I still had hormones and muscles and no laptop or HD television.

About a week ago I finally joined a popular on-line site for weight loss, My Fitness Pal. I am trying to bring some more accountability into my life.

I was soooo good all week. I went out to eat only once and had fajitas--ate just the veggies and the meat and a little cheese. I mostly ate at home and mostly stayed near my (near-starvation) goals.

Girls Night Out - Shared fajitas and 1/2 price Wednesday wine

And then the full load of temptation hit on the weekend, on day 8 of the program.

It all went south on Saturday, late afternoon. An art gallery opening included a good friend and we showed up to lend our support. All the artists brought food and many baked. Cookies, bars, cheese and crackers--there it all was. And I had eaten vegetables all week.

Then we went out for dinner.

And then we were invited to the artist's home for pie and cookies and coffee. Not to be rude ... I ate a piece of pie and one more cookie.

And then Sunday: book club dinner and discussion--a generous spread of mostly healthy stuff, including a lovely bowl of fruit--but also a tempting bowl of chips and dip!

Fruit glowing in the early evening sunshine

And then I tasted the Texas sheet cake dessert. Oh my. Do you think I had just one of these moist, gooey, freshly-baked, almond-infused, nutty, frosted bars of goodness?

And so it goes. Do you think I put all this in my food diary???????????????????????

Plants for Four Seasons

A confusing array of plantings

When I scan my plant collection I could easily become confused as to what time of year it is. I bought a hosta and a rose bush at the home and garden show, which remain in the sun room until I can safely plant them in the yard. I have a few of those geraniums that were saved in the basement laundry room in a brown bag for the winter.

And then the above plants are moved around the house in order to capture some natural light. The poinsettia still looks too good to throw out. It was gifted to me at Christmas. The Easter lily was gifted to me on Easter Sunday. And my three-year-old gifted amaryllis is about to open up once again. The stalk has now grown to two feet above the bulb and I expect it will be spectacular when it opens. A five-year-old gifted azalea is not blooming currently. And an April anniversary planter has a variety of plantings included--croton, palm, hydrangea and those little pink polka-dot plants that are sold as summer annuals in our Michigan zone.

If I had been asked what time of year it was when I was quizzed to determine whether I had really lost my mind during that recent episode of transient global amnesia--I would have been totally confused by looking at my plantings!

I cannot kill a plant and sometimes the sun room becomes a little too crowded with plants for all seasons. The curse of a good green thumb...

Warm Ham on a Cold March Easter

Costco ham for Easter dinner

Does this not look good enough to eat?  We recently joined Costco, in solidarity with all three daughters and with their urging. So we thought we would try a Kirkland ham for Easter. Marissa planned the menu and made some fancy scalloped potatoes flavored with an herbed boursin and other fattening things. The parmesan-crusted potatoes browned nicely alongside the glazed ham. Also delectable was a white layer cake with fresh strawberries and cream cheese frosting which Marissa assembled Easter morning. The spring diet re-starts in April. Meanwhile, life is good.

We used the included spice packet that added brown-sugary sweetness and cinnamony/clovy spice notes to the spiral ham. Just before eating I knocked over my empty wine glass and it shattered on the kale. The kale was purchased primarily for garnish, but it served to deflect the shattered glass--and was thrown in the trash soon after this photo was taken. I did not grieve that I was not able to enjoy the kale on Easter Monday. The ham was spared and we had plenty for shared leftovers.

Coffee Beans - Fresh from Costa Rica

Do you have a personal shopper?

I don't mean asking a daughter to pick up a loaf of bread at the grocery store.

Or asking the husband to bring home a teak vase from Jakarta.

Or even asking the son-in-law for coffee from Bogota.

I like to do my own shopping, but I have entertained the fantasy of having a personal shopper once or twice.

And once or twice I have had something like a real personal shopper.

 Last week I received a bag of coffee beans fresh from a plantation in Costa Rica. I had asked some church friends...if they might have a little extra room in their suitcase???

The fact that they took the time to choose some coffee for me while touring in Costa Rica was a delight. The coffee was very good--not so good that I would order a large shipment on-line the next day, but extra good because of the loving thoughts I had of my personal shoppers. I made it one cup at a  time, drip style, so I could it enjoy it freshly brewed and never cold or burned.

My friends emailed me a few photos from the plantation they visited. I have never seen coffee growing, although a tour or two of the coffee farms in Colombia is definitely on my bucket list.

Columbian or Costa Rican--I have coffee every day. It is the one safe drug I take, along with that daily aspirin dose. I need it to get me going every morning. Or at least by noon!

How many cups of coffee do you need in the morning to get you up and running?

My attempt at staging my Corelle cups filled with steaming Columbian brew on my coffee table.

Sum Catholic?

When John F. Kennedy was in West Germany in June of 1963, he included this, now famous, phrase in his speech: "Ich bin ein Berliner!" It was an expression of solidarity with all free peoples. (Later that year we all remember where we were when we heard that President Kennedy had been shot. I was in study hall.)

I recall the rumblings of disapproval in my community when Kennedy was elected to be our first Catholic president. He certainly did not resemble or represent the Pope in his role as leader of the free world, but his tragic death certainly elevated him to an esteemed place in history, and hopefully, to heavenly sainthood, as well. Hmm...POTUS, not PONTUS!

Last week, as soon as I heard the news flash that white smoke was rising from the Vatican, I watched the proceedings in Rome from my living room. Who had been elected to be the new Pope? I wanted to join in and be part of this historic occasion. For just that moment in time I wanted to be Catholic--sum catholic!

But, I am a Protestant, belonging to a denomination with a long history of separation from all things Roman Catholic. There were no Catholic churches in the rural town that I called home. I celebrated my first birthday exactly at the mid-century point and I remember that my church community was not all that Catholic-tolerant. Since then I have developed a more ecumenical spirit. I believe, as my husband recently articulated, that there is more that binds us together than divides. I believe that we should support all Christian efforts--in solidarity against the steamrolling secularism that is increasingly marginalizing people of faith in our society.

But, because of the early warnings I received from my church regarding the false doctrines of the Roman Catholic Church, and my denominational teaching that it is through Christ alone we have salvation, I entertained these thoughts of being a capital C Catholic (even in spirit) with a bit of trepidation!

I updated my Facebook status and then quickly removed it, realizing that I might not be understood.

While I have come to respect the Catholic Church for its strong stance on moral issues i.e., abortion, I am not exactly ready to genuflect to the Pope--as wonderful a servant of God he appears to be. I do love his life story and his choice of the name Francis.

But, for one day, and in some way, I wanted to share in the excitement and ceremony!

Since the Reformation, my church has been stripped of this kind of pomp and circumstance, although our churches have been gradually adding things back in--acknowledging the church year calendar, seasonally changing the colors of the wall hangings, pulpit coverings and draping cloths. Masses (of flowers), lilies and poinsettias--help to create a festive atmosphere for our favorite holy celebrations. All sorts of diverse musical expression--and even (very rarely) dance is encouraged in the more progressive city churches.

And yet, my current pastor's only "vestments" are an occasional colorful scarf, artfully wrapped around his neck and paired with designer jeans.

So, the celebrative over-the-top wardrobes of the cardinals & company, the backdrop of the historic Vatican, and even the smoke, all have a kind of exotic allure for me.

In my formative years I was accustomed to the minimalism of one solid and solitary symbol hanging front and center--a wooden and empty cross. The simple furnishings were also symbolic--a pulpit placed centrally to represent the preaching of the Word; the communion table and the baptismal font--for administration of the two remaining sacraments. Catholics have seven.

All things in my small-town church were watched over by a row of male elders sitting in the front benches--all dressed up in dark suits and white shirts. Part of their job description included an oversight function--protecting the purity of the Calvinistic doctrines of the faith and the accurate interpretation of the Scriptures. I guess they had to sit up front to do that job well--they certainly couldn't snooze as easily!

Incidentally, I attended a public high school. One of those austere church elders was assigned the duty of sitting in the balcony for the proms and dances to make sure that students from our church did not actually dance at the dance!

Protestants gave up (or threw out) many things during the Reformation, including many symbols and sacraments. I will not make value judgments or any more commentary on that here.

 I am reminded that John Calvin encouraged only unaccompanied singing in church. It can still sound good when that (occasionally) happens. Now we no longer use the (pipe) organ which Calvin was concerned about--we have keyboards, drums, guitars, strings, brass and handbells!

(I am also reminded that I have a friend who is a very conservative, Reformation scholar. He will likely never see this post, but I shudder just a little, imagining what he would think of me and my thoughts of sum catholic...)

Nonetheless, I share my thoughts here without apology. For one day, I should be allowed to stand in solidarity with all my Catholic friends and relatives and recognize what is good about this historic church with my declaration: Sum Catholic! (Capital "C")

And, *with all due respect, the Pope seems to be a pretty cool dude, under all those fancy vestitures!

Smart Machine

This is the control panel from my new Samsung washing machine that was delivered a few weeks ago. We have a Samsung television (yes, the one that was fixed with a twisty tie) and I have had several Samsung mobile phones. I did not know they made clothes washers, the most frequently used machine in the house. I like to wash.

This machine is just a little too smart for me. It jiggles and weighs the load to determine how much water to shoot in--so fast and noisy it could wake the dead. I don't know what's happening in there after it locks. It does have a pause, but I am used to having very simple washers that don't lock me out. Also, I like choice, but this machine may have more options than I can handle.

I am getting used to it, with all its bells and whistles. It doesn't just beep or buzz--it has little notification tunes. I wish I could choose to download my own tunes, like on a Samsung phone.

All in all, it seems to be a pretty nifty washer. Life is good when all your machines work well!

(The husband hasn't tried it yet. Do you think he can run a successful load of whites? I'll make sure he has a lesson before I leave to spend a few days with my Florida girls).

Irony in Everday Life

This post is a reflective follow-up on my recent brief hospitilization.

I am not an exceptionally perceptive or intuitive person, but I take note of little coincidences/ironies, or cosmic/karmic events that happen to me occasionally--some of them serendipitous and some of them oddly negative--which seem to reflect something that is built into the way things are in the universe--or at least in my little corner of it. Whether these occurrences are of God, or the devil, or just the way a moral ordering of the world works itself out in the small things of life, I don't know. I suppose they could mean nothing at all!

Now, I know people who claim that God is directing their lives in very particular ways, leading them to meet just the right person here or to be in just the right place there. God gives them the right words to speak here or the direction to spend their money there. That is not what I mean. I have sensed that sort of direction in my life, but do not experience dramatic intervention very often--at least not that I am aware of. In last year's blog I talked about a Vermont maple syrup thing that happened to me as a child. Usually I don't experience answers that directly. I have heard voices (I was not on any drugs!) a few times, but they were not directives, and not very helpful. I have never found a check in my mailbox from a stranger when I was in need.

Additionally, I was associated with some particular women in a previous community with exceptional clairvoyance (or whatever).  I would just think that it would have been nice to have a little ice cream on my birthday, and it would appear--delivered right to my door. It was uncanny. I would just think about how nice it would be to go to the mall this afternoon and I would get a phone call--do you want to go to the mall? I broke a window in the house trying to get back in to check on a sleeping baby after locking myself out. With a cell phone in my pocket I would have saved the expense of the broken window. The husband was not happy. But back inside, through the broken window, I immediately got a phone call from the all-knowing girlfriend, asking me what was wrong. I was beside myself one Sunday morning, with a brand new baby spitting up all over and an old dryer that had failed. Like "magic" someone appeared after church to help me.

Sometimes I hardly dared to even think things!

Apparently I am not as needy anymore, because these things don't happen to me any more!

Now, my friends and I need multiple emails and texts to figure out what we're doing and no one ever appears spontaneously at my door to help.

What I am addressing in this post, however, is something a little different. I am referencing something negative, a psychic capriciousness or, if you will, bad karma--which just might be a consequence of things I have previously verbalized.

My family and friends don't share with me the crazy little things happen to them--so I am left to think that it is just me! Maybe no one else admits to it. Or they are even less self-aware than I am.

I believe in God and am not willing to attribute any weirdly negative things to Him. I also have no idea what role the devil and his helpers play in the everyday things of life. Good and bad things happen to good and bad people. We may never understand why.

So anyway, just last month, for instance, my posts at the end of February included themes that have come back to haunt me. First, I was a little too happy with myself for avoiding the new body scanning equipment at the airport. I was bragging a bit about having avoided unnecessarily exposing myself to more radiation, even though the claim is that it is minimal. I even indicated that I would like to think my little act of protest helped to change the rules--the removal of all the body scanning machines from the airports in the near future. That does have a a bit of hubris and ridiculousness about it!

Well, guess what. A few days after publishing that post, I was subjected to a CT Scan of my head, (as well as an ultrasound, MRI and EEG) that probably delivered way more radiation than I would ever receive in going though the body scanning machines for years to come! This is what I am talking about.

(If I had not gone to the hospital I would have recovered just as quickly and I would have remembered that my Mom had the same thing. I would have saved thousands of dollars worth of test that proved nothing. I would not have experienced the extra radiation. I could have just seen a neurologist and he would have told me I probably had TGA (transient global amnesia)).

 But then, I had lost my mind. I don't remember agreeing to go to the hospital. If I had remembered my mother's incident, I might have waited it out for a few hours, knowing that it was likely not a stroke. But I was mindless, and (strangely and unusually) cooperative.

Anyway, I had all the tests. My head was radiated. That is what hospitals are required to do, and that is why health care costs are spiraling out of control. There is some relief in knowing that they didn't find anything--apparently my carotid arteries are not clogging up, for instance.

Then, in the last post on the wordswithrose blog, I had made the outrageous claim that I play Words with Friends in order to keep my mind functional, thus preventing the onset of Alzheimer's disease and other issues of the head. So--just after I make that claim, I LOSE MY MIND--even if it was for only a few hours! This is what I'm talking about.

In another post about my hearing loss and wax-plugged ear, I referenced all of the things that can go wrong, just in the head. I had no idea then what was about to happen inside my brain!

These kinds of things seem to be more than just something that happens everyday to anyone. It seems to me to be my own unique experience of what I like to call bad karma.

Earlier this winter as I was adjusting to my "new" car,  I hadn't put the battery cables back and I left the lights on while enjoying happy hour with my friends. Just before I left home I had a bit of a tiff with the husband and had stormed out claiming I would never ask him for anything again. An hour later I was calling him to bring the battery cables and bail me out. I had even offered $20 to a guy who parked near me. He said his ex-wife had taken his cables. It was too cold to walk home.

I will include one more example. In the mid-nineties I was working in a small office with a young twenty-something who was always getting sick and running to the doctor for antibiotics.

Even back then, I believed antibiotics were seriously over-prescribed and had publicly expressed my own (superior) philosophy of health and drug use. I bragged that I had never taken an antibiotic in my life. I had never really refused to take an antibiotic, but I didn't go begging to a doctor for a prescription, either.

Well, I was hit with a virus that I caught from my girls which morphed into a serious pneumonia. I became very ill and no one was really taking care of me. I developed a high fever and no one was getting me 7-Up to drink, like my mother used to--a rare treat back in the day. I deteriorated to hospitalization levels. What happened in the hospital? I got mainlined, with a PICC (peripherally inserted central catheter) line in my arm--for streaming multiple antibiotics into me around the clock. I remained sick and feverish for days. If it was a viral pneumonia, all those drugs did no good. But that is another story.

Good and bad things happen. But not always directly following boastful statements or expressions of moral superiority or ridiculous claims. Do they? Is it just me, here? Best not answer that. Just keep your thoughts to yourself. I don't need any more trouble.

Again, I hardly dare to think or speak or write of these things. This is it.

I have no needs. I have no thoughts. I make no claims. I am no better than anyone else. I will live my life without personal commentary. I do not want to go to the hospital again!

The Night I Lost My Mind

I lost about two hours of time last weekend--gone for ever!

Fortunately the husband was around to document that it was probably the most inconsequential two hours in history. I had literally lost my mind--at least the function for making new memories, as well as being a little foggy on some other more recent details. I did not remember anything I had done that day. When I was asked what car we drove I answered that we had a Lexus, but I didn't know what year. We have not owned a Lexus for over seven years. The husband actually thought (I'm told) that I might be kidding and suggested (as I was about to be checked by the emergency room doctor) that I take the doctor's questions seriously. I was conversant and cooperative, but clearly--confused.

After the husband was first made aware of my problem, he assessed my condition by questioning me and soon realized that I was indeed suffering a brain deficit of some sort. He told me to get into the back seat of the car (an Avalon) to go to the hospital. We then picked up our married children who also stayed with me for a few hours in the emergency room. When I finally began to "come to" I kept looking at the clock and saying repeatedly, even to the doctor, "I seem to have lost some time." I can't explain how weird it felt, as I tried to piece together what had happened.

There is one notable point in time, a kind of aha moment, which we now refer to as "the chicken-in-a-biskit moment." The kids had been asking me what brand of crackers Marissa had purchased earlier that afternoon at Target. My son-in-law really likes them and was munching on them shortly before he took me back home, around 6:30. At about 9:15, when they asked me once again about the crackers, I responded quickly with the right name. I was back!

As I began to reconstruct what had happened to me, there were at least three things in addition to the clock on the emergency room wall that made me upset that evening. First, seeing my clothes on the emergency room chair. I didn't remember choosing those shoes and--horror of horrors--who had undressed me? They all assured me that they were not in the room, so I will never know about that.

 Also, at that time I was very distressed that I might have suffered a stroke. I have faithfully taken daily aspirin for over ten years. I was so annoyed to learn (and remember) that this had occurred and was on the verge of repeatedly saying the s word. I am told it came out shi. I remember feeling an unusual level of stress--I'm certain my blood pressure was elevated.

I am told that the doctor asked me to pull him towards me and I practically pulled him on top of me. He was impressed with my strength!  I do remember that a nurse gave me a couple of baby aspirin, just in case, I guess. And I remember the CAT or CT scan.

Finally, when the doctor told me that I had to stay at the hospital overnight for more tests and observation, I was on the verge of tears. But once the family left and I was admitted to the neurology floor, I was just fine.

As soon as my brain regained function I was also very concerned (I guess that would be the fourth thing) about the last thing I did at home--respond to an email to make plans for a girl's night out the next day. Did I send it? Will you call my friends and tell them I am in the hospital and probably won't make it to Happy Hour? I had no phone with contacts, no computer--heck, no toothbrush! Did I tweet other stuff that made no sense? (I don't tweet much, but who knows?)  Apparently I had been too stupid and brain dead to do anything more than let the email response trail off and eventually save to draft!

I am home now with a diagnosis: transient global amnesia or TGA. After four major and very expensive tests and a basic urine and blood test, all negative, I have no idea why this episode of amnesia occurred. The tests ruled out stroke and epilepsy which are more commonly associated with memory loss. I am at no more risk for those things, I understand.

All that the tests confirmed is that I still have high LDL cholesterol and I was urged by an internal medicine doc to please reconsider taking medication. It was mentioned that my blood iron levels (hematocrit) are just high now enough to donate again.

When I got my mind back, I recalled that I had planned to spend part of the night watching the Oscars, so I really didn't miss anything all that important.

I watched the tail end of the awards show (including the surprising Michelle Obama presentation) from my private room in the new section of the hospital, the same hospital where two of my children were born over 30 years ago, the one I have not seen the inside of, since.

 I noticed that a few things have changed in health care and most of them seemed good. This was a much better experience than my last ones--one night in 07 waiting for my heart to convert to a normal rhythm after an episode of atrial fibrillation (at 3 AM my conversion took place) and about 10 days of hospitalization for pneumonia back in the mid-90's--each in a different hospital.

(I am hardly ever ill, but now and then something really strange happens to me!)

Of course you don't sleep in a hospital. They scoped out my carotids in the dead of the night. Just as I was finally relaxing  in the wee hours, they came to take my blood.  Fortunately, I was only "hospitalized" for about 18 hours!

The beds were better (cushier) than I remember, the nurse answers with a mobile phone, everything is computerized, including the rolling menu man. My heart monitors were in my gown pocket, for mobility. Another nice touch is that they throw a warm sheet over you every time you turn around--mostly when you hop on the cart for a ride to a test.

 All tests confirmed the neurologist's first hint of a diagnosis when he said: "I've heard this story before." And then I asked him, "Was it a TIA?" He offered a simple "No" as he walked out of the room. He was waiting for his final answer.

When the neurologist returned he mentioned to the husband that he was a classmate of my brother-in-law who just turned 67. He looked about 10 years older than that and had probably seen this condition more than a few times in his lifetime, although it occurs somewhat infrequently.

When I first saw him very briefly, I had told him that I had suddenly lost my memory, realized it and told my husband that I thought I had had a stroke (I was told this later) I told him that I had remained functional, and regained my memory rather quickly after a couple of hours. I asked him if he could come back, as my husband was on the way to the hospital and could tell him more about my behavior, since I remembered nothing of what had happened. He did return and also did a brief physical examination, testing all my reflexes etc. And he explained TGA to us.

Transient Global Amnesia or TGA. Why? I don't know. No stress, no bang on the head, no history of migraines, no mind-blowing sex (whatever that is--I read that somewhere). I was just sitting at my laptop writing an email before making some grilled rye and cheese sandwiches. I never started making dinner and the email trailed off mid-sentence. Friend J said when she saw the unfinished sentence: "Oh Rose, that is soooo weird."

The neurologist's explanation was simple: the tape recorder turns off. The events of those two hours were never recorded and can never be retrieved. I know, big loss.

As soon as I returned to (relative) normalcy, I recalled that my mother might have had a similar episode back in the 50's.

It was in the summer of 1957, when I was elementary school age, that my mother lost her memory. My mother did not go to the hospital and began to recover in a half-day or so. Of course, they had no fancy machines or stroke prevention medications then, anyway. We never subsequently called it a stroke--and it most likely was not. It was more like, "Do you remember that day when Mom lost her memory?"

It all came to light early one morning when my mother got up and made hamburgers for breakfast. When questioned, she had no idea why she had made hamburgers early in the morning. Subsequently she sat in the barn with my Dad, as the cows had to be milked. The details are all a little sketchy. I talked to both of my brothers once again and they always remember new tidbits as they reflect on that day! I asked my brother who was a teenager then why he wasn't out there helping and he thought he was probably still sleeping on an early summer morning. Both brothers recall that it was the day that a brand-new combine and baler were to be delivered--and that was a big deal to a farm boy. My oldest brother recalled and told me this week that my mother had worried whether she had persuaded her husband to buy all this new equipment. She said "I sure hope I didn't tell him to buy them." He also remembered that my Aunt Nellie had been there to help. I recall one image--my mother sitting on my Dad's lap, my Dad clearly upset to the point of tears. That was a vivid image for me, but I don't remember the new farm equipment! I think he might have considered that she would never be the same again. It seems that my mother's TGA lasted a little longer than mine, but was completely gone within 24 hours. Typically a TGA lasts 4-24 hours. There were no stroke drugs or MRI machines back then and we never knew what she had. I have always presumed, not knowing much about it, that she had a mini-stroke, a TIA, or transient ischemic attack. Now I think my mother probably had a TGA.

My message board in my hospital room welcomed me with my name, my doctor's name, my room number, my diet (assigned Heart Healthy) with a cute heart shape for the word heart. Also included on the board were my hospitalization goals which I verbalized as part of my admission to the neurology floor late Sunday night: "Find out what's going on and go home." I would have put the go home in bold--I am not fond of hospitals--but this turned out to be more pleasant than previous hospitalizations, as I was feeling just fine and was just waiting for tests. I had calls and visitors and the staff was kind.

I had a needle access stuck in my arm which hurt and had two heparin shots in my stomach, electrodes attached to my chest and later over 25 stuck to my head. They put massaging wraps on my legs for awhile. I had blood drawn. But the worst of it was the long hours in the night when I couldn't sleep. But then I enjoyed a nice television with sound in the remote--and Fox News!

I briefly enjoyed this FALL RISK bracelet!

I had missed dinner (forgot I was going to make it) and asked for two small cracker & cheese packets and a Sprite around midnight. I finally fell asleep in the early morning, but when my breakfast tray arrived I was hungry, woke up immediately and started drinking coffee. I wolfed down the yukky oatmeal, adding leftover maple syrup with each bite. The lo-cholesterol french toast was also awful, so I doused it with the maple syrup, not bothering to add the equally yukky heart-healthy margarine. It had been 19 hours and I would have eaten almost anything.

Later that day I had a parade of people as well as three visitors, a PA, an internist, the neurologist and two major tests--an EEG and an MRI.

All in all, the day passed quickly (even though no time was lost). Until you have a TGA, you will never understand how I felt. Poor Rip Van Winkle lost 20 years. I lost only 2 hours!

Once the final test result came in, I was told I could go home, but my dinner had just arrived. Marissa ate my soup and grabbed the banana. I inhaled my hamburger, dressed, and was wheeled out the door to Marissa's car in minutes.

I have many questions that will probably never be answered. I even wonder if it sometimes occurs in the middle of the night and no one ever knows?

Now my children, too, will probably always reference "the day Mom lost her memory," if they don't remember TGA. It's nice to have a diagnosis, but I don't really know much more than I did when my Mom had the same thing, back in 1957. At least I know what it wasn't, thankfully, and so will my children, if it ever happens to them.

No More Fear of Flying - The End of Body Scanners

Remember "don't touch my junk?"

The Sunday paper this week caught my attention with a tiny blurb about those controversial body scanning machines that are being used in many airports: No more privacy concerns--they are going to be removed by June.

I was so gratified (not necessarily grateful) to read that the era of the full body pat-down will soon be over for me. I don't have any metal parts or a pacemaker, and will soon pass quietly through the regular old scanners. The airports will have to remove the body scanners because the machines could not be altered to show a more generic image of the body outlines of the naked-under-clothes body.

I was so annoyed by this new technology (backscatter body scanning) that I have requested pat-downs from the very beginning--and I've come to enjoy them. It's a good touch. Now if had a large package of "junk" I might feel differently!! I know a few people who have extremely sensitive feet and they might also have a problem, because the TSA agents actually pat the bottoms of your stocking feet as you sit in a chair. I can imagine a certain daughter of mine losing control and kicking the gloved pat-down lady in the face.

I would probably have survived the extra bit of radiation just fine. It is thought to be minuscule--far less radiation than from the cosmic rays you experience as you are flying high in the airplane, that is, flying at high altitudes.

But I have had so few protests to participate in (I never got it out of my system as a late 60's college student on a conservative campus), and this one was easy. At the Orlando airport I have been able to avoid the super-exposure scanner by simply picking the right line.

My annoyance is with the whole system, as they arbitrarily pat down granny or a child in a wheelchair. Some of the practices are abusive and some are just ridiculous. I have accommodated the 2 oz. bottles and stocking feet--I take fresh socks (and a ziplock for the dirty ones) along in my purse to put on when I get through security! (Not that I am a germ freak or anything--it is just gross on the airport floor).But I will not use their stupid body scan machines.

 I don't actually mind that much if some technician observes the gray-scale contours of my aging body. This is just a personal protest--a small statement that I can make. But I have no fear that there are any images "out there" of me that have been saved by some pervert who enjoys scanner porn! (My scans would be more suitable for target practice than for porn!).

However, I would like to believe that my participation in this small protest has somehow helped to facilitate the decision to terminate the use of these machines...

My gratification comes from that perceived success: No more body scans. No more vertical strip-searches. No more pat-downs. No more extra radiation.

                                           ************************

More on scanning, radiation and flying:

I heard a comedian on television yesterday who objected to the reclining seat. He claimed:
You are going to sleep in their face (or on their laptop)--if you recline in your airplane seat.

 Is it rude to recline? Is it a right that comes with a paid seat? Do you recline?

"Are you going to sleep in my face?"  Would you ask that of the person in the seat in front of you?

Some scanner radiation facts:
mrem - the unit of measure for radiation levels (haven't tried it yet on WORDS)

backscatter - reflection of waves, particles, or signals back to the direction from which they came. (What a cool word.) It also references a kind of email scamming technique.

A thought:
If the scanning machines cannot be re-purposed for use in, say, jails--they are once again, an example of huge government waste.

Finally:
I am sorry that I cannot include photos in this post--those outlines of bodies and privates are a form of, well, I said it--backscatter porn!