Sometimes the Forest Comes to You

Amazing things can happen and not even be noticed when we're too busy "living life."

When Bill and I moved into the Bothell house 15 years ago, there were no trees behind it. The builder denuded the slope to build the homes in our tract. The people in the neighborhood behind us were incensed, and the City of Bothell threatened the builder with a lawsuit if he didn't plant the requisite five trees for every one he chopped down. The builder's solution was to send some of his workmen to stick scrawny little trees in the dusty soil, leaving them to fry in the summer heat. Rain came, and the neighbors behind us wound up with a basement full of mud. The city stepped in and planted small but healthy trees and cautioned us to water them well the first year.

I felt voyueristic every time I looked out my window; I could see everything the neighbors were doing in their back yard and even in their house. I walked around to their neighborhood and looked at our three-story house looming over them like a drive-in movie screen. I felt slightly ashamed for causing them to lose their scenic backyard forest.

The city's evergreen trees started to grow, ever so slowly, and the neighbors planted some fast-growing deciduous trees behind them. One summer day, I looked out and realized I couldn't see their house any more.

With the poignancy that comes from knowing you will soon be gone from a familiar place, I put my camera up against the window this morning, eager to capture the view that will no longer be mine.

Well, what do you know. The forest is back.

Trying Oh So Hard to be Good

My loving friends have pointed out that I don't appear to be spending as much time resting as one probably should so soon after surgery. It's true. So now I'm trying oh so hard to be good.

I spent a couple of warm, sunny hours in Woodinville with friend Debby. We enjoyed looking at the bursting-with-health overpriced plants at Molbak's Nursery, then we bought gorgeous fruits and vegetables from the farmers at the Saturday Market. I came home and rested (applause, please!), then fried up a couple of the biggest beefsteak tomatoes you've ever seen, adding onions and potatoes and a couple of sausages. This being a Guy House, there was even a little bacon fat to flavor it all up. I ate a small portion, in keeping with my resolve to eat less, move more, and rest more. The guys were as appreciative as if I'd spent the day slaving over a Martha Stewart recipe. Come to think of it, they probably liked this English blue collar "fry-up" better than they would have like a Martha concoction.

So here is a picture of the rest of my afternoon and evening. See? Even Oliver is bored. He's watching reruns on TV! But we're being oh so good. We're resting.

Eat Less, Move More

I'm having a really down day. It's been two and a half weeks since my surgery, and I've had some good days that led me to expect a continued upward trend. Apparently, the healing human body doesn't work that way.

My sister the nurse told me tonight that it's normal to have good days and bad days after surgery. She mentioned that sometimes when we have good days, we do too much and then don't feel so good the next day (Why does everyone say that to me? Do they think I am a person of little self-control? Oh, wait. These are people who know me. Very well. Oh-kay, then!)

Then she said the words that have haunted me all my life since the first time my mother hauled my rotund 11-year-old body to the doctor's office for some "diet pills." My sister said that since I had intestinal surgery and am now having trouble, maybe I should try eating very lightly for a while, but keep getting gentle exercise. She said "eat lightly and get gentle exercise" but I heard the mantra I've been hearing in various permutations since I was 11: "Eat less, move more." Sounds really simple, doesn't it?

Damn. I was really happy when the doctor let me out of the hospital and said I had no restrictions on what I eat. "Except," he said, "stop when you're full." This is a 45-year-old man who eats right, works out, loves life, and practices what he preaches. I'm a rotund boomer who practices "recreational eating" when lonely, frustrated or bored. I wasn't about to point out that his definition of "full" and mine might be just a wee bit different. But there's no getting around it when you hear it from a sister who knows you and loves you and makes keeping people healthy her life's work.

So, here I am, in the "Guy house," with no one to talk to during the day (oh, and during the evening too, unless you count a few words during commercials), three small dogs who want constant attention, and a kitchen full of guy food. I'm in pain and feel like a limp dishrag and TV has only reruns. The guys have added all sorts of techie things to their TV-surround-sound-on-demand-digital-TV-viewing-stations. The one in the kitchen is permanently set to channel 3, which seems to be the all-Cash-Cab station during the day. So, "eating less, moving more" is a challenge of major proportions.

But then, I'm a woman of major capabilities. And this limp dishrag act is getting very old. I want to go see my friends. I want to go ride a ferry in the sunshine. Mostly, I want to feel better. Maybe I can do the "eat less" thing. I think the "move more" bit will come more easily when I get that right.

Just Why AM I Moving to the Desert?

It is nearly 1 pm on a perfect sunny day. The kind that come rarely in the Northwest, but when they do they make everyone glad to be alive. I just walked Oliver and kept looking at the big, soft green leaves on plants and trees and wondering why I would ever give this up for the desert (the picture at the top of this page is my new desert back yard.)

So, for my own benefit, I shall reiterate the chronology:

1. I am unemployed. Getting a little social security but don't consider myself actually retired.
2. Husband and I decided to split (amicably).
3. Husband bought me out of our nice big house.
4. The money I got was enough to buy just a modest condo in the Puget Sound Area.
5. I suffer from SADS (Seasonal Affective Disorder), which turns me into a total slug in the long, dark Northwest winter.
6. I visited favorite aunt and uncle in Palm Springs area.
7. Housing prices were extremely low there because of the recession, even in a Sun City retirement community with a golf club, two pools, gorgeous clubhouse and untold activities.
8. I saw a pretty little house (1600 sq. ft.) house I could buy. For cash. On my own. In the sunshine.
9. I said "Yessssss!" and bought it.

And that's how it happened. Buying decisions are always emotional, even when the buyer has a list of logical, rational reasons for making them. In my case, logic and reason came later: The house is bound to appreciate because people my age (62) will want to retire when the recession eases. The house is 2 hours from L.A., with its huge pool of Boomers wanting to retire close to their families.

The heat worries me. I can acclimate up to about 105. But it's been 108-118 there the last two months. I need an escape plan (or several) for July and August. 60% of the people in Sun City stay for the summer. I would have thought that 40% would stay and 60% would leave, but it seems people get used to it. And they all LOVE the 8-9 months of the year when it's gloriously sunny while the rest of the country is shoveling snow. Maybe I'll become one of those people. They all seem to be tanned and happy. That sounds good to me!

So, instead of fussing, maybe I should just enjoy these last few Northwest days of summer, and use my energy packing.

Sleepless in Bothell

It's 2:50 a.m. and I'm supposed to be asleep and recuperating from surgery, but I'm awake. I don't like this. I think it has something to do with the leftover Chinese food I ate in front of the TV with Bill and the three dogs. He had tortilla soup he made himself. I would think I'd be the one sleeping like a baby and he'd be the one wide awake. But, not so. I can here him snoring blissfully in his room.

In exactly five hours and twenty minutes, I'm supposed to see my surgeon. I'm hoping he's going to tell me I'm doing so well I can drive a lot. My friends have been wonderful about getting me out of the "Guy House" (house I used to live in but now occupied by husband and his new roommate), but I've got cabin fever. Bad.

Yesterday, Frances and I plotted our road trip to Indio. We plan to leave in my Camry on September 15 with a bunch of maps, one small dog (Oliver), reservations at some Motel 6's and some friend and family homes, and arrive in Indio on September 22nd. I'm excited to start my new life but sad to leave my friends. I could be all dramatic and say that's what's keeping me up--but no, I'm pretty sure it's the Chinese food.

I've always loved road trips. In my current condition, this 1400-mile trip would not be possible without my fellow road-trip lover, Frances. We'll leave Renton early in the morning, stop in Portland to have lunch with her brother, and make it to a Motel 6 in Roseburg for the night. We're planning to head to Crater Lake after that, since neither of us has seen it from the ground (it looks great from airplanes), and spend a night in Klamath Falls. Then we'll descend upon Susan H. in Cottonwood. Susan and I have known each other since we were in second grade. Her mother was my Brownie troop leader, and I had a crush on her brother when I was in 4th grade. She's an adventurer, too. I'm probably about 4 albums behind on keeping up with her worldly travels. We'll fix that on this trip! She has a lovely ranch home on some acreage on the Sacramento River. She and Frances can take nice long walks while Oliver and I sip ice water and look at picture albums in the shade of the patio.

My sister Diane is the next lucky recipient of our company; she lives in wine country in Santa Rosa. We'll stay two nights with her and Stan; she's promised us a little tour of their favorite wineries and a picnic lunch at one of them. Could we refuse such and offer? Well, we could if we were stronger people, but we're not. The siren call of lovely scenery and great wine is too much for us. Two nights it is! We'll have a long day when we leave Diane's (hmmm, better keep wine consumption to a minimum!), heading to my mom's house in Lakewood CA. One night with mom, then off to Indio and my new home. Frances will spend two nights with me, then fly back to Seattle.

I'm getting tired just thinking about it. Maybe I'll try sleeping some more. 7 a.m. is going to come mighty soon.

What I'm Leaving Behind

In three weeks I'm leaving the Pacific Northwest for good.The reality of what I'm leaving behind is beginning to sink in. I mean, I have to leave my hairdresser, for Pete's sake!

I've been going to this guy for 12 years. He's watched my hair gradually thin as my neck gradually thickened, and discretely changed the hairdo ever so slightly to accomodate both. He's done my hair for every job interview I had, every wedding I've been to, and every vacation I've taken. I feel like I should know his mother, invite him for vacations, and know when his birthday is.

One of my fabulous friends (yes, one of those fabulous people who I am also leaving and feeling badly about) drove me to my hairdressers today and helped take pictures of his technique. It was excruciating. I feel certain no one will ever do my hair this well again. (Oh, the drama! I think I'm focusing on something innocuous like a hairdo to avoid the overwhelming reality that I am leaving everyone I've loved for 20 years.)

We took pictures. We wrote down formulas. We said good-bye. I told him I hope to spend my summers in the Northwest. But, still. An era is ending. An era in which I could depend on getting a good hair color and cut every time. An era in which I could pop over and see a friend when I was feeling down. An era in which I could share my opinons with my comfortable old book club, and potlucks with my church people.

People say, "You'll make new friends." And I will. But it won't be these friends, this hairdresser, this book club. It feels right to acknowledge that. I know some truly excellent people here in the Northwest. I'll keep in touch, but I will miss having them in the daily fabric of my life.

In the meantime, I'll post one of the photos of the secret hair technique. What do you think? Will I ever again find someone who can make the back of my head look this great?

The Art of Getting Out of Bed

After abdominal surgery, there is no good way to get out of bed without causing enough pain to send you leaping straight up in the air, if only you were able. If you're really into twisted humor, put a secret camera in the bedroom of someone who is about a week-and-half into surgery recuperation, then show it to all your mutual friends at the next party.

It now takes me only about five minutes of rolling side to side, trying various positions, regretting several, and eventually grunting and groaning my way off the mattress. This is an improvement. Last week I grunted, groaned, and finally called for help after about 10 minutes. Young Geezer didn't wait for the camera trick; he just laughed out loud in real time. (I'm going to get myself a camera. Someday, he's going to need help. I'll fly back up to the Northwest to help him, with lots of sympathy--and a secret camera.)

I'm so proud of my advanced skills that I'm allowing the dogs to loll about with me, reasonably certain I won't crush them with my writhing. Little Black Dog likes to lie to my right, Scruffdog likes to lie to my left, and Little White Dog bounces in and out like the ditz he is. He stays a few minutes, hears something outside and runs to the front window to bark at it, forgets we're here, and goes to sleep on the couch. Then, when one of us moves, he comes running upstairs, barking. He gets to the door of my room and goes: "Hey, you guys are here? When did you get here?"

It's all good until I grunt and groan my way into bed and get all three dogs peacefully around me--only to realize, five minutes later, that I need to use the bathroom. (It's not like my mother didn't tell me enough times as a kid: "Be sure to go to the bathroom before you go!" You'd think I'd be able to extrapolate the message to the present situation. But nooooo...)

Scruffdog wakes from a deep sleep with his usual stunned expression times 2, and looks frantically for the fire. Little Black Dog opens one eye, tenses for action but waits to see if I can indeed swing my leg over him without killing him. Little White Dog, who has sleep aggression, wakes up growling like an old man and starts dancing dangerously near my surgery area. Then he sails off the bed like a sailor who isn't going to go down with that ship, no siree!

After all that excitement, the rolling and groaning to get off the bed seem anticlimactic. Getting back into the bed is a whole other drama. I'll save that story for another time.

Read that Used Parts List

I got a surprise this morning after my post-op visit with the surgeon. He gave me a "Post Surgical Report" with a list of 10 bits and pieces removed and their condition (kind of the way auto shops give back your used parts, I suppose.) Number 10 on the list: "Appendix." Whaaa?

I called the nurse to see if that is THE appendix, the one that often gives people (especially in my family) so much trouble. "Why yes, she said, Yes it is."

Well whaddya know? I got a bonus operation along with my big one. Kewl. One less thing to worry about.

See? It's good to read those used parts lists!

Venturing Out

I have a whole new life. I didn't expect it, I don't know all the rules (I suspect they are made up as I go along), but I think it's going to be a heck of a ride.

The sun always shines in my new life. Sounds rather poetic, doesn't it? Or it could just be that I've moved to the desert. Well, I mean, I'm not really in residence yet, but I will be as soon as I heal up from the scary-but-turned-out-great colon surgery I just had. I'm recuperating in Washington State and will probably head to Indio, CA, in about three weeks. I flew down there and set up my household before surgery because I didn't know how much energy I would have post-op. I'm looking forward to the road trip with one of my adventurous friends, as soon as the doctor clears me for a long drive.

I leave behind: one husband of 18 years from whom I am amicably separated; two small dogs of whom I was ridiculouslyfond for five years; the home I thought was my dream home; 20 years worth of stellar friends and fond memories. I go to: a smaller but newer home in an upscale retirement community; one small dog who bonded to me over the course of the winter when I nursed him back to health after a near-death experience (his, not mine); proximity to family; sunshine 300+ days a year; and lots of new friends I haven't met yet. Oh, and a nice guest room to entice my Washington friends to visit when I have sunshine and they have rain, rain, and snow.

As a result of my surgery, I can eat fibrous foods I haven't been able to have for years and years. I don't have pain in my gut all the time. The sunrise looks more beautiful, and red grapes with skins taste like gifts from the gods. I am truly filled with thanksgiving and gratitude--for all the people who cared and the ones who prayed, and for the doctors and nurses with new technology who facilitated this miracle.

I'm pretty sure this new life will not be perfect. In fact, I'll be living on a shoestring, and I'm moving from a state with 9% unemployment to one with almost 13% unemployment. The last time I heard from a prospective employer was in an email this week telling me a job I applied for 3 months ago would never, ever be mine.

At 62, I have no illusions about who gets preference in hiring. However, being 62 also gives me perspective on myself I've not had in the past. I know I'm a survivor. I know I'm resourceful. I know I'm talented in many ways, and that working a standard job for a company is not the only way to make money. I am comforted by this knowledge. I will make something good happen, I just don't know what it is.

Wow. Amazing how much easier it is to have a positive attitude when I'm not in pain all the time. The nurses were amazed at how little pain medication I used from my self-directed IV pump. I explained that the post-surgery pain was only slightly more than the pain I've lived with for many years.

And now, back to bed with my Percoset to give the body a chance to rev up for the next jump forward. I'm thankful and grateful

In the "D'oh!" Category

Here's a little something I accidentally learned yesterday when I sat in front of the computer for 2-1/2 hours, updating Bemused Boomer:

If you have a seven-inch horizontal surgical incision on your belly that is held closed by 19 vertical staples, it is not a good idea to sit hunched over your computer keyboard for 2-1/2 hours.

I could tell you what the aftermath would be if you did such a foolish thing, but I think you can guess.

Where in the World is Bemused Boomer?

Have you noticed that when you're on a roller coaster, your vocabulary shrinks to about the size of a walnut? You can find expressions like: "Omigod [OMG]" and "eeeeeeeeee" but not, "What a terrifying experience. I do believe I've wet my pants." Well, that's kinda what my life has been like since you last heard from me on a volcano in Italy.

I present herewith a brief synopsis:


Doctor's office, mid-July: "Welcome back from Italy. BTW, you know that operation you were hoping to put off for a year? Not a good idea."
BB: OMG.
Dr.: "You can come for a pre-op August 4, and we can do the surgery Aug. 12."
BB: "Eeeeeeeeee!"

My brain began to spin. Wait! What about my plan to hang out with my Washington buddies until the California desert cools down enough for human habitation? What about patio parties and lakeside picnics and a leisurely move to Palm Springs? Where does surgery fit into that scenario? It doesn't. I needed a Plan B.

OK. Here's Plan B: Move stuff to house in California, set up house, come back to Washington for surgery, recuperate until able to take road trip back to Calfornia. (Hey, I didn't say it was great plan!)

Movers: "Sure, we can help you pack and get your stuff down there, for about a bazillion dollars."
BB: "OMG."
Movers: "It's only a half a bazillion dollars if you do all the packing yourself."
BB: "Eeeeee!"

Thank God for friends of friends (Note to self: try to establish friend network in California ASAP). A friend knew a professional packer whose work load was light. She was able to spare me a couple of whirlwind days.

Packer: "Newspaper? Do you want newspaper ink all over your dishes?"
BB: But I've been saving it for months--it takes a long time when the newpaper is only 10 pages long!"
BB: "White paper."
BB "OK."

It's a good thing I learned to say "OK" early in the game. She whizzed through my stuff with labels and a tape gun big enough to tape me to the wall. Within a few days, she turned my terrifying mountain of rubble into stacks of tidy boxes.

Movers: "We can give you a 7-day window."
BB: "Huh?"
Movers: "We'll drop off your stuff sometime between Sunday and Sunday. The driver will call the day before."
BB: "You want me to wait in the desert for a week? In summer? Eeeeeeee!"
Movers: "OK, we'll give you five days."
BB: "OMG."

Scheduled for "sometime between Monday and Friday," my stacks of tidy boxes arrived on Friday, of course. They were immediately turned back into a terrifying mountain of rubble. Thank God for the army of professional helpers whose sole job is setting up and maintaining the homes of retirees in the desert. The Unpacker whisked things out of boxes, suggested where to put them, and put them there before an "OMG" or "Eeeee" could bubble to the surface of my shell-shocked brain. My main function was handing out water bottles to movers and unpackers to prevent my living room from becoming littered with unconscious, heat-prostrated bodies. We caught a break. It was only 110 degrees outside. (On Thursday, it was 118.)





Unpacker: Don't worry. We'll get it all done so you can go back to Washington and have your operation. Your little house will be all ready for you to come back to!"
BB: Operation? Eeeeeee!

This being a synopsis and not an epic, I will tell you that deadlines were met. I flew back to Washington, stumbled into the hospital on time and full of gratitude for blessed anasthesia-induced unconsiousness. Surgery was successful, and I'm healing quickly. As soon as the doctor says I'm fit to drive (though there are those who would argue that may never have been true,) Scruffdog and I will head south. Probably to spend quite a bit of time lolling about here:


Some may call it sloth--I'm going to call it, "Well-earned rest."