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Marie at 1 Write Way

  • I Had an MRI and Lived to Tell About It

    February 5th, 2022

    Yes, indeed, I had the dreaded MRI. Events happened so fast, I barely had time to be afraid. Here’s what happened.

    On a Wednesday morning, I saw my chiropractor. I had already decided to request an MRI. A “new” pain was affecting the right side of my neck so I was done playing the game of patience. He anticipated me and thought out loud about how to proceed: should he jump through the insurance company’s hoops or should he ask my primary physician to jump? He decided on the latter, made some adjustments to my back that only a chiropractor can make, and sent me on my way.

    That afternoon (yes, that very afternoon), my primary physician’s office called to say that my docs had talked to each other, and I needed to make an office visit with my primary doc (one of the hoops we both jump through). To our surprise, a morning slot was available on Friday. Yes, that Friday, less than 48 hours away.

    I met with my primary physician who was motivated to get me an MRI. She ran a few assessments on me, to check my strength and resistance. They were worried about stenosis, about the possibility that my nerves were being compressed. Sound familiar? Severe spinal stenosis was what my husband had surgery for last June. If he has stenosis and I have stenosis, does that mean it’s contagious?

    My doc proceeded to caution me that if I have the MRI, and, based on the results, she refers me to a neurosurgeon, she will expect me to be compliant. She lectured me on the risk of developing atrophy in my arms. I didn’t need the lecture. I let her know that I understood, that my husband had had to fight to get an MRI and be seen by a neurologist. Although she was wearing a mask, I could tell she winced.

    I asked if she would prescribe drugs for me. She said she usually didn’t. I said I was claustrophobic. She asked if Valium would be okay. You know my answer.

    That afternoon (yes, that very afternoon), my primary physician’s office calls to tell me I’ve been scheduled for an MRI. The appointment was for that coming Wednesday morning.

    Okay, that was some pretty fast scheduling. Here’s the kicker: I had to show up at 6:45 am.

    Not only am I not a morning person, but I am also a retired, not-a-morning person. I concede that, for the past month, I’ve been getting up before 7:30 am to feed our cats and then walk for a couple of miles in my neighborhood. That’s different. I don’t brush my teeth, wash my face, or even put on clean clothes (sorry if this is too much information) to go for my walks. The key to successfully walking in the morning is to do as little preparation as possible. Going to a facility where I’ll have to interact with people is a whole other thing. Plus, I’d need Greg to drive me since I have to take the Valium an hour before my appointment.

    Greg took it all in stride. Let’s make an adventure out of it. Let’s try and find a place to have breakfast! I don’t know why, but Tallahassee has very few restaurants open for breakfast, other than the usual Village Inn, Waffle House, and iHop. We found a place close by and … it was okay. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

    We arrived at Radiology Associates with me starting to feel pretty good. Check-in was efficient and, before I knew it, I was being escorted to the locker room. Everything but underwear and socks came off; hospital gown was put on and then I stood in the hallway for a while, waiting, but not for long.

    I asked if I could go in feet first, but the technician said no. He helped me put in earplugs and draped a blanket over me. As he adjusted the cloth around my head, I drifted back to all the times I’d ever been in a hospital, all the times I yielded to someone else’s care of me. I closed my eyes.

    Dang, those MRIs are LOUD!

    I don’t know how long I was in there. Maybe 20 minutes, but I was surprised and even a little disappointed when it was over. On to the Egg Cafe and breakfast! I got scrambled eggs with Greek trimmings and Greg got an omelet with smoked salmon. Our meals must have been sitting awhile because the eggs weren’t hot; they were the cool side of warm. We were too hungry to complain, but, chances are, we won’t be going back.

    That evening (yes, that very same evening), my primary physician’s office called with the MRI results. No “spinal column compression,” but several bulging discs. So, good news and meh news. Next stop is an orthopedist and that appointment is a month away. Meanwhile, I continue my cold/heat therapy. although haphazardly. I’ve resumed my yoga practice and lifting light weights at the gym. I do chin tucks and neck stretches. I do what I can to avoid surgery.

    Even though my doc prescribed just one 5 mg tablet of benzodiazepine, I was in withdrawal on Thursday. Totally sunk into a funk. What can I say? When it comes to drugs and alcohol, I’m a lightweight.

    Red-shouldered hawk in tree.

     

    The above photo is one reason why I go for morning walks. The next two are from this morning, the first at the beginning of my walk, the next at the end of my walk.

    And here is a gratuitous cat photo: Junior throwing me a little shade.

    Junior tries to snooze while his mom plays paparazzi.

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  • Raccoons, Deer, and Love

    February 1st, 2022
    https://unsplash.com/photos/3UYpEUNgh78?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditShareLink

    It’s been so long since our last hike at Big Basin Redwood State Park in California. But it isn’t that last hike that comes to mind; it’s the first one we made one winter. My not-yet-husband Greg and I had been living together for about 18 months when we decided to spend a couple of winter nights at Big Basin. At the time (the late 80s), it was an easy two-hour drive from our San Francisco apartment. We spent the previous night packing our sleeping bags and other gear, preparing food while The Talking Heads’ movie Stop Making Sense played out on our TV.

    It was a cold winter. We practically had the park to ourselves; it was so cold no sane person would think about spending the night in a tent. We were sane, but also young. That first night we set up camp and walked around a bit, returning to eat and retire early.

    I wanted to read. I don’t remember what novel I was reading at the time, but it was a paperback. I remember that because turning the pages while wearing thick wool gloves took as long as actually reading a page. I reclined in one of our Nifty chairs, a two-piece chair of slotted wood and dark blue cotton panels. It sat low to the ground. I wore a wool cap, wool sweater, long underwear, a hooded storm blue parka, thick wool socks, jeans, and hiking boots. I draped scarves around my face. Greg cocooned me in blue, green and red patterned wool blankets that he had bought in Ecuador.

    We were slotted in among tall trees and deep green bushes, a thick border between us and our neighbors, except we didn’t have neighbors. Instead, we had uninvited guests, an unwelcoming party of five young raccoons who, at the first scent of our roasting hot dogs, decided to crash our little party of two. They came out of the bushes, advancing on us, their bandit eyes fearless and curious. It was cold. They were hungry.

    “Shoo, shoo!” We waved them away, normally not afraid of raccoons, but we were outnumbered. Finally, Greg took a big stick, a fallen branch, and pounded the ground in front of them. They looked at him, shrugged, and went away reluctantly.

    That night I bundled into my sleeping bag and lay listening to a barred owl hoot as it flew from one tree to the next. I was warm except for my nose which felt like an ice cube. The raccoons came back and tried to jimmy open the cabinet where we had stored our food. I smiled knowing they could never break in.

    The next day we went on our hike, starting off with three layers of clothing. That morning I had had to chop through a layer of ice to get to the water in our bucket. The seven-mile trail we took was flagged as “strenuous” by the park. Seven miles of drops and climbs, from the bottom of waterfalls with dark green ferns and moss, up to chaparrals with manzanita shrubs dotting the stony, bare hillside.

    We lunched on a platform overlooking one of the falls, taking in as much with our senses as we city people could: the tang of muddy earth, the lull of rushing water, the slipperiness of moss-coated stones. Our calves were cramped with the strain of hiking this roller-coaster of a trail. This trip, this vacation, was a pilgrimage to a place on earth we knew we had to enjoy now while we could still walk.

    The air was fresh and wet and cold, the temperature rising to the forties, maybe the fifties. By the end of the hike, my left knee gave out and I had to walk sideways for the last half-mile. We had warmed enough to strip down to one layer — long-sleeve t-shirts and jeans — stowing all the rest into our too-small backpacks.

    At the end of the hike, the temperature was dropping and the light was fading. We bee-lined for the showers. Have you ever taken a hot shower in an ice-cold stall? Any bit of your skin that isn’t covered by hot water feels the knife-edge of freezing air. I always thought I would linger during my shower, but I never could last long, the cold air and hot water battling over my body. By the time I toweled off, I was starting to shiver. I couldn’t get my clothes on fast enough.

    Back to camp and a fire and some brandy. More hot dogs. More raccoons. They kept their distance this time and all was well until I reached for the bag of pistachio nuts that I had left on the picnic table. It was gone. Panicked, because I loved pistachio nuts and had only eaten a few, I searched under and around the picnic table. Then I heard it. The familiar crunch and crack of the nuts being broken open and then devoured. The raccoons had stolen the bag.

    I glared at the bushes where they were hidden, unseen but not unheard. Outwitted by raccoons.

    As we stood around the fire, sipping the pint of brandy, I wondered out loud whether Greg’s former girlfriend — the one just before me, the one who left him and then tried to come back — would have been a better camping companion, more experienced and fun. He laughed out loud and said, “No, she’d be lying in the tent right now if she came at all.” She was not, never had been, a good camping companion. “You’re a superior woman,” he said before he kissed me.

    As we packed up the next morning, making sure we weren’t leaving any crumbs for the felonious raccoons, a doe and her fawn sauntered into our campsite. They paused when they spotted us, and the four of us stood staring for a minute or two. We were in awe by their proximity; they were waiting for us to leave so they could forage. I poured some trail mix — peanuts and raisins — into my hand and held it out. The doe leaned her head forward, taking only as many steps as she needed. Her soft muzzle tickled my palm. She never took her eyes off me and kept her body between me and her fawn.

    We dropped the rest of the mix on the ground so the fawn could eat too.

    This wasn’t my last winter hike at Big Basin, but it was the last one where I looked deep into the eyes of a doe as she ate out of my hand. It was the one where I learned that I had won the heart of the man I loved.

    ***

    Hello, everyone, and thank you for reading. This story was written in response to a February flash challenge hosted by Mom Egg Review. No worries. I’m not going to post daily, but since it took me ALL day to write this, I just thought I’d go ahead and share. Here’s your reward for sticking with me this far.

    Raji in a somewhat drugged state before his annual checkup with the vet.

     

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  • When the Going Gets Tough (redux) …

    January 22nd, 2022

    I go for a bike ride at the St. Marks National Wildlife Refuge. But, first, an update.

    Many thanks to everyone who offered kind, loving words to my last post.

    I’m doing well because of you.

    I’m doing well because the cold/heat therapy has really helped my arm/shoulder/neck (I guess the problem originates in my neck but is felt in my arm and shoulder. Nice.) An MRI has not been entirely ruled out, but I’m grateful I can sleep at night, the ache in my arm and shoulder completely gone.

    I’m doing well because I’m grateful for the time we had with Maxine and all the many happy and funny memories I have of her.

    I’m doing well because I’m becoming reengaged with writing. A new publication for book reviews has opened up on Medium–The Book Cafe–and I plan to publish some of my “old” book reviews there as well as new ones. I’ve been more active with another Medium publication–Crow’s Feet. Not just writing but also meeting with other writers and sharing hopes and dreams for the future of Crow’s Feet. I also have an essay in the works with yet another band of Medium writers. More importantly, while I was on my walk this morning, I voice-recorded an idea for my novel. Yup, these smartphones can be handy when you’re not smart enough to carry paper and pen with you. 

    I’m doing well because almost every morning this month, I’ve walked second thing in the morning (the first thing is feeding my furbabies). I listen to the birds rather than podcasts. I greet our resident red-shouldered hawks as they swoop by me and land on wires or fences. Through an app called Merlin Bird ID, I’ve learned that a large variety of birds grace my neighborhood: Carolina wren, cardinal, blue jay, pine warbler, cedar waxwings, robin, Baltimore oriole, downy woodpecker, house finches, goldfinches, to name a few. Some of these I might see at our bird feeders, but not all.   

    I’m doing well because several days ago, we went on a bike ride to the refuge and didn’t have one single mishap. Here are some of the sights. 

    A favorite spot to stop and have some tea and cake.

    If you look at the center of the grassy field, you should see a tall lone tree with a couple of smaller ones near. Whenever we stop here, I fantasize about having a house on stilts way out there. Of course, it’s not possible to have a house way out there. It’s probably more marsh than field anyway. That’s why it’s only a fantasy, but one I always indulge in.

    My bike with the moon!

    It was a bit past 3:30 when I took this photo. I really like how the moon is “posed” between the handlebars.

    No public entry to the most beautiful bayou in Florida.

    You can imagine my deep disappointment when we found our way blocked. I had even brought my tripod for the sole purpose of photographing the birds that the sign is likely protecting. No worries, though. St. Marks has more than enough beauty to please my eye.

    Panoramic at the corner of two trails.

    I love taking panoramics, especially at the refuge.

    Yet another panoramic.

    We hadn’t gone far when I took another panoramic. In times like this, I feel the most peace with the world.

    Another moon shot, this over Cypress trees.

    On our way out, here’s another moon shot.

    I hope you enjoyed viewing these photos as much as I enjoyed taking them. Again, my warmest thank-yous for the support you all have given me. I leave you with Raji in one of his favorite spots.

    Raji in a cabinet.

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  • When the Going Gets Tough …

    January 10th, 2022

    I usually go walking and that helps to a point. I am still grieving for Maxine. I guess that’s no surprise, but I didn’t expect to fall into a depression, one that I’m still trying to climb my way out of. Although it’s not fair to use my husband as a therapist, I’ve been doing that and it helps … to a point. He can’t fix my brain. Only I can do that.

    I haven’t worked on my novel. I’ve only gotten as far as printing a revision and editing guidebook developed by the good folks at NaNoWriMo and signing up for a webinar with the awesome Allison Williams that is designed to help writers finish their book. Baby steps.

    Further complicating my depression is some chronic achiness and weakness I’ve been having in my left shoulder and arm for a few weeks now. I finally got to see my chiropractor who sent me off for x-rays and told me to do cold/heat therapy as often as possible (20 minutes cold/20 minutes heat/40 minutes cold/40 minutes heat). A full round of therapy is two hours so I have to plan accordingly. The good news per the x-rays is that my nerves do not appear to be compressed. The bad news is my cervical osteoarthritis has worsened: more bone spurs, less cartilage. But, per my chiropractor, the deteriorating is “age-appropriate.” You know, no one ever used the phrase “age-appropriate” until after I turned 60. Just saying.

    I go back to my chiropractor in a few days and, if all goes well (meaning the cold/hot therapy works), then I won’t need further treatment. If not, then he’ll refer me to a spinal orthopedist who will probably want to do an MRI which I do not want to do because I am claustrophic. I don’t care if they give you drugs to relax you. Just the thought of my head being in a small space is enough to send me into hysterics.

    In the meantime, no yoga, no lifting with my left arm. But at least I can walk!

    I am trying to get into the habit of going for a walk first thing in the morning, weather permitting. I used to do that but fell out of the habit some months ago. So far I’ve walked three mornings in a row, and it’s getting easier. I take my hot tea with me and that’s really kind of nice. I can’t drink and walk at the same time. I don’t have that kind of equilibrium, so I have to stop when I want to take a sip. I enjoy those moments, especially when there’s a hawk nearby to observe.

    In the photo above, you should see a very small dark spot atop a branch in roughly the center of the photo. That’s a hawk.

    The clouds were so interesting that morning. I would have enjoyed looking up at them all day if it weren’t for the literal pain in my neck.

    Walking is therapeutic. While I sort out life without Maxine, I’ll keep walking. While I avoid working on my novel, I’ll keep walking.

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  • Happy New Year and All That Jazz

    January 1st, 2022

    Another year begins and not a moment too soon. I say “Good Riddance” to 2021. Yet another year of angst amongst preventable and unpreventable tragedy. I don’t have great hope for 2022 being a better year. I’m just hoping it won’t be worse. I’ll be doing my part to stay positive, to live in the moment, and to cherish each moment.

    Thank you to everyone who offered condolences in the wake of Maxine’s crossing over the Rainbow Bridge.

    Maxine (RIP).

    These last few weeks have been rough, the house so quiet, feeling empty even with our remaining three feline friends. And yet … Life goes on. Junior, Wendy, and Raji need demand attention.

    Junior stills insists on a lap in the evenings when we sit on the small sofa, where we enjoy a glass of wine before dinner or hot chamomile tea before bedtime.

    Junior, always on the alert.

    In the mornings, I get up an hour or so before my husband, starting my day quietly with a large mug of hot tea (lately, it’s been Earl Grey). Usually, Raji would stretch out on the large sofa at the far side of our living room, but he’s started a new habit: curling up on a pillow beside me.

    Raji taking his morning nap.

    What’s not to love about this face! How can either of us be sad for long when you have this guy looking at you every day?

    “I’m so cute! Gotta love me!”

    In the photo above, Raji is on Wendy’s fleecy blanket, the same fleecy blanket I brought her home in eight and a-half years ago. While Raji and Junior have established a relationship, Wendy and Raji are still working on theirs. They chase each other around the house occasionally, although it’s hard to tell whether Wendy enjoys it. I do know she doesn’t like Raji on her blanket. 

    “Just what is THAT on MY blanket?”

     

    “Well, maybe we can share. Maybe.”

     

    “On second thought, no, I’m NOT sharing!”

    These two were in motion, hence the blurry photo. Wendy pretty much had Raji cornered. He couldn’t get off the bed without her getting a good swipe at him. Oh, well. If it ever gets cold enough here in north Florida, they might find their way to a truce.

    Speaking of it not being cold enough here in north Florida, everything is blooming. Magnolia trees, wildflowers, hibiscus, morning glories, you name it. I have a red penta that hasn’t stopped blooming for months. Our Oregon grape is bursting with yellow flowers and attracting bees.

    See the bee dangling from a flower in the upper right quadrant of the photo?

     

    Happy New Year!

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  • RIP Maxine aka She Who Must Be Obeyed

    December 9th, 2021

    I couldn’t get an appointment on Wednesday with Maxine’s regular vet. It was important to us that Dr. C examine her. Continuity of care and all that.

    Maxine in a box, just a little over a year ago.

    I did make an appointment for Wednesday but the vet on duty was one that neither of us really cared for. My husband got upset. Things were a little tense. I called back and asked about Thursday, knowing Dr. C would be working that day. She was and I rescheduled for 3 pm Thursday.

    I was miffed, and Max had created another urinary mess in the back room. While I cleaned up, my husband administered her now daily dose of fluids. When I finished, I found the both of them lying on the bed. My husband said, “We have to make a decision.”

    Talk to the paw.

    I was already thinking that. What were we going to do? Find out that she was constipated again, would need another enema, another overnight stay? How often were we going to put her through that? She had flinched and complained when I picked her up that morning, a sure sign that she was probably developing gas in her stomach and colon, that she felt pain, that she was likely miserable.

    I texted the veterinary hospital because I knew I couldn’t talk. Yes, they could do the euthanasia instead. We can be with her if we want.

    Indeed, we wanted to be with her.

    Max expressing her displeasure at going to the vet again.

    Again, she laid on my lap while we watched a movie last night. She slept in my husband’s room, two platforms with wee-wee pads on both sides of the bed. Still, she peed on the rug in front of my bathroom sometime during the night. And, yes, I stepped in it this morning.

    Ah, the life of a southern cat in summer.

    Today, we took turns sitting or lying with her, watching her sleep or slurp her broth, or watching her watching us. Many times I wondered if we were wrong, but it was obvious her body was shutting down. No one lives through that.

    Maxine-First Contact 2009

    It was good to have Dr. C attend to Max and to us. I’ll be forever grateful. In the past couple of years, and especially the last few months, Dr. C had spent a lot of time with Max. We could tell that she was sad, too.

    Our other kitties are now running through the house with big, anxious eyes. A new dynamic will have to emerge. It’ll be interesting to see how the pecking order is reordered. Somehow I think Raji will reign. If anyone can herd cats, it’s him.

    Maxine, our oldest, with Raji, our youngest.

     

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  • Update on Maxine aka She Who Must Be Obeyed

    December 7th, 2021

    Maxine has the strongest spirit of any cat I’ve had the pleasure to serve. Every day is a new day with her. My husband and I are at the point of saying that we need to “set a date.” But we haven’t. Well, we did briefly. It would have been tomorrow, Wednesday, December 8. Thankfully, it’s not.

    Because Maxine’s kidneys have pretty much failed, and she’s become pickier about what she eats, we’ve encountered a problem that we never had with any of the other ten cats that have (or continue to) grace our modest home: constipation. This is where it would be most helpful if she could talk, like in a language I could understand.

    About a week ago, we noticed Maxine passed some hard, dry stools. Then, the next day, my husband saw her unsuccessfully straining to pass stool. (Well, she was successful but a few minutes later outside the litter box.) I called our vet, got a prescription for lactulose and started her on it right away. Unfortunately, right away was too late. We thought it was working but then a couple of days went by without any evidence that Maxine pooped.

    With four cats, you’d think it would be hard to tell their stools apart. Nope. Not with our kitties. Particularly with Maxine. She never, ever covers her poop. Saturday morning I decided she needed to see a doctor. We had also noticed that she experienced pain when we picked her up, but thought it was her arthritis. Also, as much as she seemed to want to eat, she barely touched her meals. I assumed that while her steroids stimulate her appetite, her kidney disease probably makes the food unpalatable. I got tired of assuming and wanted an expert’s opinion.

    I took her to our regular vet during emergency hours. A dog with a chest wound came in at the same time so they referred me to another ER veterinary hospital. I went there. Our regular veterinary hospital currently prohibits humans other than hospital staff from entering the building, but the ER hospital was different which was good for me psychologically. (It was also a mixed bag in terms who did and did not wear a mask. Sigh.)

    They ushered me into an exam room right away, and a technician came in to get info within fifteen minutes. I explained our concern about Max being constipated, noting that she has late stage chronic kidney disease. The tech took her to the back to get her vitals and said a doctor would come in to talk to me shortly. I waited.

    And waited.

    And waited.

    After an hour, I asked someone at the front desk for an update.

    I waited.

    And waited.

    After another hour, I went the front desk again, eyes wet from the strain of worry and asked again for an update. The young man came back, said that Maxine was stable and that they were waiting to see if she would have a bowel movement. He explained that a bleeding dog had been brought in and that was why no one had updated me. I thought to myself, “well, I can just take her home if you’re just waiting to see if she’ll do something.”

    Another hour goes by.

    I ask for another update. Keep in mind, no one of authority has come by to explain what if anything they were doing to or for Max. And I’m sitting in an exam room for three hours, alternating between BBC World and a soccer game … on mute.

    Almost another hour goes by and a technician comes in, startling me because by this point, I’m lying on the bench. He’s all smiles and has two estimates for me, depending on what procedures I approve. He asks if they can do an x-ray. Of course, they can. A few minutes later, an actual veterinary doctor walks in. She’s very nice, very calm, but very alarmed at Max’s condition.

    She brought up the exams on the TV/computer. Max’s colon was packed full of stool. She pointed out three pockets of gas, places where she likely felt pain whenever I picked her up. I fell apart. I felt so guilty. I still feel guilty. I should have taken her in earlier, so much earlier. Her bowel movements had been changing over the last two weeks, but we thought it was because her diet was changing. By this point, we were giving her subQ fluids every other day, but the vet said that Max was very dehydrated. They wanted to put her on IV fluids, give her an enema, and observe her overnight. I agree to it all.

    She felt compelled to discuss euthanasia. If they are successful and Max poops, it’s highly likely this will happen again. Could be a few months. Could be a couple of days. I understood that and asked that they proceed with trying to resolve the constipation. I and my husband will deal with the rest.

    I went home, hoping I wouldn’t get in an accident because I was crying.

    We got a call late that night letting us know that Max had pooped a little bit (yay!) and she was stable. They had her in a “tower kennel” so she had plenty of room to move around in and a nice, fleecy blanket to sleep on.

    I called the next morning. They said she was stable, hadn’t pooped yet that morning (although later records showed she had), and to call back between three and four. I called around four and (yay!) got to talk with the vet on shift. She had had a good poop (yay!) and her constipation seemed to be resolved. BUT. They were alarmed about her anemia. They wanted to keep her longer, possibly do a blood transfusion.

    Hell, no.

    I explained that Max was already under care for her kidney disease and anemia. I said, “We know she’s failing. We just wanted to get the constipation taken care of.” To say that I know she’s failing was not an easy thing to do. In that case, I was told, I could pick her up any time.

    We left immediately.

    I’ll say this for the ER hospital. They gave us x-rays and detailed records on Max’s treatment. They could have done better on communication, but it is, after all, an ER hospital.

    Max pooped twice for our pleasure soon after we got her home on Sunday evening. She has not pooped since. I have her back on lactulose and her other medications. She is preferring cat food that is mostly broth or gravy so she’s not getting much in the way of solid food right now. Greg is giving her fluids every day. You could say she’s kind of on a fast and that’s why she hasn’t pooped. Who knows. All I know is, if she hasn’t pooped at least a little bit by tomorrow morning, I’m calling her regular vet and see if they will do an x-ray, make sure she’s okay down there.

    We had set a date while Max was at the ER and we thought this event would do her in. We’ve tabled the date. We’re back to “wait and see.” I don’t think Max is ready to let go yet. She laid in my lap last night as we watched a movie. It was nice.

    Max wondering why she’s having to spend so much time at these veterinary hospitals.

     

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  • Done With Writing Thanks to NaNoWriMo 2021

    December 1st, 2021

    No, I’m not done with all writing, just writing my perpetual WIP. After wallowing in one extreme for awhile (no writing), I went the other extreme in November and completed 50,977 words toward my novel. These were all new words (although the majority can be found in the dictionary). I know some people would say NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) is crazy but there’s method to the madness, at least for me.

    The commitment to write 50,000 words in a month means I have to put butt in chair and just do it. Although I know I don’t have to write 50k, the challenge is there and so I try to meet it. At times it was grueling. I took a day off now and then which meant that I really had to crank out the words on the other days. Here’s me after one long day of writing.

    After a long day of writing, I am consoled (sort of) by Maxine (on my lap), Junior (on pillow next to me) and Raji (above me; with our temps getting chillier, he’s getting friendlier).

    I finished on November 27 so I could have a couple of day to just zone out. Plus November 30 was my husband’s birthday so I didn’t want to spend that day writing.

    I’m going to take December “off” from working on my novel, but I’ll recommit myself to writing daily. I don’t know what I’ll write but anything is better than nothing at this point. Who knows? Maybe I’ll try poetry! I bought Diane Lockward’s The Strategic Poet, thanks to Luanne Castle’s review of it. You can read her review by clicking here.

    In other news …

    MY SISTER IS HOME! Sorry for shouting, but you understand why. Yup, she came home on November 24, the day before Thanksgiving. That’s what my brother-in-law (and the rest of us) had been hoping and praying for. I’ve talked to her twice so far, and I cannot tell you how good it was to talk with her. She’s sounds like herself: lucid, ready with a laugh, positive, strong. Her sons boast about how hard she worked at physical therapy, knowing that the better she got, the sooner she’d go home. Now we can all breathe.

    Maxine is still hanging in there, but she’s more or less getting hospice care now. At the last vet visit a couple of weeks ago, we learned that her kidney enzymes have shot up again. We could hear the disappointment in our vet’s voice. We all knew we couldn’t stop the kidney disease from progressing but we had been hopeful we could slow it down. Oh, well. To keep her hydrated, we’re giving her subcutaneous fluids every other day. To keep nausea at bay, we’re also giving her Cerenia every day. Mealtime is a challenge because she’s become “picky.” She’s a slow eater so we put her in a closed room by herself. She’s gets distracted by the boys trying to break the door down (sigh), but if she’s given enough time, she’ll eat most of her food. She seems to like leaving some behind for the boys.

    So, good news about my sister; not good news about Maxine. Meanwhile, we’ve made a couple of trips to St. Marks Refuge to ride our bikes. I did not fall once.

    Here’s a few scenes from our last bike ride, timed so we would be out on the dikes at sunset.

    This is my favorite section of what is called the Deep Creek trail. The bayou is usually full of waterfowl: ducks, wood storks, spoonbills, herons, etc.

    My husband riding away.

    Opposite the sunset.

    It was a fun bike ride that almost didn’t happen. About a mile and a half out, my rear tire went flat. Fortunately, my husband was carrying a new tube so we didn’t have to spend time trying to find and repair the leak. He saved the day again.

    Now I have a lot of catching up to do and that means reading your blogs!

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  • Long Overdue Book Review: Rad Sick Record, a Novel by Michael Trammell

    October 30th, 2021

    Published by Hysterical Books. 291 pages.

     

    Imagine a world of endless Cold War, with the U.S. and Russia continuously threatening each other with annihilation. Imagine you are living in the panhandle of Florida during this time, an English grad student with a peculiar sensibility:

    “For me, I hear unheard voices, important ones. Hear how? By an inner ear as I read another’s words and sing them to myself. Through sound, I know what’s truly brilliant and what’s not.”

    You are one of the unfortunate to have been radiated while still in your mother’s womb during the The Accident aka Incident ’80. You were thus born with radiation sickness, which is why your body is rapidly aging, why you hear voices, why your eyes have a glow, and why you want to go where no one knows you.

    You are John Needle and you came up from south Florida to escape the notoriety of being “Rad Sick,” one of those “radiation sickness weirdos.”  While your relocation gives you new friendships and romances, you also find others like you, which is good and bad. You see, there are people who want to collect Rad Sicks like yourself, to control your preternatural abilities, to use you for their own nefarious plans.  Before too long you find yourself in the midst of a conspiracy on campus that involves a LSD-like drug called TallaTec and strange human experiments at the pool.

    Meanwhile, you romance at least two women, discover the natural and mysterious beauty of north Florida, and have long drunken debates with your college friends about the best places to submit writing. Your body might be 35 years old, but you think and act like a 20-year-old grad student.

    Rad Sick Record is written in the form of a diary, giving Needle’s story an intimacy and immediacy that well suited this strange but entertaining novel. Michael Trammell is also a poet, evident in how he weaves words together:

    “The Arctic cold must be brutal, so bitter they can’t think for the pain, are sick from it, noses raw like beef jerky. Freezing dew must stick to their hair. If sleet drummed atop the ships, the cold would become an encircling, unsolvable misery.”

    Trammel’s novel is not strictly science fiction or speculative fiction or a coming-of-age novel, or a thriller, or a romantic comedy. It blends all these genres fluidly, immersing me in Needle’s sometimes quirky, sometimes scary world. It is a character-driven novel, with a finely drawn cast that continue living in my head long after I put the book down. I highly recommend Rad Sick Record. The novel pushes boundaries in wonderful prose written by a talented and gifted writer. Once I dipped into T-Town with John Needle, I was all in.

    You can purchase Rad Sick Record on Amazon or Bookshop. You can also learn more about Michael Trammell by clicking here.

    –End of review–

    Confession: I know Michael Trammell. We were in grad school together at Florida State University in the early 1990s (the novel takes place in 2000). Michael was in the doctoral program, myself a lowly Master’s student, but we had a few classes together, including a fiction workshop with the late Jerome Stern. I didn’t see Michael again for years after I graduated, but I’ve always remembered him as a kind and honest reader in our workshop, a wonderful poet, and a really nice guy. When I next saw Michael in early 2020, almost thirty years after I had graduated, it was at a book reading for his wife, the poet Mary Jane Ryals. He mentioned having written a novel and planning a reading for the next month. Cue the pandemic. I believe he went on with his book reading, but by then it was mid-March 2020 and I was avoiding human contact as much as possible. I still got a signed copy of Rad Sick Record and promptly read it. My bad for taking so long to write a review.

    An interesting experience for me in reading Rad Sick Record was trying to identify people that we both knew. “Oh, I bet this character is based on Mary Jane and that other one must be Ron!” I think I might even be in the novel: “A woman beside me was clicking plastic sticks. No flip, she was knitting!” Maybe, maybe not. I remember I used to knit during some of my social work classes, but I don’t remember if I’d had the courage to knit in any of my English classes. Still, I like to think it was me.

    I always enjoy reading stories that take place in familiar locations, and this was no exception. Trammell’s description of the campus took me back the 90s when I spent most of my life in the Williams Building, a maze of stairwells and half-floors reminiscent of the Winchester Mystery House. As John Needle, he reminded me of the first times I visited the sinkholes and rivers of Florida, getting to know local flora and fauna. This added a layer of pleasure to my reading, but you don’t need to have been on the FSU campus in the 1990s to enjoy Rad Sick Record. The novel stands on its own.

    –Insert gratuitous cat photo–

    Raji and Junior snuggling on a lazy rainy morning.

     

    P.S. Maxine had her last checkup, at least for a month. Her creatine is down to 4.1, close to where it was before the craziness. Her urine is still clear so we stopped the antibiotic injections. She’s looking good, eating and drinking well, grooming more than most cats her age, and likes to lie on my lap when I’m watching TV. I like it too.

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  • Groovin’ On a Thursday Afternoon

    October 14th, 2021

    The Rascals beat out the Beatles as my favorite music group when I was growing. I had a major crush on Felix.

    Many thanks to everyone who commented on my Monday post and provided me with sage advice. Ironically (maybe?), on Wednesday, before I got around to responding to comments, I made myself work on my novel a bit. I wrote about 600 words. Then I rewarded myself by reading the comments. Surprise, surprise (to no one), most of you suggested I write about 500 words a day. Well, golly gee, I had just written 600! And then today (Thursday), I wrote another 982. I do believe I’m grooving. My daily goal going forward will be 500 words. If I’m inspired and write more, well, that’s icing. But if I write at least 500, I can stop guilting myself for having (and needing) other interests.

    Speaking of other interests and the multiple ways I’ve been avoiding writing, I forgot to mention exercise. In mid-July, my husband and I rejoined our local gym, and we have been faithfully going there three times a week, working out for an hour-and-a-half to two hours. We’re retired so we can take all the time we want. I’ve lost some weight and gained some muscle in the process. Given all that’s happened to my sister, I am even more focused on building strong muscles.

    And then there’s the bike riding, which we did Tuesday. What a beautiful day. And, as it was a weekday, we saw few people.

    This slideshow requires JavaScript.

    As it happens, when we go for bike rides, my mind wanders and often I think of my novel. That’s what I did on Tuesday so I was primed to do some writing on Wednesday.

    Your encouragement helped as well as it always does.

    A bit of good news before I close this post. Maxine had a checkup today and her creatine values have dropped yet again, to 4.4. Still elevated, but a hell of a lot better than 6.9. Her urine is still clear of bacteria, but the vet wants us to do two more weeks of the twice daily antibiotic injections. Apparently, that is the regimen. Who are we to argue? She promised that if Max’s urine is still clear after two weeks, then we can stop. We might even be able to reduce her subcutaneous fluids. The only real disappointing news is that now she has anemia so new meds (yay!) for the next two weeks. That cat is turning into a poster child for the pharmaceutical industry.

    But she’s doing good. She really is. She’s peeing and pooping in the litter boxes more often than not. She’s steady on her feet and generally trots to her meals (food is her reason for being). She’s still sleeping a lot, but not when there’s food around. I don’t have high expectations for her, as she does have chronic kidney disease, but she really seems to be enjoying a better quality of life than she was a month ago. We are grateful.

    Maxine chilling out after her morning with the vet.

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