I Must Have Been Dreaming

 A funny thing happened to me this past week. I found myself in the office of an orthopedic surgeon. I had met him before. This was a return visit, during which he further discussed my aching back and told me in detail what he proposed to do to me - while I am under general anesthesia, I might add. 

To keep this as simple and non-gross as possible, I will say (warning: this is actually pretty gross) that he proposed to open up my back, peel the muscles away from my spine; saw several vertebrae in half; remove the bone; and fool around with some nerves (I believe sawing and slicing away bone were mentioned). Then he would glue the whole mess together with some of my powdered bone, mixed with something like insta-bone, then sew the muscles back together, minus the bones over my spine.

Crazy, right? No, here is the real crazy part. He was dead serious. Even worse, I am fairly certain I remember that moments later I signed some papers requesting and giving my consent for such maneuvers - all to occur on (get ready) Halloween. 

Am I delusional, or is it the Gummy Bears I have been chewing for sleep? 

I know that I could not have rationally and consciously agreed to such a thing because, for one thing, I don't know what I'm doing. I'm not kidding. It's a well-known fact. 

I'm that girl who won't read instructions; ignores the details; and pretty much goes with my intuition on most things. Consequences? No, not something with which I might be familiar. 

No serious, adult person would expect me to make a decision of this magnitude. My first instinct would be to say, you are going to have to ask my parents about this. Sigh!

Second, even the thought of a surgery like this scares the dickens out of me. Oh, I know, back surgery is not what it used to be; so much easier; minimally invasive, yada, yada, yada. I am nodding my head in agreement, but I KNOW that when the big day comes, I am highly likely to make a run for it, down the hall and out to the car, with my designer surgical gown flapping behind me.

Oh, I have done the research. I know all about my surgeon - his credentials; his reviews; his standing in the medical community. I  have read and watched videos about this kind of surgery, which makes me feel more likely to be able to perform the surgery than to undergo it. I brought my list of questions, and made sure they were all carefully and thoroughly addressed. I have discussed this with friends and family. She is READY! The problem is: I am not that person. That person is a fully developed, responsible adult. While I, on the other hand, pale in comparison to a scared, little rabbit who doesn't know her P's from her Q's. 

So, how could anyone reasonably expect me to signify advised consent by signing on the little, dotted line? I'm sure I left the staff howling with laughter at the horrible joke they had perpetrated on me. That's it, right?

So, here I am. My favorite month, and my favorite season begin next weekend. I have a whole month to enjoy before I am expected to starve myself, don the gown (one that goes all the way around, I hope); lie down to oblivion; and wake up to feeling so much better... some better...  eventually better?

Hey, can I do this by Zoom? By avatar? Could I pay someone to do it for me?

Help. I'm going to need help. I can't even FIND my Big Girl Panties. Could we think about this a little longer? How about if I phone a friend???

Sigh 😓

It's Three a.m. for goodness sakes!

 It's 3 a.m., and I have been awake since 1:10 a.m. Sleep, that wonderful state of being I recall from childhood, is now that elusive creature with whom I would like to become acquainted again. Insomnia plagues me, and I plain hate it.

In it's most recent incarnation, I go to sleep easily, but wake up at ridiculous times like 1:30, 2:30 etc. I have no clue what drives this. My long-time buddy, Insomnia, likes to play around. At times I can't get to sleep or I wake up at crazy times and can't get back to sleep. And then those nights when all of the above options are at play. Insomnia is a faithful, but unwelcome, companion. I've known it for years. I think I may have written about once before.

I don't know what to do at such hours of awakening. Reading would be my first choice, but my eyes water, and I can't concentrate in the middle of the night. TV is not recommend, and neither is my computer, but here I am. My dear bed, so cool and welcoming just a few hours ago, becomes a hot, torturing mess, as I toss and tun and pound my innocent pillows. 

What do other insomniacs do? I'd like to hear some suggestions. If you are awake, navigating unwillingly through the night, send me a message. There should be an insomniacs club on FB, so we know we are in good company.

Usually, I just wait for 5:30 or 6:00 to come around, when I might doze off a bit  to finish off the night. That's about the time my buddy moves on to awaken some other sufferer. 

I hate to lose old friendships, but I would gladly kiss this one good-bye. Leave me in peace, and let me get some sleep.

This I Believe. At least I Think So

What a time we've had over the last week or so - full of death and pageantry.  My blog thoughts are meandering from the death of the Queen; through life review; winding in and out of a movie called Father Stu, and ending up at "This I Believe," an old NPR show about core beliefs. Let's hope we don't get lost, and that we  arrive some place before it all ends - the post, not the end of life.

    Which brings me to "The Queen" and the end of her exceptionally long life and reign. Yes, I watched the whole thing and thought about Queen Elizabeth quite a bit during the period of mourning and the funeral. It was compelling! What magnificent pageantry! How carefully executed! What a send off! (All meticulously planned by HRH, herself!)

    Clearly she was beloved by many of her countrymen and rightly so as far as I can tell.  She was greatly admired for her lifelong dedication to duty, and I liked that she loved her animals, who showed up for her funeral in gratitude. She was the only Queen I've ever known, and I kind of feel like she belonged to us as well. (I did think, for a long time, that Prince Charles might want to marry me, seeing as how we were both near the same age and grew up together. I wrote him about this, but he was non-committal.) 

    But when all was done, and I turned off the TV,  I began to think. How much did this cost? How much frightfully expensive pageantry does one human being really need? Yes, she kept her word in serving her country, but, my goodness, she had an awful lot of help in doing so. And she made great strides during her reign in becoming a more approachable monarch Well, how many centuries did that take? It doesn't matter. the UK was willing to give her a send-off fit for a queen. And that's what counts. 

I wonder if this kind of thing is the measure of success that we non-royals should aspire to? Should we feel disappointed in ourselves if not a single mounted knight in gold braid shows up for our funeral? Of course not.

Questions about what we have accomplished in our lives and how we will be remembered (will we be remembered?) are common in older people. It's called summing up, and it is one of the tasks of late life. We review our lives and discern to what extent we have succeeded or if we have not. 

Most of us will not be looking to our grateful countrymen for the answer to that question, but  many of us do look outside ourselves.  Lengthy obituaries in the newspaper speak to this: look what she did! She accomplished so much! And we surely want someone to say good things about us when we die. Someone? ... Anyone?

I don't think much about how I will be remembered, my legacy and such. I think happiness in late life is more closely related to self-examination. How have I measured up? Am I the kind of person I wanted to be? Have I done what I felt was important to do? Have I treated others the way I would like to be treated? Have I said what I needed to? You have to fill in the blanks here with your own measures of success. 

Happiness and contentment come when we can say yes to these questions. I may be Queen of all I see, but if I can't stand to be with myself in the dark of night, then I'm not going to be happy and peaceful as things wind down. Remember that poem and Simon and Garfunkel song, "Richard Cory?" That didn't end well.

Feeling right with myself is a moving target for me. Just when I think, ok, I'm there, something happens that disturbs my equilibrium,  and I have to go through a period of self doubt and re-examination. Like now, when I am dealing with pain, and having to rethink what I do and how I do it. How well am I coping? Will I be able to adjust my life to cope with the changes in my body? I'm not sure if I will be able to measure up to these challenges.

I think these periods of reflection and re-examination are normal and necessary for us to be able to answer "yes" when we ask ourselves if we are liking the person we see in the mirror.

Life moves on. We are constantly learning and growing. Change is necessary and healthy to keep from becoming stuck or having regrets that burden us. We are literally not the same person that we used to be.  I sometimes look back and cringe at things I've said and done. But as a friend once told me, being able to look back and feel remorse shows that you have grown, and you now have the understanding and opportunity to act differently and to make amends, if needed. 

We can still do this, even if we are old. Now we have arrived at the movie, Father Stu, the story of a man who, against all odds, changed himself from an angry atheist into a priest. He was an inspiration to those who knew him. I like the scene in which he visits a prison and tells the men in the audience, "Don't give up on yourself. Never, never give up on yourself." He knew what they needed to hear about themselves - that it wasn't too late, regardless of what they might have been through and how hopeless they might feel.

We can give up on ourselves and others in so many ways. I'm too old to change my ways we say to ourselves, and we can make that true. We can remain that person who can't feel at ease with herself in the dark of night, or we can stick our necks out, get buffeted by life, and become who we really want to be. We can give other people a chance too, if we give up our broken records of the past and wrestle with the present until we come to a new understanding. Why do it? To make the world a better place and win a horse-drawn ride to the grave? I don't think so. It's so that when we walk through our own life review, we can experience peacefulness and joy instead of regret. 

So for my "This I Believe" statement: I believe it's not too late to be our best selves. Never give up on yourself. Never, never give up on yourself! 

 

Are you talkin' to me?...Are you talkin' to ME?

    Is it just me, or are people actually speaking to me differently now that I am a senior? (I don't want to be a "senior": I just want to be Sandi, BTW!). Has anyone else noticed this?

I can't describe exactly how it sounds, but it's kind of babying, hyper-solicitous or jovial tone. If you've noticed this, how would you describe it? I know when I hear it because it elicits a Travis Bickle response in me. Hey, are you talking to me??

 My insurance company offers free Zoom classes, and I signed up for one on preventing falls. My chronic failure to read details had caused me to sign up for a class that was not about exercise - rather it was about facing your fears about falling. Ruh! Roh! Big Mistake!

 About a dozen people in the class, all appeared to be retirement aged. We introduced ourselves, and several people were retired professionals.   None of us gave any outward appearance of senility.

The instructor began talking to the class in a loud, excessively jolly voice. "Oh, I am so glad to see you all here. You remembered to come, and you have all been able to turn on your computers!, That is just so wonderful!" she began. I began to feel a rising tide of resentment in my stomach.

    "Oh, Miss Sandi, Mr. Bill, how are you today?" She didn't ask anyone how they wished to be addressed. (Gurgle) She then asked us to turn to page 2 of the lesson book and write down the dates and times of each class. "I know we are all old school, and we tend to forget things if we don't write them down." (Loud fake laughter.)

    I waved my smart phone at the camera and shut her down! Can you imagine addressing any other group of adults in such an infantilizing manner? My next step was to write a letter of complaint to the insurance company. I hope Mr. Bill did the same thing.

    One afternoon, walking in my neighborhood, I met a young man whom I knew and liked. We got into a conversation. "Wow," he exclaimed, you still have some knowledge about what is going on in the world."

     Sometimes I wonder if I have "doddering old fool" imprinted on my forehead. Why do some people assume that I am deaf and senile? I'm not happy about this.  

So far my brain seems to be in decent woking order, and I do read and listen to the news. I guess I am somewhat hypersensitive about this. I worked in mental health, and it was a cardinal rule, personally and professionally, "don't talk down to people."

I have to say, however, this situation has forced me to think back about whether I still might have done this to people who are older than I. I am thinking especially about my mother.

My mom had Alzheimer's, and she did suffer cognitive decline, obviously. My brother and I found ourselves transitioning inevitably into the role of decision makers in her life. At times, we had to tell her what she was going to do, a radical change from trying to be obedient children. A difficult change. So tempting to speak as if talking to a child (though I am fairly confident that we never said, "Because I said so." ) She was still an adult and our mother, and I think we tried hard to speak to her in that way. I hope we did.

So, I am concluding that a measure of forbearance and kindness is called for. I believe that these folks mean to be kind to us doddering old fools. They have no clue that I am still armed and dangerous! I plan to dazzle them with my ability to use words with more than two syllables and discuss the variations in rainfall in my backyard. They will learn not to mess with me!

When I Was Younger

When I was younger,

I wanted to do big things -

save the world, end wars, achieve success.

Armed with passion and absolutes, 

I marched off to that rock and roll beat.

But something happened. 

Now I am older, and I just want 

to be truly and thoroughly myself;

to help where I can; 

and always, always to notice 

the first daffodil bloom in spring.

But I still march to that rock and roll beat.

. 

Thank You For Bringing Me Here

 An anonymous reader left me a positive and significant comment, following my last blog entry - "Aging gracefully AND gratefully😊"

Frankly, I'm not managing the gracefully too well for the time being, I've kind of had my pins knocked out from under me. BUT, I emphasize that it's temporary. Graceful is not exactly my norm anyway, so I will set that goal aside for a bit.

"Gratefully" is the reminder for which I am, well, grateful and one that I often need. It's just too easy to dwell on the hurts and hassles, and I'm great for heading for the dark side when those things seem to be ruling my life.

I do try to be grateful, and I picked up a mantra in yoga class that helps - Thank you for bringing me here.  I began whispering that to myself on those mornings when my body felt like the last thing it wanted was to lie down on a yoga mat. But if I could drag these achy bones and joints down to the floor, I found that repeating  that phrase to myself changed my perspective. 

Thank you for bringing me here. These are magic words for me, suitable for many occasions - especially those in which I don't want to be, though even better when I'm standing on a mountain top with a magnificent sunset spread out before me (you didn't think I would climb all the way up a mountain before sunrise, did you?) It's easy to be grateful when I have a beautiful sunset. 

It's when I find myself in those places I don't want to be that gratitude comes hard. So to say "thank you for bringing me HERE" (this place of discomfort and pain) - was quite a stretch for me. I had to meditate on this for a while. Like I'm supposed to be grateful for this? Man, I just want it to go away!

It's useful for the minor inconveniences that I encounter  - I'm running late and the train picks that exact time to run 50 cars across my path. First I grumble, then I say: Thank you for bringing me here". I once heard someone else say, "This is God's way of telling me to slow down." A position of gratitude is that I am able to take a deep breath, calm myself, and maybe think through a bit better whatever I'm hurrying off to do. (Schmaltzy, yes, but better than driving my blood pressure higher.) Gratitude changes my perspective.

"Bringing me here" represents where I have been and what I have gone through  along the way. Bumpy with nearly impassible obstacles at times, nevertheless, by grace I have made it this far, And, I can take from that, that I might possess the chutzpah and the perseverance to make it beyond this place of difficulty. I often need a reminder that my life experiences, both good and challenging, have value and provide a training ground for what is yet to come.

So, "here,"this place I've come to has value, and there is a purpose to my being here. An enjoyable purpose, we can always hope, but regardless, this experience is part of the fabric of my life, and it is not wasted. My life, bumpy as it may be, is not a waste, and I need to be present for it. 

The "thank you" part is very personal. Who or what has brought you to this place? When I say it, I think of all the people who, in whatever way, have made it possible for me to be -  to be alive; to be who I am; to have the life that I have. Some have accompanied me on the journey my entire life: some I met while waiting at the airport. I could not count them all, if I counted to the end of my days.

I once had a conversation with a potential date, and the man made a disparaging remark about uneducated people he considered beneath him. My family, many of whom worked in the cotton mills of North and South Carolina, snapped sharply into focus, and I realized how hard my kinfolks had worked in their lives to give me a stable, loving childhood and a good education. I declined to go out with this person, but I am grateful that his remarks provoked this awareness in me.

Lying down on a yoga mat feeling grateful might not seem like one of the big things in life, but I know that it is both a symbol of and a gateway to good things. Thank you for bringing me here, to all the other places I've been, and to whatever comes next. I'm grateful for the help, because I could not have found my way alone.

And thank you to Anonymous for guiding me to thinking about gratitude and writing this post.