New Doctor in Town

I met my new doctor yesterday. She looks like she just got out of high school. She made a point of telling me that some of my favorite medications are "old school" and I shouldn't use them any more. I liked her, anyway.

She poked and prodded, had me take deep breaths, and murmured "good, good," over and over again. Do doctors ever get wide-eyed and say, "Oh, no!" while checking you? (I didn't think so.)

Then she asked me a question I could've answered easily 30 years ago. Not so much today: "Do you have pain?" ["Well, yeah," I wanted to say, "I'm old!] I hesitated a little too long, making her think I didn't understand the question. How do you tell a lively young thing that pain is ever-present when you are older? That it creeps on you, one little twinge at a time, so that you don't think of it as pain per se; it's just the way your body feels. Every day. You forget it's there until something happens to make it go away for a few glorious moments. I'm not alone in this: I just found out one of my friends looks forward to her colonoscopies because she has no pain for 20 minutes while she's under the sedative. (Yes, I know. We're pathetic.)

Young Doctor asked again. I told her about the new pain, the one that made me decide to come in today. I avoided this visit because I knew it would spawn a mulitude of visits to other, more invasive specialists. I was right. I'm now scheduled for the Grand Tour; three in all.

I'm trying to learn to think positively, so I'll just think about those 20 pain-free moments. (C'mon, admit it--you started thinking about it the minute I said "pain-free", didn't you?) If the NIH heard about this, do you think they would start using it in their ads to inspire us to go get checked? Maybe I should let them know. (Hey, it was just a thought!)

Nearsighted Eagle? Or just Inept?

Retired people have too much time on their hands and shouldn't be allowed to near computers while armed with email address books. They send me waay too many things to read, look at, or respond to. I'm already jealous of their freedom. Why rub it in?

When I overcome my curmudgeonly reaction, however, sometimes I see really amazing stuff. Like the series of pictures of an eagle purportedly attacking a swan in mid air, supposedly taken by a Tom Carver of B.C., Canada.

The photos show a swan flying, then an eagle approaching from behind and grabbing its leg. They struggle, the swan gets away, and falls down into the water, apparently unhurt.

I saw a pair of mating eagles a couple of years ago over Lake Washington. They fly high into the sky, grab each others' talons, and tumble down to the water in an apparent death spiral. I don't think you could see it without having your heart in your mouth. They pull up at the last minute and do it again. If Tom Carver lives in British Columbia, he must have seen this at least once.

I can't help but wonder: was this eagle really an inept hunter trying to catch a meal in the air--or was he just a nearsighted, would-be lover?

Monkeys in the Zoo--People in Cages

I took Soccer Tot to the zoo this morning. I planned a 2-1/2 hour visit, allowing for my energy level and her nap time . But we no sooner got through the gate than official-looking people with walkie-talkies appeared on the path, saying, "this path is closed, please go to the bug house or the bird aviary." When I asked, they said they were having "animal issues." I wondered if something big and dangerous was on the loose, looking for small children to snack on. It turns out a male monkey--a small male monkey--escaped from his habitat and was leading the whole staff on a merry chase.

We went to the bug house, as directed. We walked past the bird aviary, where we saw people crowded into the cage, looking out longingly. (I hope the monkey got a kick out of that as he roamed about. Maybe he was tempted to tap on the glass as payback.)

Soccer Tot and I wanted to see furry animals, but we respectfully looked at each of the bugs so they wouldn't feel slighted. It was OK until someone else's child started having a temper tantrum--loud and long--in the confined space. I was ready to burst out the door screaming, "I'd rather face the monkey!" The official-looking walkie-talkie folks saved my sanity by evacuating us through a service area to a parking lot. They evacuated the whole zoo, filling the parking lot with crying babies in strollers and impatient children saying, "but Mommy why can't we go see the people chase the monkey?" The ever-hopeful staffers kept saying, "it should only be about 10 more minutes." But those "10 minute" increments finally added up to more than an hour, so I asked for passes to come back another day.

As a consolation prize, I took Soccer Tot to McDonald's for a happy meal and playtime on the equipment. While sitting with a Chinese grandmother who leaped up every few minutes to force another morsel into the mouth of her non-stop grandkid, I mused that McDonald's at lunchtime is very much like a zoo, with little human animals climbing and running and shrieking. All it lacked was some uniformed people with walkie-talkies and a veterinarian with a tranquilizer dart. Oh, and people leading me past the garbage cans to the parking lot!

No More Frankenstein Belly

Hooray! For the first time in the two months he's been with me, Scruffdog has no stitches in belly! Little Scruffdog Milagro is a miraculous healer, given enough drugs and a properly-executed surgery. He now has a little pink belly that he wants to have rubbed almost constantly, and he tosses and shakes his squeaky toy for a half an hour at a time. His rapidly growing hair stands up on his head like a spikey 1980s punk rocker hair-do.

Now that he's feeling better and doesn't need to be held and to sleep 23 hours a day, we'll see if I can keep up with him. He scoots along on three legs (the other healed crookedly from a break and he tends to hold it up when he wants to get moving) faster than I can walk. We both need to build stamina--I suspect it will take me longer than him.

If you see a woman flying along at the end of the leash of a little spikey-haired dog, that'll be me. Just wave as we go by!

134 Fishermen Plucked from Miles-wide Ice Floe

I think ice fishermen are funny. The first time I heard about the sport, I thought the person telling the story was pulling my leg. "They do whaat?" I laughed. "Drill holes in ice, then sit there on overturned buckets waiting for fish to pass through miles of water to get directly under their hole so they can catch them?" I thought I was pretty clever to catch him in his tall tale. He looked at me, deadpan, and said, "Exactly."

I know ice-obsessed people do crazy, dangerous things on ice, but this was news to me. I live in Washington State, where people have to be rescued from Mt. Rainier every year. BTW, don't climb Mt. Rainier if you're strapped for cash. If you get stranded, you'll have to pay Washington State for your rescue. A few years ago, Washingtonians stopped being good sports about paying for other people's mistakes.

Ohioans must love their ice fishermen a lot more than Washingtonians love mountaineers. They seem to have no qualms about giving them a free ride. If you and your ice fishing buddies get stranded on an ice floe because you chose to ignore clues that would have alerted a kindergartner of impending ice separation, your rescue will be free. Even if it involves the Coast Guards of two countries and emergency personnel from several states. Think of it: drama! excitement! and a ride in a cool government vehicle--all free!

At least, that's the way it was for 134 ice-fishing-obsessed guys who had to be plucked from an ice floe on Lake Erie last week. They ignored a rapid rise in temperature, rising winds, and a big crack in the ice. They wound up being stuck on an ice floe separated from stable ice by 100 yards of water. Did it scare them? Were they chastened by their enormous screw-up? Nope. Their only lament was that the U.S. and Canadian Coast Guards wouldn't let them bring back their fishing gear. Two of the fishermen wanted to head to the local Cabela's after their rescue to buy more gear and get back to ice fishing. The only clear heads in their households—their wives—vetoed that (probably not quietly).

The Morning Journal of Northern Ohio reports: "The rescue operation cost thousands of dollars and none of the fishermen will likely be forced to cover the cost…"

"To the best of my knowledge, they didn't break any laws," [Coast Guard spokesperson] Lanier said. "Ice fishing is a culture here on the Great Lakes."

Well, then. There you have it. If you are drawn to ice sports but don't have thousands of extra dollars to be picked up by rescue crews, try ice fishing in Ohio. The ride home is free!

Thanks, Joseph Heller

My own personal government bailout--unemployment benefits--is pretty great. I can eat, pay a few bills, and not have to deplete my savings so rapidly. It is, however, a government program, and it's administered with a level of absurdity we regular folks couldn't conceive of without copious amounts of alcohol in our bloodstream.

Looking for work is, at best, grueling. The senator who complained that the stimulus package won't create "jobs," only "work," needs a dictionary--and a smack upside the head. We don't care, senator. We just want it. I'm grateful to Joseph Heller for writing Catch-22 in 1961 and hilariously pointing out the madness of trying to satisfy conflicting government regulations . I'm grateful to Heller for teaching me to laugh at the madness.You should be too; the laughter keeps you from having to see a Boomer woman running down the street, tearing out her thinning hair and screaming.

One of my professional friends invited me to a monthly lunch meeting with high-powered women in business. Women who might need a writer for various assignments. (Stop snickering! Yes I can write professional stuff!) I signed up and paid the non-refundable $55.

Then the mail came. The letter from Employment Security said I had to come in for an appointment on the day and at the time of the businesswomen's lunch. I called and explained the situation. No, they said, I couldn't change the date. Or the time. Or the office, which is 10 miles from my house instead of the one that is a mile down the hill from me. Nope, nope, nope. Just do as you're told. "Oh-kaaay," I said, "Instead of actually trying to get work, I have to come in and talk about trying to get work, right?" The young woman on the phone chuckled. I think she may have read Joseph Heller.

I did as I was told. It's part of my bailout plan. I coulda used that 55 bucks, though.

Your Dog's Brain on Drugs

Scruffdog had to have another emergency surgery on his abdomen. It seems that when a big dog tries to make a snack out of a little dog, terrible things happen to the little guy's interior. Things that give infections many places to hide and fester.

When the vet saw on the X-rays that his broken right rear femur healed crookedly, without being set, and his broken left pelvis healed by itself, he kept shaking his head and saying, "He is one tough little guy!" But the infection was worrisome. Scruffdog went under anesthesia again, and awoke with yet another long line of Frankenstein stitches on his belly.

Memories of 1970s parties assailed me as I watched him do"Drug Dude" things while coming out of anesthesia. He swayed in my lap, peering squinty-eyed as if to say, "Ma-a-an, where are we?" Then he tried to launch himself off the couch with crazy, wide eyes, acting like, "We have to get out of here, NOW!" I put on our jackets and we went out out into the cold night air. He just sat, staring at the moon and musing, "Whoa, Dude! What're we doin' out here?" We did that three or four times (What? You wouldn't have? What if he really meant it one of those times?) Much like the drug dudes of the 70s, he finally fell asleep.

My doggie nursing skills are becoming finely honed. I can put a guaze pad on a tiny leg and wrap it in stretchy wrap in about three minutes. I can swab the dreadful maze of stitches across his tummy and slather them in Neosporin in about two minutes. Twice a day, I work on his little body, using stuff from a shoebox full supplies like I did when I played nurse with my dolls as a kid. But this is serious stuff. So serious, I'm even making him wear the head cone that we both hate. It changes him from Dog 1.0 (chews off stitches) to Dog 1.2 (scrapes leg with cone while trying to get to stitches, then pulls leg into cone and chews on it because he can.)

I couldn't leave by himself, since he was hellbent on turning his underside into hamburger. It's a good thing he's portable. I put him under my arm and took him to church, to the electronics store, the bank, the post office. He got lots of sympathy, which he acknowledged with an owl-like stare. I also learned why Nature doesn't want Boomer-aged women to have babies. Doing everything with one arm while holding a little being in the other is damned hard! (It didn't seem that hard when I was 23.)

I hope he'll soon be walking on his own three feet (yes, he has four, but the crooked leg is usually held close to his body without touching ground), and I'll get my life back. Maybe someday we'll be able to take a walk in a park. Or maybe we'll just wear matching sports caps and root for our favorite teams on TV. Whatever. As long as he keeps hangin' in.

BTW, his new middle name is Milagro--"Miracle" in Spanish.

Who Knew?

My mother is 81 years old, lives by herself, and won't have a microwave in the house. She's certain the "rays" are totally harmful to the human body. (Who knows? She could be right!)

We didn't know her distrust extended other forms of technology until she wound up a rehab facility last week after a minor health incident. The facility has phones only in the hallway--problematic, if the reason you're in rehab is that your legs don't want to respond. One of my sisters offered to get her a cell phone, but she refused. My sister joked that Mother thinks the cell phone will give her brain cancer and she'll die young.

She's working like crazy to get her muscles moving so she can get home--to her cat, her own bathroom--and her corded phone. Who knew this could be so motivating?

And who knew that a Bemused Boomer--mother and grandmother herself-- would so acutely miss talking to her mother on the phone?