So, I just got back from a two-week research road trip and have been finalizing our Great Smokey Mountains NP trip at the end of the month, which means I've been reading budget and mid-priced hotel reviews for several months on Trip Advisor.
And what I want to know is who is this hairy guy who is running around multiple states shedding all over the beds and showers? It is a given that at least one reviewer will exclaim "Gross!" in the subject line, and then proceed to detail her (always a woman) horror story of pulling back the sheets to find them covered (covered!!) in curly black hairs. After housekeeping or the manager or desk clerk comes running with clean sheets just removed from the dryer -- on occasion, the guest is invited to the laundry to watch as the sheets are, in fact, removed from the dryer -- our guest is finally able to slip between the sheets and nod off to slumber land.
Only to be doubly disgusted the next morning when, on pulling back the shower curtain, she discovers the walls and floor of the shower to be covered (covered!!) with curly black hairs. In most cases, she pulls herself together and manages to clean the stall or tub and then herself.
As traumatizing as the event is, she always manages to force herself to at least sample the complementary breakfast, as evidenced by her detailed criticism of each and every offering.
All of which leaves me with multiple questions. The sheets I can understand -- sort of -- but if he's shed all of the sheets, how does he have any hair left to shed in the shower? And how does he manage to get it all over the walls, as well as the floor? Maybe I don't want to know that.
And why does he visit each hotel only once? It's only ever one guest out of 80 or 90 or 100 who is cursed to be given a room right after this man has stayed in it. And why have we been so favored of fortune as to never, ever have found ourselves in that situation?
He really should be easy to find. Just follow the trail of curly black hairs that he must be leaving behind him. Why do I never read of a restaurant patron pulling out a chair and finding it covered with curly black hairs? Or beginning to slide into a booth, only to be repulsed by its furry covering?
To say nothing of what the walls and floors of the mens' rooms he uses must look like. Forget the search for Sasquatch. The Hunt for the Hotel Shedder should be our next great adventure.
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
Sunday, August 25, 2013
So, how did I come to this juncture?
The events of this past summer -- being essentially housebound for nearly two months due to bunion surgery; the six-week tragedy of the kittens and its emotional aftermath; just a general sense of increased stress and irritation with politics, certain aspects of our culture, things at work -- certainly provided the immediate motivation, but the idea was not by any means a bolt from the blue.
Being born at the tail-end of the Baby Boom, I'm not quite a child of the 60s, but I certainly was a child during the sixties, when Eastern religions entered our popular culture, and a teen and young adult during the 70s, when they became more mainstream, and an adult during the popular resurgence in the 90s as part of the New Age movement.
I dabbled in yoga a bit during the 70s, from books and occasionally along with Lilias, then picked it back up again the late 90s in grad school, using a videocassette, but always for the physical benefits, not the mental. I'd turn the tape off when corpse pose began, having no use for "touchy-feely artsy-fartsy New Age claptrap" (still don't, for that matter). I was in my mid-40s at that point, and frankly too self-conscious to go to any of the courses filled with nubile and flexible undergrads at the university rec center, but I also had no patience with the obvious New Age encroachments.
I read Joseph Campbells' "Hero with a thousand faces" when it hit the best seller lists in the 90s, and later watched the Bill Moyers' series on PBS. I even bought the book and the CDs. Besides providing a new, non-religious way to look at culture and religion, Campbell also presented a different version of Buddhism than I had picked up from pop culture, and one that distinguished between Hinduism and Buddhism -- and the Hare Krishna, transcendentalists, and other, generic gurus and yogis.
My religious and philosophical journey is too long to go into now; what is important is to note that once I began working on my ph.d. at UCLA in 1996, it was more or less put on hold. I had no need for it. School was my religion. It gave meaning and structure and purpose to my life. Those who have earned a ph.d. know that the process becomes your entire life; you socialize almost entirely with your fellow students; you work as a research assistant; you arrive on campus before breakfast and leave when it's bedtime.
You have to make a real effort to carve out some time for something not associated with your program or your school. In my case, it was weekly voice lessons and volunteering for the National Park Service. Even summer vacations became research trips. The upshot being that there is not a lot of time to ponder the meaning of life; that's not to say that such ideas don't cross your mind, but you generally push them aside to be dealt with "later."
Oh, yes, there are various personal and emotional crises, times of discouragement and depression, distractions and obsessions, but none of them is allowed to supplant the primary goal of earning that ph.d. They are just temporary detours that are necessary in order to recharge or to re-evaluate and re-focus. I thought about dropping out probably once a year or so, but I was always aware that I was really just throwing a tantrum -- except after 9/11, but that's a story for another time.
Then there were the two years of searching for a faculty position, while trying to keep body and soul together with a variety of temporary and part-time jobs. And then getting the job, buying a house, meeting Mike and getting engaged, moving to Baton Rouge from LA, adjusting to being a genuine, full-time, tenure-track faculty member, and getting married. I felt like I was on a speeding train that was constantly threatening to fly off the tracks!
I suspect that it was somewhere around my third year here, when my personal and professional life felt more settled and familiar that I started to really pay attention to the nagging existential angst that was always lurking somewhere underneath it all. I took stock and realized that, somewhere along the line, I had stopped believing in any supernatural power of any kind, but that, at the same time, I need some kind of objective, external philosophy to provide ethical touchstones, as it were.
The danger of creating your own, individual, unique philosophy is that you begin to justify and rationalize and even perhaps worship your own selfish needs and desires as ethical principles and as moral values. It's subtle and it's seductive, but it's also inevitable. You become your own god without some other person or community to occasionally kick you in the pants and remind you that you're human and fallible.
So, I looked at the Unitarians, and while their philosophy does include many of the core ethical principles that I feel are necessary, their emphasis on worship, spirituality and theology doesn't feel right for me. The minister has written several letters to the editor, and while I agree in principle, I find his language too overtly religious with its emphasis on a supernatural being and on Western scripture.
I also looked at yoga as a discpline, not just exercise. I read about the practice and checked out the websites of the various yoga studios. To be honest, I was put off by the photos of young, thin, attractive, flexible practitioners in impossible poses. And by the incursion of New Age thinking and practice; I have no desire to "sweat, laugh, chant and dance" or to channel any energies. And, frankly, by the price ($100/month? I think not). I'll stick with my DVDs for the time being. (This week, I discovered another studio, led by a member of Tam Bao; I am favorably impressed, so -- we'll see.)
I'm not sure at what point I started to think seriously about Buddhist meditation. As I say, I've always been aware of it. The Baton Rouge paper has run articles about the local Buddhist temple, so I've known that it is here. The Dalai Lama was in New Orleans earlier this year; the Saturday religion section frequently includes an article on Buddhism. My guess is that it was just a natural progression, as I eliminated other alternatives.
Not exactly the spiritual awakening that others report. And I would not, at this point, describe myself as a "Buddhist." I don't accept the doctrine of rebirth and I'm not convinced that what has been preserved and transmitted about the Buddha and his teachings is factual, other than the most general outline. I don't see that either one matters. If rebirth and karma are real, my not believing in them won't change that, and I do not have to believe in order to live a mindful and compassionate life. I would go so far as to say that living a mindful and compassionate life without the carrot and stick of karma could be considered more enlightened (maybe I need a swift kick?).
The story of the Buddha has power regardless of whether it is factual. The supernatural elements do not add to that power, and in fact, detract from it, as it creates a chasm between the Buddha and the average person. They also increase the danger that the Buddha will become an object of religious worship, rather than respect and veneration.
What matters about dharma is that it has been demonstrated to be useful and effective. The sutras teach abiding principles that have been distilled over the centuries, regardless of who first expounded them. They are part of a coherent system of belief and behavior that leads to individual and social improvement. And studying them also provides intellectual satisfaction.
As for rituals -- well, I enjoy a good ritual and I enjoy good theater. I recognize the power of signs and symbols. As long as I'm not expected to take them at face value and to accept their putative explanations, I can join in. All except prostration, for the time being.
Being born at the tail-end of the Baby Boom, I'm not quite a child of the 60s, but I certainly was a child during the sixties, when Eastern religions entered our popular culture, and a teen and young adult during the 70s, when they became more mainstream, and an adult during the popular resurgence in the 90s as part of the New Age movement.
I dabbled in yoga a bit during the 70s, from books and occasionally along with Lilias, then picked it back up again the late 90s in grad school, using a videocassette, but always for the physical benefits, not the mental. I'd turn the tape off when corpse pose began, having no use for "touchy-feely artsy-fartsy New Age claptrap" (still don't, for that matter). I was in my mid-40s at that point, and frankly too self-conscious to go to any of the courses filled with nubile and flexible undergrads at the university rec center, but I also had no patience with the obvious New Age encroachments.
I read Joseph Campbells' "Hero with a thousand faces" when it hit the best seller lists in the 90s, and later watched the Bill Moyers' series on PBS. I even bought the book and the CDs. Besides providing a new, non-religious way to look at culture and religion, Campbell also presented a different version of Buddhism than I had picked up from pop culture, and one that distinguished between Hinduism and Buddhism -- and the Hare Krishna, transcendentalists, and other, generic gurus and yogis.
My religious and philosophical journey is too long to go into now; what is important is to note that once I began working on my ph.d. at UCLA in 1996, it was more or less put on hold. I had no need for it. School was my religion. It gave meaning and structure and purpose to my life. Those who have earned a ph.d. know that the process becomes your entire life; you socialize almost entirely with your fellow students; you work as a research assistant; you arrive on campus before breakfast and leave when it's bedtime.
You have to make a real effort to carve out some time for something not associated with your program or your school. In my case, it was weekly voice lessons and volunteering for the National Park Service. Even summer vacations became research trips. The upshot being that there is not a lot of time to ponder the meaning of life; that's not to say that such ideas don't cross your mind, but you generally push them aside to be dealt with "later."
Oh, yes, there are various personal and emotional crises, times of discouragement and depression, distractions and obsessions, but none of them is allowed to supplant the primary goal of earning that ph.d. They are just temporary detours that are necessary in order to recharge or to re-evaluate and re-focus. I thought about dropping out probably once a year or so, but I was always aware that I was really just throwing a tantrum -- except after 9/11, but that's a story for another time.
Then there were the two years of searching for a faculty position, while trying to keep body and soul together with a variety of temporary and part-time jobs. And then getting the job, buying a house, meeting Mike and getting engaged, moving to Baton Rouge from LA, adjusting to being a genuine, full-time, tenure-track faculty member, and getting married. I felt like I was on a speeding train that was constantly threatening to fly off the tracks!
I suspect that it was somewhere around my third year here, when my personal and professional life felt more settled and familiar that I started to really pay attention to the nagging existential angst that was always lurking somewhere underneath it all. I took stock and realized that, somewhere along the line, I had stopped believing in any supernatural power of any kind, but that, at the same time, I need some kind of objective, external philosophy to provide ethical touchstones, as it were.
The danger of creating your own, individual, unique philosophy is that you begin to justify and rationalize and even perhaps worship your own selfish needs and desires as ethical principles and as moral values. It's subtle and it's seductive, but it's also inevitable. You become your own god without some other person or community to occasionally kick you in the pants and remind you that you're human and fallible.
So, I looked at the Unitarians, and while their philosophy does include many of the core ethical principles that I feel are necessary, their emphasis on worship, spirituality and theology doesn't feel right for me. The minister has written several letters to the editor, and while I agree in principle, I find his language too overtly religious with its emphasis on a supernatural being and on Western scripture.
I also looked at yoga as a discpline, not just exercise. I read about the practice and checked out the websites of the various yoga studios. To be honest, I was put off by the photos of young, thin, attractive, flexible practitioners in impossible poses. And by the incursion of New Age thinking and practice; I have no desire to "sweat, laugh, chant and dance" or to channel any energies. And, frankly, by the price ($100/month? I think not). I'll stick with my DVDs for the time being. (This week, I discovered another studio, led by a member of Tam Bao; I am favorably impressed, so -- we'll see.)
I'm not sure at what point I started to think seriously about Buddhist meditation. As I say, I've always been aware of it. The Baton Rouge paper has run articles about the local Buddhist temple, so I've known that it is here. The Dalai Lama was in New Orleans earlier this year; the Saturday religion section frequently includes an article on Buddhism. My guess is that it was just a natural progression, as I eliminated other alternatives.
Not exactly the spiritual awakening that others report. And I would not, at this point, describe myself as a "Buddhist." I don't accept the doctrine of rebirth and I'm not convinced that what has been preserved and transmitted about the Buddha and his teachings is factual, other than the most general outline. I don't see that either one matters. If rebirth and karma are real, my not believing in them won't change that, and I do not have to believe in order to live a mindful and compassionate life. I would go so far as to say that living a mindful and compassionate life without the carrot and stick of karma could be considered more enlightened (maybe I need a swift kick?).
The story of the Buddha has power regardless of whether it is factual. The supernatural elements do not add to that power, and in fact, detract from it, as it creates a chasm between the Buddha and the average person. They also increase the danger that the Buddha will become an object of religious worship, rather than respect and veneration.
What matters about dharma is that it has been demonstrated to be useful and effective. The sutras teach abiding principles that have been distilled over the centuries, regardless of who first expounded them. They are part of a coherent system of belief and behavior that leads to individual and social improvement. And studying them also provides intellectual satisfaction.
As for rituals -- well, I enjoy a good ritual and I enjoy good theater. I recognize the power of signs and symbols. As long as I'm not expected to take them at face value and to accept their putative explanations, I can join in. All except prostration, for the time being.
Thursday, August 22, 2013
Insights gained during two weeks of meditation
I've surprised myself by managing to maintain a regular daily meditation practice now for nearly two week. I would even go so far as to say that I look forward to it. The cats get me up by 5:00 anyway, and it's a much more psychologically healthy way to start the day than by arguing on Facebook or the Advocate Opinion pages.
My first insight is that this is hard! It's hard physically; my feet go to sleep, my back aches. It's hard emotionally -- it's hard to just sit for 20 or 30 minutes, "doing nothing." I sometimes feel guilty. My American upbringing tells me that I should be "doing things," accomplishing something, even if it's only to use the time to plan my day. It's hard mentally -- it's hard to clear the mind and keep it clear. I think I probably manage a total of 2-3 minutes of real mindfulness in any half hour. And, of course, trying to maintain mindfulness is the surest way to lose it. It is a precarious balance.
The abbott is back and led last week's practice. It was a different experience; a bit more structured and coherent. He was much more willing to be critical -- he noted that "one of the brothers has his head bent too far; it will interfere with his breathing" -- and walked around during the practice to correct posture (I assume it was he -- might have been one of the other two monks).
There's one insight there, by the way. It's practice, not worship. And that's why we go -- to practice mindfulness in a setting that is specifically designed to support it. Practice at home is certainly worthwhile and has its own benefits -- I am learning to ignore meows and whisker tickles and face rubs, as well as the sound of garbage trucks and Mike turning over in bed -- which are supported by a weekly guided practice without such distractions.
So, last week, as we were sitting, I realized that I had lost track of the number of bells; I knew we'd been sitting for at least 15 minutes, but I wasn't sure whether it had been 20 or 25. I wished that they would ring a bell, so that I would know how much time was left, and where I was in the practice. And that's when I arrived at my first understanding -- I was "now." That's where I was -- "now." We are always "now." In the West, we are so programmed to situate ourselves according to the clock and relative to time and events that we are seldom "now." We are almost always "nearly lunch," "half an hour before quitting time," "about to go on break," "late for that meeting." We lose "now" by defining ourselves relative to the past and the future, but especially the future. Our culture is always looking forward, planning for the future, setting goals and working on achieving them . . . and yet, the reality is that we are never anywhere except "now."
Am I more in the "now" as a result? Ummmm -- well -- old habits are hard to break. It will take more than two weeks.
During the practice, we are instructed to become aware of our minds and aware of our thoughts, to acknowledge them and let them go -- not to ignore them, but to let them go, or, as the abbott said this week, not to follow them as they connect with more and more thoughts. Ignoring them means making an effort to block them, which, of course, means focusing on them. Letting them go -- I imagine a scarf floating on the wind or wisps of steam dissipating -- means returning focus to the breath. And they do go. Some of them return later, but most of them are just random firings of neurons.
As I noted earlier, there is dharma talk after sitting. According to one of the books I read (I read about half an hour in some modern book about Buddhism after sitting in the morning), Buddhism is taught through discussion -- so it is "dharma talk," not "a dharma talk." The teacher guides the discussion, which is how the learning takes place; people are led to their own insights. How very pedagogically modern -- and ancient. Now that I understand this, I will be more tolerant. Nor necessarily more interested, but more tolerant.
Finally, this morning as I was reading a different author explaining mindfulness, it struck me that, in many ways, mindfulness is what the West calls "introversion." And, of course, rejects as a personality defect. Some of the teachings about mindfulness feel perfectly natural to me; they are the way I have always been. Needing time for myself away from others; being aware of my surroundings (Mike complains that I "never miss anything," which is an exaggeration); being aware of the complexity of situations and needing time to consider alternatives before arriving at a decision; having to focus on one thing at a time, rather than "mult-tasking." As Charles Emerson Winchester III said, "I do one thing. I do it very well. Then I move on."
Those, of course, are innate characteristics. I can hardly take credit for them. I certainly do not begin to have the mental discipline that is necessary for complete and constant mindfulness. It is more an interesting observation on different factors and aspects of cultural development. The West prizes extroversion and its major religions incorporate public spectacle and drama and public worship. Western religion is, as an Asian friend said, "out here." Prayers and worship are directed outward, toward another being. Meditation, contemplation -- these are reserved for the few, for the mystics and saints and cloistered religious orders, and their goal is union with the divine, which is outside of themselves.
Whereas, with Buddhism, the focus is inward for everyone. Meditation is standard practice. Tibetan Buddhism does incorporate some of the rituals of the Hindus -- and the Hindus certainly have a pantheon of gods "out there" -- but its primary focus is still on achieving mindful enlightenment.
My first insight is that this is hard! It's hard physically; my feet go to sleep, my back aches. It's hard emotionally -- it's hard to just sit for 20 or 30 minutes, "doing nothing." I sometimes feel guilty. My American upbringing tells me that I should be "doing things," accomplishing something, even if it's only to use the time to plan my day. It's hard mentally -- it's hard to clear the mind and keep it clear. I think I probably manage a total of 2-3 minutes of real mindfulness in any half hour. And, of course, trying to maintain mindfulness is the surest way to lose it. It is a precarious balance.
The abbott is back and led last week's practice. It was a different experience; a bit more structured and coherent. He was much more willing to be critical -- he noted that "one of the brothers has his head bent too far; it will interfere with his breathing" -- and walked around during the practice to correct posture (I assume it was he -- might have been one of the other two monks).
There's one insight there, by the way. It's practice, not worship. And that's why we go -- to practice mindfulness in a setting that is specifically designed to support it. Practice at home is certainly worthwhile and has its own benefits -- I am learning to ignore meows and whisker tickles and face rubs, as well as the sound of garbage trucks and Mike turning over in bed -- which are supported by a weekly guided practice without such distractions.
So, last week, as we were sitting, I realized that I had lost track of the number of bells; I knew we'd been sitting for at least 15 minutes, but I wasn't sure whether it had been 20 or 25. I wished that they would ring a bell, so that I would know how much time was left, and where I was in the practice. And that's when I arrived at my first understanding -- I was "now." That's where I was -- "now." We are always "now." In the West, we are so programmed to situate ourselves according to the clock and relative to time and events that we are seldom "now." We are almost always "nearly lunch," "half an hour before quitting time," "about to go on break," "late for that meeting." We lose "now" by defining ourselves relative to the past and the future, but especially the future. Our culture is always looking forward, planning for the future, setting goals and working on achieving them . . . and yet, the reality is that we are never anywhere except "now."
Am I more in the "now" as a result? Ummmm -- well -- old habits are hard to break. It will take more than two weeks.
During the practice, we are instructed to become aware of our minds and aware of our thoughts, to acknowledge them and let them go -- not to ignore them, but to let them go, or, as the abbott said this week, not to follow them as they connect with more and more thoughts. Ignoring them means making an effort to block them, which, of course, means focusing on them. Letting them go -- I imagine a scarf floating on the wind or wisps of steam dissipating -- means returning focus to the breath. And they do go. Some of them return later, but most of them are just random firings of neurons.
As I noted earlier, there is dharma talk after sitting. According to one of the books I read (I read about half an hour in some modern book about Buddhism after sitting in the morning), Buddhism is taught through discussion -- so it is "dharma talk," not "a dharma talk." The teacher guides the discussion, which is how the learning takes place; people are led to their own insights. How very pedagogically modern -- and ancient. Now that I understand this, I will be more tolerant. Nor necessarily more interested, but more tolerant.
Finally, this morning as I was reading a different author explaining mindfulness, it struck me that, in many ways, mindfulness is what the West calls "introversion." And, of course, rejects as a personality defect. Some of the teachings about mindfulness feel perfectly natural to me; they are the way I have always been. Needing time for myself away from others; being aware of my surroundings (Mike complains that I "never miss anything," which is an exaggeration); being aware of the complexity of situations and needing time to consider alternatives before arriving at a decision; having to focus on one thing at a time, rather than "mult-tasking." As Charles Emerson Winchester III said, "I do one thing. I do it very well. Then I move on."
Those, of course, are innate characteristics. I can hardly take credit for them. I certainly do not begin to have the mental discipline that is necessary for complete and constant mindfulness. It is more an interesting observation on different factors and aspects of cultural development. The West prizes extroversion and its major religions incorporate public spectacle and drama and public worship. Western religion is, as an Asian friend said, "out here." Prayers and worship are directed outward, toward another being. Meditation, contemplation -- these are reserved for the few, for the mystics and saints and cloistered religious orders, and their goal is union with the divine, which is outside of themselves.
Whereas, with Buddhism, the focus is inward for everyone. Meditation is standard practice. Tibetan Buddhism does incorporate some of the rituals of the Hindus -- and the Hindus certainly have a pantheon of gods "out there" -- but its primary focus is still on achieving mindful enlightenment.
Saturday, August 10, 2013
Trying Buddhism on for size
For the past couple of years, ever since our local paper ran a story about the installation of a new monk at the local Buddhist temple, I've toyed with the idea of looking more seriously at Buddhism. As with many people my age, the term immediately brings to mind flocks of saffron-robed teens hanging out at airports begging for money and bearded, long-haired pudgy androgynous gurus bilking the credulous. It takes almost an effort of will to divorce those images from the reality. On the other hand, I did experiment a bit with yoga as a teen, mainly from books, but occasionally along with Lilias, and became a semi-irregular practitioner while in grad school. I have a set of DVDs that I have employed for weeks at a time, off and on, over the past 10 years or so. And yes, I realize that yoga and Buddhism are different, but they arise from the same philosophical tradition.
After the troubles and disappointments and sadness of Wraith and her kittens, Mike checked out some books on meditation and Buddhism and read some passages to me which he found significant and helpful. That was the final impetus to push me to suggest that we visit the Tam Bao temple, if only for the guided meditation.
Why is there a Buddhist temple in the middle of this stronghold of Christian conservatism? For the same reason that there are many fine Vietnamese restaurants and Vietnamese grocery stores -- this is one of the areas of the country where Vietnamese refugees settled after the fall of Saigon. Southeastern Louisiana had the room, a climate that is similar to home, and the industries in which many of them were already proficient, especially fishing and shrimping. Many, but obviously not all, are Catholic. Most moved to New Orleans, but a sizable contingent moved north to Baton Rouge.
We drove out there last week to find out exactly where it is and how to get to it and where to park and all of those other little details that are particularly important in Baton Rouge, where the streets are deliberately designed to prevent through traffic. It was also an opportunity for a Vietnamese lunch at Viet Garden restaurant. The temple was not difficult to find, but getting into it was just a bit tricky the first time. We parked and walked around the grounds, noted the bigger, paved parking lot tucked away to one side, and peeked into the Buddha hall.
We had thought to attend one of the Tuesday night meditations, but after calling the Temple to verify the time, I had the distinct impression that I was being steered toward the Friday night English service. Possibly because the young man I spoke with kept saying, "Well, the English is on Friday night. Tonight is just Vietnamese." And given that Mike had to be to work at 6 a.m. on Wednesday, we changed our plans to Friday night.
After a day that included leaving home before 7 to get to campus early enough to park and walk to my office before robing and walking down to graduation and sitting through the two-hour ceremony (and constantly reminding myself that, while this is a tri-annual experience for me, it is a once-in-a-lifetime for the graduates), then back to my office for the reception, then back to the parking lot, I was ready for a little quiet mindfulness. Both of my feet were protesting the unaccustomed activity, the right a bit more than the left, of course.
I had planned a shrimp curry for dinner, but Mike said, in that way of his, "Oh, I thought we were going to get dinner at Little Saigon, since we'll be in that area." Uh-huh. Sure. But I was willing to be convinced not to cook dinner. So, that's what we did, although we ended up at Saigon Noodles, which has taken over from Little Saigon (which, I discovered today, has re-opened across the street), none of which is in any way relevant, except that this might become a regular Friday night event.
We arrived at the Temple at 7:00, about 20 minutes early. A nice young man in the parking lot told us that people were free to enter and sit quietly, so we did, leaving our shoes outside the door, along with three or four other pairs. The floor, which earlier in the week had been bare, was laid out with mats and cushions and book cradles. There are also padded benches along the outer walls. A man lifted one of the bench tops and took out an extra cushion. Mike and I selected places and, while Mike helped himself to a second cushion, I maneuvered my way down to a seated position and crossed my legs.
People began arriving in ones and twos and taking places; some paused to bow to the Buddha, others just sat. They were a very diverse group in every way -- age, race, sex, weight. A few looked like "typical" Buddhists -- tall, thin, in flowing clothing or yoga pants, who sat in the lotus position -- but most, well, did not. Most sat on cushions, quite a few of them sinking gracefully and crossing their legs without difficulty, but a handful sat on the benches.
A young man in a brown robe with a shaved head, who would later identify himself as "Brother Will," and a woman in a brown robe entered, bowed to the Buddha, and a few minutes later, the service began. One of the men rang the bell -- it is a very large bowl-shaped bell that is rung by striking it with a wooden ballet, and gives off a very resonant tone that reverberates through the hall; much more pleasant than I had anticipated -- and a young woman read an introduction to the service, so that newcomers would know what to expect without feeling singled out.
The abbott entered, we all rose. He offered incense to the Buddhal they went through the three prostrations. Although most of those in attendance did prostrate themselves, Mike and I were not the only two who refrained, mainly because we both doubted our ability to get back up again without help! Brother Will explained that, while meditating, we should ignore the need to scratch or move; that if we absolutely had to move, it should be done mindfully, and that any thoughts should be accepted and then let go. Shortly after, the lights were dimmed, the bell was rung, and we began our 30 minutes of meditation. The abbott chanted something in Vietnamese, which, like Gregorian chant, was more powerful for being unintelligible.
Every five minutes or so, Brother Will would softly ring the bell, and recite a chant in English to help us re-focus on our breath. Every time I would think "I can't do this," the bell would ring and I would find that I could -- until about 20 minutes into it, when I realized that I could no long feel my feet or my ankles. I could not move my toes. I began to panic; all I could think of was how essential it was that I restore circulation.
First, I used my hands to shift my feet farther from my body, which helped somewhat. I tried to re-focus, but with the restoration of blood flow, my feet had begun, first to tingle, and then ache. Then, I straightened out my left leg, and tried to re-focus, but really, at that point, all I was doing was waiting for the 30 minutes to end. I wondered what would have happened if I had just ignored it. Obviously, my feet were not going to develop gangrene in that little bit of time.
Blessedly, the time did come to an end. We were instructed to rub our hands together, then massage our face and head, then our neck and shoulders, our back, and finally out legs. Mike then went to sit on a bench along the wall; 10 minutes later, I wished I had joined him -- and we'll just start out at the wall the next time.
Brother Will then introduced himself, explained that the abbot is away on a retreat (but did not introduce the monk who was leading the service, whom I shall continue to call "the abbot") and gave the homily -- I cannot think of it as other than that. He is a monk-in-training of about 18 months and doing his best, but not the deepest thinker. He questioned us about "What makes you happy?" then expressed surprise that people said, "Family, love, friends" -- to me, the expected answers. He expected to hear "Cars, money, iPhones." So young and inexperienced. Even if that were what people thought, most would have known better than to actually say it. He sort of rambled on about the topic for 10 minutes or so, then same man who had lit the incense and run the bell to start also rambled on, reading some passages from the Buddha and the Dalai Lamah. After 20 minutes or so, I was not the only person who was restlessly shifting, and the abbot suddenly rang the bell softly, then loudly, then softly again after the sound had died away.
That served to refocus all of us; the man finished what he was saying, and the floor was opened to comments. Nothing particularly noteworthy, just people repeating the sorts of things you would expect about "happiness" -- family, nature, love. I thought about saying that, for me, happiness comes from learning and acquiring knowledge, but I didn't want to sound, well, like a prig.
Again, the abbot rang the bell, then pointed to a young Asian man and over to his right side. The young man quickly moved, picked up a microphone, and began to translate. The abbot repeated much of what had been said, but expanded on it and contextualized it within Buddhism and Dharma, in particular the difference between the happiness that comes from without and that which comes from within, and the fragility of happiness that is attached to the outer world.
It was while he was speaking that I realized that even family, love, nature provide a happiness from without; that even that happiness is fragile and short-lived; happiness that depends on anything outside of ourselves is subject to loss. Family die; they become estranged; grow-up and move on with their lives; thousands of psychiatrists, psychologists and counselors made a very good living telling women in the 1970s and later that they needed to find a life beyond their children; the empty-nest syndrome is still recognized. Even learning and knowledge can be lost to Alzheimer's or a stroke or dementia. Mindfulness means finding joy in what is now.
He then shifted tone, and asked those of us who were new to introduce ourselves; of the 50 or so people who were there, about 10 were there for the first time. Most of them were students at LSU, although one other woman was also faculty at LSU and new to Baton Rouge.
We ended with a group chant in English. The regulars quickly gathered up the cushions, mats, and book stands, while I gingerly walked over to Mike, testing whether my feet would bear me out to the car. We were greeted by a friendly ginger cat as we left the hall, who demanded pets from everyone who came out. We don't know whether it is a regular occurrence, but we rather hope so.
Are we ready to commit to this? Possibly. Certainly we want to make it a regular practice at home, and we find value in the guided meditation at this stage. We're not decided about becoming members of the community. The constant bowing to each other with hands in heart position felt awkward, but that can be overcome with time. I think we'll just take it as it comes, which is all that we're asked to do.
After the troubles and disappointments and sadness of Wraith and her kittens, Mike checked out some books on meditation and Buddhism and read some passages to me which he found significant and helpful. That was the final impetus to push me to suggest that we visit the Tam Bao temple, if only for the guided meditation.
Why is there a Buddhist temple in the middle of this stronghold of Christian conservatism? For the same reason that there are many fine Vietnamese restaurants and Vietnamese grocery stores -- this is one of the areas of the country where Vietnamese refugees settled after the fall of Saigon. Southeastern Louisiana had the room, a climate that is similar to home, and the industries in which many of them were already proficient, especially fishing and shrimping. Many, but obviously not all, are Catholic. Most moved to New Orleans, but a sizable contingent moved north to Baton Rouge.
We drove out there last week to find out exactly where it is and how to get to it and where to park and all of those other little details that are particularly important in Baton Rouge, where the streets are deliberately designed to prevent through traffic. It was also an opportunity for a Vietnamese lunch at Viet Garden restaurant. The temple was not difficult to find, but getting into it was just a bit tricky the first time. We parked and walked around the grounds, noted the bigger, paved parking lot tucked away to one side, and peeked into the Buddha hall.
We had thought to attend one of the Tuesday night meditations, but after calling the Temple to verify the time, I had the distinct impression that I was being steered toward the Friday night English service. Possibly because the young man I spoke with kept saying, "Well, the English is on Friday night. Tonight is just Vietnamese." And given that Mike had to be to work at 6 a.m. on Wednesday, we changed our plans to Friday night.
After a day that included leaving home before 7 to get to campus early enough to park and walk to my office before robing and walking down to graduation and sitting through the two-hour ceremony (and constantly reminding myself that, while this is a tri-annual experience for me, it is a once-in-a-lifetime for the graduates), then back to my office for the reception, then back to the parking lot, I was ready for a little quiet mindfulness. Both of my feet were protesting the unaccustomed activity, the right a bit more than the left, of course.
I had planned a shrimp curry for dinner, but Mike said, in that way of his, "Oh, I thought we were going to get dinner at Little Saigon, since we'll be in that area." Uh-huh. Sure. But I was willing to be convinced not to cook dinner. So, that's what we did, although we ended up at Saigon Noodles, which has taken over from Little Saigon (which, I discovered today, has re-opened across the street), none of which is in any way relevant, except that this might become a regular Friday night event.
We arrived at the Temple at 7:00, about 20 minutes early. A nice young man in the parking lot told us that people were free to enter and sit quietly, so we did, leaving our shoes outside the door, along with three or four other pairs. The floor, which earlier in the week had been bare, was laid out with mats and cushions and book cradles. There are also padded benches along the outer walls. A man lifted one of the bench tops and took out an extra cushion. Mike and I selected places and, while Mike helped himself to a second cushion, I maneuvered my way down to a seated position and crossed my legs.
People began arriving in ones and twos and taking places; some paused to bow to the Buddha, others just sat. They were a very diverse group in every way -- age, race, sex, weight. A few looked like "typical" Buddhists -- tall, thin, in flowing clothing or yoga pants, who sat in the lotus position -- but most, well, did not. Most sat on cushions, quite a few of them sinking gracefully and crossing their legs without difficulty, but a handful sat on the benches.
A young man in a brown robe with a shaved head, who would later identify himself as "Brother Will," and a woman in a brown robe entered, bowed to the Buddha, and a few minutes later, the service began. One of the men rang the bell -- it is a very large bowl-shaped bell that is rung by striking it with a wooden ballet, and gives off a very resonant tone that reverberates through the hall; much more pleasant than I had anticipated -- and a young woman read an introduction to the service, so that newcomers would know what to expect without feeling singled out.
The abbott entered, we all rose. He offered incense to the Buddhal they went through the three prostrations. Although most of those in attendance did prostrate themselves, Mike and I were not the only two who refrained, mainly because we both doubted our ability to get back up again without help! Brother Will explained that, while meditating, we should ignore the need to scratch or move; that if we absolutely had to move, it should be done mindfully, and that any thoughts should be accepted and then let go. Shortly after, the lights were dimmed, the bell was rung, and we began our 30 minutes of meditation. The abbott chanted something in Vietnamese, which, like Gregorian chant, was more powerful for being unintelligible.
Every five minutes or so, Brother Will would softly ring the bell, and recite a chant in English to help us re-focus on our breath. Every time I would think "I can't do this," the bell would ring and I would find that I could -- until about 20 minutes into it, when I realized that I could no long feel my feet or my ankles. I could not move my toes. I began to panic; all I could think of was how essential it was that I restore circulation.
First, I used my hands to shift my feet farther from my body, which helped somewhat. I tried to re-focus, but with the restoration of blood flow, my feet had begun, first to tingle, and then ache. Then, I straightened out my left leg, and tried to re-focus, but really, at that point, all I was doing was waiting for the 30 minutes to end. I wondered what would have happened if I had just ignored it. Obviously, my feet were not going to develop gangrene in that little bit of time.
Blessedly, the time did come to an end. We were instructed to rub our hands together, then massage our face and head, then our neck and shoulders, our back, and finally out legs. Mike then went to sit on a bench along the wall; 10 minutes later, I wished I had joined him -- and we'll just start out at the wall the next time.
Brother Will then introduced himself, explained that the abbot is away on a retreat (but did not introduce the monk who was leading the service, whom I shall continue to call "the abbot") and gave the homily -- I cannot think of it as other than that. He is a monk-in-training of about 18 months and doing his best, but not the deepest thinker. He questioned us about "What makes you happy?" then expressed surprise that people said, "Family, love, friends" -- to me, the expected answers. He expected to hear "Cars, money, iPhones." So young and inexperienced. Even if that were what people thought, most would have known better than to actually say it. He sort of rambled on about the topic for 10 minutes or so, then same man who had lit the incense and run the bell to start also rambled on, reading some passages from the Buddha and the Dalai Lamah. After 20 minutes or so, I was not the only person who was restlessly shifting, and the abbot suddenly rang the bell softly, then loudly, then softly again after the sound had died away.
That served to refocus all of us; the man finished what he was saying, and the floor was opened to comments. Nothing particularly noteworthy, just people repeating the sorts of things you would expect about "happiness" -- family, nature, love. I thought about saying that, for me, happiness comes from learning and acquiring knowledge, but I didn't want to sound, well, like a prig.
Again, the abbot rang the bell, then pointed to a young Asian man and over to his right side. The young man quickly moved, picked up a microphone, and began to translate. The abbot repeated much of what had been said, but expanded on it and contextualized it within Buddhism and Dharma, in particular the difference between the happiness that comes from without and that which comes from within, and the fragility of happiness that is attached to the outer world.
It was while he was speaking that I realized that even family, love, nature provide a happiness from without; that even that happiness is fragile and short-lived; happiness that depends on anything outside of ourselves is subject to loss. Family die; they become estranged; grow-up and move on with their lives; thousands of psychiatrists, psychologists and counselors made a very good living telling women in the 1970s and later that they needed to find a life beyond their children; the empty-nest syndrome is still recognized. Even learning and knowledge can be lost to Alzheimer's or a stroke or dementia. Mindfulness means finding joy in what is now.
He then shifted tone, and asked those of us who were new to introduce ourselves; of the 50 or so people who were there, about 10 were there for the first time. Most of them were students at LSU, although one other woman was also faculty at LSU and new to Baton Rouge.
We ended with a group chant in English. The regulars quickly gathered up the cushions, mats, and book stands, while I gingerly walked over to Mike, testing whether my feet would bear me out to the car. We were greeted by a friendly ginger cat as we left the hall, who demanded pets from everyone who came out. We don't know whether it is a regular occurrence, but we rather hope so.
Are we ready to commit to this? Possibly. Certainly we want to make it a regular practice at home, and we find value in the guided meditation at this stage. We're not decided about becoming members of the community. The constant bowing to each other with hands in heart position felt awkward, but that can be overcome with time. I think we'll just take it as it comes, which is all that we're asked to do.
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
It did get worse -- and now it's over
The saddest news first. We were left with no choice but to call animal control. Wraith would not let us near the kittens, and we could not leave the little ginger one with an untreated broken leg. I would have been clawed from elbow to wrist, if I hadn't been wearing a long-sleeved sweater and rose gauntlets. We sent them, cage and all, last Friday, then picked up the humane trap to capture the other two. We set it yesterday, and by the evening, both had been picked up.
Waiting for animal control was incredibly stressful for all concerned, but afterward we both felt a great sense of relief and of peace. I had to steel myself to set the trap; it felt like such a terrible betrayal to set it to lure a hungry kitten, but as sad as we feel, and as much as we wish that it could have been otherwise, we feel no guilt. There was nothing else we could do.
Now that it's over, I can talk about it and why there was no other option, given the situation. As I noted in my previous posts, every animal rescue agency in Baton Rouge requires that cats listed for adoption be socialized as indoor animals. The only other options are Trap-Neuter-Release or animal control. I've already explained why TNR was not an option in this case.
We were absolutely right in our initial feeling that it is not possible to socialize four feral kittens and a half-wild mother in our little suburban tract home. As so many websites advised, the only way to socialize them would have been to separate all five of them, and how were we to do that? Wraith had already taught her kittens to fear us; she never stopped hissing at me every time I stepped out the door, even though I was providing food. In the house, she was becoming increasingly aggressive, growling at us when we came to feed her. Isolating them from her and each other was absolutely necessary and we had no way to do that.
We also needed to completely isolate them from our cats. After they'd been in the house for 12 hours or so, Miller refused to walk past the cage. I had to carry him down the hall to the kitchen for his dinner, and then back to the bedroom. Buddy was more curious, but Wraith hissed at him -- and he hissed back -- whenever he would stop to look at them.
If we lived in the country or a rural area with a couple of acres and distant neighbors, then TNR would have been ideal. They could have continued to live as feral animals, or we could have spent the months required to earn their trust, sitting out there with them, tempting them with bits of treats. They never would have become socialized to a house, but could have become our pets. But we do not live in the country.
We discussed moving them to the backyard, but how were we to do that and how were we to keep them there? And if we were successful in it, it would mean that we would have five additional cats living in the backyard for the next 15 years. The neighbors were sure to call animal control.
Why did we even think it was possible? Because neither of us had any experience with feral kittens. They are fiercer and more aggressive than either of us had imagined, and they were terrified of us. They climbed the cage walls, and when cornered, scratch and bit. Mike's finger will be a long time healing. We might have managed with one, but no one was stepping up to take any of the other three -- and what were we to do with Wraith?
Poor Wraith. Life had not been kind to her. Was she really a desperate, feral mother cat? Was she an abused domestic cat? Was she an outdoor cat who was never truly socialized? Was she ill? Mike always said that she looked "half-mad." She was a devoted mother who was doing her best for her kittens. Whatever terrors life held for her are over now, and she passed out of life peacefully at the end. She wasn't savaged by a dog or coyote or hit by a car to die slowly in the street or ravaged by illness. I'm sure that she was distraught in animal control, separated from her kittens, but as the drugs took effect, she would have calmly slipped into a deep sleep in her last moments.
I do mourn for her and for the kittens, and wish that it could have been otherwise, but I know that we thoroughly explored every option. We were ready to care for them and to love them, but they would not allow us to. They had no experience of it and did not understand.
As with their mother, I try to comfort myself with the knowledge that the kittens had a peaceful and clean death. They were not killed or maimed by the fan blades of my car, or run over in our driveway, or savaged by that hideous dog next door or killed by a feral tom cat (of which there are many in this area) or by a coyote. They didn't starve or suffer from disease.
And if we are honest, that was the future they all faced as roaming feral cats. TNR does nothing to change that reality.
It is not what we wanted. It is not what we would have chosen, if we had a choice. But we did not. I reserve my anger for the people in Baton Rouge who refuse to sterilize their pets. It is they who put us in this untenable position.
To anyone thinking of attempting something like this, our advice is don't. Not unless you have the kind of space necessary to isolate them. Believe the many, many websites that tell you how difficult it will be. And use humane traps to capture them.
Waiting for animal control was incredibly stressful for all concerned, but afterward we both felt a great sense of relief and of peace. I had to steel myself to set the trap; it felt like such a terrible betrayal to set it to lure a hungry kitten, but as sad as we feel, and as much as we wish that it could have been otherwise, we feel no guilt. There was nothing else we could do.
Now that it's over, I can talk about it and why there was no other option, given the situation. As I noted in my previous posts, every animal rescue agency in Baton Rouge requires that cats listed for adoption be socialized as indoor animals. The only other options are Trap-Neuter-Release or animal control. I've already explained why TNR was not an option in this case.
We were absolutely right in our initial feeling that it is not possible to socialize four feral kittens and a half-wild mother in our little suburban tract home. As so many websites advised, the only way to socialize them would have been to separate all five of them, and how were we to do that? Wraith had already taught her kittens to fear us; she never stopped hissing at me every time I stepped out the door, even though I was providing food. In the house, she was becoming increasingly aggressive, growling at us when we came to feed her. Isolating them from her and each other was absolutely necessary and we had no way to do that.
We also needed to completely isolate them from our cats. After they'd been in the house for 12 hours or so, Miller refused to walk past the cage. I had to carry him down the hall to the kitchen for his dinner, and then back to the bedroom. Buddy was more curious, but Wraith hissed at him -- and he hissed back -- whenever he would stop to look at them.
If we lived in the country or a rural area with a couple of acres and distant neighbors, then TNR would have been ideal. They could have continued to live as feral animals, or we could have spent the months required to earn their trust, sitting out there with them, tempting them with bits of treats. They never would have become socialized to a house, but could have become our pets. But we do not live in the country.
We discussed moving them to the backyard, but how were we to do that and how were we to keep them there? And if we were successful in it, it would mean that we would have five additional cats living in the backyard for the next 15 years. The neighbors were sure to call animal control.
Why did we even think it was possible? Because neither of us had any experience with feral kittens. They are fiercer and more aggressive than either of us had imagined, and they were terrified of us. They climbed the cage walls, and when cornered, scratch and bit. Mike's finger will be a long time healing. We might have managed with one, but no one was stepping up to take any of the other three -- and what were we to do with Wraith?
Poor Wraith. Life had not been kind to her. Was she really a desperate, feral mother cat? Was she an abused domestic cat? Was she an outdoor cat who was never truly socialized? Was she ill? Mike always said that she looked "half-mad." She was a devoted mother who was doing her best for her kittens. Whatever terrors life held for her are over now, and she passed out of life peacefully at the end. She wasn't savaged by a dog or coyote or hit by a car to die slowly in the street or ravaged by illness. I'm sure that she was distraught in animal control, separated from her kittens, but as the drugs took effect, she would have calmly slipped into a deep sleep in her last moments.
I do mourn for her and for the kittens, and wish that it could have been otherwise, but I know that we thoroughly explored every option. We were ready to care for them and to love them, but they would not allow us to. They had no experience of it and did not understand.
As with their mother, I try to comfort myself with the knowledge that the kittens had a peaceful and clean death. They were not killed or maimed by the fan blades of my car, or run over in our driveway, or savaged by that hideous dog next door or killed by a feral tom cat (of which there are many in this area) or by a coyote. They didn't starve or suffer from disease.
And if we are honest, that was the future they all faced as roaming feral cats. TNR does nothing to change that reality.
It is not what we wanted. It is not what we would have chosen, if we had a choice. But we did not. I reserve my anger for the people in Baton Rouge who refuse to sterilize their pets. It is they who put us in this untenable position.
To anyone thinking of attempting something like this, our advice is don't. Not unless you have the kind of space necessary to isolate them. Believe the many, many websites that tell you how difficult it will be. And use humane traps to capture them.
Thursday, August 1, 2013
It could be worse, but it's bad enough as it is
We honestly don't know what we were thinking, or perhaps fantasizing is a better term. The idea that we could catch 4 nearly-feral kittens at all is, in retrospect, utterly unrealistic. And to bring kids into the mix . . .
I mentioned Wraith in a previous post. Sometime after I was in the boot, she brought her four kittens over to live in our driveway. Mike and I had no idea what to do about the situation. We could not let them starve, but we also could not let them live in our suburban driveway. At the same time, I could not drive. I contacted every animal rescue organization in Baton Rouge and got the same answer -- they are all volunteer organizations who would lend us humane traps, but we would have to come and get the traps. That, of course, was not possible, as I could not drive.
Our options were Trap-Neuter-Release (TNR) or try to socialize the kittens as indoor cats and use their venues to try to find homes for them or take them to the animal shelter to be euthanized, or simply stop feeding them and wait for them to go away.
TNR is not an option. We cannot have a cat colony living in our suburban front yard, neutered or not. They were already using the flowerbed mulch as a litter box, and the food had attracted at least one other adult cat. The kittens had taken up residence in the undercarriage of our RAV4 and our neighbor's SUV that is parked in our driveway, so we were also extremely concerned about them being killed or injured when the vehicles were started up and driven. We could not just let them starve, especially as the mother was sitting on the doorstep every morning waiting to be fed.
So, we decided on the animal shelter as at least more humane than starving them or leaving them prey to the dogs and feral toms that roam this neighborhood, but after two days, realized that we would not be able to live with ourselves if we didn't at least try to socialize them, especially as we would have to catch them anyway, using supplied traps. The betrayal felt too great. Wraith was responding well to Mike, and a couple of the kittens seemed to be slowly losing their fear of him.
Again, the animal rescue organizations were not terribly encouraging; they could even be said to be discouraging. I suppose that they want to make sure that people understand what they are getting themselves into. They emphasized the difficulties in trapping the kittens and in socializing them. They really lean toward TNR. However, not only can we not have a feral cat colony living and growing in our front yard, TNR was devised for established feral colonies with established territories. It's not effective with just a single mother and her few kittens, all of whom are accustomed to being fed by humans.
And then the neighbors started asking what we were going to do about "those cats." That put a lot of pressure on us, and may be one of the reasons that we came up with our idiotic plan. We felt that we needed to act quickly; also, the kittens were just getting older and harder to socialize. We ordered a cat playpen, set it up in the tiled entry way by the front door, and asked friends to bring their three sons over to help us catch the kittens. Another friend donated additional animal carriers. Before they arrived, Mike was able to pick the mother up and put her in a carrier. His plan was to put the kittens in with their mother as we caught them.
I can't even go into everything that went wrong, partly because I don't know. It was utter pandemonium. The kittens moved like lightning. We were fools to think that they could be caught. Two of them ran into the neighbors' yard, while the dogs, two Golden labs, were out. They ran behind some tables that were stacked against the house, so Mike was able to get the black one, but the marmalade ran out and was attacked by the older of the two dogs. I'm not sure how I was able to finally pull it off, but I was able to rescue the kitten. It has a broken leg, which we'll have to deal with soon.
Our neighbor, the one who suggested poisoning them, just sat and watched as we tried to deal with his dogs. Even when we finally got him to get up and do something, he wouldn't take the dogs into the house.
I mentioned Wraith in a previous post. Sometime after I was in the boot, she brought her four kittens over to live in our driveway. Mike and I had no idea what to do about the situation. We could not let them starve, but we also could not let them live in our suburban driveway. At the same time, I could not drive. I contacted every animal rescue organization in Baton Rouge and got the same answer -- they are all volunteer organizations who would lend us humane traps, but we would have to come and get the traps. That, of course, was not possible, as I could not drive.
Our options were Trap-Neuter-Release (TNR) or try to socialize the kittens as indoor cats and use their venues to try to find homes for them or take them to the animal shelter to be euthanized, or simply stop feeding them and wait for them to go away.
TNR is not an option. We cannot have a cat colony living in our suburban front yard, neutered or not. They were already using the flowerbed mulch as a litter box, and the food had attracted at least one other adult cat. The kittens had taken up residence in the undercarriage of our RAV4 and our neighbor's SUV that is parked in our driveway, so we were also extremely concerned about them being killed or injured when the vehicles were started up and driven. We could not just let them starve, especially as the mother was sitting on the doorstep every morning waiting to be fed.
So, we decided on the animal shelter as at least more humane than starving them or leaving them prey to the dogs and feral toms that roam this neighborhood, but after two days, realized that we would not be able to live with ourselves if we didn't at least try to socialize them, especially as we would have to catch them anyway, using supplied traps. The betrayal felt too great. Wraith was responding well to Mike, and a couple of the kittens seemed to be slowly losing their fear of him.
Again, the animal rescue organizations were not terribly encouraging; they could even be said to be discouraging. I suppose that they want to make sure that people understand what they are getting themselves into. They emphasized the difficulties in trapping the kittens and in socializing them. They really lean toward TNR. However, not only can we not have a feral cat colony living and growing in our front yard, TNR was devised for established feral colonies with established territories. It's not effective with just a single mother and her few kittens, all of whom are accustomed to being fed by humans.
And then the neighbors started asking what we were going to do about "those cats." That put a lot of pressure on us, and may be one of the reasons that we came up with our idiotic plan. We felt that we needed to act quickly; also, the kittens were just getting older and harder to socialize. We ordered a cat playpen, set it up in the tiled entry way by the front door, and asked friends to bring their three sons over to help us catch the kittens. Another friend donated additional animal carriers. Before they arrived, Mike was able to pick the mother up and put her in a carrier. His plan was to put the kittens in with their mother as we caught them.
I can't even go into everything that went wrong, partly because I don't know. It was utter pandemonium. The kittens moved like lightning. We were fools to think that they could be caught. Two of them ran into the neighbors' yard, while the dogs, two Golden labs, were out. They ran behind some tables that were stacked against the house, so Mike was able to get the black one, but the marmalade ran out and was attacked by the older of the two dogs. I'm not sure how I was able to finally pull it off, but I was able to rescue the kitten. It has a broken leg, which we'll have to deal with soon.
Our neighbor, the one who suggested poisoning them, just sat and watched as we tried to deal with his dogs. Even when we finally got him to get up and do something, he wouldn't take the dogs into the house.
Monday, July 29, 2013
Real "Master Chef" home cooking
"Master Chef" is one of the very few network television shows we make a point of watching; that "Hell's Kitchen" and "Kitchen Nightmares" are two of the others should come as no surprise. However, I do have one perennial complaint, to wit, if "Master Chef" really is "America's best home cook," then why are contestants judged on their ability to create "restaurant quality dishes" with the high-quality ingredients using professional tools?
The real test of a good home cook is to turn out family-pleasing dishes seven nights a week, 52 weeks a year, and to do it on a budget in a suburban ranch kitchen. I'd like to see a "Master Chef" mystery box that included only items found in my fridge and in my pantry -- the week before I get paid. Now THAT would be a challenge! Oh, and Joe would have to swallow it.
Another would be using up leftovers in ways that disguise what they were originally.
I thought of this last week as I was putting together what I think was a pretty decent pork pot pie with cheddar biscuit topping for dinner last night. It was the left-over herbed pork roast (a rub of chopped fresh sage, rosemary and garlic with olive oil, salt and pepper) and potatoes from last Sunday's dinner (the miracle of refrigeration!). I sauteed some minced onion and garlic and with a gravy made from the drippings stretched out with some chicken stock, added the cubed pork, diced potatoes, and some frozen mixed vegetables. Ordinarily there would be left-over roasted carrots, but we've been out of carrots for a couple of weeks now; Mike kept forgetting them at the grocery store. I mixed up some buttermilk drop biscuits, cut back a bit on the shortening and added some cheddar cheese, but no herbs, figuring that the herbs from the pork would be plenty. I baked it in individual ramekins as a further diversion from the fact that it was made with left-overs. Baked until the topping was browned and we had dinner.
Later in the week. I made broiled frozen cod with pesto made from the basil growing in our herb garden served over orzo. Mike picked some very tiny baby eggplant, so I halved them, drizzled with some olive oil, topped with some finely minced garlic and parmesan cheese and roast along with the cod. I saved a bit of basil to sprinkle over them. I wanted to do a saute with peppers and tomatoes, but nothing was ripe yet.
The cod and pesto were a success, and the next night, I made homemade ravioli with basil/garlic/ricotta filling and the rest of the pesto. That used some ricotta that I had in the fridge, and leftover pesto -- two for one.
I'm planning ricotta-stuffed cannelloni for this week, with a red sauce, to use up a couple of tomatoes that are getting too ripe and the rest of the ricotta.
The real test of a good home cook is to turn out family-pleasing dishes seven nights a week, 52 weeks a year, and to do it on a budget in a suburban ranch kitchen. I'd like to see a "Master Chef" mystery box that included only items found in my fridge and in my pantry -- the week before I get paid. Now THAT would be a challenge! Oh, and Joe would have to swallow it.
Another would be using up leftovers in ways that disguise what they were originally.
I thought of this last week as I was putting together what I think was a pretty decent pork pot pie with cheddar biscuit topping for dinner last night. It was the left-over herbed pork roast (a rub of chopped fresh sage, rosemary and garlic with olive oil, salt and pepper) and potatoes from last Sunday's dinner (the miracle of refrigeration!). I sauteed some minced onion and garlic and with a gravy made from the drippings stretched out with some chicken stock, added the cubed pork, diced potatoes, and some frozen mixed vegetables. Ordinarily there would be left-over roasted carrots, but we've been out of carrots for a couple of weeks now; Mike kept forgetting them at the grocery store. I mixed up some buttermilk drop biscuits, cut back a bit on the shortening and added some cheddar cheese, but no herbs, figuring that the herbs from the pork would be plenty. I baked it in individual ramekins as a further diversion from the fact that it was made with left-overs. Baked until the topping was browned and we had dinner.
Later in the week. I made broiled frozen cod with pesto made from the basil growing in our herb garden served over orzo. Mike picked some very tiny baby eggplant, so I halved them, drizzled with some olive oil, topped with some finely minced garlic and parmesan cheese and roast along with the cod. I saved a bit of basil to sprinkle over them. I wanted to do a saute with peppers and tomatoes, but nothing was ripe yet.
The cod and pesto were a success, and the next night, I made homemade ravioli with basil/garlic/ricotta filling and the rest of the pesto. That used some ricotta that I had in the fridge, and leftover pesto -- two for one.
I'm planning ricotta-stuffed cannelloni for this week, with a red sauce, to use up a couple of tomatoes that are getting too ripe and the rest of the ricotta.
Sunday, July 21, 2013
Jam tarts
After my first surgery, because Mike had been literally waiting on me for weeks at a time, I finally made him the blackberry jam tart he's been asking for every year when our blackberries are in season. The first ones I made were 4-inch blackberry pies, which he devoured, but then informed me that they weren't what he wanted. He wanted a tart shell, filled with jam, and topped with a lattice crust, the way his mother used to make.
After I was speaking to him again (never tell your wife that the blackberry pies she spent an entire day making, including picking the blackberries, were not the pinnacle of dessertness; I forgave him primarily because I had used packaged pastry crust), I agreed to try again. I picked another basket of blackberries and cooked them until they were soft, then passed them through my food mill, then continued to cook the juice with sugar to taste until it was thick.
While it cooled, I made the pastry crust, following the Cook's Illustrated "fool-proof" recipe, rather than using my old stand-by. Well, they never met this fool. It calls for chilled shortening, as well as cold butter. My shortening was not chilled. I scooped out the amount called for and put it in the freezer to chill, hoping that would do. Then, I got out the food processor, measured the dry ingredients into it (doubling the sugar), realized that I should have held out one cup of the flour, so scooped it back out with a soup spoon, and proceeded to process the butter and shortening in short bursts, per directions. I then added the additional flour, at which point it became clear that the shortening was not cold enough, as it blended into a paste, rather than clumping.
Then, following the recipe, I dumped it all into a mixing bowl, wondering all the while how this was saving me time. I don't have a crew of dishwashers. Couldn't I just have cut the shortening and butter into the flour in that bowl, the way I always have? I even have a pastry blender, which is a whole lot easier to clean than a food processor.
So, I sprinkled on the cold vodka and the cold water and pressed it in with a spatula, as per the directions. It seemed very soft to me. That was when I discovered that it had to be refrigerated for 45 minutes or up to 2 days. Errrrghhhhh!
When I pulled it out of the fridge, it was still really soft, but at this point, I did not have any more time to wait, so I sprinkled my pastry cloth liberally with flour and rolled it out. It rolled like a dream, but when I tried to roll it around the pin to transfer to the tart pan, it drooped and sagged and fell off the pin as I lifted it from the counter. After a few more tries, I gave up and just pressed it into the pan, doing my best to make it even. I then blind baked the crust for about 20 minutes, let it cool, and filled it with the now room temperature jam (which was absolutely fabulous -- such concentrated blackberry flavor, it was almost too good).
Here is where I lost it. I rolled out the remaining dough, cut it into strips, and tried to pick them up. Maybe 3 inches would lift before it would break. A few choice expletives later, I dumped a cup of flour on the pastry cloth and kneaded enough into that dough to make it manageable, rolled it out, cut the strips, laid them out, and baked the thing.
Mike, poor thing, got quite an earful when he got home from work, consisting mainly of "All I want to hear from you is how this is exactly what you wanted. I do NOT want to hear how your mother did it!"
He must have meant it when he said it, as he ate two pieces that night, another piece at breakfast, and had to call me to come and get him from work because . . . because you should not eat three pieces of blackberry jam tart within 12 hours. Despite the near-disaster with the crust, it still came out light and flaky and crispy.
I still don't know why the "fool-proof" pastry failed -- was it because the shortening was not cold enough? Because of the extra sugar? The kitchen too warm? I didn't leave it in the refrigerator long enough? There was enough left to make another crust, so I popped it into a plastic bag and into the meat drawer.
And got it out today to use for a fig jam tart, way more than 2 days later. The figs are ripening and he spent the morning vacuuming and doing the kitchen floors, to say nothing of having been saddled with cooking duties for the past three weeks.
Rolled it out, flipped it into the tart pan, weighted it down and blind baked it while I made the fig jam -- figs cooked down with sugar to taste and a couple of tablespoons of the limoncello I made last year, since we're out of lemons. I would have used port, but I used the last of that for the Christmas pudding. Let everything cool, pureed the figs with my immersion blender, spread the jam in the shell and stuck it in the fridge. The bits of crust that broke off are as flaky and crispy as they were 2 months ago. The fig jam isn't quite as rich as it would be with port -- but needs must.
Having tasted it, I'd call it more of a "fig puree" tart than a jam tart -- fig jam doesn't jell so much as thicken. Very tasty, but the texture is not quite right. Next time, I would not puree the figs, just chop them roughly and leave some pieces for texture. Still, Mike has had two pieces . . .
I really think the next time, I may follow the Cooks' Illustrated pie dough recipe as far as ingredients go, but I'll just cut the shortening (which is now in the fridge) and butter into the flour, rather than messing with the food processor. I know they use it on Master Chef, but . . . I'm not on Master Chef.
After I was speaking to him again (never tell your wife that the blackberry pies she spent an entire day making, including picking the blackberries, were not the pinnacle of dessertness; I forgave him primarily because I had used packaged pastry crust), I agreed to try again. I picked another basket of blackberries and cooked them until they were soft, then passed them through my food mill, then continued to cook the juice with sugar to taste until it was thick.
While it cooled, I made the pastry crust, following the Cook's Illustrated "fool-proof" recipe, rather than using my old stand-by. Well, they never met this fool. It calls for chilled shortening, as well as cold butter. My shortening was not chilled. I scooped out the amount called for and put it in the freezer to chill, hoping that would do. Then, I got out the food processor, measured the dry ingredients into it (doubling the sugar), realized that I should have held out one cup of the flour, so scooped it back out with a soup spoon, and proceeded to process the butter and shortening in short bursts, per directions. I then added the additional flour, at which point it became clear that the shortening was not cold enough, as it blended into a paste, rather than clumping.
Then, following the recipe, I dumped it all into a mixing bowl, wondering all the while how this was saving me time. I don't have a crew of dishwashers. Couldn't I just have cut the shortening and butter into the flour in that bowl, the way I always have? I even have a pastry blender, which is a whole lot easier to clean than a food processor.
So, I sprinkled on the cold vodka and the cold water and pressed it in with a spatula, as per the directions. It seemed very soft to me. That was when I discovered that it had to be refrigerated for 45 minutes or up to 2 days. Errrrghhhhh!
When I pulled it out of the fridge, it was still really soft, but at this point, I did not have any more time to wait, so I sprinkled my pastry cloth liberally with flour and rolled it out. It rolled like a dream, but when I tried to roll it around the pin to transfer to the tart pan, it drooped and sagged and fell off the pin as I lifted it from the counter. After a few more tries, I gave up and just pressed it into the pan, doing my best to make it even. I then blind baked the crust for about 20 minutes, let it cool, and filled it with the now room temperature jam (which was absolutely fabulous -- such concentrated blackberry flavor, it was almost too good).
Here is where I lost it. I rolled out the remaining dough, cut it into strips, and tried to pick them up. Maybe 3 inches would lift before it would break. A few choice expletives later, I dumped a cup of flour on the pastry cloth and kneaded enough into that dough to make it manageable, rolled it out, cut the strips, laid them out, and baked the thing.
Mike, poor thing, got quite an earful when he got home from work, consisting mainly of "All I want to hear from you is how this is exactly what you wanted. I do NOT want to hear how your mother did it!"
He must have meant it when he said it, as he ate two pieces that night, another piece at breakfast, and had to call me to come and get him from work because . . . because you should not eat three pieces of blackberry jam tart within 12 hours. Despite the near-disaster with the crust, it still came out light and flaky and crispy.
I still don't know why the "fool-proof" pastry failed -- was it because the shortening was not cold enough? Because of the extra sugar? The kitchen too warm? I didn't leave it in the refrigerator long enough? There was enough left to make another crust, so I popped it into a plastic bag and into the meat drawer.
And got it out today to use for a fig jam tart, way more than 2 days later. The figs are ripening and he spent the morning vacuuming and doing the kitchen floors, to say nothing of having been saddled with cooking duties for the past three weeks.
Rolled it out, flipped it into the tart pan, weighted it down and blind baked it while I made the fig jam -- figs cooked down with sugar to taste and a couple of tablespoons of the limoncello I made last year, since we're out of lemons. I would have used port, but I used the last of that for the Christmas pudding. Let everything cool, pureed the figs with my immersion blender, spread the jam in the shell and stuck it in the fridge. The bits of crust that broke off are as flaky and crispy as they were 2 months ago. The fig jam isn't quite as rich as it would be with port -- but needs must.
Having tasted it, I'd call it more of a "fig puree" tart than a jam tart -- fig jam doesn't jell so much as thicken. Very tasty, but the texture is not quite right. Next time, I would not puree the figs, just chop them roughly and leave some pieces for texture. Still, Mike has had two pieces . . .
I really think the next time, I may follow the Cooks' Illustrated pie dough recipe as far as ingredients go, but I'll just cut the shortening (which is now in the fridge) and butter into the flour, rather than messing with the food processor. I know they use it on Master Chef, but . . . I'm not on Master Chef.
Sunday, July 14, 2013
Little Phantom and the Wraith
Baton Rouge is known for its feral and stray cats. Somewhere I think I read that there are more feral cats in Baton Rouge per capita than any other city in the U.S. Or maybe I just made that up, convinced that it is true. A black mother cat gave birth to half-a-dozen kittens in the pampas grass outside Kohl's a few years ago; the employees, including Mike, left food for them daily. We saw at least 3 kittens one evening when we sat outside at Joe's Crabshack. One little black-and-white fellow with emerald eyes was jumping from empty table to empty table, then rousted out a couple of his siblings to play in the sand around and under the playground equipment. We reported it to our server, who said that one of the employees was feeding the mother cat.
When we got home, I notified the Capital Area Animal Welfare Society (CAAWS) and became a member. As I'm typing this, I realize that we need to do more. But, then, we are, in our own small way.
Sometime the end of last year a little black kitten started showing up around our house, sitting in the front windows and yowling at our cats. Miller in particular would respond, batting at the window and warning him away. Finally, we decided that he must be a poor little stray, and put food out for him. He ran from us at first, but the food would disappear, and gradually he become more trusting, finally allowing us to touch him. Mike discovered that he was an unneutered male, and left me with the task of taking him to the vet. We named him Phantom because he would just show up from nowhere when it was feeding time.
As is usual, these situations always arise just when it's least convenient. I'm able to remember the time so clearly because it was about 2 weeks before we were scheduled to go on our first cruise. There wasn't time to organize things through the animal societies here -- they have various and sundry requirements and, of course, are completely backed up -- and we were planning to adopt him, anyway, so I caught him one morning (there is no greater feeling of guilt than picking up a trusting little kitten with the intent of taking him to the vet) and took him to Dr. Phil. The next day, the deed was done, he had his shots, and a few days later, Mike discovered that he belongs to the people across the road.
Any animal lover will understand how angry I am as I type this. They had brought the kitten back from some friends' farm for their young boy, and had kept him in the house, but now that they had a new baby, "naturally" they couldn't let him stay in the house. Oh, but they do still keep the dog in the house. Mike asked if they fed him, and the man said that they did put food out, but he could live on rats and stuff he could catch. I'm proud of my husband for not telling that . . . person . . . what he thought of him, although he did tell him that we had thought he was a stray and had him doctored. The idiot just responded, "Oh. Thanks."
At this point, 7 months later, he is as much or more our cat than theirs. He comes over at least once a day to be fed; I have introduced him to the delights of catnip, and sometimes that's all he wants. Most mornings, he comes galloping across the road, tail held high, when I go out for the paper, sometimes for breakfast, sometimes for catnip, always for a pet. If the door is open, he heads straight into the laundry room and begins marking the appliances; he will also huff and hiss at the bottom of the door, if either of our cats is on the other side. If I'm working in the front yard, I'm almost certain to have some company.
He discovered that he can jump from the hose caddy to the kitchen window, so it is not uncommon for him to appear as I'm fixing dinner, and demand his. He still occasionally sits in the front windows and teases the boys, although if it's just Buddy, they usually just sit and look at each other, and we know that he sleeps behind the Indian hawthorn in front of the house.
Mike has brought him in the house more than once, and he so clearly wants to stay, but Miller is having none of it. I sometimes wonder if we shouldn't just let them fight it out. Miller would let him know who was boss, and that would be the end of it, but I worry that Miller could really hurt him. He's so used to Buddy backing down that I don't know how he'd react to a cat who didn't. He's just so damned big, and Phantom is a little thing -- fiesty and scrappy, but little.
And now he has discovered the cat flap (it's really a door for large dogs which was here when we bought the house). About 10 days ago, Mike came back to the bedroom with Phantom. He had found him in the living room, marking the carpet around the cat scratcher. Obviously, he had jumped the fence and gone exploring. He took him out in the backyard and spent 15 minutes or so playing with him and Buddy. Then, Phantom decided it was time to go and jumped the fence.
A few days ago, as we were watching television, I saw Miller at the cat flap, but . . . the head wasn't quite big enough, and where were his white markings? You guessed it -- Phantom.
Buddy, who was on the couch, perked up his ears, and then ran to the flap. He and Phantom stared at each other through the plastic, then Phantom walked off, and Buddy followed through the flap. When Mike went out to check on them, they were just sprawled on the patio together. I wonder how often they have met up in the back yard; how many mornings when Buddy jumps down from the window and asks to go out, has Phantom been out there saying, "Meet you in the back yard?"
So, who is the Wraith? A few weeks ago, Mike discovered that another cat was also eating the food we put out for Phantom. He saw them walking up the driveway together, and on another occasion, saw Phantom waiting for the other cat to cross the street. He named it "Wraith" both because it is a grey tabby and because it is nearly skeletal. We're fairly certain that it is female, so I will call it "she." She eats astounding amounts of food, but doesn't seem to gain any weight, so Mike is going to stop at PetCo for some dewormer. She's far too skittish and emotionally fragile to think about capturing and taking to the vet right now.
At first, she would run at any sound from the house, but gradually, she has come to allow Mike to stroke her and now purrs and rubs his legs. She spends at least part of her day under the RAV4 (Mike has put a pet bed underneath), which, of course, isn't being driven right now. She came out when I opened the door to put out some recycling yesterday, then stopped when she say me, and . . . didn't actually hiss, but stared with her mouth open, then retreated under the car. I told Mike that she was waiting to be fed, and, of course, she came running to him.
I think Gollum might have been a more appropriate name.
When we got home, I notified the Capital Area Animal Welfare Society (CAAWS) and became a member. As I'm typing this, I realize that we need to do more. But, then, we are, in our own small way.
Sometime the end of last year a little black kitten started showing up around our house, sitting in the front windows and yowling at our cats. Miller in particular would respond, batting at the window and warning him away. Finally, we decided that he must be a poor little stray, and put food out for him. He ran from us at first, but the food would disappear, and gradually he become more trusting, finally allowing us to touch him. Mike discovered that he was an unneutered male, and left me with the task of taking him to the vet. We named him Phantom because he would just show up from nowhere when it was feeding time.
As is usual, these situations always arise just when it's least convenient. I'm able to remember the time so clearly because it was about 2 weeks before we were scheduled to go on our first cruise. There wasn't time to organize things through the animal societies here -- they have various and sundry requirements and, of course, are completely backed up -- and we were planning to adopt him, anyway, so I caught him one morning (there is no greater feeling of guilt than picking up a trusting little kitten with the intent of taking him to the vet) and took him to Dr. Phil. The next day, the deed was done, he had his shots, and a few days later, Mike discovered that he belongs to the people across the road.
Any animal lover will understand how angry I am as I type this. They had brought the kitten back from some friends' farm for their young boy, and had kept him in the house, but now that they had a new baby, "naturally" they couldn't let him stay in the house. Oh, but they do still keep the dog in the house. Mike asked if they fed him, and the man said that they did put food out, but he could live on rats and stuff he could catch. I'm proud of my husband for not telling that . . . person . . . what he thought of him, although he did tell him that we had thought he was a stray and had him doctored. The idiot just responded, "Oh. Thanks."
At this point, 7 months later, he is as much or more our cat than theirs. He comes over at least once a day to be fed; I have introduced him to the delights of catnip, and sometimes that's all he wants. Most mornings, he comes galloping across the road, tail held high, when I go out for the paper, sometimes for breakfast, sometimes for catnip, always for a pet. If the door is open, he heads straight into the laundry room and begins marking the appliances; he will also huff and hiss at the bottom of the door, if either of our cats is on the other side. If I'm working in the front yard, I'm almost certain to have some company.
He discovered that he can jump from the hose caddy to the kitchen window, so it is not uncommon for him to appear as I'm fixing dinner, and demand his. He still occasionally sits in the front windows and teases the boys, although if it's just Buddy, they usually just sit and look at each other, and we know that he sleeps behind the Indian hawthorn in front of the house.
Mike has brought him in the house more than once, and he so clearly wants to stay, but Miller is having none of it. I sometimes wonder if we shouldn't just let them fight it out. Miller would let him know who was boss, and that would be the end of it, but I worry that Miller could really hurt him. He's so used to Buddy backing down that I don't know how he'd react to a cat who didn't. He's just so damned big, and Phantom is a little thing -- fiesty and scrappy, but little.
And now he has discovered the cat flap (it's really a door for large dogs which was here when we bought the house). About 10 days ago, Mike came back to the bedroom with Phantom. He had found him in the living room, marking the carpet around the cat scratcher. Obviously, he had jumped the fence and gone exploring. He took him out in the backyard and spent 15 minutes or so playing with him and Buddy. Then, Phantom decided it was time to go and jumped the fence.
A few days ago, as we were watching television, I saw Miller at the cat flap, but . . . the head wasn't quite big enough, and where were his white markings? You guessed it -- Phantom.
Buddy, who was on the couch, perked up his ears, and then ran to the flap. He and Phantom stared at each other through the plastic, then Phantom walked off, and Buddy followed through the flap. When Mike went out to check on them, they were just sprawled on the patio together. I wonder how often they have met up in the back yard; how many mornings when Buddy jumps down from the window and asks to go out, has Phantom been out there saying, "Meet you in the back yard?"
So, who is the Wraith? A few weeks ago, Mike discovered that another cat was also eating the food we put out for Phantom. He saw them walking up the driveway together, and on another occasion, saw Phantom waiting for the other cat to cross the street. He named it "Wraith" both because it is a grey tabby and because it is nearly skeletal. We're fairly certain that it is female, so I will call it "she." She eats astounding amounts of food, but doesn't seem to gain any weight, so Mike is going to stop at PetCo for some dewormer. She's far too skittish and emotionally fragile to think about capturing and taking to the vet right now.
At first, she would run at any sound from the house, but gradually, she has come to allow Mike to stroke her and now purrs and rubs his legs. She spends at least part of her day under the RAV4 (Mike has put a pet bed underneath), which, of course, isn't being driven right now. She came out when I opened the door to put out some recycling yesterday, then stopped when she say me, and . . . didn't actually hiss, but stared with her mouth open, then retreated under the car. I told Mike that she was waiting to be fed, and, of course, she came running to him.
I think Gollum might have been a more appropriate name.
PLMS -- periodic limb movement of sleep.
According to the NIH, what I have is not RLS, but PLMS :
"PLMS is characterized by involuntary
leg twitching or jerking movements during sleep that typically occur
every 15 to 40 seconds,
sometimes throughout the night. The
symptoms cause repeated awakening and severely disrupted sleep. Although
many individuals
with RLS also develop PLMS, most
people with PLMS do not experience RLS. People who have PLMS and do not
have RLS or another
cause for the PLMS may be diagnosed
with periodic limb movement disorder (PLMD). PLMD may be a variant of
RLS and thus respond
to similar treatments." http://www.ninds.nih.gov/disorders/restless_legs/detail_restless_legs.htm
Although, in my case, it causes repeated awakening and severely disrupted sleep in Mike, not me, and a king-size bed will take care of that.
Apparently the only way to really diagnose it is to go through a sleep study, which might be kind of fun and interesting, but since it's not life-threatening, I can't see any reason to bother. Mike might not agree.
Although, in my case, it causes repeated awakening and severely disrupted sleep in Mike, not me, and a king-size bed will take care of that.
Apparently the only way to really diagnose it is to go through a sleep study, which might be kind of fun and interesting, but since it's not life-threatening, I can't see any reason to bother. Mike might not agree.
Saturday, July 13, 2013
Bunionectomy, Round 2, Week 3
When all of those people writing about bunionectomies online say that every surgery is different, what they don't make clear is that they are including surgeries on the same person. Two weeks ago, my right foot was operated on. It was the same type of surgery at the same clinic by the same doctor. Same anesthesiologist, most of the same nurses. Completely different experience -- and I mean that in a good way.
This time, I was practically pain-free. Really truly. First I noticed that my ankle didn't ache. Then, that there was no tightening sensation across the ball of my foot and around my big toe. Initially, I thought that it was because the local hadn't worn off, but not once in two weeks did I feel anything more than twinges in the joint and some brief tightness between my first two toes. Doctor Le was as amazed as I when I went in yesterday for the cast and stitches to be removed. He kept showing me on the X-rays that there was no swelling.
Mike would like to take credit for it. He insisted that I remain in bed all day, and only "allowed" me out in the evenings. I have the kneewalker, so I wasn't using crutches except to get in and out of the bathroom. I did take the pain medications as directed, but mainly because they are part of the healing process, not because I felt I needed them. I used an ice pack at night for maybe a week, and then only for a few hours in the evening, and recently not at all.
So, now, two weeks in the boot, and then back to shoes. And with no swelling, I can be wearing cute shoes in two weeks!! So looking forward to trying on shoes I haven't been able to wear for 6 or more years; from what I see in the ads and shoe stores, they've gone out of style and come back in again. Any that don't fit now are going to St. Vincent's, and I may go shoe shopping.
The only mildly interesting thing about the whole experience is that Dr. Le told Mike that I kept moving (twitching) my leg. I asked him about it yesterday, and he said that about 20% of the surgery time was waiting for me to stop moving my leg -- and that it was the same with the left leg. In fact, the anesthesiologist asked, "Is this the lady who moves her leg?" when they started the surgery. So, I guess Mike isn't lying when he says that I kick him all night long. He'll demonstrate for you next time you see him.
This time, I was practically pain-free. Really truly. First I noticed that my ankle didn't ache. Then, that there was no tightening sensation across the ball of my foot and around my big toe. Initially, I thought that it was because the local hadn't worn off, but not once in two weeks did I feel anything more than twinges in the joint and some brief tightness between my first two toes. Doctor Le was as amazed as I when I went in yesterday for the cast and stitches to be removed. He kept showing me on the X-rays that there was no swelling.
Mike would like to take credit for it. He insisted that I remain in bed all day, and only "allowed" me out in the evenings. I have the kneewalker, so I wasn't using crutches except to get in and out of the bathroom. I did take the pain medications as directed, but mainly because they are part of the healing process, not because I felt I needed them. I used an ice pack at night for maybe a week, and then only for a few hours in the evening, and recently not at all.
So, now, two weeks in the boot, and then back to shoes. And with no swelling, I can be wearing cute shoes in two weeks!! So looking forward to trying on shoes I haven't been able to wear for 6 or more years; from what I see in the ads and shoe stores, they've gone out of style and come back in again. Any that don't fit now are going to St. Vincent's, and I may go shoe shopping.
The only mildly interesting thing about the whole experience is that Dr. Le told Mike that I kept moving (twitching) my leg. I asked him about it yesterday, and he said that about 20% of the surgery time was waiting for me to stop moving my leg -- and that it was the same with the left leg. In fact, the anesthesiologist asked, "Is this the lady who moves her leg?" when they started the surgery. So, I guess Mike isn't lying when he says that I kick him all night long. He'll demonstrate for you next time you see him.
Saturday, July 6, 2013
More questions for Oregon about "Pay it Forward"
Yes, I'm on a rant. This is a subject near and dear to my heart, and not only because it's what they pay me to do.
Some of the comments on Facebook and other sites raise another ideological and systemic issue. More than one has asked why anyone planning to be a doctor or lawyer or hedge fund manager would to school in Oregon and be on the hook for 3% of their astronomical income for 24 years. They'd be better off financially to take out traditional student loans.And that's before figuring the cost of graduate school. Unless they also go to school in Oregon, and unless this program also covers grad school, they'll be paying the school from an income that is due in large part to a degree earned elsewhere -- a degree for which they most likely took out traditional student loans.
What would this mean for the financial viability of the program, if the high earners are not part of it? Would it be sustainable with only the contributions from teachers and librarians and nurses, with a few engineers and computer scientists thrown in?
And more importantly, if schools' viability is a function of the post-graduation income of their students, would they have an even greater incentive to cut back and even close programs in arts, humanities, and social sciences? State legislatures are already pressuring schools to increase the number of STEM graduates, and schools are slowly starving programs in every other area, so this is not some paranoid fantasy.
How will this affect admissions? Will schools become more rigid, only accepting students with demonstrated ability to succeed in those fields? Or will they begin accepting as many students as possible, to increase the number "paying it forward?" Will states restrict arts, humanities and social science programs to only one or two institutions? Will schools be willing to accept part-time students, knowing that they won't begin to be reimbursed for 8 years or more? Will they accept non-traditional students?
How will this affect retention and graduation? Will schools have a greater incentive to push students to graduate as soon as possible? Will schools have an incentive to retain marginal students through graduation, or will the incentive be to weed out those students as soon as possible? What effect will this have on grade inflation?
Where is the student's incentive to graduate on time -- if at all? The amount they will pay back won't change if they remain in school another semester or two or three. No one should feel pressured to graduate before their education has been completed; by the same token, no one should feel free to just drift for years.
How will states distribute the money? Would the money go back to the school from which the student graduated or would it go into a general fund benefiting all higher education in the state?
Some of the comments on Facebook and other sites raise another ideological and systemic issue. More than one has asked why anyone planning to be a doctor or lawyer or hedge fund manager would to school in Oregon and be on the hook for 3% of their astronomical income for 24 years. They'd be better off financially to take out traditional student loans.And that's before figuring the cost of graduate school. Unless they also go to school in Oregon, and unless this program also covers grad school, they'll be paying the school from an income that is due in large part to a degree earned elsewhere -- a degree for which they most likely took out traditional student loans.
What would this mean for the financial viability of the program, if the high earners are not part of it? Would it be sustainable with only the contributions from teachers and librarians and nurses, with a few engineers and computer scientists thrown in?
And more importantly, if schools' viability is a function of the post-graduation income of their students, would they have an even greater incentive to cut back and even close programs in arts, humanities, and social sciences? State legislatures are already pressuring schools to increase the number of STEM graduates, and schools are slowly starving programs in every other area, so this is not some paranoid fantasy.
How will this affect admissions? Will schools become more rigid, only accepting students with demonstrated ability to succeed in those fields? Or will they begin accepting as many students as possible, to increase the number "paying it forward?" Will states restrict arts, humanities and social science programs to only one or two institutions? Will schools be willing to accept part-time students, knowing that they won't begin to be reimbursed for 8 years or more? Will they accept non-traditional students?
How will this affect retention and graduation? Will schools have a greater incentive to push students to graduate as soon as possible? Will schools have an incentive to retain marginal students through graduation, or will the incentive be to weed out those students as soon as possible? What effect will this have on grade inflation?
Where is the student's incentive to graduate on time -- if at all? The amount they will pay back won't change if they remain in school another semester or two or three. No one should feel pressured to graduate before their education has been completed; by the same token, no one should feel free to just drift for years.
How will states distribute the money? Would the money go back to the school from which the student graduated or would it go into a general fund benefiting all higher education in the state?
Friday, July 5, 2013
If you're paying 3% of your salary for 24 years, it isn't free.
Speaking of the Oregon "tuition free" pilot program that would have graduates paying 3% of their salary to the state for 24 years after graduation. So many people are cheering the headlines (and a few are just as loudly condemning them), but their comments make it quite clear that they haven't bothered to actually read the articles that the headlines are attached to.
Considering that I'm currently paying more than 6% of my income in student loan payments, it may seem surprising that I am not a proponent of this plan. Well, there are many reasons for that, not the least of which that this is just another method of removing the "public" from public higher education. It continues to shift the burden from all taxpayers to the middle- and working-classes, while benefitting corporations and the wealthy.
Oregon, in common with most other states, has been slashing the amount of public funding going to higher education, in order to protect tax breaks, deductions, exemptions, and rebates for corporations and the wealthy. This program does nothing to reverse that trend, but it certainly has diverted attention away from it. Do not misunderstand -- I am in no way arguing that the current system should be retained. I am, however, arguing that this does nothing to fix the underlying, systemic problem, which is the erosion of the social contract.
My other objections are more pragmatic than ideological. Let's start with the beginning of the process, the high school student from a low- to middle-income family who is applying for college. What does the student put on the FAFSA? Federal PELL grants are based, in part, on tuition and fees, but Oregon is no longer charging tuition. How will this affect the amount of the grant?
And if the student does get a PELL grant, how will that figure into what the student owes after graduation? It's not impossible that the PELL grant will go for fees, books, and living expenses, but what if the student works part-time in order to cover living expenses or has some other source of income? How can the excess grant money be used to pay off the student's debt to the state? And it is a debt to the state; make no mistake about that.
And what about those fees? Will fees still be charged? For in-state students, fees are anywhere from 50-100% or more of the amount of tuition. And states have been increasing fees on residents as a way around legal restrictions on tuition increases. The press releases don't address that issue.
Are there any performance requirements? Or can students just skate through with Cs and Ds? And there are some who would look at it as a four-year vacation, either not thinking about the future, or not worrying about paying back a mere 3%. What if a student is expelled for poor performance? When does repayment begin?
Now, what happens if our student drops out before graduation? Surely that student cannot be required to pay 3% for 24 years without a degree; at the same time, that student should pay something. How will that be calculated? And when will repayment begin?
But, our student isn't the kind to flunk out or drop out. Our student graduates. And goes on to graduate school. This leads to two questions : 1. Does our student have to begin repayment now or after grad school? and 2. Does this program cover grad school? Because that's where I racked up my loans, in grad school. As an undergrad I went to a state school, back in the day when public higher education was fully funded. My PELL grant covered tuition, fees, books and some living expenses. My work study job covered the rest, because, as a traditional young adult student, I shared a house with roommates and took the bus to campus.
Finally, our student graduates with that master's degree and for whatever reason is forced to take a low-paying position. Is there a minimum income threshhold for repayment? Or does our student have to begin paying 3% of that minimum wage salary, the one that doesn't quite bring in enough to cover rent, utilities, and other basic living expenses?
Which brings up the question of "What is income?" Is it wages and salary only, or would it include, say, disability payments? Retirement benefits? Capital gains? What about someone winning the lottery? Or coming into an inheritance? Is it the Federally Adjusted Gross Income, or actual income?
What if our student experiences some kind of financial setback, has huge medical expenses or losses due to a natural disaster or must care for an aging parent? Is there some mechanism for deferring payment? The student still has an income, but it is being stretched to the limits. It's not at all inconceivable that something of this kind would occur within the 24 years between 25 and 50.
What if our student moves out of Oregon? How will the state collect on the debt? Not that our student would ever dream of not making those payments every month.
Let's suppose that our student was what is termed a "non-traditional student," that is, an older adult who is either going to college for the first time, returning to school to finish a degree that was deferred, or earning a graduate degree (assuming that this program applies to graduate degrees). These may be women who put their own education on hold until their children were grown, displaced workers who need to learn new skills, workers who are trying to qualify for promotions, or older people who want to fulfill a personal goal.
What happens if this student retires less than 24 years after graduation? Full retirement age is 66.5; that would include anyone 42.5 or older.
These students frequently have dependents, which gets back to the question of how income will be figured. They aren't 20-somethings just starting out, maybe with one baby, and relatively young, healthy parents. They are middle-aged adults, often with teenagers at home, and sometimes caring for aging parents. Will all of that be taken into account when "income" is figured?
And a couple more things :
What if 3% for 24 years is not enough? If they raise the percentage and/or time period, would that include everyone? And is there any kind of cap on either one? At what point would graduates once again be drowning in debt?
And participants will lose all or most of the education tax credits, at least as they are currently written. http://www.irs.gov/uac/Five-Ways-to-Offset-Education-Costs.
According to the press releases, this was based on the Australian FEE-HELP system. So, how do they really compare?
1. Under FEE-HELP, tuition is charged, but payment is deferred. Therefore, a student owes a fixed amount upon graduation, which can be paid back more or less quickly, as the student is able.
2. The student can defer 25, 50, 75, or 100% of the tuition each semester, thus minimizing the amount that must be repaid.
3. Students must maintain a minimum gpa and are restricted on the number of credits they can take in a semester.
4. It is available to undergraduates and graduates, although there is a lifetime limit on the amount any one person can owe.
5. It is a national program; the Australian government pays the money directly to the university, then collects the repayments through the Tax Office.
6. There are financial incentives for making additional payments (5% of payments over $550).
7. There is a minimum income threshold -- payments don't kick in until you are making more than poverty-level wages.
Now, I am aware that one of the objections that the more rightward leaning have to this program is that, in their words, someone who "works harder and better and so is more successful" will ultimately pay back more in actual dollars than a loser who goes into education or librarianship, but that is one of the few things that I like about this program. Those who benefit the most financially would pay back the most, while those who provide a service to society would benefit from a half-way decent standard of living. I would find that far preferable to the situation we have today, where the amoral, unethical bloodsuckers who are draining the public dry are rewarded with high salaries and low taxes and those who struggle to improve our country and its people are drowning in debt.
Considering that I'm currently paying more than 6% of my income in student loan payments, it may seem surprising that I am not a proponent of this plan. Well, there are many reasons for that, not the least of which that this is just another method of removing the "public" from public higher education. It continues to shift the burden from all taxpayers to the middle- and working-classes, while benefitting corporations and the wealthy.
Oregon, in common with most other states, has been slashing the amount of public funding going to higher education, in order to protect tax breaks, deductions, exemptions, and rebates for corporations and the wealthy. This program does nothing to reverse that trend, but it certainly has diverted attention away from it. Do not misunderstand -- I am in no way arguing that the current system should be retained. I am, however, arguing that this does nothing to fix the underlying, systemic problem, which is the erosion of the social contract.
My other objections are more pragmatic than ideological. Let's start with the beginning of the process, the high school student from a low- to middle-income family who is applying for college. What does the student put on the FAFSA? Federal PELL grants are based, in part, on tuition and fees, but Oregon is no longer charging tuition. How will this affect the amount of the grant?
And if the student does get a PELL grant, how will that figure into what the student owes after graduation? It's not impossible that the PELL grant will go for fees, books, and living expenses, but what if the student works part-time in order to cover living expenses or has some other source of income? How can the excess grant money be used to pay off the student's debt to the state? And it is a debt to the state; make no mistake about that.
And what about those fees? Will fees still be charged? For in-state students, fees are anywhere from 50-100% or more of the amount of tuition. And states have been increasing fees on residents as a way around legal restrictions on tuition increases. The press releases don't address that issue.
Are there any performance requirements? Or can students just skate through with Cs and Ds? And there are some who would look at it as a four-year vacation, either not thinking about the future, or not worrying about paying back a mere 3%. What if a student is expelled for poor performance? When does repayment begin?
Now, what happens if our student drops out before graduation? Surely that student cannot be required to pay 3% for 24 years without a degree; at the same time, that student should pay something. How will that be calculated? And when will repayment begin?
But, our student isn't the kind to flunk out or drop out. Our student graduates. And goes on to graduate school. This leads to two questions : 1. Does our student have to begin repayment now or after grad school? and 2. Does this program cover grad school? Because that's where I racked up my loans, in grad school. As an undergrad I went to a state school, back in the day when public higher education was fully funded. My PELL grant covered tuition, fees, books and some living expenses. My work study job covered the rest, because, as a traditional young adult student, I shared a house with roommates and took the bus to campus.
Finally, our student graduates with that master's degree and for whatever reason is forced to take a low-paying position. Is there a minimum income threshhold for repayment? Or does our student have to begin paying 3% of that minimum wage salary, the one that doesn't quite bring in enough to cover rent, utilities, and other basic living expenses?
Which brings up the question of "What is income?" Is it wages and salary only, or would it include, say, disability payments? Retirement benefits? Capital gains? What about someone winning the lottery? Or coming into an inheritance? Is it the Federally Adjusted Gross Income, or actual income?
What if our student experiences some kind of financial setback, has huge medical expenses or losses due to a natural disaster or must care for an aging parent? Is there some mechanism for deferring payment? The student still has an income, but it is being stretched to the limits. It's not at all inconceivable that something of this kind would occur within the 24 years between 25 and 50.
What if our student moves out of Oregon? How will the state collect on the debt? Not that our student would ever dream of not making those payments every month.
Let's suppose that our student was what is termed a "non-traditional student," that is, an older adult who is either going to college for the first time, returning to school to finish a degree that was deferred, or earning a graduate degree (assuming that this program applies to graduate degrees). These may be women who put their own education on hold until their children were grown, displaced workers who need to learn new skills, workers who are trying to qualify for promotions, or older people who want to fulfill a personal goal.
What happens if this student retires less than 24 years after graduation? Full retirement age is 66.5; that would include anyone 42.5 or older.
These students frequently have dependents, which gets back to the question of how income will be figured. They aren't 20-somethings just starting out, maybe with one baby, and relatively young, healthy parents. They are middle-aged adults, often with teenagers at home, and sometimes caring for aging parents. Will all of that be taken into account when "income" is figured?
And a couple more things :
What if 3% for 24 years is not enough? If they raise the percentage and/or time period, would that include everyone? And is there any kind of cap on either one? At what point would graduates once again be drowning in debt?
And participants will lose all or most of the education tax credits, at least as they are currently written. http://www.irs.gov/uac/Five-Ways-to-Offset-Education-Costs.
According to the press releases, this was based on the Australian FEE-HELP system. So, how do they really compare?
1. Under FEE-HELP, tuition is charged, but payment is deferred. Therefore, a student owes a fixed amount upon graduation, which can be paid back more or less quickly, as the student is able.
2. The student can defer 25, 50, 75, or 100% of the tuition each semester, thus minimizing the amount that must be repaid.
3. Students must maintain a minimum gpa and are restricted on the number of credits they can take in a semester.
4. It is available to undergraduates and graduates, although there is a lifetime limit on the amount any one person can owe.
5. It is a national program; the Australian government pays the money directly to the university, then collects the repayments through the Tax Office.
6. There are financial incentives for making additional payments (5% of payments over $550).
7. There is a minimum income threshold -- payments don't kick in until you are making more than poverty-level wages.
Now, I am aware that one of the objections that the more rightward leaning have to this program is that, in their words, someone who "works harder and better and so is more successful" will ultimately pay back more in actual dollars than a loser who goes into education or librarianship, but that is one of the few things that I like about this program. Those who benefit the most financially would pay back the most, while those who provide a service to society would benefit from a half-way decent standard of living. I would find that far preferable to the situation we have today, where the amoral, unethical bloodsuckers who are draining the public dry are rewarded with high salaries and low taxes and those who struggle to improve our country and its people are drowning in debt.
Sunday, June 2, 2013
Even a little can be too much too soon
Who would think that sitting on a stool weeding would be too much too soon? But, as I discovered last week, it can be -- and it was. I'm beginning to wonder if I will ever sit again without propping my foot on a chair. It didn't help that I stepped on a rock that was hidden under some weeds and bruised my arch. Crocs are roomy and waterproof, but their soft vinyl (?) isn't up to fighting off stealth rocks.
What a thrill it has been to take a shower standing up! I feel like a grown-up again, but the bench is staying where it is, at the back of the tub. Why try to balance on one foot to wash the other if you don't have to? Especially when that foot was sliced open and broken and put back together with titanium screws a month ago.
I've been pondering what strange creatures we humans are. Not only did I ask Dr. Le to do all of that to my foot, I paid him to do it! And I'll be paying him to do it again to my other foot in about three weeks. No other creature that we know of would actively seek out and reward another animal for causing it pain, but then, as far as we know, no other animal is as self-aware as humans, and as aware of the passage of time. Surgery of any kind is seldom only about the immediate benefits; it is almost always a strategy for making life more tolerable for the long-term. I am convinced that I am trading about 4 months of various levels of pain, discomfort and inconvenience for several decades of relief from the various symptoms that I've been experiencing. And I'm also convinced that those symptoms were going to continue to worsen if I did nothing.
But what a level of trust in complete strangers! I barely know Dr. Le, and I'd never met any of the medical staff at the surgery center, let alone their medical suppliers, but I let the nurses run the IV lines and the anesthetist inject her drugs. I don't know the pharmacists who fill the prescriptions, but I down the pills four or more times a day. For all of the rhetoric we see in the media and social networking sites, for all of the urban legends and the horror films and conspiracy theories, our society still functions in all its complexity.
And I just got the notice from the insurance company that they have covered Dr. Le's fees at 100%, and as far as I can tell, the same goes for the surgery center. Getting my money's worth this year!
What a thrill it has been to take a shower standing up! I feel like a grown-up again, but the bench is staying where it is, at the back of the tub. Why try to balance on one foot to wash the other if you don't have to? Especially when that foot was sliced open and broken and put back together with titanium screws a month ago.
I've been pondering what strange creatures we humans are. Not only did I ask Dr. Le to do all of that to my foot, I paid him to do it! And I'll be paying him to do it again to my other foot in about three weeks. No other creature that we know of would actively seek out and reward another animal for causing it pain, but then, as far as we know, no other animal is as self-aware as humans, and as aware of the passage of time. Surgery of any kind is seldom only about the immediate benefits; it is almost always a strategy for making life more tolerable for the long-term. I am convinced that I am trading about 4 months of various levels of pain, discomfort and inconvenience for several decades of relief from the various symptoms that I've been experiencing. And I'm also convinced that those symptoms were going to continue to worsen if I did nothing.
But what a level of trust in complete strangers! I barely know Dr. Le, and I'd never met any of the medical staff at the surgery center, let alone their medical suppliers, but I let the nurses run the IV lines and the anesthetist inject her drugs. I don't know the pharmacists who fill the prescriptions, but I down the pills four or more times a day. For all of the rhetoric we see in the media and social networking sites, for all of the urban legends and the horror films and conspiracy theories, our society still functions in all its complexity.
And I just got the notice from the insurance company that they have covered Dr. Le's fees at 100%, and as far as I can tell, the same goes for the surgery center. Getting my money's worth this year!
Sunday, May 26, 2013
A month after -- and grateful for Crocs
Last Friday makes it four weeks since surgery. I'm out of the boot and hobbling around on one and three-quarters feet; I'm still favoring the area around my big toe. Still taking Naproxen twice a day, mainly to help keep the swelling down.
I admit it -- I was rather afraid of putting my foot down at first, but my desire to get out of the boot was stronger. The first day, I wore the post-op shoe, more for the psychological comfort of wearing a "post-op shoe." But, even though it is fully adjustable, it is still too wide for my heel and ankle, which makes it uncomfortable to walk in.
As the woman in the waiting room at the doctor's office said, it felt "weird" at first. I stood up, and was completely off-balance, a testimony to how quickly we humans adapt. After two weeks of walking balanced on one heel, I felt as if I were falling forward with every step. I walked around the bedroom, holding onto the furniture, until I felt confident that I wouldn't end up flat on my face!
Despite everything I read to the contrary, I can get my foot into several different pairs of the shoes I already own -- the Skechers clogs that I've been wearing for months now, a couple of pairs of Skechers summer shoes that are well-broken in, and my athletic shoes. And the Crocs that I bought solely to work in the yard. They have now become my shoe of choice for everyday wear.
I have gone shoe shopping twice, hoping to find a pair of adjustable sandals to wear this summer, but no luck. I would describe my foot as "puffy" rather than "swollen" -- semantics, possibly, but it's my blog and my foot and I'll call it what I want! Even the $145 Clark's were not quite adjustable enough. They went on easily enough and felt great, and then I stood up, and my foot started to swell, and . . . that was that. What I was hoping for was something like the Nike Sunray sandals, but apparently they only make them in kids' sizes. The Nike slide for women puts all of the pressure across the ball of the foot, unfortunately; I need something that straps across the instep. So, it looks like the Crocs will be seeing a lot of service for the next few weeks -- or months.
As I may have mentioned, walking is not the issue. Standing is. Walking -- hobbling -- is tiring, but it keeps the blood and whatever flowing, but once I stop, whoosh! Everything expands. Then it's back to elevation and ice. I've managed to make the coffee now for three days in a row, but any cooking that requires more standing than that is . . . problematic.
Speaking of cooking -- I wish I had taken a photo of the kitchen disaster last night. We still can't understand how it happened. Mike put a pizza on the top rack of the countertop oven. When he went to take it out, it had slid off the rack -- but not onto the rack below -- not even onto the heating elements at the bottom -- but underneath the heating elements. It was upside down underneath the heating elements, completely flat. It was a struggle to get it out, and we had to scrape most of the cheese and pepperoni off of the oven and plop it back onto the pizza -- so how did it get there in the first place?
I can only think of one logical explanation -- but he says he didn't do it.
I admit it -- I was rather afraid of putting my foot down at first, but my desire to get out of the boot was stronger. The first day, I wore the post-op shoe, more for the psychological comfort of wearing a "post-op shoe." But, even though it is fully adjustable, it is still too wide for my heel and ankle, which makes it uncomfortable to walk in.
As the woman in the waiting room at the doctor's office said, it felt "weird" at first. I stood up, and was completely off-balance, a testimony to how quickly we humans adapt. After two weeks of walking balanced on one heel, I felt as if I were falling forward with every step. I walked around the bedroom, holding onto the furniture, until I felt confident that I wouldn't end up flat on my face!
Despite everything I read to the contrary, I can get my foot into several different pairs of the shoes I already own -- the Skechers clogs that I've been wearing for months now, a couple of pairs of Skechers summer shoes that are well-broken in, and my athletic shoes. And the Crocs that I bought solely to work in the yard. They have now become my shoe of choice for everyday wear.
I have gone shoe shopping twice, hoping to find a pair of adjustable sandals to wear this summer, but no luck. I would describe my foot as "puffy" rather than "swollen" -- semantics, possibly, but it's my blog and my foot and I'll call it what I want! Even the $145 Clark's were not quite adjustable enough. They went on easily enough and felt great, and then I stood up, and my foot started to swell, and . . . that was that. What I was hoping for was something like the Nike Sunray sandals, but apparently they only make them in kids' sizes. The Nike slide for women puts all of the pressure across the ball of the foot, unfortunately; I need something that straps across the instep. So, it looks like the Crocs will be seeing a lot of service for the next few weeks -- or months.
As I may have mentioned, walking is not the issue. Standing is. Walking -- hobbling -- is tiring, but it keeps the blood and whatever flowing, but once I stop, whoosh! Everything expands. Then it's back to elevation and ice. I've managed to make the coffee now for three days in a row, but any cooking that requires more standing than that is . . . problematic.
Speaking of cooking -- I wish I had taken a photo of the kitchen disaster last night. We still can't understand how it happened. Mike put a pizza on the top rack of the countertop oven. When he went to take it out, it had slid off the rack -- but not onto the rack below -- not even onto the heating elements at the bottom -- but underneath the heating elements. It was upside down underneath the heating elements, completely flat. It was a struggle to get it out, and we had to scrape most of the cheese and pepperoni off of the oven and plop it back onto the pizza -- so how did it get there in the first place?
I can only think of one logical explanation -- but he says he didn't do it.
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
Advice for the bunionectomy-bound
And by bunionectomy, I mean those of you who will be having your bones broken and put back together using screws or pins or some other form of hardware. If you're just having the bunions shaved -- lucky you! You don't need advice, just common sense. And a pair of shoes with a thick sole, such as clogs, Crocs, or athletic shoes, to balance with the walking boot (everyone will need those eventually).
For the rest of us, these are things I wish I had known in advance:
If you live alone, you must have someone come to stay with you for the first week, and preferably two, until you are out of the splint and into the walking boot. I could not have managed without my husband -- and I lived alone until I was nearly 50. There are things you cannot do while on crutches, such as carry a cup of coffee or an ice bag, but of greater concern is the danger of falling and no one there to help you get up.
If you don't have a breakfast tray, this is the time to invest in one. It not only holds food -- it holds a laptop computer at just the right height. And even the weight of the laptop will be too much for your leg at first (yes, your entire leg will hurt for a while).
Gel-pacs. At least two. You'll be given an ice bag, but gel stays colder longer. It also takes a while to freeze, so either buy two so you can trade off, or plan to use an ice bag while the gel is freezing. The ones I have came with covers and velcro straps that hold them in place. Cold is your friend. It will take the swelling down as well as numb your foot
Request a walker rather than crutches. Let me be blunt -- I don't care how young you are, unless you have grab bars installed in your bathroom, you need something to hold on to in order to get up off of the toilet. Don't believe me? Try it. Sit down, then try to get up with only one foot on the floor. Unlike the bed, the couch, an armchair, there is nothing to push against. It can be managed with crutches, but why take the risk of falling? Or install a toilet safety rail.
Even better, if you have the funds or can borrow one, a knee-walker increases your mobility and independence many times over. You may need to experiment with using it in some situations. Add a removable bicycle basket and you'll be able to carry that coffee -- in a travel mug.
Place a chair, stool, egg crate, box -- something stable in front of the bathroom sink so that you have some place to rest your knee while brushing your teeth, etc.
Buy a shower seat. Measure your tub or shower to get one that will fit. Your doctor will tell you that you can stand, balanced on your heel, but why risk slipping and falling, if you don't have to? One with a cut-out for a hand-held shower is ideal.
Install a hand-held shower. They're also great for rinsing the tub down after scrubbing it, when you're back in action. The one I got turns off at the shower head, so it also saves water. Although, really, forget about showering or bathing the first week, at least on a daily basis. It's not worth the hassles and the risk. You're just sitting in bed anyway; how dirty can you be? Use antiseptic wipes (stock up in advance) on all of the important places as necessary and change your underwear and pajamas daily. You'll feel better, but without the risk of falling.
Buy cast covers for when you do shower. I used the Curad and they work wonderfully. You will need help to get it over the splint, unless you're very flexible. The opening is very narrow, but it will stretch to go over the splint.-
I ordered all of the above from Amazon, by the way. Got a very good price on everything and it was delivered in a few days. Read my reviews at :
http://www.amazon.com/review/R27CCEV3O2P4B6/ref=cm_cr_pr_perm?ie=UTF8&ASIN=B007HCDMJ0&linkCode=&nodeID=&tag=
http://www.amazon.com/review/RO5X7FZK0LV14/ref=cm_cr_rdp_perm
http://www.amazon.com/review/RPAZFPKT48FWY/ref=cm_cr_rdp_perm?ie=UTF8&ASIN=B005IV0DAS&linkCode=&nodeID=&tag=
http://www.amazon.com/review/R1VJY4IJ0J05JG/ref=cm_cr_rdp_perm?ie=UTF8&ASIN=B003VMAKVS&linkCode=&nodeID=&tag=
Plan to spend the first week in or on the bed, going no farther than the bathroom. I say "on" the bed because of the splint. Mine had a foam rubber cover, which caught on bedding. I discovered that the most comfortable method was to strip the bed of all but the bottom sheet, then place the pillows I was elevate my foot in the appropriate place. I used throw as a cover at night and folded it at the foot of the bed during the day. Otherwise, the bedding would bunch up.
Expect to spend at least the first three days sleeping between pain pills -- which you will probably be taking every 4 hours. As the codeine would wear off, my foot felt as if there were a tight band around the base of my toes for several days, then just around my big toe. It felt as if the band were getting tighter and tighter, and also as if there were something thin, hard and sharp between my big toe and the next one. The ball of my foot would swell until it felt as if it would pop. When the splint and bandages were removed, I discovered that the "band" was my skin.
Elastic-waisted pants -- pajama pants, sweats, gym shorts -- are much easier to deal with. Trust me. And since you'll be sleeping so much at first, invest in a few extra pairs of pajamas.
After the first two or three days, the codeine (Lortabs or Vicodin or generic) will make you feel as if you can get right up and resume at least some of your normal activities. It is lying to you, as you will discover the first time you lose your balance and fall. If you're lucky, you'll do what I did and fall onto the couch.
And it will make you constipated. According to everything I read, do not take a laxative without discussing it with your doctor; you have to take the right kind, or it can make the problem worse. Drink a lot of water; increase fiber in your diet (yep, prunes and bran cereal). If it lasts more than 3 of 4 days, call your doctor. It pretty much clears up as soon as you stop taking the codeine every 4 hours.
Naproxen. What can I say? It will make you belch uncontrollably for the first week. Also, well, pass it in the other direction. But you must take it as directed. It is what will take down the swelling. After a while, your body adapts.
For the rest of us, these are things I wish I had known in advance:
If you live alone, you must have someone come to stay with you for the first week, and preferably two, until you are out of the splint and into the walking boot. I could not have managed without my husband -- and I lived alone until I was nearly 50. There are things you cannot do while on crutches, such as carry a cup of coffee or an ice bag, but of greater concern is the danger of falling and no one there to help you get up.
If you don't have a breakfast tray, this is the time to invest in one. It not only holds food -- it holds a laptop computer at just the right height. And even the weight of the laptop will be too much for your leg at first (yes, your entire leg will hurt for a while).
Gel-pacs. At least two. You'll be given an ice bag, but gel stays colder longer. It also takes a while to freeze, so either buy two so you can trade off, or plan to use an ice bag while the gel is freezing. The ones I have came with covers and velcro straps that hold them in place. Cold is your friend. It will take the swelling down as well as numb your foot
Request a walker rather than crutches. Let me be blunt -- I don't care how young you are, unless you have grab bars installed in your bathroom, you need something to hold on to in order to get up off of the toilet. Don't believe me? Try it. Sit down, then try to get up with only one foot on the floor. Unlike the bed, the couch, an armchair, there is nothing to push against. It can be managed with crutches, but why take the risk of falling? Or install a toilet safety rail.
Even better, if you have the funds or can borrow one, a knee-walker increases your mobility and independence many times over. You may need to experiment with using it in some situations. Add a removable bicycle basket and you'll be able to carry that coffee -- in a travel mug.
Place a chair, stool, egg crate, box -- something stable in front of the bathroom sink so that you have some place to rest your knee while brushing your teeth, etc.
Buy a shower seat. Measure your tub or shower to get one that will fit. Your doctor will tell you that you can stand, balanced on your heel, but why risk slipping and falling, if you don't have to? One with a cut-out for a hand-held shower is ideal.
Install a hand-held shower. They're also great for rinsing the tub down after scrubbing it, when you're back in action. The one I got turns off at the shower head, so it also saves water. Although, really, forget about showering or bathing the first week, at least on a daily basis. It's not worth the hassles and the risk. You're just sitting in bed anyway; how dirty can you be? Use antiseptic wipes (stock up in advance) on all of the important places as necessary and change your underwear and pajamas daily. You'll feel better, but without the risk of falling.
Buy cast covers for when you do shower. I used the Curad and they work wonderfully. You will need help to get it over the splint, unless you're very flexible. The opening is very narrow, but it will stretch to go over the splint.-
I ordered all of the above from Amazon, by the way. Got a very good price on everything and it was delivered in a few days. Read my reviews at :
http://www.amazon.com/review/R27CCEV3O2P4B6/ref=cm_cr_pr_perm?ie=UTF8&ASIN=B007HCDMJ0&linkCode=&nodeID=&tag=
http://www.amazon.com/review/RO5X7FZK0LV14/ref=cm_cr_rdp_perm
http://www.amazon.com/review/RPAZFPKT48FWY/ref=cm_cr_rdp_perm?ie=UTF8&ASIN=B005IV0DAS&linkCode=&nodeID=&tag=
http://www.amazon.com/review/R1VJY4IJ0J05JG/ref=cm_cr_rdp_perm?ie=UTF8&ASIN=B003VMAKVS&linkCode=&nodeID=&tag=
Plan to spend the first week in or on the bed, going no farther than the bathroom. I say "on" the bed because of the splint. Mine had a foam rubber cover, which caught on bedding. I discovered that the most comfortable method was to strip the bed of all but the bottom sheet, then place the pillows I was elevate my foot in the appropriate place. I used throw as a cover at night and folded it at the foot of the bed during the day. Otherwise, the bedding would bunch up.
Expect to spend at least the first three days sleeping between pain pills -- which you will probably be taking every 4 hours. As the codeine would wear off, my foot felt as if there were a tight band around the base of my toes for several days, then just around my big toe. It felt as if the band were getting tighter and tighter, and also as if there were something thin, hard and sharp between my big toe and the next one. The ball of my foot would swell until it felt as if it would pop. When the splint and bandages were removed, I discovered that the "band" was my skin.
Elastic-waisted pants -- pajama pants, sweats, gym shorts -- are much easier to deal with. Trust me. And since you'll be sleeping so much at first, invest in a few extra pairs of pajamas.
After the first two or three days, the codeine (Lortabs or Vicodin or generic) will make you feel as if you can get right up and resume at least some of your normal activities. It is lying to you, as you will discover the first time you lose your balance and fall. If you're lucky, you'll do what I did and fall onto the couch.
And it will make you constipated. According to everything I read, do not take a laxative without discussing it with your doctor; you have to take the right kind, or it can make the problem worse. Drink a lot of water; increase fiber in your diet (yep, prunes and bran cereal). If it lasts more than 3 of 4 days, call your doctor. It pretty much clears up as soon as you stop taking the codeine every 4 hours.
Naproxen. What can I say? It will make you belch uncontrollably for the first week. Also, well, pass it in the other direction. But you must take it as directed. It is what will take down the swelling. After a while, your body adapts.
Friday, May 17, 2013
Out and About in a Boot
I mentioned my two earlier forays in my previous post, but it wasn't until Wednesday that I went out and attempted to get around on my own.
Nothing tells you that you've reached middle age more than young men running to hold doors for you as you propel yourself along on your knee walker, and call you "Ma'am."
The event was our Project Recovery final conference. For those who do not know, our program received a grant three years ago to educate 30 students and place them in libraries that were damaged by hurricanes Katrina and Rita (never preceded by "hurricane" here and frequently referred to simply as "the storm.") The students all received full tuition and full-time students received a stipend. They volunteered 20 hours per week in one of the partner libraries, while part-time students volunteered 10.
I was added to the grant two years ago when Dr. Robert Ward passed away suddenly from cancer; I did not in any way replace him. Because the grant was already underway, my role has been primarily to provide necessary support and advise the students in children's and youth services and some in public or school libraries.
The event included a panel of representatives of the partner libraries, who spoke very highly of the work that our students had done for them, (just between us, in a few cases, I had to admire the speaker's ability to say something positive without lying -- not every student was exemplary), a lunch at the Faculty Club, and brief comments by each of the students.
It was a truly inspiring event. The students who attended were among the most committed and willing, and they had all grown so much over the past two or three years. They reminded me of why I am doing what I am doing.
I am glad that I went, but it wore me out. Not only have I been sedentary for the past two and a half weeks, scooting along with one knee bent is not natural, even when it is resting on a nicely padded support.
And that is why I spent Thursday in bed and didn't even bother to shower or get dressed.
Nothing tells you that you've reached middle age more than young men running to hold doors for you as you propel yourself along on your knee walker, and call you "Ma'am."
The event was our Project Recovery final conference. For those who do not know, our program received a grant three years ago to educate 30 students and place them in libraries that were damaged by hurricanes Katrina and Rita (never preceded by "hurricane" here and frequently referred to simply as "the storm.") The students all received full tuition and full-time students received a stipend. They volunteered 20 hours per week in one of the partner libraries, while part-time students volunteered 10.
I was added to the grant two years ago when Dr. Robert Ward passed away suddenly from cancer; I did not in any way replace him. Because the grant was already underway, my role has been primarily to provide necessary support and advise the students in children's and youth services and some in public or school libraries.
The event included a panel of representatives of the partner libraries, who spoke very highly of the work that our students had done for them, (just between us, in a few cases, I had to admire the speaker's ability to say something positive without lying -- not every student was exemplary), a lunch at the Faculty Club, and brief comments by each of the students.
It was a truly inspiring event. The students who attended were among the most committed and willing, and they had all grown so much over the past two or three years. They reminded me of why I am doing what I am doing.
I am glad that I went, but it wore me out. Not only have I been sedentary for the past two and a half weeks, scooting along with one knee bent is not natural, even when it is resting on a nicely padded support.
And that is why I spent Thursday in bed and didn't even bother to shower or get dressed.
Seven Days in the Boot
We've all seen people walking around in the foam-lined Frankenstein boots that have replaced plaster walking casts for the most part. They are a true modern medical advancement, and I speak from experience. When I had the bone graft in my left ankle lo, these many years ago, I had a cast from my toes to my hip for a month, then a plaster walking cast -- it had a hard rubber bump in the center -- for another month. So, yes, the boot is better, but it isn't perfect.
Everything has become a production. The first step is to put my foot into the boot, wrap the foam liner around it, then secure it firmly but not tightly each of the six straps. Because the boot is designed to keep weight off of my toes, the center of gravity is shifted to my heel, which means that I have to make a conscious effort not to fall over when I stand up. Try it yourself -- keep your weight on your heel, your toes in the air, and stand up. It would make a great party game!
Then it's step-clump-step-clump-step-clump. "It's alive! It's alive!!"
After I learned to walk in it and not fall over, I had to reaccustom myself to being able to move from one place to another while carrying something in my hands! I felt truly liberated. Although, once I've sat down and removed the boot, it's still easier to ask Mike to do me a favor.
Oh, yes, it must be removed."Firm but not tight" becomes "tight!!" when you're not walking around. But, without a doubt, a vast improvement on a splint and crutches.
I've pretty much stopped taking the codeine, although still on naproxen twice daily, and use of ice bags is now more or less limited to evenings, when everyone's feet swell, not just those of us who paid someone to cut it open (think about that -- I not only asked for this, I paid for it! And I'll be doing it again in a few weeks.) I'm still spending days in bed, because my foot still has to be elevated. This room needs new objets d'art.
The day after I got the boot, our neighbors, Mike and Lois, invited us to a benefit for the New Orleans Spina Bifada foundation, north of St. Francisville. Friends of theirs were providing the music and there was food -- what more could a shut-in ask for? I just kept my foot elevated on a chair, and did pretty well, although I did ask Mike for a bag of ice after a couple of hours. Always carry an ice bag with you! I had to dig a little sandwich bag out of my purse, and of course it had a hole in it, which bothered me not at all at that point.
I did find that, while walking was not a problem, standing was. My foot does not swell when I'm walking -- but once I've stopped . . . it does. Well, not foot precisely, but big toe and the space between it and the next toe.
I also got to go shopping this week and drive the motorized cart around Sam's Club. I may save the boot for future use. People are so much more polite, and move their carts out of your way.
And, then, on Monday, it happened. Mike put in a load of washing, and several minutes later, came to tell me that our 6 1/2 year-old Kenmore washer was not working. I blithely assumed that he had simply not pulled out the knob, but,he had -- and it was not agitating. It had filled with water, but would not agitate. It drained. It spun. It filled. It did not agitate. I was agitated, however, very agitated.
He was (and remains) convinced that he had somehow broken it. After I had a screaming fit, I calmed down and realized that he simply could not have -- and if he did, then there was something wrong with the machine beforehand.
Angie's List provided Mark's Maintenance, we called, and Tuesday afternoon he came out. He replaced the agitator dogs in 20 minutes, hooked it back up, started a load --- and it still wasn't agitating. He finally diagnosed it as a stuck clutch brake, which is does not fix as it is as 5-hour job and costs more than a new machine. He did not charge us for the work, as he could not fix it. His business card is next to our phone now.
So, after a crying jag and debating whether to just use a laundromat for the next 6 months, I went online and ordered a new Samsung from Lowe's. There goes my range, again. It was delivered on Wednesday evening, and we spent all day Thursday catching up on nearly 3 weeks worth of laundry -- with a few loads left for today.
It's HE, it's Energy Star, it's sleek and modern and chimes when it's finished. It does bedding (shall I tell Mike that, according to what I've been reading, doing bedding in a direct-drive machine, such as a Kenmore or Whirlpool, can lead to clutch brake damage?) and has a "no spin" option, for handwash items. It has an Eco-warm setting -- I think most of us would call that "tepid" -- which balances temperature and wash time. And a 10 year warranty. So maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to get a new range in another year.
Everything has become a production. The first step is to put my foot into the boot, wrap the foam liner around it, then secure it firmly but not tightly each of the six straps. Because the boot is designed to keep weight off of my toes, the center of gravity is shifted to my heel, which means that I have to make a conscious effort not to fall over when I stand up. Try it yourself -- keep your weight on your heel, your toes in the air, and stand up. It would make a great party game!
Then it's step-clump-step-clump-step-clump. "It's alive! It's alive!!"
After I learned to walk in it and not fall over, I had to reaccustom myself to being able to move from one place to another while carrying something in my hands! I felt truly liberated. Although, once I've sat down and removed the boot, it's still easier to ask Mike to do me a favor.
Oh, yes, it must be removed."Firm but not tight" becomes "tight!!" when you're not walking around. But, without a doubt, a vast improvement on a splint and crutches.
I've pretty much stopped taking the codeine, although still on naproxen twice daily, and use of ice bags is now more or less limited to evenings, when everyone's feet swell, not just those of us who paid someone to cut it open (think about that -- I not only asked for this, I paid for it! And I'll be doing it again in a few weeks.) I'm still spending days in bed, because my foot still has to be elevated. This room needs new objets d'art.
The day after I got the boot, our neighbors, Mike and Lois, invited us to a benefit for the New Orleans Spina Bifada foundation, north of St. Francisville. Friends of theirs were providing the music and there was food -- what more could a shut-in ask for? I just kept my foot elevated on a chair, and did pretty well, although I did ask Mike for a bag of ice after a couple of hours. Always carry an ice bag with you! I had to dig a little sandwich bag out of my purse, and of course it had a hole in it, which bothered me not at all at that point.
I did find that, while walking was not a problem, standing was. My foot does not swell when I'm walking -- but once I've stopped . . . it does. Well, not foot precisely, but big toe and the space between it and the next toe.
I also got to go shopping this week and drive the motorized cart around Sam's Club. I may save the boot for future use. People are so much more polite, and move their carts out of your way.
And, then, on Monday, it happened. Mike put in a load of washing, and several minutes later, came to tell me that our 6 1/2 year-old Kenmore washer was not working. I blithely assumed that he had simply not pulled out the knob, but,he had -- and it was not agitating. It had filled with water, but would not agitate. It drained. It spun. It filled. It did not agitate. I was agitated, however, very agitated.
He was (and remains) convinced that he had somehow broken it. After I had a screaming fit, I calmed down and realized that he simply could not have -- and if he did, then there was something wrong with the machine beforehand.
Angie's List provided Mark's Maintenance, we called, and Tuesday afternoon he came out. He replaced the agitator dogs in 20 minutes, hooked it back up, started a load --- and it still wasn't agitating. He finally diagnosed it as a stuck clutch brake, which is does not fix as it is as 5-hour job and costs more than a new machine. He did not charge us for the work, as he could not fix it. His business card is next to our phone now.
So, after a crying jag and debating whether to just use a laundromat for the next 6 months, I went online and ordered a new Samsung from Lowe's. There goes my range, again. It was delivered on Wednesday evening, and we spent all day Thursday catching up on nearly 3 weeks worth of laundry -- with a few loads left for today.
It's HE, it's Energy Star, it's sleek and modern and chimes when it's finished. It does bedding (shall I tell Mike that, according to what I've been reading, doing bedding in a direct-drive machine, such as a Kenmore or Whirlpool, can lead to clutch brake damage?) and has a "no spin" option, for handwash items. It has an Eco-warm setting -- I think most of us would call that "tepid" -- which balances temperature and wash time. And a 10 year warranty. So maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to get a new range in another year.
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
Bunionectomies and other indignities of middle age
When even the "roomy, square-toed" clogs become too tight, it's time to bow to the inevitable and go under the knife. First, though, came the custom orthotics (which, even though medically necessary to prevent further damage to feet and knees, are not covered by insurance) and three weeks of night splints
("Yes, I am Iron Man") on both feet to stretch tight calves, achilles' tendons, and arches. Then a pre-op clearance from my primary care -- EKG, blood work, etc. Finally, last Friday morning I was picked up at 6:00 by my friend and colleague, Boryung Ju, and taken to the Lake Surgical Center for surgery at 7:30. Forms were filled out and I was taken back to the prep room, given a gown to change into, and tucked into bed. There was a brief moment on panic when I revealed that I had drunk a glass of water a few hours earlier. Yes, they had told me not to drink anything after midnight, and no, I don't really have any excuse, except to say that I confused those instructions with the ones given the week before which were "nothing except water after midnight." The anaesthetist finally decided that I wouldn't vomit and choke to death, and we went ahead. The IV was inserted in the back of my hand, Dr. Le made a brief visit in his surgical scrubs to explain the procedure again and give post-op instructions (which I do remember, despite the anaesthetist saying that her magic medicine would erase my short-term memory), I was wheeled into the operating room, shifted to the operating table, felt something cold and wet, and . . .
I was telling Dr. Le that I would not accept his late paper. Struggling to wake up and stay awake. Opened my eyes long enough to see Mike's face hovering over me, Boryung behind him. It was something like 9:30. Dr. Le must have this down to both an art and a science.
I sat up, and discovered that someone had mummified my leg while I was asleep
Wiggled my way into my clothes, slid into the wheelchair, wheeled out to Boryung's car, arrived home, hobbled my way to the bed, and back to sleep. The entire weekend is a blur of sleeping, waking to take meds, and food brought on trays.
The medications -- naproxen twice a day, a codeine prescription as needed -- made the pain almost bearable, once the local anesthetic wore off, but my poor husband was sent back and forth for ice frequently. For those who are interested, it felt as if someone had tied a rubber band across the base of my toes and was tightening it steadily. It also felt as if there were something thin and sharp between my big toe and the next toe, that was cutting into my foot. And my foot was hot -- both from the swelling and from the bandage.
Mike was off through Monday, so it wasn't until Tuesday that I had to try to manage for myself. Mike left a bowl of cereal and a small jug of milk for me on the kitchen table, and left my lunch in the bedroom on the bookcase, so I managed.
However, feeding the cats dinner was another issue. I had to emulate Ma Kettle by kneeling my left leg on a chair and clunking around the kitchen -- but feed them I did.
Personal hygiene consisted of wipe-downs with antibacterial wipes -- actually most effective, if done daily -- and a change of clothes. I quickly discovered that elastic-waisted shorts were the most practical, so my gym clothes were pressed into service, as were my sports bras. No one tells you that the underwires in your bra will catch on the padded cover on your crutches and threaten to send you over.
I now understand the purpose of grab bars in the bathroom, and will be having our retrofitted as soon as we can get the money together. And next time, I want a walker, if only for something to hold onto while I try to stand up using only one foot.
Despite Mike's protests, I insisted on getting up every day and sitting in the recliner in the living room, laptop on my lap, tray table at my side. I refused to act like an invalid. Just getting down the hall and onto the couch using the crutches left me breathless and puffing, but I was not giving in.
By Wednesday, my hair was beyond filthy, so I knelt on a chair in front of the kitchen sink (are you sensing a theme here? Chairs are useful things) while Mike used the kitchen sprayer to help me wash it. I had already sent an order in to Amazon for a shower seat, a hand-held shower and some cast covers, but could not wait another day, as LaToya was bringing some forms for me to sign later that day and I do have an image to maintain.
Got an e-mail that morning that some packages had arrived at the office from Amazon -- what??? I had specifically selected my home address. It turns out that, if you have 1-click ordering turned on (I do not remember doing that, but possibly), then regardless of which address you select, anything coming from the marketplace goes to your 1-click address. It was too late to catch LaToya, but Tao was willing to bring them over on his way home from work.
So, Thursday I finally had a shower for the first time in 6 days -- sat on the bench, leaned forward to turn on the water -- a white paw pushed the shower curtain aside, and a big, furry black and white thing darted under my legs and the bench, and between the shower curtain liner and the side of the tub.
After I stopped laughing, I called Mike to come and get Miller out of the tub. It took some doing.
Our neighbor came over later in the day and installed the hand-held shower, which makes it all even easier. Not only can I do my back without standing up and turning around, I can turn the water off at the shower head.
I also ordered a knee-walker and a bicycle basket for it on Wednesday which arrived on Friday.
After reading the instructions carefully, I promptly proceeded to crash my new bike. It was entirely my fault -- I had set the brakes, put some things in the basket, then pushed off, without releasing the brakes. I fell on my left side, bruising and scraping my right shin (also right shoulder and right forearm, which I did not discover for several days). I called the doctor's office, but the nurse did not seem terribly worried. I wasn't in much pain, particularly, so she suggested that I wait and go to Urgent Care later, if necessary.
At 10:00 that night, the codeine was not working, a demon was tightening a red-hot iron band around the base of my big toe, and I was getting more and more worried, so I sent Mike over to the neighbor's. He drove us to Urgent Care, where they x-rayed my foot and pronounced it undamaged. The doctor did cut the gauze away from my toes, to see if they were turning purple -- they were not, but oh the relief to get some air to them! -- and gave me a stronger codeine prescription. I can say now that the bandages are off that I had bruised that foot in several places, which was causing the pain.
So, yes, I recommend the knee walker -- and I second the instructions to be aware and go slowly.
I spent the second week in bed, getting up only in the evening for dinner and a bit of television. Oh, I showered and dressed, and sat on top of the bed, but on the bed I stayed. And, you know what? It really makes a difference. My foot is propped on a couple of pillows, but my knee has the support it needs. I'm not exhausting myself going back and forth every hour or so; I have the laptop on the breakfast tray, not resting on my lap. In other words, my husband was right.
So, last Friday, the bandages came off and I was given a walking boot. My foot is not nearly as swollen as I expected -- or as it felt! The "band" around my big toe is actually . . . skin. The screws are in place and everything is healing as expected.
You can see the famous chair -- and the bruises on my right leg. The blue wrapping was temporary, but I do have it in an ace bandage most of the time.
I still spend most of my Day on the bed, with my feet elevated, because it's just plain more comfortable. Mike picked up a couple of different types of ice bags, and one or the other is usually on my foot. I've only take codeine a couple of nights in the past week, and never in the day -- the ice is all that's needed.
I had to learn to balance myself again -- I actually needed the crutches to walk out of the doctor's office in the boot! And I admit to being scared at first to put any weight at all on that foot. More on life in a boot next.
I was telling Dr. Le that I would not accept his late paper. Struggling to wake up and stay awake. Opened my eyes long enough to see Mike's face hovering over me, Boryung behind him. It was something like 9:30. Dr. Le must have this down to both an art and a science.
I sat up, and discovered that someone had mummified my leg while I was asleep
The medications -- naproxen twice a day, a codeine prescription as needed -- made the pain almost bearable, once the local anesthetic wore off, but my poor husband was sent back and forth for ice frequently. For those who are interested, it felt as if someone had tied a rubber band across the base of my toes and was tightening it steadily. It also felt as if there were something thin and sharp between my big toe and the next toe, that was cutting into my foot. And my foot was hot -- both from the swelling and from the bandage.
Mike was off through Monday, so it wasn't until Tuesday that I had to try to manage for myself. Mike left a bowl of cereal and a small jug of milk for me on the kitchen table, and left my lunch in the bedroom on the bookcase, so I managed.
However, feeding the cats dinner was another issue. I had to emulate Ma Kettle by kneeling my left leg on a chair and clunking around the kitchen -- but feed them I did.
Personal hygiene consisted of wipe-downs with antibacterial wipes -- actually most effective, if done daily -- and a change of clothes. I quickly discovered that elastic-waisted shorts were the most practical, so my gym clothes were pressed into service, as were my sports bras. No one tells you that the underwires in your bra will catch on the padded cover on your crutches and threaten to send you over.
I now understand the purpose of grab bars in the bathroom, and will be having our retrofitted as soon as we can get the money together. And next time, I want a walker, if only for something to hold onto while I try to stand up using only one foot.
Despite Mike's protests, I insisted on getting up every day and sitting in the recliner in the living room, laptop on my lap, tray table at my side. I refused to act like an invalid. Just getting down the hall and onto the couch using the crutches left me breathless and puffing, but I was not giving in.
By Wednesday, my hair was beyond filthy, so I knelt on a chair in front of the kitchen sink (are you sensing a theme here? Chairs are useful things) while Mike used the kitchen sprayer to help me wash it. I had already sent an order in to Amazon for a shower seat, a hand-held shower and some cast covers, but could not wait another day, as LaToya was bringing some forms for me to sign later that day and I do have an image to maintain.
Got an e-mail that morning that some packages had arrived at the office from Amazon -- what??? I had specifically selected my home address. It turns out that, if you have 1-click ordering turned on (I do not remember doing that, but possibly), then regardless of which address you select, anything coming from the marketplace goes to your 1-click address. It was too late to catch LaToya, but Tao was willing to bring them over on his way home from work.
So, Thursday I finally had a shower for the first time in 6 days -- sat on the bench, leaned forward to turn on the water -- a white paw pushed the shower curtain aside, and a big, furry black and white thing darted under my legs and the bench, and between the shower curtain liner and the side of the tub.
After I stopped laughing, I called Mike to come and get Miller out of the tub. It took some doing.
Our neighbor came over later in the day and installed the hand-held shower, which makes it all even easier. Not only can I do my back without standing up and turning around, I can turn the water off at the shower head.
I also ordered a knee-walker and a bicycle basket for it on Wednesday which arrived on Friday.
After reading the instructions carefully, I promptly proceeded to crash my new bike. It was entirely my fault -- I had set the brakes, put some things in the basket, then pushed off, without releasing the brakes. I fell on my left side, bruising and scraping my right shin (also right shoulder and right forearm, which I did not discover for several days). I called the doctor's office, but the nurse did not seem terribly worried. I wasn't in much pain, particularly, so she suggested that I wait and go to Urgent Care later, if necessary.
At 10:00 that night, the codeine was not working, a demon was tightening a red-hot iron band around the base of my big toe, and I was getting more and more worried, so I sent Mike over to the neighbor's. He drove us to Urgent Care, where they x-rayed my foot and pronounced it undamaged. The doctor did cut the gauze away from my toes, to see if they were turning purple -- they were not, but oh the relief to get some air to them! -- and gave me a stronger codeine prescription. I can say now that the bandages are off that I had bruised that foot in several places, which was causing the pain.
So, yes, I recommend the knee walker -- and I second the instructions to be aware and go slowly.
I spent the second week in bed, getting up only in the evening for dinner and a bit of television. Oh, I showered and dressed, and sat on top of the bed, but on the bed I stayed. And, you know what? It really makes a difference. My foot is propped on a couple of pillows, but my knee has the support it needs. I'm not exhausting myself going back and forth every hour or so; I have the laptop on the breakfast tray, not resting on my lap. In other words, my husband was right.
So, last Friday, the bandages came off and I was given a walking boot. My foot is not nearly as swollen as I expected -- or as it felt! The "band" around my big toe is actually . . . skin. The screws are in place and everything is healing as expected.
I still spend most of my Day on the bed, with my feet elevated, because it's just plain more comfortable. Mike picked up a couple of different types of ice bags, and one or the other is usually on my foot. I've only take codeine a couple of nights in the past week, and never in the day -- the ice is all that's needed.
I had to learn to balance myself again -- I actually needed the crutches to walk out of the doctor's office in the boot! And I admit to being scared at first to put any weight at all on that foot. More on life in a boot next.
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