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Rest In Peace Mary Denise

Posted in Uncategorized on March 3, 2014| 1 Comment »

I thought a lot about Deni today. There were so many kind replies to yesterday’s post!

She was a little sister, a brat, a nemesis, a clone, a best friend, and a sister.

I hated her in high school when she copied whatever I wore to school. “MOM! She’s wearing the SAME thing I am!” I would wail.

There were so many funny moments.

Driving down Highway 50 from Lages Station to Ely. Four of us in the cab of the GMC pick-up (no seatbelts). Dad lit a cigarette for my mom and handed it to me to pass to Deni to pass to mom. He lit another one and handed it to me to pass on down (I didn’t smoke).

Deni: “Um, Dad, why did you light another cigarette? You just lit Mom’s.”

Dad. “You smoke, don’t you?”

Deni: caught red handed, no way out. “Uhhhhhhhhhhhh. Thanks.”

—-

Deni comes back from the bathroom, shaking a bottle of Pepto-Bismal. “The lid is loose.”

The rest of us, “You just have to jiggle the toilet handle, not move the lid.”

Deni (as Mom takes the bottle from her and proceeds to shake it harder and pink stuff goes everywhere): “I meant the Pepto-Bismal…”

—-

Cousin Reisa: “Let’s pretend we’re vampires and now that the sun is setting we’re going to attack Deni.”

Me: “Cool!”

Jaci and Reisa proceed to turn into vampires.

Deni faints dead away. Reisa: “OHMYGOD! What did we do?”

—-

Deni: “He’s hanging by half a limb.”

“A quart short of a three quart tank.”

“Did you get your driver’s license off a Kellogg’s box?!”

“One brick short of a wall.”

—-

Family reunion, Deni calls Dad. She’s stranded on the side of the road between Ruth and Ely (five miles). No one will stop to help her. She’s 38 years old and crying.

Terry and me: “Why won’t anyone stop to help her?!”

Dad, “If you didn’t know your sister and you saw her hitch-hiking on the side of the road, would you stop?”

Uhhhhhhh.

(Terry went to the rescue)

—-

My parents call and ask what to do about the dog Deni wants to bring home from the private school in Wasatch, Zeke. He’s half-coyote. I told them they should allow Deni to bring Zeke home. He’d follow her, anyway. I met Zeke. He was a one-person dog.

She had a lot of dogs, but Zeke and Lincoln were the most loyal.

—-

Me, upon receiving a strange letter from my sister on official stationery. “Uh, Don. I think she’s in Idaho State Prison…”

(She was. She was extradited to Nevada, was the State’s witness, and put her boyfriend in prison for a long time. this was after SWAT busted them in Idaho Falls. Terry later told me that he should have picked up on it, too, but the ticker tape said “Mary Cracraft” and we didn’t know her by that name. She was Deni Wilcox to us.)

That was a hard time period for her: the transition from addict to citizen. But she did it.

I saw her just prior to this and her eyes were the reflection of death. To see her a few years later and see life in those eyes was the greatest gift I have ever received (next to her children).

—-

You didn’t want to play “Slug Bug” with her. She hit. Hard. And she played to win.

—-

Portland Coliseum, after the Lippizaner show. We hailed a taxi, but a large woman cut in front of us and moved to take her seat in the back. She sat on Deni who protested loudly. We got the cab. No idea how Deni slipped into that cab so quickly!!

—-

She was a fish. Her second nature was water. Looked up one day and she was out in the breakers off the Oregon Coast in Seaside. Out where the rip tide runs. Happy as a razor clam in the Oregon sand.

—-

I spent a weekend with her at the private school they sent her to. Met all her friends and Zeke, the dog. Laughed. She “borrowed” a hymnal and gave it to me. I still have the hymnal.

—-

We cried together when she gave her firstborn up for adoption.

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She was in jail when I got married.

—-

I know a lot of people have a dysfunctional family member, maybe even one as lost as my little sister was. She was Good People. She loved fiercely. She defended her young. She was – in the words of mutual friends – “kind and gentle.” She loved kittens, puppies, strays, horses, and people. She abhorred cruelty.

What pain caused her to turn to self medicate? I have some theories. None of them have to do with a weak person and all of them have to do with victimization. If I could only find the perpetrators… But I would have to forgive them. She forgave.

—-

My last memory of her was braiding her hair. Dad’s 70th birthday. We surprised him with a visit. I stood behind her and braided her hair into two pigtails as I explained to her that I got headaches from the single braid and maybe she would do better with pigtails. She had that lovely whiskey tenor voice, her voice box ravaged by drugs and alcohol. That’s why they call it a “whiskey tenor”. Her lovely, long fingers.

She had beautiful children. They’re all nearly grown up now. Smart kids.

—-

Proof that you do not have to be “successful” to “touch” a lot of people. She was not successful, but she touched a lot of lives. Her inner beauty was more important that corporate success. Take that “motivational” speakers: Deni touched a lot of lives and she was “just” a parolee with problems. She was well-loved and admired.

I am her big sister. And I still look up to her. Love you so much, Sam-bo!

—-

P.S. I am still really, really, really sorry about that damn duck!!

(We went to the fair together when she was 15. One of our last “good” sister nights together. We had a blast. And I spent $1.80 in dimes to win the damn duck. Live duckling. We took him home in an empty soda cup. He impressed on my sister and she named him Sam before we got home.

And Dad made her give the damn duck up. Couldn’t let her just keep it, clip its wings and whatever. NO. It had to go to a rancher he knew, someone who would take care of it and let it be a duck, not a pet.

I never quite forgave my dad for that and I know she never got over the damn duck. All.My.Fault.

Sam did live a happy life (the duck).)

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Looking Back 14 Years

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , on March 2, 2014| 1 Comment »

Tonight marks the 14th anniversary of the last night that I had a living little sister. It doesn’t seem like 14 years, and her last night on earth was spent in a coma, and far, far, far away from me. She touched a lot of lives and is remembered fondly by so many.

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One year, we held a huge wedding in the backyard of our house in Winnemucca. Teddy Bear and Pinky Cat got married. Teddy still lives with me, safe in a box with his Best Man, Lucky Dog. Pinky Cat went on to live with Deni, and was lost somewhere along the line. Perhaps she died when my sister’s rental burned down. Teddy and Pinky never got divorced, they merely lived separated.

We baked a heart-shaped two-layer cake and frosted it with home-made icing that didn’t mix quite properly, so it was a pink frosting it white powdered sugar polka-dots. The stuffed animals spent their honeymoon in their tree house (pictured).

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When asked by the Mayor of Winnemucca what she would do if she was Chief Winnemucca ( a real historical figure) and all of her people were starving, but someone brought her two chicken eggs, Deni replied, “I’d scramble them and share them with everyone.”

Her family nick-name was “Sam”. When she was very little, there was a back yard baseball game. The neighborhood boys protested that girls could not play. The father in charge looked around and said, “I don’t see any girls. Oh: here’s Tommy, George, and Sam.” Sam was the name that stuck.

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Deni, Terry, Jaci

We never wore shoes, my sister and I. We walked from our house to the public swimming pool across sidewalk, asphalt, dirt, gravel, and railroad ties (the worst!) in 100 degree weather, but we never wore shoes.

My father believed that my sister got a cut on her bare foot and that was where the infection began. Certainly, the era of going barefoot was over after March 3, 2000.

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Terry, Jaci, Sam

It happened quickly. She cut her foot and washed it, then forgot. But it hurt more than usual. And her leg began to throb. and then she was sick to her stomach. She called my dad, a widower by then, and cried that she was “afraid…” She was newly married to her second husband, struggling to raise her three small children, and living in a single wide trailer my dad bought her.

Dad called me on the 2nd of March to tell me that Sam was being rushed to Reno via LifeFlight. She was in a coma already.

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She was not quite 41 years old and trying to get her life straight. She’d been a drug addict, an alcoholic, and she’d done her time in jail. She had four children by different fathers.

When Mom died in 1995, Sam was probably 17 years old emotionally. That’s what chronic alcohol and drug abuse does: arrests your emotional development. She was an alcoholic by the time she was 17.

When Sam died, she was probably 23 emotionally. She was close to Dad, and he mentored her (sometimes begrudgingly) in home repair and keeping a steady job. She wrote me long letters on how she was turning her life around.

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We fought like sisters. We giggled like sisters. She was the brave one who knew no fear; I was the shy one who needed to consider all the risks. She was a talented artist, a loving mother, and a loyal friend. She had a temper to go with those dark brown eyes.

The diagnosis was “necrotizing fasciitis” (Flesh-eating bacteria). It is a deadly form of the Streptococcal bacteria that gains entry through a wound. It can be a pin-prick size of a wound, but if the bacteria is present and there is no immunity, it begins to attack the muscles. It rapidly moves to the organs, and most people who die of it, die of Toxic Shock Syndrome when their organs simply shut down. The lucky ones may end up losing a limb, and a few emerge apparently unscathed (but deeply scarred internally).

My great-grandmother on my father’s side died of a streptococcal infection that attacked her organs. My dad believed it was the same disease, but Grandmother died in 1930 in Salt Lake City and her records were lost. We have only my grandfather’s diary entry to go by, and his description is terribly like what took my little sister down.

Both women died too young to leave small children behind.

I flew down for the funeral. It was a much harder funeral to attend than my mother’s. Mom’s death was slow and agonizing and predictable: emphysema robbed her of her ability to breathe on her own. My sister died pretty much overnight. There was no warning for me, no way to prepare myself emotionally – and then I had to face her orphans!

Chrystal cuddled up with me during the funeral. She was the oldest of the little ones. Her big brother sat on the other side of her, a young man already.

It wasn’t all sad. My brother did the eulogy and he told all the funny stories he could think of. The crowd was tense: nearly everyone who came wore their “colors” – members of an outlaw biker band that had the local city police circling the church in hopes of serving a warrant or two. My brother was still a county deputy. The pastor had never had so many obvious sinners in his church before (it was standing room only). There were childhood friends who came hundreds of miles to say “good-bye”. All the strays my sister had taken in over her short life.

Terry played the song that he said best exemplified Deni’s short life on earth, a life she embraced fully.

It brought the house down.

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I get sad when I think about the good times we had together, the bad times we shared through letters, and when I watch Deni’s kids struggle to grow up. Sam wasn’t successful by business standards, but she remains an icon of fierce loyalty and love for the hundreds whose lives were touched by hers.

♥♥♥♥♥♥♥Lovin’ Denise♥♥♥♥♥♥♥
Fourteen years.

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Buddie Jacopo – A Story of a Sister’s Love

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on February 23, 2014| Leave a Comment »

This came to me today. I haven’t thought about it in a long, long, time. I am posting it especially for my nephew, Mike, who wants to hear stories about his mom. This is a classic Deni story.

Of course, it starts out and ends with me: our memories are like that – centered around us. But if Deni had not done what she did naturally – and on that November day, in particular – then Buddie Jacopo would never have been.

The day was November 2nd, 1972. My fifteenth birthday. I rode to school with my brother in his old pink Willys Jeep. (Yes, pink!) He ditched me as soon as the Jeep was parked, but my best friend, Janet, met me outside of school. We found a tiny black kitten with amber eyes. He was so beautiful and so friendly: I almost put him inside my brother’s Jeep so I could sneak him home and beg to keep him.

But I didn’t. I went to school, instead, and hoped the kitty would be out in the same area when I had to walk home after school. He wasn’t.

Five blocks away, the middle school was busy. In those days, my mother worked as a secretary for an engineering firm that had an office adjacent to the middle school play ground. We were taught from an early age that when Mom was at work, we were *not* to bother her. No phone calls, no drop ins, nothing: we were to behave as though we did not know where she worked.

Ely middle school toughs hauled a kitten to the playground: a black kitty with amber eyes that was friendly and wanted only to be picked up and loved. They began to torment the cat with intent to torture it.

One thing you never did in front of my sister was be mean to a living creature. She couldn’t stand someone who picked the wings off of flies. Don’t begin to ask about tormenting kittens.

The kitty was carried to my mom’s office, where my sister begged my mom to take it home: “I want to give it to Jaci for her birthday. PLEEEASE…”

Can you imagine my surprise and joy when my mom brought the kitten home? THE KITTEN. The same one I almost put into the Jeep!

Can you imagine the sorrow and loss I felt when my dad put his foot down and said, “NO MORE CATS.” We already had one: a black cat named Speck-o’s that my brother hid in the garage for a week before our father discovered we had adopted a kitten.

My own beloved Jasper Cat died the summer before, cut in half by an ore train. I was in Reno when it happened and my sister helped my brother bury Jassy.

I cried alligator tears and stood outside in the bitter November chill, refusing to come back inside unless the lucky little black kitten was welcomed to come in, too. I threatened to spend the night outside, crying bitter tears.

I was truly Sarah Bernhardt. It was an act worthy of an Oscar.

The cat was allowed. I named him Buddie. My other best friend, Lisa, suggested I name him Jacopo (whether after the Italian poet, composer, or artist I no longer recall).

In a postscript: when I left for college and left BJ behind, he adopted my dad. Dad, the Grouch who did not want the cat in the first place, taught BJ how to beg for treats and to sit up like a dog. It amused my father greatly. I think BJ was his last favorite pet.

I was so grateful to my little sister for her act of bravery in the face of middle school hazing (she was the new kid on campus) and for her sacrifice (“I want to give the kitty to Jaci for her birthday” when she really wanted him for herself). It was something Deni would do. She had a big heart.

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Biopsy

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged on February 17, 2014| 2 Comments »

I have no idea why I feel compelled to share this with the Internet. It just was different than what I expected (and probably cost a billion dollars – there goes my high-deductible for 2014).

According to the websites and the doctor who referred me, I would be given a local anesthetic to my back. I would feel “pressure” when the biopsy needle went into my back and nothing more.

That was all the preparation I had, despite researching in on the Interwebs. I would be fine to work on the following day.

Reality was slightly different. I argued for my favorite hospital and won: somehow, the powers-that-be ignore the little hospital right here in Oregon City in favor of the larger, more metropolitan ones. This, despite that our local hospital is part of the Providence network, well-staffed, and clean. I won, and that part makes me smile. I was (at least) in familiar territory.

I was wheeled to the CT room. I was told I would be given “happy drugs” (narcotics) and I probably would not remember the procedure at all. IV in, electrocardio set up, blood prtessure cuff on, emergency oxygen in the wings. I lay on my stomach, head twisted cruelly to the left. (MY choice: left or right: I chose left. They did make me as comfortable as possible.)

They wheeled me in and out of the CT Scanner with the admonition to “hold the same breath” every time. I did not bother to point out the grammatical incorrectness of such a statement, but concentrated on memorizing how I was going to inhale and hold my breath. I was introduced to everyone: Darcy, my day nurse; Holly, the attending RN who would record everything; Darla, the CT Scan tech; Dr. Vega, the professional who would extract cells from my kidneys.

They placed little grids on my back and explained that I needed to hold the same breath because the kidneys move when you breathe. Technically, I understood the request: they wanted the kidneys in the same position every single time so they wouldn’t miss the target. I only failed once.

Lidocaine was injected into my back (small fire). 25 milligrams of pheno-something (not barbitrol?) was injected into the IV. I was fully aware the entire time and even felt the large needle go into my back (a pain that registered as a .5, nothing to even flinch over, but certainly not a strong pressure on my back).

Someone from Oregon Health Sciences University showed up with a microscope. I overheard this in the background as staff rushed around. Apparently, this was unexpected and was a sudden act of Providence: they would instantly know if they collected enough cells for the biopsy and I would not have to repeat today’s visit in the event they didn’t collect enough of my kidney. I say “kidney” now because they only took samples from the right kidney.

Four, to be exact. “Hold your breath.” Click. “Breathe. Four times. Wait five minutes while the people with the microscopes ascertain that enough cell matter has been collected. The cell matter will be transported to OHSU for complete pathology.

I was told I was a model patient: calm, patient, exact in my breathing. I had to wait two hours before being allowed to leave (they want to be sure no signs of allergy, infection, or excessive bleeding appear).

The part I was not prepared for: complete bed rest for the rest of the day. 24 hours of bed rest, to be exact (although I am violating this right now). I am not supposed to drive for 24 hours, but I invoked what I was told before I even went in for the biopsy: I was told I could go to work in the morning on the day after.

I am a compliant sort. I try to obey the doctors: bed rest, all that. It’s to prevent infection and worse, and I get that. It’s part of my personality to obey when I believe it is right for my body and even if I don’t want to: there’s a time for rebellion and my health isn’t the time. But I will be driving long before the 24 hours is up, as long as I feel this fine in the morning (and I see no reason not to).

Thankfully, my Kindle was fully charged. I’ve checked my email, checked my Facebook, and started reading (or continued to read) three books: I’m struggling with “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” (preachy, and I have a hard time wrapping my brain around the concept of ‘owning’ another human being – my sensitivities are offended despite my affection for the heroes & heroines of the book), “Quiet” by Susan Cain (it only makes me angry as only an introvert in an extrovert world can feel – an anger that has simmered since the 9th grade when I ‘changed’ my personality in order to ‘fit in’ and that has been fueled in recent days by my company’s decision to put us all in cubicles in the ‘pod’ system – don’t ask this introvert what she thinks of that failed business model!), and “Exit Unicorns” by Cindy Brandner (not at all what I expected, but a very engaging history of Ireland).

My Kindle finally died and I am here, blogging. I will soon retire. In a week, I hope to have the pathology report. I am hoping that I did not mishear a nurse state, “They have pathology”. She was referencing the people with the microscopes and her words gave me heart: they already found something, but what?

My silent prayer is: “Please, God. Something. I just want to know what name the Enemy hides behind. I want to be validated in the ‘Invisible Illness’ realm. I *know* I have something: don’t tell me ‘nothing can be found’ one more time.”

Amen.

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Fritos, the Beatles, and Sam

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on February 14, 2014| Leave a Comment »

I had one of those wonderful moments when you remember something about a loved one, and that memory transports you back in time, to the very moment.

I purchased a large bag of Fritos to take to work for my mid-morning snack. Yes, mid-morning. I had barely pulled them out of my bag of stuff to bring to work (Secret Valentine, among other items), than a co-worker said,

“OH! I LOVE Fritos.”

Of course, I shared.

But it was while I was sitting at my desk, alone, sucking the salt out of the chips, when I was transported.

The year was 1964. The month was February. We kids had been brain-washed by a series of black-and-white commercials touting the corn chip and we’d begged our mother to buy some. Rare treat when she actually got us something we wanted, like Lucky Charms Cereal (my favorite, but one she would not buy for us). The corn chips were in the pantry.

Saturday night, February 9, we all watched the little RCA television. The Ed Sullivan Show was on (my favorite part was Topo-Gigio). But this night would be remembered fifty years later, not for the little Italian mouse puppet, but for the band that Ed Sullivan (a far-thinking man) introduced.

My little sister and I were in love. I think her favorite was Ringo Starr, but John Lennon was my absolute favorite. Oh, John Lennon!

Sunday, we spent the day pretending we were The Beatles. We had the same haircut as the British Invasion, and my sister could cut it up like Paul. We opened the bag of Fritos and chowed down, our first taste of that singular masa deep-fried and heavily salted, singing “I Wanna Hold Your Hand!” and playing air guitar. It was one of the Best.Days.Ever.

Of course, the memory faded as quickly. My sister was nicknamed for a baseball player she was in a single backyard game where the boys declared “girls can’t play” and Mr. Coffey immediately gave us all boy names so we could, indeed, play. Sam. She never outgrew being Sam. The rest of us left our nicknames behind (mine was George), but Denny remained “Sam” until the day she died.

I have few great memories of Sam, ones where we were best of buds, giggling and loving life together. The Fritos and Beatles moment was one.I left work early, but I left the bag of Fritos on the top of my desk. Several co-workers were helping themselves by this time. Somehow, I didn’t feel violated, but I felt like a part of Sam was being shared, she of the wise words.

(1964: Nevada Centennial. Mayor of Winnemucca asks my sister and I a question: “If you were Chief Winnemucca and all of your people were starving, but you had two chicken eggs, what would you do?” I said I’d fry them and eat them. Sam – who answered second – said, “I’d scramble them and share them with everyone.” Score one for Little Sister Denise.)

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2014 February Snow

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , on February 8, 2014| Leave a Comment »

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There’s something about the first snowfall of the year (that sticks to the ground) that makes it magical, even when that first snowfall is in February when the rest of the Northern Hemisphere is sick and tired of snow. I recall how much I hated February snow and slush before I moved to the Willamette Valley. We get some of our best snowfall in February, here in the lower end of the valley, and I now look forward to February snow.

That is, as long as I am not at work, don’t have to drive on any of the Interstates, and it falls on a weekend.

They closed the office on Friday: instant three-day weekend. I didn’t have to worry about calling in and saying I wasn’t making the 23-mile drive after all. Score that for this snow: I didn’t get caught up in the normal gridlock for more than the normal amount of time, I didn’t have to call in, it came as close to a weekend as one could hope for, and I could just enjoy the snow.

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Harvey, of course, was delighted, and declared so loudly.

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I had to trim the hair between his toes and up the backs of his legs because of the ice balls, but otherwise he is a snow dog.

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Any time it is below the freezing mark, we switch out the hummer feeders: two in the house to thaw and two outside for the birds.

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This is well appreciated by our native Anna’s hummingbirds which overwinter in the valley.

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It is also appreciated by a couple black-capped chickadees and this Townsends Warbler.

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Where is that buzzy bird? This is *my* feeder and it better not try to move me!

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This snow brought us a bird that I haven’t had in my feeders for a long time: Audubon’s Warbler (the western version of the Yellow-rumped Warbler). So pretty!

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I had to keep brushing the snow away from this feeder, which is frequented by the ground birds: Spotted Towhee and the Dark-eyed Juncos, among others. The Towhee was out there, but refused to cooperate with a photo.

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We had four Varied Thrush come in. I felt sad for them because they won’t go into the backyard where the other ground feeders were, but it hopped around on top of the snow out front, looking for spillage from the front yard feeders.

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So when I put our peanuts for the jays, I tossed out mealworms, too. The thrush ate the peanuts first. Who knew?

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“Baby! It’s c-c-cold out here!” Dark-eyed Junco takes five.

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The Northern Flicker (formerly Red-shafted for the red feathers in it’s tail) paid a visit. This is a female (no red “moustache”).

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There’s always the requisite “our house in the snow” photo that has to be taken. Snowfall like this is rare (last time was four years ago). A photo taken from the right angle gives the impression that we live out in the woods and the tall Douglas firs that stand in neighbor’s yard and line the busy side street give the appearance of forest.  We don’t: there was a lot of traffic on the side road: sledders, skiers, snow-boarders, and cars. And people walking dogs.

Harvey had to go for walks. We walked in the middle of the street on the side roads so he wouldn’t have to wade in the deeper snow.

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The Retired Man crossing the street to take a photo with me.

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8-9 inches of snow fell over two and a half days, which isn’t much – not even for here – but it is plenty.

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Snow makes ordinary things interesting.

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Lawn chair frames – used as plant supports in the summer – become works of art in snow.

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Or frames for icicles to form on.

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Speaking of icicles… This fallen one looks like a murder weapon!

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The bird house on stilts becomes a cozy cabin.

The freezing rain began falling around 4 this afternoon. It will be interesting to see what tomorrow brings in terms of freeze or thaw.

 

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Winter Driving

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , on February 6, 2014| 3 Comments »

We have about four inches of snow in the yard, maybe a little less. It’s still falling. I am used to this and it doesn’t faze me – in a world outside the one I live in currently.

I grew up in snow country. I learned to drive in the winter and  in a community that is 6500′ in elevation and c-c-cold in the winter. The only time we got a “snow day” was when 18″ of the stuff fell overnight and the rural buses couldn’t make it out to the ranches to pick up the ranch kids. We got one day off.

I once drove over a hundred miles from the Nevada border to Jordan Valley with chains on my car. I had to stop twice to pry off the loose links that started hitting the undercarriage of my vehicle. I delivered mail on a rural route in Baker City, Oregon, during the terrible winter of 1978-79, when water mains burst under the city after sustained days of -14 degrees at night.

I “get” snow.

I don’t “get” Portland snow. My first winter in Portland, Oregon, left me baffled at how a northern city could not cope with less than three inches of snow. I followed some car up a steep hill in less than two inches and swore at him as he SLOWED DOWN half way up the hill, forcing me to downshift. I barely made it to the top, myself.

In thirty years of driving in the snow here, I finally “get” it. I think I got it in the winter of 2008-09. Portland gets a different sort of snow than I grew up in, and it has a micro-climate of ice and micro-culture of drivers who have never lived in snow country. In the “big storm” of that winter (which dumped less than four inches on the metro area in less than two hours), it took me over six hours to drive 13 miles. I had, fortunately, taken my husband’s four by four to work that day or I would not have made it home. I would otherwise have been driving my car: a compact pick-up truck with a fiberglass body, rear wheel drive, and not enough weight in the bed.

In the days following that storm, I made one drive in to work. It was a mere 13 mile drive that took me over an hour and a half to make. A coyote outran the traffic. I swore, on that day, that if I ever had to do it again – I would not.

I now work 23 miles from home, and the last ten miles include a couple hills. We have not had a significant snow event in four years. Until today.

My employer sent us home at noon, just an hour before the real gridlock set in. I made it home in a little over an hour. I spent the day photographing birds in the feeder and Harvey playing in the snow. The afternoon and evening wore on and the snow didn’t stop.

It’s not much snow, by snow country rules. If I lived in snow country, I’d be on the road at 7AM tomorrow. But I don’t.

And after 30 years of living here, this is the first time I have looked out the window and said, “No. I am *not* driving in to work tomorrow.” I have a 4×4 of my own now. I can drive in the stuff. But you know what?

It isn’t worth it. I was in two wrecks last year (neither one my fault) and while *I* can drive in it, a lot of people who will venture out tomorrow will not have the same skills I have. They will drive too fast, trusting in the fact that they are driving a 4×4. They will drive too fast in a full-size pick-up truck with no weight in the bed. They will drive 15 miles an hour on the freeway because they are terrified to be out on the snowy roads but lack the backbone to tell their employer that they cannot do it.

After 30 years of living in the north, in Portland, Oregon, I am declaring that I will *not* drive in the snow to go to work in the morning. It’s not worth it. The risk to my rig, to my blood pressure, and to my body is too much.

I am throwing in the towel. I will drive around town if need be, but I will *not* get out on the freeway system and attempt to go to work.

P.S. – there’s no public transit from my home to work that runs in a direct line. I won’t be taking mass transit, either. Not worth my time – or my dollar.

I can’t believe I am officially throwing in the towel, but there you have it. We get a different kind of snow here, and I am not willing to do it again. I understand the whole Atlanta shut down in a whole different way.

 

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Life

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on January 30, 2014| Leave a Comment »

 

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I realize I have been rather quiet (unlike the above bird, which is rarely quiet). Life has just been so – busy.

We changed accounting software at work and life has been hectic. I mean that, with all the emphasis. Today was the first day in a couple of months that I actually had time to clean up the top of my desk and contemplate the things I have not done. I was surprised at how few undone things there were, given the number of post-it notes I had piled up by my phone.

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I know: it’s amazing how quickly little memo notes pile up on a desk! Today, I sorted through them and tossed all of them away after making certain I had the information on them stored in a more permanent place. Most of them were notes on how to operate in the new accounting system.

It is supposed to make thinking irrelevant. You know: the software does the math for you. You just click a few icons and trust the computer to calculate. It has been full of glitches, so I have been working in two accounting systems all month, duplicating all of my records, doing twice the work.

Everyone has been doing the same thing.

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We’ve all thought about calling in sick. Maybe we could run away. Our heads have been splitting.

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But we hesitate: what if we all called in sick? What if it gets better?

And today, we had a break in the madness. A breather. A regular slow down. Time to regroup and consider our next move.

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Next week, the remodel begins.

If we didn’t go mad with the accounting software, we can only hope the remodel doesn’t push us over the edge.

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I Don’t Know Whether to Cry or Not

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on January 21, 2014| 4 Comments »

I have stayed somewhat silent on this because I was waiting for test results. But today was a “Good News/Bad News” kind of day and the news was the same whether I picked good or bad.

I have had gross hematuria since January of 2011. In laymen’s terms, that is visible blood in the urine. Yes, it is as freaky as it sounds. And probably TMI. But – if I can help someone else going through something even remotely similar, then TMI is not too much information. Except – I don’t know that I can encourage anyone after today.

Back up: the last time I saw my urologist, he said he couldn’t help me anymore. It is not a kidney stone grinding away at the flesh of my kidney. It’s not a bladder infection or cancer. It is very, very visible. He said he was baffled, but he had pursued the matter as far as he could and he had no more bright ideas. He wanted to refer me to a kidney specialist (or, rather, a group of kidney specialists).

I took the first doctor available at the clinic he recommended. The clinic is located in one of Portland’s largest hospitals, right across the street from where I work. Convenient.

My new doctor, a Thoracic surgeon, is a tall, slender woman with mousy brown hair like my own. She keeps hers cut at her shoulder; mine is long and stringy with age. She is serious, but good-humored, and very thorough. I spent about half an hour with her in the first meeting, and most of that was answering questions and waiting for her to enter the data into the computer. She ordered several blood tests and a UA, all of which I could do at St. Vincent’s Hospital before I left that evening. 8 vials of blood and one UA later, I drove home.

And waited. Prayed. I wanted – no, I needed – an answer to this puzzling question of red blood in my urine.

Today was the follow-up. And she presented it as Good News/Bad News.

They know nothing. The majority of the test results showed nothing. One test result showed a high ANA (Antinuclear antibodies, a possible sign of a disease that attacks the body’s own tissues). One, out of eight. It could be a false alarm. It could mean there is a small infection.

So: good news = nothing. Bad news = nothing. NOTHING. I feel like a hypochondriac searching for a deadly disease with a 6-month survival rate, only I have a very real symptom (visible blood in the urine, including clots) and I don’t want to have a 6-month survival rate.

But I do have a game plan, and I think that is what I really wanted. Some sort of plan that helps me think we are on top of this… this “whatever”.

Game plan: kidney biopsy. Don’t google it. It sounds horrid and painful on the InterWebs. Basically, they numb my back and insert a needle into my kidney (there are no nerve receptors in the kidneys) and withdraw a small portion of the kidney to see if there is a presence of an autoimmune disease attacking my kidneys. The sample goes to the lab, the lab gets back to the doctor, there’s a follow-up and a new plan.

No hurry – I’m certainly not on death’s door. So I can do this at my leisure. Day surgery.

*IF* the biopsy comes up inconclusive, we just monitor my kidney function. As of today, my kidney function is great. There’s really no reason to panic. Ignore the blood.

*IF* the biopsy comes back with something, it will most likely be the *early* stage of some autoimmune disease. As of today, my kidney function is great. There’s really no reason to panic. Ignore the blood.

And we will monitor my kidney function, either way. If it is the latter, then we monitor the disease’s progress and administer the horrific drugs *if* it gets worse. It could just go into remission all on it’s own.

It remains a mystery. I am not going to die of it any time soon. I just need to learn to look away from the toilet.

Sorry if that was TMI. I’m just sort of frustrated – and relieved.

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Half-Way Through (More Decluttering)

Posted in Uncategorized on January 19, 2014| 2 Comments »

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Remember this? It’s where I stopped last weekend. My husband’s catch-all space. A mess I haven’t tackled since my youngest left home. I promised myself I would tackle it this weekend.

The white item to the left of the photo is an antique map pressed between white boards to keep it flat. That I must leave alone.

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It’s not much, but I cleared a path way! I organized all the man’s literature on his hobbies: model railroad, fly fishing, shooting, wooden boats, history (specifically, Oregon history), mountain bikes, gun dogs, and philately.

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I also dug out two boxes of “stuff” that he hasn’t looked at since we moved into this house, or since he quit bow-hunting.

I’m half-way there (and I didn’t throw away anything except the old catalogs).

I also moved all of his cooking magazines down to the main floor and put them – in order – into binders so he can find his favorite recipes.

I don’t fault him. It’s overwhelming. I stopped at the half-way point because I was overwhelmed. Maybe next weekend.

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