The home health check up

I posted this on Wednesday, then deleted it--because I was embarrassed about not handling it better.  Day was horrified that I invited this man into my house and that he wouldn't leave when I told him I was done, but her antennae for scams is way keener than mine.  Then she called Tom (in Rome now) because he's an expert in health care and he said they are a legitimate company, but that I should report this for how it was handled by this particular doctor.  I'm going to re-post it now as a warning to anyone who may be considering this.   Ask lots more questions beforehand than I did. 

*****

Until yesterday, I avoided the home health check-ups the insurance people keep calling about. For some inexplicable reason, probably to get them to stop calling, I said, okay, it's just one hour, right? 

(note to self: never again)

First of all, home is private space.  Unless I actually need help (in an emergency) I will never again invite medical equipment, questionnaires, or advice-givers into my personal space.  It felt like an invasion when--in Hour 2--I was still answering questions I could have done on paper in half the time. 

"I can save you some time," I'd already told him.. "I only have two concerns--neuropathy in my feet and an auto-immune condition."

But the doc--in his white coat and mask, calling me "Mam" over and over--didn't want to save time. 

"What is your pain level now, Mam?"

"Four."

No, I've never had a heart attack or stroke, no I don't drink alcohol, yes I smoke.....(Should have lied on that one as it inevitably brings on a lecture and lectures are unwelcome in my house!); yes I had a minor breast cancer a few years ago, no I can't recall the year, all's well now; no falls in the last year, no, I don't need help bathing;  my hearing is fine; no I have never considered suicide (but at the moment, I'm considering knocking you on the head with a hammer) 

As Hour 3 was starting, I felt an anxiety attack coming on. "This has to stop.... I can't do this any more."

"Just a couple more, Mam, and then we'll do the weight and blood pressure and...."

After the cognitive test,  he thought he would decrease my anxiety with a compliment.  "Put this on your refrigerator, Mam, and tell your friends," he said.  Yeah right, I thought, I would never put a medical report on my refrigerator, please go. 

Finally, he rose to leave, but he had one more question: "What is your pain level now?"

"After nearly three hours of sitting here answering questions, it's an eight."

As he walked out the door, I lit a cigarette.  

Lessons learned: 

1. Nothing is more dull than two and a half hours of answering questions about myself.  It left me feeling deflated, like a conglomerate of bones and vessels and tissue. Like what I was to him--his "first Medicare patient of the day." 

2. Medical conversations should take place in medical facilities. At home, I'm not a "patient."  

3. If a doc calls you "Mam" (or "Sweetheart"), you know that no real conversations are forthcoming.

4. I can take advice by my actual doctor.  She knows me and my history. We like each other and she talks like a regular person, no white coat, no patronizing.  But never again inside the advice-free zone of home.

Two more

Ken Burns' graduation address to the graduates of Brandeis....on You Tube

And for a light-hearted series to watch at bedtime, a British show called Trying.   My favorite line in it so far:  "Don't get too attached to the idea of the life you're gonna have." 

Discoveries and Riches

1. National Public Radio: 

My radio is set to 89.1.  It's company, information, book reviews, news, travel, the arts.  I'd definitely count public radio as one of the riches of my world.  Here are two paraphrases of lines I've heard this week: 

Astronaut Ed White born in San Antonio in 1930, said: 

"From space there is no line between Russia and Ukraine.  There is no line between the reds and the blues in America.  Why can't we all get along and save this planet and ourselves?"

"I believe that anyone who runs for office in any country should first take three trips around the planet...."

Rick Steves, travel guide writer:  "The best way to travel to other countries is to go off-season if you can and avoid the popular tourist destinations."  Americans, he said, love to go where everybody is, where everyone has posted on Facebook and Instagram.  We want that picture, that experience, rather than seeking our own. 

2. Boba Tea

Elena introduced me to these drinks this week--tea and milk mixes of various flavors with fruity little tapioca pearls that burst with flavor in your mouth as you drink through a fat straw.

I love the passionfruit green tea with mango pearls so much that I ordered seven-pounds of mango pearls from Amazon so I can make my own. 

Kung Fu and other Boba Tea cafes are all over the city serving these drinks that originated in Taiwan in the 80s.  Such a refreshing discovery!

3. Streaming movies

My pick of the week is Robert Duval in The Judge.

4. Estate sales

I love treasure hunts, whether in thrift shops or garage sales, but I find the best quality in estate sales.  This weekend's find was a Bose sound system to replace the one I used for 25 years.  Estate sales are bittersweet, for obvious reasons. 

5. Stretch and Flex classes at Gold's gym--or "yoga for older people." 

6. Spelling Bee and other word games in online The New York Times--along with news and feature stories. 

7.  Podcasts--like On Being, 1A, The Moth,  and This American Life--for road trips. 

On Will's Birthday

Forty six years ago today, we got dressed for a day at the Kerrville Arts and Crafts Festival--Day, her dad and very-pregnant me. 

Day had been almost two weeks late on the day of her birth (almost seven years earlier), so I assumed Will would be on time or late.  Due in early June, he decided that May 26 would be his birthday. 

I've been doing what moms do on the birthdays of their kids--going through old pictures and seeing how things have changed.  On the day he came home from the hospital, Nana and Granddaddy were here--of course.  All the adults were sitting outside, me in the hammock.  Day was inside admiring her new baby brother.

Turns out she was changing his diaper and dressing him in one of his new outfits. 

A lot has changed in 46 years, but one thing never has--the sweet bond between these two!

Looking into Windows of Other People's Houses

1.

Crystoscopophila: the urge to look into other people's windows when passing by.

I am a crytoscopophile who glances in open windows at night.

I don't go out of my way to look.  I don't stand at the window like a peeping tom.  But if the windows are open to passersby, I'm  curious.  

2. 

Sometimes a bite of cake, a gesture, three notes of a song--just about anything--can unearth a memory so deep in the bank that it's almost totally forgotten.  This happened to me last night when I moved a lamp from the bathroom to the kitchen.

It wasn't the lamp, per se, it was the way it reflected in the window glass.  It looked kind or romantic and mysterious, like the lamps you might see passing by.  

3. 

As you can see, the windows are installed but not yet framed.  The installer has been sick all week and the job is in limbo. For a week, the front rooms have been virtually empty, me keeping the space ready for  completion.  Sheets have been spread over the furniture, concrete dust coating the floors. 

Messiness makes me crazy.  So after Jan's arborist hauled away enough sad limbs from my driveway to build a whole new tree, I asked Sergio, the yard man, to help me put everything back in place.  And then I mopped and dusted and peeled the stickers off the glass.  The lamp was the final touch.  

4.

The memory that evoked goes back 36 years--when I rode with a "friend" to pick up her daughter from the swimming pool at the end of my street.

To get to the pool from her house, we had to have driven past my current house.  

5.

It was dark already. As usual, I couldn't resist looking into the windows of houses as I passed by.  Every window had a story to tell--or offered a piece of my idealized fantasy of happiness. 

So it's entirely possible that I glanced at the lights glowing from the windows of this very house.  I might have seen lamps lit in Jan's house--long before it was Jan's house. 

I remember saying out loud: this is exactly the kind of street I'd like to live on!  I loved that all the houses in the "cottage district"( when they were actually cottage-sized) were all different colors and styles.  I was intrigued with the concept of a neighborhood--and with the peacefulness of these quiet tree-lined streets.

6.

My marriage was unraveling  that night she drove me down Ogden Lane.  Lots of walking on eggshells.  Lots of long silences.  

In my imagination, every house was a happy house--families talking amiably over dinner, couples starting first homes.  All was cozy, easy going, nobody walking on eggshells.  

A single lamp in a window could illuminate my imagination, could flesh out the picture of the life I might have on this very street. 

7.

Ten years later, another friend was helping me find a place to rent.  Just as we were passing this house, the owner was putting a For Rent sign in the yard.  We turned around to take a look. My hands were trembling as I signed the lease on the ugliest house on the street.

The rest is history.  A short-term rental became my permanent home, my play house, my forever changing canvas.

8.

Without knowing it yet, the woman whose daughter was a swimmer was more than just a colleague to my then-husband.  I thought she was joking when she said she "had a crush" on him. 

After our divorce, they no longer had to pretend otherwise. 

Over the years I've seen them together at birthday parties, recitals and rodeos.  They never married or  moved in together, but she bought a house next door to his.  They share a dog and go places together.  

For years, I avoided her.  I stood as far away as possible and couldn't even bear to make eye contact with her. 

8.

After a while, the burden of anger got too heavy and I let it go.  I had built a life that was a way better fit for me than the one I had before.  I didn't want the one they had. Or the seven acres and the house he'd built.  I wouldn't  have traded places with either of them.  

They seem reasonably companionable, she walking behind him (not holding hands or walking side by side) just as I used to do.  

9. 

This all bubbled up when I snapped the reflection of the lamp.  I wondered what a passerby might imagine if she glanced inside.  

Mi Familia

A  few things going on with my family:

Nathan, a junior, attended his first prom with his girlfriend Ava, a senior.  His dad is helping him adjust his first tux. 

Day and Tom have just had two parties in a row: Marcus' birthday on the 17th, Jackson's college graduation party on the 18th:

Day and Tom's mom, Kathy, are donning matching temporary tats. 

Carlene socializes more than I do! Here she is with her friend Mandy at a graduation party.  Still on a waiting list for Presbyterian Village, it's looking like she may still be on Craig Drive for her 99th birthday in August. 

Elena has spent a night with me and I've spent a night with her this past week--while her parents have celebrated their 13th wedding anniversary.  At her house, I got to watch her feed the four dogs and two horses before bedtime and first thing in the morning.  And she introduced me to my new favorite drink--boba tea with mango pearls.   Here she is with her rambunctious new puppy Marlow:

Bob and Jocelyn were here for almost a whole week, and we had a wonderful visit before the heat hit full on:

When Jan and I moved into these adjacent houses almost 30 years ago, three pecan trees gave us handfuls of edible pecans.  Over the years, the nuts have been almost non-existent and the ones we've gotten have been shriveled and inedible.  

In front of our houses these trees have given us shade and shelter, part of the umbrella of trees that line Ogden Lane, but the drought has killed the two on Jan's property and they are coming down today.  I can hear the machines now bringing them down. I can hear the thwacks of limbs falling one after the other on my driveway.  

The three-digit heat factor every day is unrelenting but only going to get worse.  Our houses will be hotter, our plants thirstier.  Every loss of a tree is heartbreaking especially these giants who have been so good to us.  

 

As a child, I memorized a poem by Joyce Kilmer: "I think I shall never see/a poem as lovely as a tree." 

I didn't get it then; now I do. 

Windows

I've lived in my house for 27 years--a gift-that-keeps-on-giving present from my parents. I know every inch of it and could point out the cracks in its concrete walls with my eyes closed.  When I first moved in, all four interior doors hit each other in the tiny space called a "hall." I had three of the doors removed, making this a one-door-inside house. 

It has its flaws, but I wanted a house with flaws, things I could fix a piece at a time.

For all these years, the windows have been un-openable, single panes in metal frames.  Long before I moved in, the crank handles were missing, so even if they had not been painted shut, they were impossible to open.

Enter Ramiro, the glazer.  

The company I hired to paint the house recommended Ramiro.  You won't want to ask for his number. 

After he had finished glazing, I shouldn't have paid him until the head of the company checked it out.  Tuition for me.  Lesson learned.  

The glaze was the hottest mess I've ever seen, ragged and soft and crooked.  But he said, "That's the job of the painters.  They will use razors to smooth it out when it hardens."

I wasn't at home the day of the window painting.  Another lesson learned--but too late.  They painted over the glazing in a dark charcoal color without smoothing it out--which only exaggerated the ugliness.  To this day, two months later, the material he used is soft as Silly Putty.  You can pull hunks of it out by hand. 

Enter Fabian.

Fabian is amazing.  He can do masonry, carpentry, and painting--and he is a perfectionist.  He could have fixed Ramiro's mess, but he suggested I consider installing new windows.

It's not that I hadn't thought of it before, but every worker I've ever asked said it would be impossible to cut into all these concrete walls and install new windows.  It would cost a fortune, they said, IF I could find anyone to do it.

So today, Windows 3 and 4 have been removed and replaced!  It's a noisy project, but the new windows are openable and they change the entire look of the house.  The stucco still needs to be repaired, inside and out, and a few other things, but by the end of next week, it should all be done.

I keep asking myself why I waited so long!  The answer is that I'd believed dozens of prospective window installers, that it was impossible.

"Nothing is impossible," Fabian says.  "Hard, but not impossible.  Trust me."

When he drove to Houston in sheets of rain to pick up my new dining table from David Marsh, the builder of hundreds of thousands of colorful tables like mine, the table  arrived wrapped in four layers of plastic.  (David said not to worry if it did get wet--he's had furniture survive flood waters.)

What happened that I didn't get to see firsthand: David (my age) and Fabian (40 yesterday)--to say "hit it off" doesn't come close--spent  hours together in David's studio.  Fabian was so inspired by David and his work that he offered to drive to Houston once a month to "push a broom"-- to learn from him.  

David has called me twice to express his fondness for Fabian.  It's rare, he said, to find a young man with such character, integrity and skill. He's willing to teach Fabian some of his proprietary techniques.  

I love bringing like-minded people together, and this is one of my best matches!  AND "I can see clearly now" through new windows that actually open. 

(My feet and I agreed: going to Virginia for the graduation party wasn't the best idea--especially since I'm going to go there in June.  The upside of missing the party is getting to watch Fabian, with a bit of help from his friend, Sam, knock out filmy old windows and install new ones.)

Other People's Houses

My Chattanooga cousin was already named Linda Jean, but my parents had already picked Linda, so they named me Linda Gayle--though nobody ever called me Linda Gayle except my daddy and the  Tennessee relatives.

Five of us cousins were born in '47 and '48. four girls and one boy.  We saw each other once or twice a year, starting at the house of our grandparents, then spreading out to the aunts'  houses since Mama Jim didn't have room for us all.  Truth was, Mama Jim wasn't effusively interested in us. Maybe she'd used up all her grandmotherly attention on the batch of older cousins. 

Tutti's house was a messy house in a downtrodden neighborhood.  Walking once, we were followed by a man in a car who slowed down and called out something and we ran back to her house through an alley.  Another time we came home from Trick-or-Treating asking the parents the meaning of a word spray-painted on a wall, a simple four letter word that started with F.  They were mortified to hear such a word spoken by their good Christian daughters. 

Tutti had Golden Books in her room, which I loved because back home we didn't have book stores or Golden Books, though we did have Bible story books and bags of books from the library. 

One of Tutti's Golden Books taught us how to cook, and I wanted that book.  She said I could have it to keep, but she forgot.  My last memory of her room--because we didn't stay there often--is being chastised for putting a book on top of the Bible. 

"Never put anything on top of the Bible," she said.  

Tutti's daddy called Tutti's mother "Mama," and vice versa. She was the mousiest aunt. She always deferred to "Daddy" even in what she might like to eat.

Linda Jean's bedroom had a cardboard box of doll house furniture. No doll house, but that was fine--I never tired arranging sinks, tables, beds and chairs all over the floor.

At breakfast one morning, her mother said, "Linda Jean and Linda Gayle, your hair turns my stomach!" I'd never heard that phrase before, but I made a mental note to say that to somebody sometime as a joke. 

Linda Jean told me Eisenhower was president and she knew how babies got made. Her older sister, a nurse, had a book that showed it all.  We looked at diagrams of uteruses, but we couldn't make heads or tails of it. Linda Jean said boys had something to do with it, but she wasn't quite sure what, so we ended our foray into nursing books. 

Dianne lived in Nashville.  Her mama, a glamorous and mischievous preacher's wife, sold cosmetics at J.C. Penney's.   She dressed fashionably, unlike the Chattanooga aunts, and had--in her words--"enough shoes to last til Jesus comes."  

Visiting the houses of other people was like reading different books. After a page or two, you caught on to the language spoken and the emotional geography there.  

 

My oldest grandson, Jackson, having had his high school graduation curtailed due to COVID, got to walk the stage for the first time today, as he walked the stage, got his diploma, and tossed his cap in the air as bunches of yellow and black balloons floated above his class.  He is now a full-fledged college graduate of VCU with a degree in economics.

Bob and Jocelyn had already planned this visit and bought tickets to a Luke Combs concert at the Alamodome last night, long before I knew the date of the graduation, so I didn't attend the ceremony. I'm heading to Virginia later this week for his graduation party.  

We had a wonderful week together, even though--due to my feet and Bob's back--we decided last minute not to attend the concert.  We both cringed at the prospect of climbing 17 flights of stairs, maneuvering enormous crowds (could have been 70 thousand fans), and possibly waiting for hours in a parking lot to get back home.  Jocelyn--ever flexible--didn't mind.  A week ago, they attended a Morgan Wallen concert in Nashville, and they both agreed that was the one not to miss.  

Bonnie and Elena rocking to the Cumbia beat of Selena's music. 

Jocelyn and Luci cuddling on the couch

Bob and Jocelyn at The Pullman at The Pearl

Meanwhile, in Richmond:

The graduate with his brother, Marcus--who just completed his first year at VCU

Jackson Leary, Class of 2024

May in Muggy Texas

Bob and Jocelyn's visit is passing too fast--we only have two more days.  It's been a wonderful week-- going out to eat twice with Will, Veronica, and Elena, finally getting my long-awaited David Marsh dining table (delivered by Fabian and unloaded by Jan and Fabian and Jocelyn), having an hour-long conversation with David Marsh on the phone...and lots more.