Oh, my word, I owe you an apology! When I sent yesterday’s blog about my adventure in the hospital, I didn’t take into account that many of my friends and blog followers were not aware of the situation. So I apologize for (1) leaving you in he my dark and (2) startling you with my account. Just to bring you into the loop – about six months ago I started having breathing problems and ended up in the hospital with pneumonia. (And by-the-way, on the hospital admission paper, they put the reason for admission as “SOB.” A bit confusing until I figured out that stood for Shortness of Breath and was not a reflection on my character. I hope.) CT scans and X-rays show scarring, cloudiness and “spider-webbing” in my lungs, none of which are good. In spite of extensive testing, X-rays and CT scans, the doctors couldn’t pinpoint the… Read More »
So how about that morphine?
“Okay, now, don’t move.” It was my first night in the Intensive Care Unit and the nurse was standing there holding a needle. “This morphine is going right into your heart.” “What?” “The vena cava. It’s the large vein that takes the blood right into your heart.” No … that “what” wasn’t a request for more information — it was a yelp of shock, dismay and whatever is the next step down from terror. “Hold real still,” she said as she picked up the IV port in my neck. Oh, believe me, I was holding real still! There was nothing in this hospital that was holding stiller than I was. The chair in the corner wasn’t even as still as me. I coulda been a statue. I wasn’t even breathing. “There,” she said. “All done. How do you feel?” Terrified would probably cover it. Scared out of my wits. You’re… Read More »
Is it Kipling, or is it my dad?
Okay, perhaps that is a silly question — of course the poem was written by Rudyard Kipling. At least I’m pretty sure. Dad would sometimes quote “Twenty Bridges from tower to Kew … twenty bridges or twenty-two … wanted to know what the river knew.” My dad was born and raised in England back at the beginning of the last century when, he would sometimes tell me, “British meant best.” Although he loved America, a part of his heart still belonged to England. So you bet I was thrilled when my second assignment in the U.S. Foreign Service was to the American Embassy in London. I remember walking along the Thames thinking of those twenty bridges … or twenty-two. Today when I was sorting through (yet another!) box of papers from decades ago in an effort to pare down the clutter, I came across the poem my dad typed out and… Read More »
You can’t kill an oleander? Bet me!
The nice lady at the nursery assured me, “it’s impossible to kill an oleander.” I almost said, “wanna bet? Come by my house.” Instead, I just said “Maybe I can’t, but something sure is.” When we moved into this house over 30 years ago, the oleander hedge between us and the neighbor was well-established and thriving. In summer it was covered with bright pink flowers; the rest of the year the leaves were dark green and glossy. It formed a pleasant demarcation. It seemed independent and content, and I was perfectly content to let it be. In fact, I never gave it a second thought and only occasionally dragged the hose across the driveway to water it. Then a couple of years ago I noticed withering leaves and bare, dead branches. Oops. “So,” I said as I plopped a couple of smallish oleander bushes on the wagon, “how long do you… Read More »
Stop Changing the Dratted Color!
” Can I help you?” the perky young woman asks. I obviously look perplexed. I’m standing in Ulta — a large cosmetics chain store — holding my favorite color of nearly-used-up lipstick. “I’m looking for this color,” I say, extending the tube. She takes my old lipstick and quickly scans the display. “It’s right here,” she said, plucking up the tube I had put back a moment before. Triumphantly she hands me the tester. “That’s not it,” I told her. She looks at the bottom of both lipsticks. “Yes, it is. It says it right here.” “No, it isn’t,” I tell her. She looks at the labels on the bottom and then shows them to me. “Shimmering Brandy,” she says holding my original lipstick, and “Shimmering Brandy” she says, extending the tester from the display. “This is it.” She doesn’t actually roll her eyes, but I can tell it’s an effort. “No,”… Read More »
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