Tag Archives: Family

Life, etc.

So, I’ve been gone so long, I forgot how to get into the admin part of this site. I shall have to use their newfangled platform. New to me, that is.

You know what they say, life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans. Or as my mother used to say: Uno pone, Dios dispone. (one plans, God decides)

But as they also say, life goes on, RA and all. I don’t want to exclude my little parasite for fear that it might resent being ignored, like Glenn Close in the movie Fatal Attraction.  That was a great line, “I’m not going to be ignored,” she said. Why would Dan think that a force like her could ever be ignored.

RA is like that. It won’t be ignored, but we can try. Every day. Some days I’m more successful than others, and presently, it’s behaving itself. I have been doing manual labor for five weeks. I decided to go on a remodeling binge. My husbands pleads, “This it, right? We won’t do this again, will we?”

Funny thing, he has to do nothing, except put up with a little inconvenience, like sleeping in the other bedroom for a couple of weeks while they worked on our bathroom and closet. And maybe skirt around the furniture while they paint the walls. He’s at work all day. I’m the one home juggling the needs of several crews at once.

But I did bring this on myself. I never knew how many books I own, or how many framed pictures and artwork were on my walls. Seeing them all together was eye-opening. And I’m willing to lug my beloved books from room to room, no matter how heavy they are.

My only complaint is that if I sit too long in between spurts of activity, I have a hard time getting restarted. I feel like the tin man, rusty as hell, frozen in place. But as I told my rheumy who laughed at me (laughed with me?) it’s age, wear and tear, not specifically RA. Though I’m sure it’s in cahoots with the osteoarthritis, and we won’t specify the age. I’m years young, not years old.

It’s been a busy year. I was psyching myself up to live through another June 11th, the day my husband tried to check out last year. We are both still traumatized by those events. And while I was dreading the day arriving, my son had a car accident. He had an injured ankle, which turned out to be fractured. But the cause of the accident rocked my world. He’d had a heart attack, at the age of 35.

This was June 2nd. And at three o’clock on the morning of June 5th, while I was trying to sleep but couldn’t because they were going to do a cath that day to find out what heart damage there was, my older son called me.

You know that a 3 a.m. phone call is a bearer of bad news. I held my breath as I reached for my phone, thinking about his children, him, his wife. But they were all O.K. He had called to tell me his father had just died. From a heart attack.

He’d had three already, and had been told his only possible treatment was medications. I knew the day would come, but you are never ready. I’d spent part of my life with this man. And though we went our separate ways, we remained connected through our son.

I immediately wanted to split myself in two. Both my sons were in trouble and needed me. One, alas, far from me. I had to think. I know my older son has a wonderful support system in his wife and her family. I see how they love and respect him.

And my younger son was scared to death, his wife is pregnant and she has no real family close by. I had to stay put. But it was really, really hard living through the physical and psychological trauma of one son, while aching to be with the son who was feeling such emotional pain.

I will see him and his family in a couple of weeks. We are meeting up in Disney World. And then we see each other again for Christmas. I can’t wait.

My younger son is dealing with his new, hereditary health status and is still limping around. It will be a while before his ankle, tendons, and ligaments, recover to where he can get back to his karate training. He had scheduled to test for his 2nd degree black belt at the end of June.

Meanwhile we await the birth of his little girl in nine weeks or so. I can’t wait for that either and have broken out my sewing machine. More baby quilts to make.

Through all this, RA has maintained a presence, though not an overly aggressive one. I am completely off Prednisone and have had no other med changes. My labs are slightly off, but then so am I.

Hope all is well with you, dear reader.

 

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Dancing In My Happy Place

When you arise in the morning think of what a precious privilege it is to be alive, to breathe, to think, to enjoy, to love — Marcus Aurelius

I shall celebrate.

For the moment.

Had my rheumy check-up yesterday. Hadn’t been there in four months. I’d anticipated his incredulity when I told him what I’d been busy doing this summer.

It was not the usual summer, not by a heartbeat. But we made it through, almost. In nine days it will be fall. Or autumn, if you prefer. And summer will be behind us. My husband is doing cardiac rehab, working out and lifting weights, with a portable heart monitor weighing him down while he does it, mind you. He complains they go too easy on him. He stopped requiring dialysis weeks ago and the dialysis catheter was finally pulled last week. He’s driving and back at work.

I doubted that this day would come. I knew too much. I read the cardiologist all too well. His eyes shared with me what his words would not. And because I was also weighed down, albeit not with a temporary portable monitor, but with a permanent dread and a constant worry, I doubted. And I wondered, as I stumbled through my never-ending days, when my own collapse would come.

I’d taken precautions of course. When you have RA as your constant companion you cannot ever go without protection. I fortified myself by increasing my daily dose of Prednisone by an extra 4 milligrams on The Day After, as it will be forever known in my mind. I had already made the decision to stay on 1 mg forevermore. I want quality not quantity, I’d told my rheumy. He understood perfectly; he deals with the demon himself.

And so to forestall the demon rising and knocking me down when I could least afford it, I upped my Pred. That gave me some peace of mind, but still I waited and watched and wondered every morning when I took my dose. Would today be the day? Was it there? Closing in on me? Lurking?

A couple of weeks ago I caught a cold and felt like poop and I thought this is it, down I go. Thankfully, it happened after he’d been given the green light to drive. How’s that for lucky! I could give in to my cough and my sniffles and my lethargy as much as I pleased. And that I did, for two whole weeks as it turned into some sort of viral bronchitis.

But eventually, it went on its way and it came time to draw my labs for my upcoming rheumy visit. I was curious as to what the results would show. How bad would they look? I visualized the numbers based on the previous ones when there’d been no life or death crisis to live through. Well, yesterday I found out how they look.

They look normal.

Every one.

I haven’t been normal, well at least in this way, for twelve years. Twelve long years.

I don’t know why now, and I won’t ask. I’d already started the weaning process of saying goodbye to the extra Prednisone sloooooowly. My rheumy agreed and slowed it down even more. That’s OK. I can do slower. I see him again in December and by then I’ll be back down to the 1 mg dose, which I’d vowed to continue indefinitely.

Time will tell, as it does with all things. For now I’m to continue with the 22.5 mg of Methotrexate weekly. He’s so cautious he wouldn’t let me decrease my dose, not even by one tiny pill. I don’t want to change more than one thing at once, he said. All right then. I can take it. Literally.

So I shall rise above my disappointment regarding that and dance in my happy place.

For just a little bit.

And then, I will resume my plans to go see my precious baby grandson. A trip that was delayed by the events of this summer. I saw him born last fall and God willing I will see my beautiful boy this coming fall when he turns one.

 

Proof that life goes on.

Proof that life goes on.

A Change is as Good as a Rest.

This past Saturday morning I wanted nothing more than to snuggle deeper into the covers and stay there. After a month of early rising and little sleep, I wanted to remain in my cocoon and hide from the world.

The very idea of rising to shower, dress and leave the house when there were no appointments to go to seemed like a punishment I didn’t deserve. But my daughter-in-law had put me on notice.

While we were all consumed with being at the hospital, she quietly took over the care and feeding of the troops, including the out-of-towners. And she paid special care and attention to my granddaughter.  We didn’t know what to tell her, she being only six. My first impulse was to protect her and tell her nothing. But how to explain the sudden disappearance of her beloved Pa?

My daughter-in-law handled it all, quietly and efficiently. So quietly and efficiently, I began to feel guilty. My son was a constant at my side, and took turns with me spending nights at the hospital, while his wife was left alone to carry the ball for the whole family.

I made a mental note to do something for her, someday, when I was not so tired, but she got ahead of me. She was taking me out to lunch and a massage she said. And though I reluctantly got out of bed and left the house that morning, leaving my son at home with his dad, I felt a little lighter by the time we made it to the corner a block away.

It turned out to be the right medicine for me. To move away, just far enough, just long enough to breathe free air.

We enjoyed a leisurely lunch of specialty pizza with a lot of much-needed sangria. And afterwards we walked down blistering hot streets to the massage place. Even the boiling sun felt good.

The massage hurt, though I’d asked for light to medium pressure to be applied. Too many tense and knotted muscles in my back. Later when we compared notes, I found out that her massage had hurt too, for the same reason.

Nonetheless, it was a good experience. The dim lighting, the gentle, soothing voice of the masseuse and her otherwise healing touch, the sense of letting go and just allowing myself to be was something I hadn’t realized how much I needed until that moment.

Now I have something else to be grateful to her for. And I still need to come up with something to do for her.

Us, a few Mother's Days ago.

Us, a few Mother’s Days ago.

 

 

Pokes Galore

I had my two-week BP follow-up last week. Like a good girl, I’ve been taking my Lisinopril every day, well, except for one day. I had a glass of wine and decided to skip it, but then I felt guilty for doing so. So I said, what the hay, I’ll have both if I feel like it. YOLO, right?

Doc asked me if I’d been taking my BP. He looked surprised when I said no. I don’t have a personal BP machine, nor do I plan to get one. It did cross my mind while I was at my “favorite” haunt, CVS, but I totally forgot to check it. I mean, why raise your blood pressure?

When he took it, I read 132/80. He was happy with that, but he wants to see me in three months. Which means I have to keep taking this little pink pill for three more months. And he wanted a slew of blood work, fasting. I usually stroll into the lab sometime in the early afternoon. This meant I had to get up early and go get bled before breakfast.

I’ve never been a morning person. I perk up around noon. The idea of rushing out of the house, sans breakfast, to go get needled wasn’t all that appetizing. It took me a few days to psyche myself up, and when I walked into the lab I knew why I go late in the day. It was packed to the rafters.

Two and a half hours it took for them to end up sticking me twice. That’s never happened to me. They always get it on the first try. But I was submissive and said nothing. No need to rattle the phlebotomist and cause her to stick me thrice.

What kept me calm was the ongoing thought that in a couple of days’ time there was going to be another needle introduced into a far more sensitive part of my body. I would have willingly taken a third needle to my right arm in place of that.

I knew two things when I walked into the ophthalmologist’s office. The sight in my right eye was better and I was going to get another shot.

The scan proved me correct. The blood settled by the retina was half gone. Vastly improved, but needing more treatment.

There was only one glitch. The cheaper drug he’d used before was not available, they’d ordered wrong or something. But, he had a sample of the designer drug, if I was of a mind. First, I asked if there was any difference in effect. They were essentially the same he said. It was a matter of dollars and cents for the pharmaceutical.

OK, how impacted would I be in the dollars and cents category? No impact at all, he said.

I mulled it over for a bit. We can order the other drug and you can come back, he said.

Did I need more anxious anticipation?

No. I’m here, prepped and ready I said. Just do it.

The immediate after effect was different. My eye was only slightly red, the sting was mild. I could open my eye, though it was sensitive to light.

I’d driven myself there figuring I’d sit in my car for a bit while the worst of it wore off, but I had no trouble driving home immediately after. I had almost no discomfort for the rest of the evening and night. The next day my eye was slightly pink and slightly sore, a result more than likely from the Betadine antiseptic. I used the artificial tears frequently and as he said, all was back to normal after a day.

The eye injection was definitely easier the second time around but I still don’t want to do it again, though I will probably have to. I did postpone the next appointment a few days past the four-week window as we won’t be in town. We plan to be in NYC celebrating our daughter’s 25th birthday. A quarter century. How did she get so old?

***YOLO = you only live once. I sincerely hope!

 

Age of Gratitude

It may appear that right now my cup is half empty. But appearances can be deceiving. Especially when you focus on the negative.

In reality, my cup is at least three-quarters full. I have much to be grateful for.

For starters, my wrists x-ray results: Right wrist normal. Left wrist shows “changes consistent with age.” At first I was like, age? What do you mean age? I’m still in the prime of my life.

But then I calmed down and realized that it’s true. I have aged. Just looking at my fingers tells me how much wear and tear this old body has taken. And it’s good wear and tear that came from caring for my family, caring for my patients, going without sleep, pushing with that last ounce of energy to set up a bed for that new admission, walking mile after mile to make my rounds among all my patients and nurses, driving leagues to cart my kids and their friends to school, to the mall and back. All these actions, done out of love, for people who depended on me.

So, Ok, I accept this diagnosis and I’m proud to have it because that means I’ve lived long enough to make a difference in many people’s lives. And furthermore, I’m lucky that the osteoarthritis chose to settle into my left wrist first and not my right. Who knows, it may never reach for my right wrist, but OA has shown me a kindness. Now when the pain sets in I give thanks.

I also give thanks for being squashed during my mammogram last month. For some reason it was less fun than usual this year. That cold, cold machine and hard, hard plastic up against my ribs left me sore and reddened. Every time the tech said, “You can breathe now,” I wondered how exactly.

But all came back normal, as did my gynecological checkup. The discomfort involved with the mammogram is a small price to pay for one more year’s peace of mind.

I’m thankful that I can enjoy my children and grandchildren. I’m grateful to have them in my life, to know that they are there every single day. I can never, ever be alone because I have them.

I’m grateful to have a man in my life who tries to make me happy every single day. There have been ups and there have been downs along the way. The ups so high and the downs so low that sometimes I think the best word to describe us is cleave.  A word that simultaneously means to cut apart and to bind together.

A few days ago, we returned to St. Augustine, Florida, to explore the ancient city some more, to reach back into the history that reflects our heritage. To spend some couple time alone and to celebrate 34 years together, 34 years! That’s more than half my lifetime, but after all this time things certainly go a lot smoother and are far more relaxing and satisfying. The x-ray results were correct. There are changes consistent with age.

St. Augustine.fl

We requested and got the same corner room we’d had last time. The view was amazing and the sound of the ocean mesmerizing.

 

System Glitches

I went to spend a week with my precious little Carmen. I tried to keep up with my reading while I was gone, hard do to with a two-year-old commanding all your attention, and I went with no illusions of being able to post anything. By the time I got to my room at the end of the day I was pooped and ready to recoup for another twelve-hour day. I took only my tablet with me, which is serviceable for reading but not very user-friendly for writing; it’s gotten slower than molasses. I’ve now replaced it with a new one. This one is Speedy Gonzales compared to the old one.

My laptop is on its way out as well. I hope I didn’t jinx it by typing that. It’s my writing tool and I have no idea what to replace it with. I don’t want to be rushed into anything so I suppose I will have to shop around and make a decision. That way I will be ready when it never comes back from its update, which it’s threatened to do a couple of times but the Geek Squad coaxed it back.

I, on the other hand, managed to come back from my overnight updates every dawn without any coaxing. Come 7 a.m., I was ready to go. There was only one application on my personal hard drive that wasn’t (isn’t) up to par; the one that powers my left wrist. At least I can give thanks it isn’t my left foot.

I’ve learned to compensate for it, though, by instinctively using techniques that spare the full use of my wrist. After all, I’ve had since August to come up with a plan B to circumvent this little glitch in the system.

It did hurt more than usual, at times giving me sharp, continuous, stabbing pains that made me imagine I was reliving a variant of the Psycho shower scene, music and all. I would grit my teeth and groan while grabbing my wrist and pressing down on the swollen part through the brace I wore. Somehow that made it feel better after a bit, or it could have been my imagination still at work.

Poor Carmen would stare at me with her big, hazel eyes and say, “Your arm hurts, ‘huela?” “Yes, baby,” I’d squeak out, pushing on my wrist with all the strength my right hand could muster.

But I remained on weaning doses of Prednisone. Never once was I tempted to increase the dose to give myself a hit, or I should say, an extra hit. In fact, I only took an extra week’s worth with me just in case, which amounted to a mere 25 mg that I never took. But it truly wasn’t all that brave of me to leave the whole bottle behind. My doctor is a phone call away and CVS is ubiquitous.

The week flew by when I measure it by Carmen time. When I measure it by work pending, it moved along at a turtle’s pace. But all good things must and do come to an end. I’m back at my desk and running at full steam. If only my laptop deigns to keep up with me. One thing for sure, there’s no rise of the machines here.

A Gift For Others . . .

Four days till Christmas! How did that happen? How did the year fly by so quickly? I should be glad it’s on its way out. It was not a kind year to us. Seems like the years that end in four turn out that way. That means I have a ten-year reprieve. Or is nine?

I managed to get done all that I wanted, well mostly. I survived two major parties at my house, given by my children. I was merely an innocent bystander. And they both went surprisingly well. I dreaded having a bunch of five-year-olds tramping through my house like mini tornadoes, but they were surprisingly well-behaved at my granddaughter’s birthday party.

My son and his wife decided to throw a Roaring Twenties party, a la The Great GatsbyGreat Gatsby

I was to make myself a flapper dress. Well that didn’t happen. I ended up wearing a designer hospital gown a couple of weeks before. Recovering from that event and my wrist going haywire took care of the cutting, pinning, fitting and sewing required.

They turned my patio and back yard into a veritable nightclub. I couldn’t believe it was my house. I couldn’t believe it was my neighborhood, the cars took up three lawns. We had to park two houses away when we returned from taking our granddaughter to see Santa.

aly2I made countless trips to the post office. My wrist did not appreciate lugging all those packages. Now I have to make one more. I found this incredible wool and cashmere scarf for my NYC daughter. I worry about her having to live through these winters, but now she’s looking to move California-way. Yay.

I decided to make her an afghan to keep her toasty warm at night. I started out using leftovers, but I didn’t have enough so the stripes got bigger and bigger as I bought more yarn. I wanted it to look wonky anyhow.

photo (22)

It’s made in single crochet, which means it’s painstakingly slow going. The rows measure about a quarter inch in height. But this is the look I wanted. Something solid, not full of fancy, decorative holes. I want my girl to be warm.

My wrist and thumb complain when I first start working, but they surprisingly quiet down after a few minutes. This has always been good therapy for my hands. A gift for others becomes a gift for me.

I am almost done, there is only the green stripe to finish and I can mail it out, though withphoto (23) my setbacks she won’t be getting it in time for Christmas. No matter, I figure every stitch is a stitch against RA.

 

A Pair of Wings

So I donned a pair of wings
once more
Before,
it was to say hello
This time,
it was to say goodbye

~~~

This past year or so I’ve seen the inside of more airplanes than I probably have in the past 20 years.  August’s trip to Los Angeles was to attend my father-in-law’s 84th birthday. We all knew, including him, that it would probably be his last.

He’d come close the previous June, so close we rushed to his side, fearful that we might not make it in time.  He was so sick then, I doubted he would see his 83rd. But he rallied after chemo was stopped and he was placed in hospice. This gave him not just an extra year, but a quality extra year.

A very good year capped off by the gift of one more birthday. His eldest daughter arranged to hold the celebration in a Mexican restaurant on Pacific Coast Highway. Ortega 120, where you can find “heart felt Mexican cooking.” Its rustic decor made you feel at ease immediately upon entering. And its theme of Dia de los Muertos seemed to coalesce with the religious artworks displayed. Death and hope rolled into one.

My husband led me around the restaurant where we were awed by the hundreds of artworks displayed, murals and ceiling paintings, the Mexican culture that we could both only imagine. I wanted to buy everything, but the pieces I truly wanted were not for sale.

It was a wonderful gathering, the reserved patio filled to capacity with extended family that I hadn’t even heard of. All there to wish Don Alfredo one more happy birthday.

The day before the funeral, my husband’s two sisters were debating where best to take us to lunch. While driving around in search of a place, they remembered Ortega 120. When we arrived, we were shown to the exact same table where we had sat the month before, with my husband ending up in the seat his father had occupied then. We were all struck dumb for a moment as the realization hit us. We’d been taken there, by Al.

The service was held in a wondrous chapel at the top of a sloping hill. From this height, the breathtaking expanse of Al’s beloved downtown Los Angeles lay below us.

My feeble attempt to capture Skyrose Chapel as my husband is walking out alone.

My feeble attempt to capture Skyrose Chapel as my husband is walking out alone.

Again, the venue was filled to capacity, as was the reception later. I was presented to and approached by numerous family members who became a flurry of names to me. We lost track of how many young people came up to tell us how Al had made a positive impact on their lives. Many went up to the microphone to recite stories about him.

There were many peals of laughter as story after story was told. Though few were able to get through their stories without stopping to wipe away tears. The one story that I think sums up my father-in-law and his self-deprecating humor is the one his good  friend recounted. He’d gone to visit Al on a day when he seemed pensive and this is what he said:

“I’ve been supposed to die for several years and yet here I am. So I asked God, why am I still here?”

“And what did God tell you?” his friend asked.

“He said, Al, you just have to wait. There’s too many Mexicans in heaven.”

~~~

Enjoying the sunset in Redondo Beach, California

Enjoying the sunset in Redondo Beach, California

sunsetsunset

My youngest who is traveling in Costa Rica made this token for her grandfather. She used "half of a rotting coconut to symbolize death, a rock washed up on the beach to represent the earth, a piece of palm to represent our family and home, and a flower for life." And then she sent it out sea.

My youngest, who was traveling in Costa Rica, made this token for her grandfather. She used “half of a rotting coconut to symbolize death, a rock washed up on the beach to represent the earth, a piece of palm to represent our family and home, and a flower for life.” And then she sent it out to sea.

Staff Sgt. Alfredo Navarro has answered his final call to duty.

Staff Sgt. Alfredo Navarro has answered his final call to duty.

Digging For Joy

So, I’ve been home for over three weeks. My zest for cleaning out my nest is unfaltering. Seems like an addiction. I can’t stop myself. Twenty-six years in one place will result in an accumulation of unmentionables, and I don’t mean those kind of unmentionables. More like: What was I thinking when I bought this. Quick! Into the trash before someone sees it!

Closets that I considered too small for anything are springing forth a surprising amount of things. It’s not quite the ubiquitous movie scene where a character opens a closet door and is immediately buried in stuff, but close. Where did I find the time? Not only to collect all this stuff, but to store it. So neatly even.

It’s like I’m peeking into someone else’s life. And in a way, I guess I am. That me barely exists anymore.

That me was busy, night and day, raising kids, holding down a job, running a full house. I didn’t have time to be sick. When RA came knocking, I ignored it, who knows for how long? I had no time, no room in my consciousness for me, for my goals, for my dreams.

So much has changed. And the trip down memory lane as I was cleaning out my younger daughter’s room was bittersweet. Six years after she moved out, I accept the fact that she has moved out. But I’m happy she “takes” me with her on her adventures around the world. I’m her editor, copyeditor and proofreader. She has to take me!

The room will now be strictly her dad’s office/bike room. The wall of shelving in her room yielded all kinds of memories, plus toys and books that I will donate. One thing those shelves held was a mother lode of Barbies. Twenty, if I counted correctly, all in their original boxes, untouched. I doubt she has any use for them now. I will ask, but I think I can safely assume that my granddaughters will end up sharing this booty.

I will give the dolls to them slowly, gradually, over several years so that I can stretch out the joy. I picked one out already for the four-year-old, who’s in her Disney Princess phase. I placed it in “her” room, waiting for her next visit.

Barbie doll

And what else have I found during my epic housecleaning? A bout of sciatica. Though it rarely bothers me, I developed it thirty years ago while having my older daughter. It landed me on bed rest at seven months into the pregnancy. The irony: she was my tiniest baby, five pounds seven ounces.

By contrast, my younger daughter weighed exactly the opposite, seven pounds, five ounces. And though I feared being left crippled by another pregnancy, having her was a breeze. I even got my first epidural, ever. Wow! What a difference a little needle makes.

So now I’m on a Medrol Pak, more steroids! And tomorrow I start some physical therapy. I’m not down or out, mind you. Just inconvenienced. After a two-day rest, my cleaning goes on at a slower pace. No more heavy lifting, and the hopping on and off the stepladder has been temporarily suspended.

What’s prompting the physical therapy is that in less than two weeks I will be sitting on a plane for five plus hours on my way to Los Angeles. Ouch!

 

Escape From MS and Other Sundries

I apologize for my long absence, but I made it home, yay! My return came in a roundabout way as my SO (significant other) booked a July 4th weekend stay in merry Coconut Grove.

Coconut Grove

View from our 19th floor balcony.

The eighth floor pool area gave us uninterrupted access to the sight of hours of brilliant fireworks, an awesome production that went on and on and on to the delight of my four-year-old granddaughter. It was a great re-bonding experience with my family and proved to be a nice buffer between there and here. Here being the place where you easily trip and fall into a rut.

I’d never been gone from home for two whole months before and it proved difficult for everyone. Even though it saddened me to think that I wouldn’t see my precious Carmen every day anymore, I longed for home. I dreamed of home.

My Lovely. I shall see her again on Thanksgiving.

My Lovely. I shall see her again on Thanksgiving.

And while my plane landed on a Thursday, I didn’t truly make it home till Monday. I walked in the door with resolve, and with what I call a late onset attack of spring cleaning. It’s an incredible catharsis to throw away stuff that’s been sitting in your house taking up space for a quarter century.

Rut begone. This is a new era. A new era of organization and production. I’m back to my writing and freelance editing. My finger is off the pause button.

***I had my rheumy check-up a few days ago. All labs normal. The usual, “You are doing very well.” There was only one fly in the ointment. Apparently, my CRP is 0.76. Meaning less than one??? I wanted to celebrate and then Doc said, “Creatinine is 0.76.”

Now you know that’s too great of a coincidence. Since we changed insurance companies, these results came from a different lab and I highly doubt they are identical numbers.  There’s no way I went from a CRP of 13 to less than one. I shall have to wait until the next round of labwork to confirm, but Doc is right, I am doing very well. Seems my trip to Mississippi was more of a plus than a minus overall.

***Just read that Levi’s CEO advises not to wash your jeans too often as a way of helping the environment. To spot clean them, and he says when he does wash them, he hand washes them. When I read that all I could think of was my hands, how much that would hurt my hands. I may be doing well but some things are beyond me forever thanks to OA and RA. Wringing out thick denim is one of them.

But I will heed his advice and wash my jeans less often, as well as continue to do my bit for the environment in other ways. Our children and grandchildren deserve a clean and thriving Earth. As do we.