When people ask, “How’s life?” I’m tempted to say, “Peachy.” My nose would grow, though, and soon be longer than Pinocchio’s. In no time at all, I would be the person used as an example of someone who isn’t always truthful. The truth is, the best word to describe my life the last few weeks is topsy-turvy. There’s been no divorce, job loss or death in the family, things psychologists say have the biggest impact on a person’s life. But I, who love food, am no longer able to eat. A couple of weeks ago I wrote about being in the hospital for five days with pneumonia.
A couple of weeks ago, I spent five days in the hospital. Pneumonia. Not the contagious type but one that results from aspirating food. Instead of going where it was supposed to, whatever I ate, morsel or mouthful, missed its target and went into my lung. The nurses on the fifth floor of the hospital were efficient, kind, smart— everything I, a fussbudget, would want. Even so, there was one thing they did that really ticked me off.
It’s nearly fall. Time to write about myositis and inflammation of the muscles. Exciting, right? I have Inclusion Body Myositis which affects the quadriceps and distal muscles. So did my father. There are three other types of the disease including one that affects juveniles. One, Dermatomyositis, creates an itchy, often painful rash that attacks capillaries under the skin and weakens muscles and Polymiositis attacks the trunk and muscles closest to it. It’s been 15 years since my diagnosis.
My husband and I have been binge-watching “Grey’s Anatomy” for the last few weeks. We’re on season five now. In an episode we watched recently, the beau of surgical resident Meredith Grey, neurosurgeon Derek Shepherd, moved in with her. Into the house Meredith inherited from her mother, an award-winning surgeon who died in a previous show. Trying to find space in the overcrowded house for his belongings and a room for an office, Shepherd comes across Meredith’s mother’s leather-bound diaries.
Try as I might, I can’t stay on top of things. Take last weekend: Saturday got so busy I never used the computer and missed the fact that the Saturday before Labor Day is International Bacon Day. Not that I would have made a pig of myself and eaten slices of the crispy, tasty stuff. No, those days are long gone. I gave up the mouth-watering taste treat decades ago.
The day began like any other Sunday. I ate my muffin. Read the newspaper. My husband stripped the bed and washed the sheets. I went back to the paper. I had almost finished the obituaries when I asked my hubby what temperature the air conditioning was set at. My teeth were chattering so hard, I had to repeat the question. He left to check the A/C and brought back a blanket from the guest room closet. By the time he returned, my arms and legs felt like dead weights, my head hurt and my neck was stiff.
Do you have a favorite month? Mine is July. The festivity starts on the first with my brother’s birthday and continues until nearly the end when my twin granddaughters celebrate their big day. In between, two brothers-in-law, a cousin and numerous friends blow out the candles on their cakes. I hate to bid good-bye to July. Mostly, selfishly, because right smack dab in the middle of the month is the day on which I was born. My parents made a big deal out of their children’s birthdays.
My friend and her 30-something daughter hosted a bridal shower last Sunday. When I spoke to my friend afterwards, she said it probably wasn’t appropriate for her to say so but the party had been a lot of fun. This friend and I speak on the phone regularly so I was treated to inside information as plans were made, changed and improved. It was to be an afternoon dessert affair at the daughter’s home. When we spoke a couple days before the event, my friend assured me the good silverware had been polished. Cakes had been ordered from a St.
This was going to be a treatise on customer satisfaction, a big issue with me, but the more I wrote, the more it turned into a piece about employee enthusiasm. Something I seem to encounter less and less. I was a “shop ’til you drop” person once but those days are over. My husband and I make a good team, though.
Until last May, when I called my daughter to wish her a happy birthday, I thought I was going to be 66 this year. But when I said something to my firstborn about her being four years away from 50, she said, “No, Mom, I’m 47. Twenty years younger than you’ll be.” Yikes! The past 12 months have been a blur. A year ago, I was looking forward to a visit from my Florida sister and a family dinner at my house. I had been to the salon to have my hair colored and cut; my eyebrows waxed and tinted, too.