After the Fog

I was at my PCP's office last week and shared with her the gray fog depression that had wrapped itself around me. After ascertaining that I was stable, my doctor said, "And let's not overlook that it's wintertime and that can add to depression what with the grayness and cold."

I burst out laughing. "Winter is my 2nd favorite season," I said. "Not a factor!" 

Melissa didn't miss a beat. "You just always have to be different, don't you?" And then we both laughed.

In the last few days, the gray fog has disappeared. Disappeared, not just moved over to the side to descend upon me again. I feel I am back to my non-depressed self with a normal (for me, given Melissa's observation about me never being "normal") range of emotions. 

And it does not surprise me one bit to say that I owe this lifting to—what else?—books, two that I just read and one that I am finishing shortly. 

The first is Tracy Kidder's latest: Rough Sleepers: Dr. Jim O'Connell's Urgent Mission to Bring Healing to Homeless People. I am a huge Kidder fan from way back and this book is no exception to his superb eyes, ears, and pen in capturing the story. Kidder's portrayal of a doctor whose career has been dedicated to treating homeless people in Boston is stunning and I heartily recommend it.

Besides the sweep of the story Kidder tells, a tiny piece that captured me was a retelling of the story of Sisyphus, condemned in Greek mythology to push a massive boulder up a steep incline to place it on top, thus freeing him from the ordeal, only to see the boulder roll down and away just as he reaches the summit, dooming him to start all over the next day. Dr. O'Connell, however, talks about a reinterpretation of the tale by existentialist writer Albert Camus: "The struggle itself toward the height is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy."

Sisyphus happy. Oh, oh, oh.

Upon finishing Kidder's book I began HumanKind: Changing the World One Small Act at a Time by Brad Aronson. I had brought it to one of Warren's rehearsals, along with the Kidder, knowing I'd finish the Kidder before the rehearsal ended.  I read the last lines in Rough Sleepers and opened the Aronson. How far did I get before I was in tears? Not far.

Aronson writes movingly and passionately about acts of kindness: some huge, many tiny, but all just acts of kindness towards others. How tiny? Just smiling at people as you pass them on the street or in a store aisle. What moved me deeply was the affirmation for me that small acts do make a difference. This book reinforced my commitment to tikkun olam (mending the world) and underscores what the Talmud emphasizes: the small acts, the small steps, are just as important to take as acts far beyond many of us (think of Martin Luther King, Jr.). We are not "excused" from tikkun olam because we cannot fix the whole world. Instead, the obligation on me as a Jew is, quite simply, just do it. Daily. 

After finishing Aronson Saturday night while Warren was at another rehearsal and concert, I began the third book, Class Cultures and Social Mobility: The Hidden Strengths of Working-Class First Generation Graduates by Paul Dean, a professor at Ohio Wesleyan University here in Delaware.

Oh my. 

Several years ago, I wrote about being a first-gen college student, about still identifying myself as a working class person, and about navigating life through that perspective. 

And now I am reading about those same realities, feelings, and issues in this new work. As I read, I am nodding my head in agreement at what Dean (who is also a first-gen) writes. I feel seen. I feel validated. And, just so you know, I was one of the many individuals that Dean interviewed, so at times I truly see myself. 

I truly believe these books are why my depression has finally lifted. Despite the larger matters that weigh on me (and have not gone away), I'm still here. And I am still mending the world, my world, in small steps and bits that matter. Camus had it right about Sisyphus: the joy was in reaching that summit every single day, then walking back down the hill to start again the next day. 

I can do that. 

Skyward

Photo by Samuele Bertoli on Unsplash

Yesterday started very early. I had a 7 a.m. appointment in Columbus with my oncologist, which meant getting up at 5:30 to be on the road by 6:15.  I dressed and headed downstairs to the kitchen. Waiting for Warren to come down, I stepped out on our back deck to see how much the temperature had dropped overnight. It was still dark with no hint of sunrise, so I looked up to see if there were any stars visible.

There were stars and there was Orion, hanging in the northeast sky, brilliantly lit. It was my first fall sighting of it.

Orion is my favorite constellation. Robert Frost put Orion in his poem "The Star-splitter," which has been a longtime treasured poem in my mental poetry collection: "You know Orion always comes up sideways..." Orion is one of the very few constellations I can readily identify, which is certainly a part of why it is my favorite. And way back in my misty past, I first saw and had someone identify Orion in a brilliantly dark Wisconsin night sky, seeing it from the outside walk surrounding the telescope dome at Yerkes Observatory. That first view of Orion, of knowing what I was looking at, has stuck with me.

I called Warren outside to see Orion and we both marveled at the sky. Then we went on with our morning.

The time came for Warren to head to class, I walked outside with him to give him a kiss and wave goodbye; both are important to us. When I turned to go back into the house, I noticed a moth resting on the lintel between the storm door and the house door. It must have fluttered on it when we stepped out. I opened the storm door wider: "Go on, little moth. You don't need to be in our house." 

It was then that I noticed that one of the moth's wings was badly damaged, almost as if something had bit a chunk out of it. 

Oh. I figured I would have to pick it up and set it on a bush.

The moth had other ideas. When I bent closer, it fluttered up off the lintel and flew into the front yard, heading towards one of the flower beds. True, it flew in a jagged, erratic fashion, but fly it did. 

That moth made an impression on me. "That's me," I thought. Or rather, I hoped that was me: yes, damaged but still able to move forward. Maybe jagged and erratic at times, but still going.

Orion in the morning and a moth giving me a lesson in flying midday. And all I had to do was look up.

More Small Things

Peppers, peppers, peppers! 

Right now, small things continue to work the best for me in moving through these days. When other matters become too much to work with, I can always turn to small tasks and find focus and satisfaction. 

Here is another handful of small things. 

This year, we have a pepper harvest to beat any prior pepper harvest (and there is more harvest to come). So after picking (not a peck of pickled peppers) peppers, I decided to make onion/pepper relish (hot bath canning only):

Preparing the relish

And done!

More got cut up and put in the freezer:

Cutting!

And ready for the freezer! 

And some ended up on our supper tables, sliced open, cleaned, and filed with mozzarella cheese:

Ready to prep for supper

Yes, they were delicious! 

Our hot weather finally broke (and hoping beyond hope it stays broke), so last evening I thought "Why not bake some cookies?"

So I did:

Getting ready to start mixing

And done!

They too are delicious!

Even the laundry is satisfying:

Socks socks socks

In the evenings, if Warren is working on business or class, I try to spend my time reading (current read is The Portrait of a Lady by Henry James) or writing letters. 

I know: Just small tasks. Just little things. But right now, it is these little things that help me make sense of my days. And that is more than enough.

Small Things

Coleslaw! 

It has been a long, hard week and I hit Friday night, when I am writing this out by longhand, with no reserves. Zero, nada, nil. Warren is also worn down from his own hard week.  

Our home life is transitioning again; Warren will be teaching Music Appreciation at our local college, Ohio Wesleyan University, two afternoons a week starting next Thursday. As for me, I am pressed up against a wall all too often, not because of Warren's commitments (which extend far further than the upcoming class), but for lots of reasons, including still recovering from June's hospitalization.

So here I sit, a baseball game playing on Warren's iPad (he's a Cincinnati Reds fan; I am not but I enjoy listening to baseball), and I am telling myself "Focus on small things tonight, April. Small things count too."

I can do that. Here is a small handful of recent small things.

Thursday, I picked one of the three small red cabbages that have managed to grow in the Hej Garden. Well, you don't "pick" cabbages, you break or cut them off their considerable stems. Back in the kitchen, I pulled off all the outer leaves, cut the stem off, then chopped the head into small pieces. I made a quick oil/vinegar/sugar/water mix, poured it over the pieces, and put it in the fridge to marinate for the day. Coleslaw, anyone?

Thursday late afternoon we drove down to Columbus to see the annual silent film of the CAPA Summer Film Series. We'd been down the week before to see "Arsenic and Old Lace" (which I had never seen on stage or on film) and had enjoyed a brownbag supper on the Statehouse lawn, which is directly across from the Ohio Theatre. So we did the same thing this time for the silent: a brownbag supper on a bench by the Statehouse. We ate, we talked, we just sat and enjoyed not being on a tight schedule, not being on call. 

Afterwards, we strolled on the Statehouse grounds. Even though Warren and I enjoy and purposely make stops to see state capitol buildings, I have never been in the Ohio Statehouse or even walked much on its grounds. So Thursday was the first time ever for me to see the large monument to President William McKinley, as well as the various war memorials. (Yes, yes, I am planning on touring the Ohio Statehouse this fall. I mean that.) We then crossed the street to the box office, only to learn that Clark Wilson, the nationally renown theater organist, had fallen ill. As a result, they had pulled the silent and substituted the 1997 "Titanic." Did we want to buy tickets for that? No thanks. So we drove home slowly, congratulated ourselves on making the most of our Statehouse supper (eaten leisurely, outside, and free), and finished our evening at home.

A small evening, by many standards, but a good one. 

Friday itself was particularly hard on larger family fronts. Stressful, demanding, numbing: pick any of those words. Thank goodness I'd had a long overdue call with my friend Katrina to start the day, as well as a planned break midmorning with two neighbors. Independent of me, Warren had his own demands and busy schedule. Because of the family matters, which were expected but not so abruptly (I'm sorry; I am being vague intentionally), I skipped lunch because I needed to talk with my father in person before keeping an appointment downtown that could not be moved. By the time Warren and I reconnected mid-afternoon, I was worn out. He'd had the lightest of lunches; I'd had none. We should eat early then. Okay. We have a gift card to Panera; should we just get takeout? I leaned my head on my hand, too tired to sit up straight.Yeah, that would work. Then I straightened up. No. Rather than drive there, order, drive home, then eat, we had leftovers here from earlier in the week that we could warm up. And don't forget the coleslaw!

"And then let's go out to get ice cream," said Warren. 

"Yes, let's."

Supper was delicious and we didn't have to leave to get it—it was all right there. The coleslaw was superb. Afterwards, we drove the few miles to the Midway Market, our preferred ice cream destination. Warren got a scoop of caramel oatmeal cookie ice cream in a cup; I chose a scoop, also in a cup, of dark chocolate raspberry truffle. 

We sat with our respective choices and savored every single spoonful. Mine may have been the best chocolate ice cream I have ever had, and that is saying a lot. A. Lot. 

It is now late morning on Saturday and between writing these lines last night and finishing them this morning, I ran into two more unexpected obstacles—nothing major, but the second one, which came up this morning, brought me to tears. I looked at Warren: "I just want something to go right." 

And then I thought back to what I wrote above: small things count too. Warren and I took a walk this morning while it was still cool. I got the towels and the sheets washed this morning; the sheets are drying on the basement line, the towels just came out of the dryer and are already back in their respective places. We just went out to a local sweet corn stand and brought back ears to cook and ears to cut the kernels off and ears to share with our neighbors. All small things, and all important in their own small way.

And that is enough. More than enough. 

Focus?

Photo by Giorgio Trovato on Unsplash

 

Just 10 days ago at the mid-January point, I wrote about what the month had held so far and what some of the topics on my mind were. With only 6 (!) days remaining to this first month of 2025, I feel as if I am still tiptoeing through the days.

My study is a mess: Dad paperwork (some old, some older, some newer, some new, and, of course, miscellaneous) in a couple of piles, my paperwork (the same), a small but growing pile of donations after the heady exclamation in that aforementioned post that we had moved a lot of things to Goodwill, and, of course, some other stuff. At the same time, there are some small, "neater" stacks of papers on the couch in the downstairs study that (a) are mostly mine and (b) need to move upstairs to my study and get filed, shredded, or recycled. My study is chillier than downstairs (excuses, excuses) and I keep looking at those downstairs stacks and think, "I'll get to those...later."

The real issue is that my mind is cluttered or, more to the point, my focus is blurry right now. I am working hard (perhaps too hard?) on finding my center, my cornerstone. (Maybe I have more than one cornerstone?) Maybe it has been this cold wave (finally ending, it would appear) that has kept me from walking as much or as far as I want and am used to (I did walk home from visiting Dad today; that was a good thing!) that is pushing me down. (As I wrote just a few days ago, walking is a very important part of my life.) I am quite sure that the noise, much of it toxic, blasting out from the new administration is part of the picture as I worry about the safety and well-being of family and friends in this new era. 

And, having written all of that out and seeing my words in the light of day, maybe I do have a focus after all. I remember that not only am I am my best when I focus on the small moments, the immediate moments, and the community moments, but it is more than my just noticing those things. It is my moral duty, one I take up gladly, to do my part to mend the broken seams of this world. 

Maybe I am indeed ready to move forward. 

At the End of Four: Wrapping Up Groceries in 2024

Homemade Kringle

Wrapping up and looking ahead to 2025, that is. 

Well, that was a wild prediction on my part. Back in November, summing up our grocery purchases for the third quarter of the year and using a goal of spending an average of $200.00/month, I optimistically (and myopically) wrote we could still hit that average for the year by holding our spending to $164.00 a month for the final quarter.

Non-spoiler alert: it didn't happen. 

Didn't begin to happen. Our combined grocery (food and basic household items such as detergent and toilet paper) was—wait for it—$802.55, or $267.52 average a month. Of that amount, a mere $46.83 was for household items; $755.72 was for food.

For the year, our total outlay for groceries (again, mostly food) came to $2709.96, making the monthly average $225.83. The only reason we came in that low was because the 2nd quarter expenditures were lower because of my father's changing circumstances and some of the items we reaped from his house. 

But, more to the point in my mind, why was 4th quarter, and especially December so high? (December spending was $371.66—ouch.)

There are several reasons. One, I bake a lot (a whole lot) in December for friends, family, volunteers and so on. As a result, we spent a lot of money on supplies. In the spirit of full disclosure, I did deduct $60.00 from the December total representing supplies for baked goods (including Kringle) that left this house directly to the recipients. But we also bought items (some of which were very pricy) that I did not end up using for holiday gifting so those costs are in our totals.

One Kringle left home; this one stayed. (Yes, I counted it in the total.)

Another reason is that December especially contained some "splurges." Let me put "splurges" into context. A friend recently told me that she and her husband always had lobster rolls (one each) on New Year's Day; that was a long-standing tradition. So they had just purchased two pounds of lobster at an eye-watering $40.00/pound. She said they would get several such meals out of that amount and it was cheaper than going to a restaurant and ordering lobster (true that), but I winced inwardly at the $80.00.

Our splurges were a tad more modest. 3.73 pounds of fresh salmon "loins" (when did salmons acquire loins?) marked down 50% to $7.49/pound at Kroger (that will make four meals for us), and a whopper of a fresh salmon slab marked 50% off at Aldi to come in at $4.60/pound (another meal or two). Yeah, the Kroger markdown was still a big splurge. It came first and, because I watch salmon prices (I love salmon) and knew that Aldi had not been below $9.00+ pound for weeks, I felt we did well. (We did great with the Aldi one.) I will enjoy every bite. 

Another splurge (in November) was for a quart of vanilla ice cream at Whit's: $9.00. We had dear friends coming to dinner and I wanted the ice cream to accompany the apple dessert I had made. Totally worth it for the pleasure of the vanilla and apples. 

So splurging is an issue, but we watch ourselves even in that area. The other main issue, frankly, is the cost of food. We are pretty darn conscientious about our shopping and I watch and compare prices. But food is higher. A pound of butter on sale, and there were several between mid-November and Christmas, was $2.99. Everywhere. Last year: $1.99. In mid-December, I ran out of eggs (having stocked up on them in November through sales). No one had a special and I paid, gasping, $3.99 for a dozen so I could finish my baking. And these are what is now known as "traditional" eggs: not organic, not cage-free, not brown. Just eggs. 

That all being said, there were some hilarious (to us) saving moments in December. We finished off a bag of tortilla chips (which we had just opened, not an old stale one we had opened and forgot about), a small cube (frozen) of veggie dip, and two York Peppermint Patties (also frozen) that were left behind after we hosted a small potluck-style gathering in July. And walking home together December 31, Warren and I spied a runaway onion on a tree lawn a few blocks from home. 

The runaway onion

Of course we picked it up. (Turns out there were three others in the curb gutter that neither of us noticed. Walking home yesterday, I saw them, but they had frozen into the matted leaves and were not salvageable. Just had to let those go.)

And while this falls in 2025 and not 2024, I picked two mini candy bars from the bowl at our auto repair shop yesterday that we will take to the movies tonight. 

Two mini bars

While writing this, having just now run the numbers for the year, I am vastly relieved that, even with a very expensive December, our average monthly outlay for the year was $226.00 and not closer to the $267.00 for this quarter. Thinking about the higher amount, Warren and I had discussed cutting our grocery purchases 10%, or $26.00 a month, to get started on reining in the costs. Using that $26.00 amount, which we thought we could meet, maybe $200.00/month for groceries is within reach. Or something close to that.

A lot of folks out there are having a "No Spend" January. We tend to lean towards a "no spend" lifestyle as it is, so we're already aligned with that mindset. But we both agreed that an "Only Buy Perishables" January (short of some stunning sale somewhere: salmon for $1.00/pound, say) might be a good way to start 2025.

Here's to a year of grocery adventures. 

That's One Small Step For...Me

How I Step

As I wrote in my last post, I am taking steps to unplug (de-plug, turn off, step away, whatever word fits best) myself from the e-world and even just computers, period. I use a Mac Mini in my study; I turn it on only when I am working on matters like Justice Bus, paperwork for my dad, Hyer Percussion (my husband's business), tracking our monthly grocery spending (Spoiler alert: we're not going to hit that $200/month average!), typing this blog, or when, related to any of those things, I need to print something off. I turn it off when I am done using it for the day, which sometimes is by mid-morning. I use a Chromebook for more casual things (checking email, for example), and have gone back to shutting it off by about 5:00 p.m. I have a smart phone, but since getting it a little over a year ago, I have steadfastly used it for texting and calls only—no social media, no emails—so it too stays silent most evenings.

Unplugging sounds right and I know from past experience that it is the best thing for me to do, so that I can use my evenings for more personal tasks and matters. That being said, the habit of constantly checking things online is hard to let go of. Here's an immediate example: this afternoon I have a phone conference with Dad's longtime financial advisor. I will be joining Dad in his apartment and taking notes as we go. Last night, as I was penning this post out, I knew there was an email from the advisor touching on topics he knew Dad wants to address. I had to tell myself more than once that the email could wait until the morning. The meeting is not until 1:30; there was no urgency to go over that email in the evening. And it was a short email, not a detailed one, to boot! 

Vlogger/writer Anthony Ongaro used to have a site, Break the Twitch, in which he talked about this very point of constantly checking our phones, our emails, our whatever and how our brains were accustomed to doing this so much that it was an automatic reflex. Hence, the twitch and his suggestions for breaking it. (The site is still online but it is no longer updated.) 

I get the twitch concept. It hit me hard last night with regard to that email. I had to talk myself down from the twitch cliff. There is reading, writing, household tasks, paperwork (physical not online; Dad had massive amounts of papers in file folders that I am still sorting through): anything but jumping online to check that email, look at this, look at that.

I'll get there: step by step. 

Regaining Rhythm

My work station earlier today

Rhythm.

What an appropriate word, let alone concept, for me to use. After all, I am married to a percussionist. Trust me, percussionists are all about rhythm. It makes me smile just writing that word.

Rhythm.

My rhythm? I am still regaining it.

As I have shared, we had a long siege getting Dad's house ready for market. That finally got done in late September. So we are not out there every day clearing, cleaning, hauling, groaning, or any combination thereof. But because I am the lawyer in the family, and the child living only seven blocks away, all of the real estate matters related to the sale of the house are in my lap. They are not onerous. Dad has a superb realtor and the title company that will hold the closing is excellent. All the same, it falls to me to review documents, answer Dad's questions, provide information for closing, and so on. I will be present when Dad does his side of the closing, about a week before the Buyer closes (because I am out of town that week). None of this is overwhelming (unlike the 25 cubic yards of trash that we had removed by the dumpster company), but it is nonetheless something that is still on my calendar and in my head.

So, back to rhythms. 

As I write this (By hand! I'm actually using a pen and paper!), I think of ways I am regaining the rhythm that works for me for my life.

Apparently, baking is a part of my rhythm. Two weekends ago, I made an apple pie (Jaime had a recital at Miami University (Ohio), where he teaches) and sourdough peanut butter chocolate chip cookies, last weekend I baked an apple-bread pudding to take next door to a shared meal, the pumpkin cardamon muffins were yesterday, and, right now, a loaf of rustic no-knead bread is baking. And, with the Symphony season opening this weekend, there will be more cookies and another pie. 

It feels good to be baking again. 

Walking is definitely part of my rhythm. And that one took a huge hit even before the job of emptying out the house, starting with Dad's hospitalization and lengthy rehab from early June until late July. Other than walking to and from Dad's place, there was not a lot of time or energy for more. I am not yet back to where I can walk as far or as often as I want, but I am getting there. (And how come no one ever told me about compression socks?! Talk about a game changer for someone with neuropathy!)

Even my reading, which disappeared only during the worst times of last year's medical mayhem, has picked up as I work on regaining my rhythm.

All the same, I'm not there yet, whatever "there" may mean. There are some skipped beats, some unexpected jumps and cuts, and sometimes I wonder whether I am ever going to feel I am in rhythm with myself again.

Warren and close friends gently remind me that this summer's events and the weight they placed on me need to be seen in the broader context. A year ago today I was still in the hospital and still over a week (a week!) away from being released to rehab to build enough strength to go home. Once I got home in late October, I was confined to the first floor for several more weeks while I worked on gaining enough strength to climb the stairs to our bedroom, the bathroom with the shower, and my study. Add the shattered wrist in the winter, a major (planned) surgery on its heels, some more medical issues in the spring and, well, yeah. 

When I stand back and look at what not just the last four months have held, but the last 14, small wonder I am out of rhythm.

One of the books I have is been rereading is Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times by Katherine May. It is a powerful, moving account of May's own difficult time and an examination of regrouping when at a low point (medical, emotional, physical, familial), not feeling put upon to "make the best of it!" or "soldier on!" but instead recognizing there is a space in that low place to restore oneself in an authentic and meaningful way.

Reading Wintering is a reminder to myself that finding my rhythm is a journey to be taken at a pace that fits me.  

One step at a time.

Like Plucking Your Eyebrows

 

I recently had minor outpatient surgery that required external stitches. My doctor did a beautiful job sewing up the incision, telling me to come back in two weeks for them to be removed. (There are also internal stitches; those will dissolve over time.)

Yesterday was my return visit for the stitches to come out. The PA examined the incision site, asked me some questions, then gave the nod to the nurse to go ahead, telling me as she left the room to come back in three months. 

The nurse laid out the equipment: a pair of tweezers and a tiny pair of surgical snips. She asked me if I had any questions.

Only one. "How much is this likely to hurt?" 

She laughed and said that the doctor had recently been asked that same question by a young patient, an adolescent girl. The doctor asked her if she knew what it felt like to pluck a hair from her head? Yes. The doctor said that you don't feel that kind of pluck, but this is more like plucking your eyebrows and there is some sensation.

"Like plucking your eyebrows." I burst out laughing and then told the nurse my eyebrow plucking story.

Over 55 years ago, when I was hitting adolescence, my mother and my aunt Ginger sat me down in the kitchen to pluck my eyebrows for the very first time. No self-respecting girl would walk around with her eyebrows meeting up in the middle of her face and it was time to give me a beauty lesson. Ginger had her tweezers ready; Mom had a bowl with a few ice cubes. Mom applied the ice cube to my brow to numb it, Ginger leaned in, tweezed a hair, and...

I shot up and shouted, "STOP IT! DON'T EVER DO THAT TO ME AGAIN!"

What the hell? Women did this to themselves? Voluntarily? 

Ginger and Mom tried to reason with me. I needed to "get used" to it. It didn't hurt "that much." It was just what one did.

I shook my head. Not me. Not then, not later, not ever.

And I never did pluck my eyebrows. I had a razor (this was back in the day when everyone shaved their legs and underarms, so girls got razors early in life—the kind with removable blades that, in retrospect, could be pretty lethal) and I took it to my brow and learned to shave instead of pluck. All these many years later, I still do that.

The nurse started laughing. "Well, if the pain gets too intense, we can call the PA back in and she can give you a local to numb it, but let's try it without so we can skip the needle. I'll take it easy."

And bit by bit, she snipped and carefully pulled the stitches out. There was one that stung, not unlike my distant recollection of my eyebrows episode, but the nurse eased the others out with only a few twinges here and there.

I thanked the nurse and told her she did a great job. She did. 

I walked out to my car, thinking back to that long-ago experience. And I smiled, thankful that I still have never plucked my eyebrows. 

Finally, Light

Photo by Claudia Soraya on Unsplash

No, I am not talking about moving to Daylight Savings Time last Sunday. Or the Spring Equinox next week. Or the upcoming solar eclipse (we are right in the path of totality here in Ohio) on April 8.

I am talking about the light at the end of the medical tunnel I have been in since late August. For the first time in months, I can see a growing light up ahead and finally believe that it really IS light and not just the headlamp of an oncoming locomotive.

Don't misunderstand me. I still have a lot (A. LOT.) of rehab ahead of me to strengthen and regain better use of my right wrist/hand/fingers. I am doing daily exercises at home with the option of having formal physical therapy if my progress stalls. There was a lot of damage to the median nerve, the one that controls the fingers. (What am I saying? There was a lot of damage to my wrist, period.) I am slowly starting to walk more regularly; the long layoff in the fall, the long layoff after fracturing my wrist, and major arthritis in my left knee have all contributed to my having to relearn how to walk at a steady and consistent pace. The incisions from the gallbladder removal in late February are healing; my brilliant surgeon just gave me the post-surgery clearance. 

My biggest hurdle is that my energy levels are still average (for me compared to pre-autumn 2023) at their very best and pretty darn punk at their worst. That means that even on days where I am very careful to pace myself, I am still worn out by early evening. (I will not mention the days I overdo it, even with strong, loving reminders from Warren, Katrina, Pat, and others not to overdo it.)  

At my lowest points, I get teary at realizing how much ground I have lost. At my highest points, I appreciate how far I have come from those very bleak weeks back in the fall. It is not unusual that I experience both the lowest and the highest points in the same day. 

Every single day I am grateful I am even still on this earth.

And that is more than good enough. 

One Final Reflection

 

Photo by Jaunathan Gagnon on Unsplash

Last week I wrote two posts about my increasing awareness of being chronically disabled from the physical toll of 19 years of cancer and 18+ years of treatment. This week I had appointments with two different medical providers, and they added their own perspectives to my thoughts.

And maybe now I am ready to come to terms with where I am.

The first appointment was with my personal physician, with whom I have a great relationship. I shared with her some of the thoughts I have been mucking around in as I come to accept that I am disabled. She looked at me, then said, "You do know that you became chronically disabled the day you were diagnosed, yes?" Oh, yeah, I do know that, but it was never really on my mind until these newer changes and and their emotional and physical impacts on me.

The very next day I was at oncology and had an appointment with Katie, one of the Certified Nurse Practitioners there (Tim was rounding). I shared with her the same  thoughts and she said, "I hear you. It is a bitter pill to swallow." She then suggested that I focus on my abilities and capabilities, which are numerous. Katie did not present this in a chipper "Count your blessings!" tone or suggest I was being self-indulgent given my longevity with the myeloma, but was very matter-of-fact. Yes, it is bitter and yes, you are still here.

My barn having burned down, I can now see the moon. 

That is a 17th century haiku by Mizuta Masahide, a Japanese poet and, yes, a samurai. I used to keep it taped above my desk at Juvenile Court. And I think that sums up where I am: the barn is burned to the ground, but what a view of the moon I now have.

Reflections

 

Photo by Wesley Tingey on Unsplash

Reflections.

I'm not even sure I like that title. But I have been kicking it around in my head (and on the coffee table in the downstairs study) long enough that I will go with it while I write.

In one of those perfect synchronous moments, a letter from my friend Tani (who I have known for almost 4 decades now), Disability Pride Month (July), and my own internal struggles all hit on July 1. My feeling had been simmering for a few weeks, but the sweet combination of Tani's words and the editorial comment on the the Poem-A-Day for July 1, "A Sick-Room Idyll" by Williams Gay, tipped me from simmer to bubbling. 

The editorial comment on the poem was that it offered "a rare glimpse into disability space." Tani matched it as she hashed through her thoughts on the possibility of being "chronically severely disabled." Those thoughts wove deftly into my own reflections (that word again!) on what I coming to see as my "new" limitations. 

In late June, while posting a garden update, I wrote about my capacity, which is an ever-changing measure. When I was writing it, I was thinking about a mid-month trip to Pittsburgh that had rattled my conviction that I was just a "little tired." Shortly after that post, Warren and I had a long conversation about a long-planned vacation east and agreed to cancel it. There was a little bit of sadness in that decision, but also some relief. (And to be fair, the concern about my physical limitations was only one of four factors that caused us to pull the plug.) 

Tani wrote about her mental and physical bandwidth being impacted by her situation. I like that term: bandwidth. I replied with a thumbnail synopsis of where I am at: energy levels, decent. But endurance levels? Nope. I can go and do, but then I am done. A vacation with a lot of driving and sightseeing? Ha! The adrenaline would carry me along for a bit, but then I would collapse—exhausted, unwell, and totally drained, with a bandwidth of zero. And based on what I have been experiencing, the recovery time would be extensive. I doubt my body can take it. 

Yeah.

So, like Tani, my thoughts dwell increasingly on being "chronically disabled" and what that means. (Come on, aren't two progressive incurable blood cancers enough?) Going back to the poem with its "rare glimpse into disability space," I increasingly think about what that may mean for me. (Not to mention my friend, Tani, who is still working with doctors and physical therapists to see whether she can make progress in her situation.) What is my disability space? What does it look like? Feel like? How will it impact me as I continue to live my life the way I want and hope to? 

Synonyms for "reflection" include "contemplation," "meditation," "rumination," and "musing." So if you see me and I seem distant, don't take it personally. I am merely ruminating and musing.

And, of course, reflecting. 

Early June Update

When I posted a garden update in late May, I mentioned the outside stresses on our schedules here. A lot has happened since that May 24th post. 

The Symphony office DID get moved; the very last items left on May 31. There was a great team of volunteers, with Warren spearheading and planning the whole event. Warren, Office Assistant Sharon, and Music Librarian Laura are still settling into the new space (Warren's comment when he came home yesterday: "I just needed a binder clip to hold some papers together. Couldn't find one anywhere.") but with 4th of July up next (a free outdoor concert that some 7000 folks attend), we are all relieved to have the move done. 

On the heels of the move, we headed off to Mayo. It is about 660 miles from door to door, and this was another rocket trip, leaving Monday and arriving back home at 1:05 a.m. Thursday. This is likely our very last rocket trip; I will time the next appointment to be later in the afternoon, spend the night in Rochester, and then drive back during the day. All is well on the cancer front: the myeloma is stable (still!) and the secondary cancer (from earlier treatments) seems to be just sitting there (which is what we want). 

But our travels are not yet over, not by a long shot. This Wednesday, we head to Pittsburgh for the national conference of the League of American Orchestras. Pittsburgh is only four hours away, not 11 or 12, so I am not dreading the driving. There is more travel in July, but I will save that for later. 

I will update the garden in a separate post. The early summer continues to be very, very dry, causing some issues with some of the plantings. 

The physical toll of traveling aside, June has been good. A former colleague from Juvenile Court stopped by on a midafternoon break yesterday and we caught up. (Dana was out walking and called me out of the blue to drop by. It was great.) He is about to retire, and he said quality of life was one of the big factors in his decision. I understood immediately—like me, Dana has enjoyed his job at Juvenile Court immensely, but there are other things he and his wife want to do and he is just looking for the time and peace of mind in which to do them. Some of those things are travel, but some of them are as simple as sitting out on their patio and enjoying a glass of wine. Yep, yep, yep.

And as we sort our way through the weeks and obligations right now, I am reminded daily (heck, sometimes hourly!) of how grateful I am that I am sharing this journey with Warren. Not just the love and the support and the encouragement (and I could go on), but also this perfect response that rolled out of his mouth as we were getting ready to head to Mayo. I needed to make a very quick run to the grocery for something for the trip, and I asked him if we needed anything else. Warren was working in his shop, and after putting down the tool he was using, he looked at me and said, "No. And if it turned out we did, I'm sure we could figure something out with what we have here."

It doesn't get better than that. 

And All at Once, It Was Over

No, this post is not about gardening. Yet. 

I am not talking about the end of the year 2021, although that too ended in a second when the clock hit 12:00 a.m. on January 1.

I am talking instead about my (finally, finally) last day of "paid government employment," as my erstwhile boss, colleague, friend, and neighbor Dave announced to our local Bar at the December meeting. After some 43 years of employment in the legal field, I ended my career (careers) on December 24.

I had noted that my job end was coming in my post last July.  What I did not realize back then was how much it would take for me to get from there to that last day. Much of that was the work itself: finishing projects (a very few), getting projects into good shape to be handed off (all the rest). Some of that was physical. My progressive, incurable cancer is always a factor and it did not take a break for me to wrap up my job.

And it's not like my daily life came to a halt while I wound down the job. Our home life continued, my treatment continued, the Legal Clinic continued, the garden continued. We even slid in a long-hoped-for trip to Washington and Oregon, driving every inch of the way, in mid-August when my Mayo oncologist listened to the precautions we would take, asked when Ramona would resume school (two days after we planned on leaving), then closed his eyes and said, "Go right now. That door is about to shut."

To bring it back to the present, my first whole week of not working just concluded. It was freeing, relieving, and bittersweet. 

It has been a mashup. Or a smashup. Or anything else that goes with "up." In random fits of energy, I am clearing away the detritus and chaff of the last few years from my office. What a mess. And I am walking. A lot. A whole lot. Walking to think, walking to sort things out in my head, walking to just walk.

I don't make resolutions for the New Year, but I have been thinking about goals.  Financial goals (especially now that my income has shrunk considerably). Gardening goals (last year's gardening experience was a mixed bag, to say the least). 

And writing goals. As I shared with my friend Tani, for the first time in a long, long, time, I am feeling the need to write, too long submerged, starting to stir within me. Hence my photo above from a long ago seed spouting. My desire to write is finally breaking through and lifting its head.

May 2022 hold kindness for us all. It's good to be back.

The More Things Stay the Same, the More They Change

 It was Madeleine L'Engle who first enlightened me to the value of turning adages inside out for new insights. Which is why instead of echoing Jean-Baptiste Alphone Karr's pronouncement that the more things change, the more they stay the same, I have come to realize that in my life, it is just the opposite.

I have been silent on this site for months. This will only be my seventh post for 2021, a number that no amount of polishing can make shine. That will likely not change until the fall for many reasons, none of them good, all of them good. Looking back at my last post, an embarrassing 58 days ago, I am already noting what has gone awry, amiss, on the lam, or, frankly, despite the sameness, changed radically.

I indeed went to Mayo in early June, as I noted in that long ago post. It was more than wonderful to see my oncologist in person; I was in tears. And while everything on paper stayed the same, we three (Dr. Leung, Warren, and I) suspect there may be deep-seated changes afoot. We head back to Mayo in mid-August for a long day of testing and then a meeting with my doctor. 

I am still working. That stayed the same. Only it didn't. I'm working through the rest of the calendar year, albeit on different terms.  I will not be mediating come the new school year (which starts in mid-August); I'm already several weeks into other projects. I now know just how Charlie Bucket felt when he found the Golden Ticket. 

My dear, close friends did come in June. We had a wonderful evening of glorious talk and laughter and tears and good food. It was one of those evenings where everything just shimmered. 

And my gardens. They need more than a few sentences, so I will share a few photos down below.

See you down the road.

The very first tomato (yes, there have been more)

The very first zucchini (not a success story, yet)

Broccoli (one of three)

The first (but not last) cabbages

Even a tiny batch of basil for pesto (another ongoing saga)

Our Daily Bread

 

Our schools in the area are all on Spring Break. Because the overwhelming bulk of my job from August through May is school attendance meetings, I am on break for most of the week as well.

My written To Do list this week ranges from mundane (clean off my desk) to major (do my dad's 2020 taxes). On the unwritten list are the small tasks—the myriad of things that anyone's day may hold—that get slotted into the leftover bits and pieces of my days, depending on my energy, what else the day holds (or held if it is evening), and how my myeloma and I are dealing with each other that day. These are things that in any day, week, or month often fall to the wayside, only to crop up again and continue to crop up until done or eradicated. 

On my unwritten list today was to make bread; I have been making most of our bread for the last several weeks. (Okay, I've been baking some of our bread for the last several weeks, with my efforts supplemented by the stunning baguettes and other loaves our next door neighbor Adam brings over. His wife Maura is responsible for a flow of baked desserts from their house to ours, with help from their young daughter Alice. Have I mentioned what GREAT neighbors we have?) [Yes, we reciprocate. My sourdough peanut butter/chocolate chip cookies are always a huge hit.] 

I thought I would duplicate the sourdough loaf I made last week in the bread machine, a behemoth Warren bought years ago. I go between using the machine and making bread by hand, depending on my energy levels and my myeloma burden. I tweaked the recipe some, remembering that the first time I had had to add additional liquid, which I did. 

Two hours into the process, Warren and I in our respective upstairs offices said, almost simultaneously, "I smell smoke." I elaborated, "I smell burning bread." We rushed downstairs to find a kitchen full of smoke, a bread machine that belched smoke the moment I lifted the dome, and...yeah. 

In thinking over the tweak, I just now realized I doubled the extra water. Oops.

I carried the still smoking machine outside, where it still is an hour later. Warren went around opening windows. And then I started another batch of bread the old-fashioned way. It is rising (or should be) as I type. I'll check on it shortly. At some point I will start to tackle cleaning the bread machine.

All that has gone through my head is the old Smith Barney ad with John Houseman. Remember that one? "They make money the old-fashioned way. They earn it." Only in my case, he is sneering at my efforts: "April, you need to make bread the old-fashioned way. Not burn it."

Thanks, John.

Closeup of the overflow and burn pattern. Sigh.

A Look at the Gardens

Back in late April, I shared that our vegetable garden, the one I call the "kitchen garden," had been cleared and tilled by Warren, and was just waiting for planting. It looked like this then:

What I have not shared, because my posting has been, ahem, irregular at best, is that we added a second garden, the Hej (pronounced "hedge") garden. The Hej garden actually sits on our backyard neighbors' parcel. The owner before the current ones was an avid gardener, a certified Master Gardener, and she had established a thriving vegetable garden in the far back corner of the yard, just where it butts up to the little dogleg on Warren's parcel. It has been tilled but not planted for several seasons, as our current neighbors have many, many demands on their time and a garden just wasn't one of them. So I proposed that we take over the garden, they can have some of the vegetables grown on it (making me a sharecropper no matter how I look at it), and there we go. 

The Hej garden is our zucchini garden, because our kitchen garden does not have enough space for zucchini. It has been planted twice, because the first planting of 20 zucchini seeds resulted in five coming up.

Five.

You could toss a coin, call "heads," and get better results than that.

About three weeks ago, I tore out everything but those five zucchini and planted it over again, this time marking the seeds (which I doubled and tripled) with spoons:

And today, I was in the garden at 6:30 a.m., transplanting the zucchinis that came up in twos and threes to the spaces where there were still not results, marking the transplants and their former companions with the spoons upside down:

It's been a lot of work. This garden also contains  five extra tomato plants we had from my over-ordering tomatoes this year; they are along the fence on the left side of this photo. 

The kitchen garden and I likewise got off to a rocky start, but we have smoothed out our most of our differences. How rocky? Lettuce that didn't come up, parsley that didn't come up, marigolds (border) that didn't come up. You get the picture. So there was some extensive replanting in that garden as well. 

But just a day into summer, and it is looking good:

Bit by bit, it is coming along. Tomatoes are starting to form:

Indigo Rose

Early Girls

My very favorite feature is the ceramic partial border in the kitchen garden. As I continue to sort through stuff in my house, some of the stuff is headed west to my sons out there. Sam declined any of his childhood pottery attempts; Ben and Alise took a few. I couldn't just toss my children's offerings over the years, so I put them in the garden instead. 

The border

A ripply plant impression plant by Ben

A skull by Sam

I smile every time I walk by, seeing my children's art springing to life in the garden.