Giving Up for Lent...

I grew up in a church tradition that had its origins in the Anabaptist movement of the 16th century.  Among other aspects of Anabaptist belief was an avoidance of the high liturgical elements that has characterized both Catholicism and mainline Protestantism over the centuries.

One of the results of that upbringing was that I had little exposure to the concept of Lent.  My childhood experience of Easter was that we raced toward it, beginning with Good Friday, and then -- BAM -- there was Easter.

I have been a member of a Presbyterian church since 1970, and, with that change of denominational affiliation, I first began to learn about Lent.  When our church had its latest pastor come as our minister, now 15 years ago, he introduced an even more pronounced emphasis on Ash Wednesday.  This is the day that marks the beginning of the 40 days of Lent.  Anyone who is Catholic has had long exposure to Ash Wednesday, and probably wonders why a Protestant would be such a late-comer to the holy day.  Other people probably ONLY know about Ash Wednesday because is preceded by  Shrove Tuesday, or Mardi Gras, or Fat Tuesday, or--if you are Pennsylvania Dutch--Fasnacht Day.

On that first Ash Wednesday that our "new" pastor was at our church, he asked us to fast on Ash Wednesday, all day, and then attend church in the evening.  At that service, he used imposition of ashes (for the first time at our church).  As he drew the sign of the cross on our foreheads, he pronounced our first names and said "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return."  I find this service profoundly moving, as noted here.

But, the whole point of this blog is to write about GIVING UP.  Lent is seen as a time for serious deep contemplation on the nature of the events that lead to Easter.  And, in many traditions, it is also a time when we are urged to give up something--a kind of mini-sacrifice on our parts.  I have never been one to follow that practice.  Mostly people give up things like sweets, pastry, or other food items.  The point is, of course, to give up something you like.  However, this year--I might have to give up something...the time I spend blogging.

Oh, I am not giving up blogging.  And, truth be told, I will only be tapering off.  And, further truth be told, this is not so much about Lent as it is about a very busy life.  I will be working on several critical family projects over the next month.  So, maybe YOU will have to give up reading my blog ... for Lent, or for lack of anything new to read.

After the Fall

Well, I did it again.  I fell.  And, since I indicated "again" obviously it's not the first time.


I should interrupt myself briefly to explain that I am not talking about the usual falls a person can take--growing up, learning to ride a bike, roller-skating or ice-skating, playing sports, climbing trees.  Those falls can, of course, be dangerous and result in broken bones.  What I am referring to is falling as an adult who is not growing any younger.


The first time I fell, I mean really fell, was a number of  years ago during our first visit to Paris.  My husband and I were out walking around.  I am an inveterate map-reader, and that's what I was doing.  I was reading a map of Paris' convoluted streets trying to get us back to our hotel.  In my preoccupation, I did not see that I had just stepped off a curb.  I knew I had fallen only after I was once again upright, sitting on my butt on a Paris sidewalk.  My husband, who witnessed the whole graceless event, said I bounced.  And what I bounced on was my right shoulder.


Over the next several days, my upper arm began to discolor until it was an amazing array of colors that resembled a piece of modern art--all shades dissolving into each other.  I found out in short order how incredibly dependent we are on having two working arms.  Small tasks were now almost impossible:  I needed help getting in and out of a bath, help fastening my bra, help pulling a shirt on and off, help doing so many things.


When we got home, I decided against seeing a doctor, as clearly nothing was broken.  But over the next several weeks, I favored my right arm so much that I began to lose range of motion.  Finally, I showed a doctor friend of ours how I was not really able to raise my arm much beyond straight out from my side.  He practically ordered me to see an orthopedic doctor, which I did.  True, nothing was broken, but the severely injured shoulder and my favoring it was likely to lead to long-term inability.  He marched me off to a physical therapist and several weeks of restorative exercises.


So, with the announcement that I did  it "again" you guessed it.  I fell.  This time, I was out walking our dog who, in her rambunctious spring fever, pulled so hard on her leash that I tripped and went down splat on the sidewalk.  I did a great three point landing--left knee, left palm and right elbow. When I returned home, my husband immediately rigged up two ice-bags that he strapped to my knee and my elbow.  His quick response helped ameliorate excess swelling.  Also mindful of my  prior experience, I keep moving my right arm, raising it over my head and forcing the muscles to expand as much as possible.


Of course, I was embarrassed to go splat on the sidewalk, but even more I am concerned to remember to walk as carefully as I can.


Falls are serious business.  Many a senior has begun a health decline following a fall.  Now, maybe I am not quite yet to that age, but I don't want to be fool-hardy and ignore the consequences of a fall.  According to the CDC, the LEADING cause of unintentional injury in the U.S. for all age groups is falling.  Imagine that--for every age group, falls cause the moist unintentional injuries.  Ahead of vehicle accidents.  Ahead of insect bites and stings.  Ahead of poisoning, cutting, dog bites, fires, and all the other calamities out there.  


So, I will redouble my efforts to walk carefully.  

Getting Ready for Oscar

I bet you thought I forgot.  Admit it.  Didn't you?
Yes, dear reader, it's time for the annual review getting ready for the Oscars.  
A disclaimer first--we haven't seen all the movies.  OK--now that the confession is out of the way, let's get down to business.


Now that the Academy allows up to 10 nominees for best movie, it is getting more difficult to see them all.  First, we just don't go to that many movies.  Second, by the time the nominees are announced, some of the theaters around here have already shown some of the eventual nominees, and for whatever reasons have not rebooked them.


And the nominees are: The Artist, The Descendants, Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close, The Help, Hugo, Midnight in Paris, Moneyball, The Tree of Life, War Horse.


So, we want to see, but have not see, Hugo and Midnight in Paris.  Even if  Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close, or The Tree of Life were to return, I am not sure we would go.  


I may as well take them in the order listed above.
The Artist--if my husband and I were Siskel & Ebert (yes, I know Siskel is dead) we would have one thumb up, and one down.  I liked it; my husband didn't.  Here's what I liked:  the way the actors were so expressive, without words; the way that black and white seemed so...colorful; the dog; the dancing; the sweet story line; and the way a silent movie told the story of the demise of silent movies.


The Descendants--two thumbs up.  Loved it!  Simply loved it--and, it goes without saying, this is my pick as winning movie of the year.  Here's what I liked:  George Clooney; the young actress who plays the elder daughter; the magnificent scenery of Hawaii; the wonderful story line; Beau Bridges; and the denouement of the plot.


The Help--two thumbs up.  Since this movie is an adaptation of the extremely successful book, it had a high bar to meet.  Here's what I liked:  Viola Davis and Octavia Spencer; Emma Stone as Skeeter; a strong female cast (you don't see that often); the chocolate pie scene (you know what I mean); the interweaving of historical events from the civil rights era--a light touch, but still it's there; the denouement of the plot.  I recently heard Viola Davis on Fresh Air, and I am now rooting for her as best actress.


Moneyball--sort of two thumbs up.  This is a thoroughly engaging story, but not really "best movie" material, in my opinion.  What I liked:  Brad Pitt; Jonah Hill; Philip Seymour Hoffman (who is always good, but in an atypical role here); a bit of an inside view of baseball.  What always mystifies me is how I enjoy movies about baseball when I don't really enjoy the game of baseball.


War Horse--mostly two thumbs up.  Oh, yes, it's formulaic, and at times gory, but there's a gorgeous horse in it...  OK, what I liked:  the horse; the happy ending; the horse; the thoroughly realistic and quite harrowing battle scenes; the horse; and .... the horse. 


And, now my picks for top prizes, understanding that I have not seen them all:
Best Movie--The Descendants
Best Actress--Viola Davis
Best Actor--Gary Oldman (in Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy)
Best Directing--The Artist


Not having seen all of the movies does limit my choices.  Martin Scorsese might take best directing, Michelle Williams might take best actress for playing Marilyn.  But, you go with what you have seen.


Happy watching until February 26.  And, joy of joys, Billy Crystal is back!

What Flashes Before Your Eyes

This conventional wisdom that your life flashes before your eyes in a time of peril--well, it just doesn't happen, at least not to me.  What flashed before my eyes was a bright yellow car.

OK, here's the scene.  I had decided to take the two "orphan" cats to have their claws trimmed.  (I call them orphans because these are the two we rescued a bit more than a year ago.  Both had been found somewhere outside--separately.  But, to distinguish them from our other cat, I just use the shorthand--orphans.)  Anyway, their claws get quite...sharp, so a trim was in order.  We loaded them into their respective carrying cases, and--since the one cat gets car-sick--my husband said, take my car (a smooth riding Ford Fusion).  Regretfully, as it turns out.

I drove carefully, trying not to trigger the cat's car-sickness.  I looped around a local store, using a road that leads to the pet place, and pulled up at a traffic light.  When the light turned from red to green, I followed several other cars as we moved forward.  When I was halfway into the intersection, suddenly, from my right, I saw a flash of yellow.  A car moving way too fast to stop at the light that had to be red for the driver.  I had no time to do anything, not even brake.  I think I turned just a bit to the left, hoping not to hit him.

But hit him I did, smacking into his driver side with a hard BANG.  He then turned his car to the right, pulled off the road in a local restaurant parking lot, and I followed him.  Two other cars followed me.  As soon as I got out of the car, the other driver--a young man of about 30--asked, are you OK?

I was (so far, nothing else has popped up).  And so were the cats.  I called my husband, and told him what had happened.  He called the local police who came and did a thorough investigation.  The other two cars turned out to be witnesses whose first question was to me--are you OK?  Then, one of the men went to the other driver and said, dude, you ran a red light.  The young man was nonplused, indicating he was sure he had a green light.  Well, no, you didn't.

Meanwhile, my husband drove over, gathered up the cats, and took them for their nail appointment.  All's well that ends well.

But the ending is yet to come--on Monday, my husband will begin the task of calling the insurer.

The final coup de grace is this.  We got a call this evening from the police who did the investigation and write-up.  Seems the young driver not only ran a red light but was also uninsured.

Grrrr.

Unto Life Eternal

Yesterday, my husband and I attended the funeral of one of our church friends.  As is customary, the minister comforted the family members with the traditional words of the promise of life eternal.  

As I thought about our friend's funeral, one concluding irony occurred this morning, when I checked Facebook.  There was a suggestion that I might want to "friend" the woman whose funeral we had just attended yesterday.  So, even after our deaths we live on in many ways.  

We live on in blogs too--one of the first blogs I began reading was written by an incredibly brave woman who was slowly dying from ALS.  She had been a vigorously active woman in her life before her disease.  Her blogs were inspiring, warm, and full of a happy love of life.  But, over time, the entries she wrote became fewer and fewer--with longer distances between posts.  Then one day, there were no more posts.  I kept wondering--how was she?  And I kept checking her blog for news, any news.  Finally after a year of silence, there was a sweet final post--she had died.  Her name was Pam, and the final tribute to her was a quote from her: 

I have ALS, it does not have me

Art does.

She was an artist who, as she lost her ability to draw with her own hand, found new ways to express her creativity.  So she lives on in many ways:  in her art, in the memories of all who loved her --  her children, her grandchildren -- and in her blog which is still "out there" for anyone to read.


Some researchers assert that we humans are hard-wired from the moment humans began to exist to contemplate a life beyond our human existence.  Early burial sites are discovered that include various items placed around the deceased to ease passage to the next life:  food, coins, clothing, various objects to speed the journey.  Many religions have woven into their belief systems various concepts dealing with a life beyond earthly existence.  No one religion has a claim to an exclusive belief in the next life.

But, an amorphous promise of life beyond our present existence does not satisfy our human need to be remembered.  We want our existence to be acknowledged--some of us have children, and grandchildren.  That's one way to achieve immortality, for a while.  Some of us have places--roads, buildings, bridges--named after us.  Some of us give MONEY to make sure we have places named for us.  Some of us do great or terrible deeds, and history remembers us.

Please understand, this is not an invitation to argue the subject, nor is it even a challenge the assertion that we do or do not continue to exist.  This post is not to elucidate the merits of a belief in eternal life; rather it is my rumination on our human need to contemplate, and sometimes even insist, on a life beyond the life we know.  I suspect part of this drive on our part is the human need to be remembered.  After all, the only way we experience anything is through our lives.  When we no longer live, we wonder what comes next.  Do we continue? Will those who remain remember us? 

A closing thought--one of the theologians whose works I enjoy is Bart Ehrman.  His own faith journey has moved to a point where he now considers himself an agnostic.  When asked by someone whether it bothers him that his agnosticism robs him of the comfort of a belief in an afterlife, he responded--no.  Here's his reasoning: before he was born, he had no consciousness and was not troubled by that; after his death, he assumes he will have no consciousness, so why would he be troubled by that?

I know, I know.  I have tangled up two separate streams of thought--the need to be remembered with a contemplation of life eternal.  Are they different?

Some Kind of Thresh Hold

This blog post is NOT about me--although, I confess, the thresh hold that is being crossed affects me.  You see, in just a few hours, my elder child will turn 40.

The photo above is of our son Geoffrey and our daughter-in-law Christy.


While there are many photos I could choose of him, this one seemed most fitting.  Of course I have those wonderful baby photos, and the little boy photos too.  I have used them before on the occasion of his birthday.  But the photo of you two together is just right.


This time I want to write about a few scenes which I hold dear in my mother's  heart.

• I remember a day when you were about 18 months old.  I had just come home from teaching, carrying you, along with a bag of your supplies from the baby-sitter's, complete with a container of Spaghettios.  I don't know how I got distracted, but for a moment I turned my back.  When I came back into the room, there you sat with the Spaghettios container opened and smeared all over the place. 
• I remember how you fell off a coffee table, and cut your head.  We had to rush you to a hospital to get some stitches.  And I remember how white your dad's face was as he helped to hold you so you would be comforted while the doctor worked on you.
• I remember the first time you walked alone up the sidewalk to a neighbor's house so you could play with your friend.  I thought--wow, he's on his own.
• I remember how you reacted when we told you we were going to have another baby--you said, oh good, now I won't be an only child anymore.
• I remember how sweet you were (most of the time) with your sister.   And still are.
• I remember how proud we were when you won academic recognition and went off to the college of your choice.
• I remember when you came home and told us you had met someone special--and you asked if you could bring her (Christy) along on our family vacation.
• I remember that only when you headed to grad school did I cry--realizing you really WERE on your own--but this time with Christy by your side.
• I remember how happy you and Christy were on your wedding day--even though you hadn't thought to get programs ready and printed until the morning of the wedding.
• I remember several moves we helped you with.--to apartments, to houses.
• I remember--

A mother does remember--and I am proud, so very proud, that you are our son.  


So, special love to you this day--as you celebrate your 40th birthday.

Cry, the Beloved Country

Lovely mountains around Cape Town

It had been more than 50 years since I was last in South Africa, and--to tell the truth--I had very little memory of the country.  But, having grown up in what was then Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe, I always maintained a keen interest in southern African developments.  I read much about Zimbabwe and South Africa.  Among these books, I recall reading Nadine Gordimer's novel July's People, written before the change of government from minority apartheid rule to majority rule.  In that work, she postulates the end of apartheid, in a civil war which turns the power structure upside down.  


That vision was entirely credible, and what I anticipated would be the most likely ending of apartheid. 


But, then, the world witnessed the miracle of Nelson Mandela.  Imprisoned for 27 years for his anti-apartheid activities, upon his release he continued working for majority government.  Seemingly, miraculously, he succeeded.  In 1994, he was elected President of South Africa.  A civil war was averted--South Africa managed to make the transition from a minority government to a majority government, escaping the fate of its neighbor to the north, Zimbabwe.


True, many people died on the struggle to reach majority government.  There were multiple massacres of citizens on both sides of the color bar.  Leaders of the African National Congress (ANC) spent years in prison, along side Mandela.  Many of those years of imprisonment were on Robben Island, within easy view of Cape Town's harbor--it must have been maddeningly tantalizing for both sides being so close.   But Mandela seemed to accomplish the impossible--he not only survived; he thrived and honed his deeply moral presence.

Cape Town Harbor with Robben Island in the distance

Under the surface, simmering problems linger that threaten to undo all the creative work to bring the new South Africa into existence.  While the power structure has been realigned, the economics of the country have been largely unchanged.  Unemployment hovers around 25%, with the rate of unemployed youth at 50%.  However, the unemployment rate for whites is around 4%.  Average annual income for blacks in South Africa are around $1,800; for whites around $8,200.


Nowhere is the disparity more evident than in housing.  The three main racial divides in South Africa are white, colored, and black.  Whites are those who descended from the original Dutch and British settlers.  Coloreds (a term I had difficulty with given my U.S. thinking) are those who descend from Khoisan (the original inhabitants of southern Africa), mixed race and immigrants from various Asian countries such as Malaysia.  Blacks are those descended from earlier migration of Bantu peoples from further north on the African continent.  With a population of about 60 million, 80% of South Africans are black, whites around 9%, and colored including Asians around 11%.

A township

Housing is like a pyramid--at the top the lovely houses in urban areas, many in gated communities, are largely owned by whites; in the middle, cinder-block houses in organized communities are owned by coloreds; at the bottom, in a huge swath of housing, are the townships.  The houses in these areas are quickly constructed lean-tos, pieces of corrugated iron thrown up with a roof across.  Township housing lacks internal plumbing; instead townships have communal bath houses where families have to do all their toileting and washing.  Electricity is provided by central poles with wiring from which people string up electrical wires to connect.  Frequently people get electrocuted trying to tap into the power supply.  And these townships just keep growing--one of the largest in Cape Town, Khayelitsha, has over one and a half MILLION people living in it.


80% of farm land continues to be held by whites.  The ANC had promised land reform which intended to restore land ownership to blacks, but over time progress toward that goal has stalled.  Now, newer leaders in the ANC--those who have moved away from the harmonious legacy of Nelson Mandela--promise, or threaten, massive redistribution of land and wealth.  One particular leader--Julius Malema--threatens nationalizing South African gold and diamond mines.


Upon our return from South Africa, my daughter and I set about reading (actually re-reading) Alan Paton's Cry, the Beloved Country.  While many aspects of the novel seem very dated, and also quite simplistic, there is a prophetic sense about the work.  Paton writes:

Have no doubt it is fear in the land.  For what can men do when so many have grown lawless?  ... There are voices crying what must be done, a hundred, a thousand voices...one cries this, and one cries that, and another cries something that is neither this nor that.

Paton envisioned a time when the social fabric, which was already tearing in the reality of which he wrote, would dissolve completely.  


As we waited in the Cape Town airport to board our flight back to the U.S., I perused books in the bookstore.  One was titled After Mandela: The Battle for the Soul of South Africa.  Out of curiosity, I thumbed through the book, and read the chapter titles.  The last chapter title brought me up short:  "The Shadow of Zimbabwe."


I can think of no greater tragedy for Mandela's legacy than to see South Africa go the way of Zimbabwe.  So, indeed--cry, the beloved country.

Photo taken by Kristen, my daughter, of Franschhoek, S.A.

Photo taken by my husband, of Klein Karoo

Sunset over Camps Bay Beach

Glimpses of A Childhood Home

One of the pleasures for me in our recent trip to South Africa was to experience some scenes that reminded me very much of my childhood.  Long time readers will know that I did not grow up in South Africa, but in the country just to the north--now Zimbabwe, Rhodesia in the years I was there.


I had been ages since I saw a lovely avenue of trees bordering a well-tended dirt road.  The one shown below is the avenue leading up to Boschendal The Estate, now a wine estate.  It was originally established in 1685 as a farm including vineyards.  In 1897, Cecil Rhodes acquired the estate, established fruit orchards and eventually turned the whole estate over to De Beers.

In Bulawayo, the town where I went to school, the avenues were lined with jacaranda trees.  Below is a photo of jacaranda blossoms close up.  It was wonderful to see them again.  Also, bougainvillea, another flower from childhood memory.

During my parents' time as missionaries, they occasionally had vacation time--it was during these times that we visited Cape Town.  Of course, Table Mountain is the iconic landmark in Cape Town.  You see it everywhere you travel around Cape Town.  


My prior time going to the top of Table Mountain was when I was a child.  Then, the cable car was a less sturdy looking device.  Based on a website recounting the history of the cable car, I assume when my dad and I visited it, we rode the car identified as the First Cable Car.  The newest iteration of cable car is much sleeker and sound.  Despite my fear of heights, I rode the cable car with no apprehension at all.  The small nob you see at the top is the cable car station.

And, here I sit with my husband on rocks at the top of Table Mountain.

Not the same rock, to be sure, but here's proof that I sat on the rocks atop Table Mountain once before--with my dad, some time in the early 1950s.

Most people identify almost any part of Africa as a place with animals.  Growing up, I did see lots of animals--more, actually, than we saw on our recent trip.  One animal that is still seemingly present everywhere is the baboon.  Oh, yes, I recall baboons from my childhood.


As we drove various places, baboons could be seen along side or even on the roads.  One baboon had found a beer bottle, which he cradled jealously, and kept from the other baboons in the troop.  The photo below is one our son-in-law took.  He was seated on the side of the car with the best view.  Travelers are sternly warned: 1) not to open car doors as the baboons know no fear; 2) not to feed the baboons; and 3) not to harm the baboons which are a protected species.  We saw people whose job was to mind the baboons, and warn cars to slow down.  I wondered if the people told their friends they were in "monkey business." 
  

Finally, many of my childhood memories involve lovely flowers and interesting birds.  The flowers shown were in Kirstenbosch Gardens, a lovely large park adjacent to Cecil Rhodes' Cape Town estate of Kirstenbosch. 


The bird is the blue crane which is the South African national bird.  Kind of an odd looking bird, if you ask me.

But the most scene reminiscent of my childhood were the African skies.  I kept thinking of Paul Simon's song "Under African Skies" as I looked at the endless sky unfurling around me.

Not all the scenes in South Africa are as lovely--I will share some of my sadness in another post.

Lovely Cape Town

It is time to begin reflecting on our most recent trip.  We returned, on New Year's Eve day, from a visit to South Africa.  

We spent a week in South Africa, with our daughter and son-in-law: our Christmas gift to each other, no need for any other presents.

The scenes below begin to tell the story of our trip--Camps Bay Beach at sunset, with the ocean spray.

Turn around and we can see part of the mountains around Table Mountain lit by the setting sun.

Part of Cape Town, the Malay area, with brightly painted buildings.  After years of mandatory whitewash exteriors, when the rules were changed, the residents in this area opted for splashes of color.

The mandatory trip up Table Mountain, the cable for the cable car firmly in view.  I had been to Table Mountain as a child, traveling up a more primitive cable car with my dad.  Now, a corporate sponsored sleek car takes us up, all the while revolving for a view all around.

Table Mountain dominates Cape Town, visible from almost all angles.  The winds sweep clouds over the mountain, which give the impression of a table cloth.  Our guide told us Table Mountain is a guide's nightmare.  The cable car up can be closed down on a moment's notice, due to high winds.  Frankly, I'd rather not ride up in high winds.  We were fortunate--up and back with no hitches.  Our guide told us of one group he had who were determined to go up.  When informed that the cable car wasn't running, they wanted to know if there were another way up.  HIKE--was the answer.  So, they all informed the guide they would, and they did--two hours up.  

I wanted a reprise photo of me on the top of the mountain, this time with my husband.  I have a photo from childhood of me with my dad--not necessarily sitting on the same rock, but certainly on the same mountain.

Lion's Head to the one side of Table Mountain.

The view below--Cape Town.  In truth, Cape Town is all around Table Mountain.

Well, there's a start.  More photos, more reports and observations--to come.

The Last Report

Forgive my silence, dear reader, and the rather extended pause in the on-going saga of hospital care in the U.S.  I have been away--but my absence is testament to the fact that the recently inflicted treatment must have worked.


When my doctor said he wanted to try a new prescription for atrial fibrillation, he also noted there was something I wouldn't like: a hospital stay.  At the time, my only response was--no problem.  I just have two trips that I am planning to make, and, if I can fit in the hospital stay between those two trips--well, fine.


So, at the beginning of December we went to San Diego to see our son and daughter-in-law, then over Christmas we traveled to South Africa and met up with our daughter and son-in-law. The doctor didn't blink at my schedule caveat--so I am guessing he hears such conditions frequently.   His response--I think we can work something out.  And work it out we did.  Trip 1, hospital stay, and then trip 2.


As anyone who watches the myriad of health shows that have been televised knows, hospitals are places of great drama.  There are daily mini-dramas.  My two roommates are illustrative.


The first roommate came in very shortly after I was admitted.  She was wheeled in, and transferred to her bed. With her came a retinue of family--sons, daughters, spouses. Who knows who all was there?  All I could tell was that there was a hub-bub of activity on the other side of the room.  Since my husband was with me, I just rolled my eyes to indicate my puzzlement--and, yes, maybe intolerance.


But over the next two days, this family showed warmth and support.  You see, the woman was in her 80s.  She had been, until a few weeks before, a picture of health, quite independent and most certainly stubborn.  Then, she had a fall, and a subsequent stroke that leveled her.  She was hospitalized, and then a heart condition became apparent--she had multiple blocked coronary arteries.  


Her family members buzzed about her, trying to make her comfortable, tut-tutting if she tried to move or do something.  Even though the curtain was drawn, I could hear them saying "Mom, you can't do that" or "Call the nurse for that."  It seemed a bit over-done to me, but she was clearly the glue in that family's fabric--a true matriarch.


When no one was there, I went to her bed and said hi, and introduced myself.  I asked if she needed anything, and she managed a very weak hello followed by a demurring of help.


As it turned out, that seemingly overwhelming family was really tremendously supportive.  At one point, I heard the older son say to his sleeping mother--Oh, Mom.  It was a heart-felt cry.  Later, he came over to my side of the room and sat down and visited for quite a while.  Another son also made a point of introducing himself to both my husband and me.  For a brief two days, I almost seemed to be included in that expansive family.

When the mother went in to surgery, one son stopped by to see me, just to see how I was doing.


And, then, there was my second roommate.  With the matriarch in surgery, and being returned to a more intensive care room, the bed next to me was empty.  Soon, a second post-surgery patient was wheeled in.


What ensued was a circus.  First, with new patient in the room, all the staff departed.  Then the phone rang.  And rang.  And rang.  So , I said--through the curtain--just push the red button.  Meaning, of course, on the phone.  But new patient thought I meant on the device to call a nurse.  She kept saying, loudly, HELLO, HELLO.  Then she said GEORGE?  I finally got out of bed, went over to her side of the room and pointed out the telephone.  Of course, she had NO idea who I was, and gave me a wild-eyed look.


Then, a nurse came in (maybe in response to the call button) and said--Barbara, don't move around so much; you have to stay still.  As soon as the nurse left, Barbara tried to get out of bed.  That set off a loud beeping alarm which produced several staff members.   This happened multiple times, each time with an accompanying loud beeping alarm.  Every time they came into the room, they said (quite loudly)--Barbara, what are you trying to do?


Soon, another staff member came in, and began to ask Barbara some questions.  Herewith the conversation:


Q--do you know where you are?  A--I am at So-and-so's house.
Q--why are you there?  A--I am at a party.
Q--do you know what year it is?  A--(pause) 1998.
Q--do you know who is President?  A--Al Gore.
Q--aren't you in a hospital now?  A--(most indignantly) NO.


Oh, my.  Other than the startling news that Al Gore actually won the election (well, he did--but that's another story altogether), the whole conversation was most bizarre.  But, I recognized the questions as standard ones asked to ascertain whether or not someone has dementia.  Oh, and Barbara most certainly did.


Layer dementia on top of the disorienting experience of being in a hospital, and no wonder Barbara looked at me with wild eyes.


Most annoying of all, each time a staff member came in to see Barbara, they asked if she wanted her television on, and then JUST turned it on.  And turned up the volume.  I told my husband--I can't stay here another night if Barbara is my roommate.


Thankfully, when the doctor came in (finally), after initially saying I had to stay one more day so that I would have the requisite number of doses of the new medicine--and after being informed that in fact I had HAD the correct number, he agreed to discharge me.


Hospitals--places where life's dramas, both tragedy and comedy, play out.  I promise--this the last report on my hospital stay.


Next up, the trip to South Africa.

Oh, the Sights, the Sounds, the Smells...

Here I go again--relaying tales of being an impatient in patient. 

In addition to my initial observations, captured here, I offer now the feast of the senses that a hospital stay can bring to you.

The first thing that really strikes me is the SOUNDS.  There are dings, buzzes, beeps, muffled voices, loud voices, confused voices, footfalls, cart wheels, squeaks--too many sounds to be able to convey them in silent print.  We do live in an increasingly noisy world, but a hospital adds new dimensions to the world of noise.  Most of us are accustomed to hearing cell phones.  At least when it's your cell phone, you know how to identify the sound.  In the hospital, the sounds are simply baffling.  Is that beep coming from me?  And should I do something about it.  Most of the sounds trigger a staff reaction--understandably.   We patients are tethered and monitored and an errant sound might mean we are making a concerted break for it.

Next come the sights.  While a hospital is generally a sterile environment--not in the bacterial sense, but in the artistic sense--there is plenty to see in a hospital.  There are, of course, the ubiquitous fluorescent lights.  They are on everywhere...all...the...time.  Day and night.  My bed was closer to the door, so at night, the hall light came pouring in.  I drew the privacy curtain (huh! is that ever mis-named) not so much for privacy but for a bit of light dimming.  At home, I need a dark dark dark room to sleep happily.  There are many other sights--some potentially embarrassing.  Hospital gowns are not made for modesty.  The opening in the back can fly open at the slightest provocation.  Don't even try to keep your clothing on...any care requires some skin exposure.  So, you just learn to bare what you must.

And then there's all that measuring.  Your height, your weight, blood pressure, heart rate,  lung clarity, oxygen level, water intake, urine output.  Oh, yes, you get measured.  The urine part was...interesting.  You place a small plastic contraption inside the toilet seat, and when you have finished, you either put the plastic container on YOUR shelf, or you read and record the amount.  I asked to do the latter--even converting the ounces to milliliters (why oh why didn't the U.S. convert to metric?).  Several times, I went to the bathroom only to find my roommate's container still inside the toilet seat.  

Now we come to taste--which would be food.  Only, don't count on much.  I had checked into the hospital late morning, and--when asked--told staff I didn't need lunch.  BIG MISTAKE.  Supper did not arrive until much later than I expected it.  And by then, my decision to abstain from lunch was working against me.  When supper did arrive, it was a  box lunch.  With a bologna sandwich.  On white bread.  I thought--you have to be kidding.  On a cardiac unit, a high salt, low fiber sandwich.   Oh, yes, along with  applesauce and a pack of Lorna Doone shortbread cookies.  While the remainder of meals improved a tad, I was still mostly hungry.  My roommate even remarked that she had been in another nearby hospital recently, and the food there was much better.  

One more post to go on the fascinating world of hospital care.

Hospitals--Not for the Faint Hearted

So, I just returned home last evening from spending three days in the hospital.  Never fear, it was an entirely planned hospital stay--in fact, wedged in between a trip to San Diego to visit our son and daughter-in-law and another upcoming trip to see our daughter and son-in-law.

I am a Type A personality (if such labels still exist).  Patience is NOT one of my virtues, and anything annoying....well, it annoys me.  So, when the doctor announced that my recalcitrant blood pressure, that just would not come down, despite adding new medicines, needed yet another new medicine, he also announced--and you're not going to like this.  What? I asked innocently.  Well, you need to have it administered in the hospital.  All for to monitor my heart rate.  I mentioned a while back that I was rebooted and regained my sinus rhythm.  Premature announcement, as it turned out--even though it was true at the time.  Because, dear readers, I lost my rhythm.  Humph.

New med is designed to bring down BP and to help a heartbeat stay regular.  But, every now and then, it actually causes the heartbeat to go all wonky.  Hence, the need to wear a 24 hour monitor for several days. 

Hang in there with me: I am just getting to the good part.

Hospitals, I have decided, are not places for the faint hearted, especially not if one is NOT really sick.  For three days, I felt a bit as if I had wandered into the set of making of the movie "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest."

Herewith some random observations.

• Check your modesty and need for privacy at the registration desk.  You will not need it.  You get poked, prodded, pummeled...well, maybe pummeled is a bit of exaggeration.  You have your "vitals" checked endlessly.  Even all through the night.  I would be in a sound sleep, only to hear a chirpy voice saying "Just checking your vitals" as I felt an ear probe measure temp, blood pressure, pulse.  Thank goodness that's where the vitals check stopped.  And privacy?  Nope--with a roommate (which I had) there were family visitors coming in at all times, along with a seemingly endless parade of hospital staff: RNs, nurses' aids, housekeeping, food services, social workers, the occasional chaplain, and -- is it?  It just might be a DOCTOR!  Woo hoo. 
• Forget efficiency and speed.  Things move at a glacial pace (pre-global warming) in the hospital.  I arrived, as ordered, late morning on Monday.  Not until three, almost four hours later was my medication regimen begun.  And, since it necessitated 48 plus hours of continuous cardiac monitoring, that time made a difference.  It was not until the second day of being in the hospital that someone from the cardiac practice came to see me, and then only because my husband called a number the practice had given us.  When the doctor did arrive, he pointed out to me that "this is a hospital and there are emergencies that we have to deal with; people arriving in the emergency department, with heart attacks, etc."  I meekly accepted it, thinking all the while--that my husband's call was the proverbial squeak that garnered the dollop of grease the doctor's visit represented.
• If you are interested in a retreat-like pace, slow deliberative moving toward an unknown goal, then the hospital is the place for you...except it's not a silent retreat.  More on that in the next post. 

No Country for Old Men

I have just finished reading Peter Godwin's compelling memoir When A Crocodile Eats the Sun.  Part personal recollection, part political commentary, the book chronicles his father's dying and death.  Along the way, Godwin learns some family secrets and helps reconnect his father to his past.  But, what I found particularly compelling is Godwin's account of the nearly current state of affairs in Zimbabwe, the book's account ending in 2004.

As you no doubt know, I spent some of my growing up years in this country--then called Rhodesia.  I have a very fond memory of a childhood that was not usual by American standards.  When I read Godwin's account, I could travel back in memory to some of the kinds of things he is describing.

As I read along, I found myself cringing more and more, almost to the point of physical revulsion.  How in the name of all things sane can a tyrant such as Mugabe remain in power.  It is tempting, from a distance, to wonder at the inadvertent complicity of the populace in allowing him to remain in power.  Reading Godwin's account disabused me of any such thought.

In detail, he recounts the thoroughly calculating move on Mugabe's part to institute the land reallocation "plan."  So, a country which had been the breadbasket of the continent became a virtual wasteland, unable to grow enough food to feed its own citizens.  So-called war vets (from Zimbabwe's civil war in the 1980s) were rewarded with seized farms which second- and third- (or more) generation white families had successfully farmed.  The fact that many of the war vets were only in their 20s (in the year 2000), thus making them NOT war vets, did not alter Mugabe's cynical plan.  And why did he push the land reallocation?  Because he lost the election, and needed something to divert the populace so he could retain power.

Not only has Zimbabwe's productivity dropped agriculturally, but the life expectancy has also dropped from one of the highest in Africa to one of the lowest...in the world.  From a life expectancy of mid-60s some 50 years ago, Zimbabwean men now live an average of 37 years, and women 33 years.  Meanwhile, Mugabe will celebrate his 88th  birthday in February, 2012.  As Godwin notes, Mugabe is now on his third lifespan while his country men and women die after barely living a lifespan.

AIDS is part of the reason for this precipitous drop, but so is targeted denial of food supplies.  Mugabe channels food to his supporters and denies his enemies.    It is not too big a stretch to aver that "Zimbabwe is dying" as Bob Herbert wrote in a New York Times editorial in 2009.

I keep thinking about the marvelous William Butler Yeats' poem "Sailing to Byzantium."  This poem has been the inspiration for many interpretations, and has provided book and movie titles--just read through and spot them.

I have a new interpretation.  Zimbabwe is no country for old men.  And if ever there were an aged man--a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick--it is the second president of this country.  And the closing of the poem speaks to that great unknown unknowable--"what is past, or passing, or to come."

No one knows what is to come in Zimbabwe.  My hope and prayer is that this, too, shall pass--and a lovely country will somehow be revived to a state wherein all citizens are valued, where life is cherished and where all old men and women can thrive.

Sailing to Byzantium

by William Butler Yeats

That is no country for old men. The young

In one another's arms, birds in the trees

—Those dying generations—at their song,

The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,

Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long

Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.

Caught in that sensual music all neglect

Monuments of unageing intellect.

An aged man is but a paltry thing,

A tattered coat upon a stick, unless

Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing

For every tatter in its mortal dress,

Nor is there singing school but studying

Monuments of its own magnificence;

And therefore I have sailed the seas and come

To the holy city of Byzantium.

O sages standing in God's holy fire

As in the gold mosaic of a wall,

Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,

And be the singing-masters of my soul.

Consume my heart away; sick with desire

And fastened to a dying animal

It knows not what it is; and gather me

Into the artifice of eternity.

Once out of nature I shall never take

My bodily form from any natural thing,

But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make

Of hammered gold and gold enamelling

To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;

Or set upon a golden bough to sing

To lords and ladies of Byzantium

Of what is past, or passing, or to come.