Looking Back on Me in 2020

 

2020 – My year

With anticipation, the world ushered in the New Year with hopes of health, kindness, and peace. We all looked forward to making New Year’s resolutions of eating better, exercising, finishing projects we begin, entering the number of books we have added to our goodreads challenge, and by January 2^nd, breaking the piecrust promises made on December 31^st.

January

The year began with our only daughter boarding a plane to travel 24 hours to Vietnam to visit a high school friend’s country, family, and attend a traditional wedding of mutual high school chums. Three weeks later and two consecutive Wednesdays later, exhausted, new friends, a ton of memories and a bout of pneumonia. Only a week prior the national news had briefly mentioned a virus coming out of China, but of course, that was China, no need to worry here. However, when you have a kid in Asia and not feeling well, of course, we worried. A trip to immedicare and antibiotics later, poof, pneumonia is a thing of the past.

Jump back to November 2019 for a moment. Just days before Thanksgiving, I took a face plant at one of the busiest intersections downtown. ER visits, neurologist and cardiologist visits spill into January. MRIs and overnight brain scan later, the neurologist said I was having missed heartbeats and should see a cardiologist. I was also told his office would obtain new authorizations for another follow up MRI and a more in-depth MRA. Meanwhile, at the cardiologist office, I was told the syncope was likely not my heart but neuro problem, but to be sure, more testing. A 24 hour heart monitor, stress tests, 2-D echo, etc., etc., Yes, I do have missed heartbeats, everyone does, about 100 a day; mine, 1,000 a day. For monitoring and peace of mind, a loop recorder insertion was planned. Another authorization to wait for.

February

Ever have a sonogram of your knuckles. I never knew there was such a thing. Testing showed what I already knew. Arthritis.

March

If there was a month I would delete from this year, it would be March. Novel coronavirus Covid-19 began its way to New York. March also brought some significant health changes for me.

On March 5^th, I had the little loop recorder inserted near my heart. Simple outpatient procedure. The hot topic was the virus spreading through Europe. The nurse attending to me hoped it would not stop her from taking her bucket list trip to Italy. I’m sure she never got to go.

Five days post-op I developed a low grade fever. Of course I did. I always do after a procedure. And of course I paid no attention. Everything looked fine at the check.

By the 12^th, the governor all but closed NYC and the rest of the state followed. By the 17^th, we were at a work three days in the office and home the next three. My low grade fever back, but not concerned. By the 20^th, all but essential workers were to self-quarantine as much as possible. My husband and I had a fairly large shopping trip finished. By this time, bleach, disinfectant, and of all things, toilet tissue was flying off the shelves. There was a total of 310 cases of Covid-19 in Erie County by the time and I was put on antibiotics for a UTI on the 27^th.

Monday the 30^th, my breathing was a little labored and my temperature movin’ on up as George Jefferson would have said. My doctor sent me to the designated hospital for Covid-19; security there told me they “don’t care if you die right there on the sidewalk, you ain’t getting in here without an ambulance”. Another call to the doctor who sent me to a local hospital set up for testing. As I lay in the emergency room of the hospital I had worked in for 14 years, I received the 25 thousand dollar work up (the bill sent to my insurance). I had a nasal swab novel coronavirus test, blood work, chest x-rays, MRI of my chest, more bloodwork, ice chips after begging, more chest x-rays, two liters of potassium (dangerously dehydrated) and a visit from the ER doctor who told me he didn’t need the results to see I had pneumonia and Covid-19. I was to go home, have the house sanitized, call my doctor in the morning, have everyone wear a mask, and wished my luck. There were 463 reported cases of Covid-19 in Erie County that day; I would be one of them.

Closing out the month was a prescription for azithromycin, Z-pac, a plea to actually use my inhaler four times a days and take my temperature at least twice a day. I took it three times a day. It made me feel like I was actually helping myself get well.

Before ending the month, now would be a good time for me to mention the young nursing student who I consider a hero, not that others are/were not. This young man took care of me during my ER stay was a year away from graduating from nursing school. He was fearless working double shifts between all the CHS hospitals covering for nurses who needed sleep, to see their families, to pray for an end soon. He told me he doesn’t care about himself, he has no family, no children, no one who would care if he was here or not. Nine months later, I do not recall his name or if I ever knew it. I have prayed for him every day since.

April

And so begins my journey of novel coronavirus Covid-19. The next 14 days will include morning calls from my physician’s office; afternoon calls from the department of health.

My fever I had since my procedure finally broke only a couple days after the diagnosis. It came with a dream of my parents, sisters, grandparents, all who left too soon, telling me I could go with them, but I should stay. I still had work to do.  Looking back, I would say I was very lucky it wasn’t worse. There was a chance it could have been, however I still believe the Z-pac and inhaler may be saved me.

I began feeling better on day seven but worried about my daughter and husband. My daughter had a fever. While she wasn’t quite as sick that I recall, I did ask our doctor. I was told it was her pneumonia. Three months after recovery? It didn’t really matter, there were no more tests at this point. During this time, I had received my promotion to go to medicaid after the crisis was over. I was to continue to work in SNAP during this time.

Before returning to work, we made about 30 masks for ourselves and those family and friends who took care of us in their way, food, masks, gloves, and a visit from the Easter bunny. Three weeks post Covid-19 and I was back to work. Working from home. A challenge and a learning experience to say the very least.

I found myself having odd, random thoughts while recovering. Mom’s favorite books, The Little Minister and The Girl of the Limberlost; Dad’s favorites Earle Stanley’s Perry Mason mysteries. I thought of Harper Lee’s passage, Neighbors bring food with death and flowers in sickness and little things in between.

On April 10^th, still in quarantine, I did not see the last leaf fall, but a cardinal. Proof that I was to survive what by then was being called a pandemic.

May

I’m back to work full time from home. The state has been in a mandated mask order for public places since April, we’ve been told the New York State Pause Act will be in effect until May 15^th.

On that very day, I had an email from medicaid I would be starting training on the 20^th. Co-workers who let before me had returned to SNAP.

Warmer weather arrived, summer furniture made its way out to the yard and porch, and Gary and Laura decided it was time, after 11 years, to makeover her room. Laura and I both had the antibodies test taken, both back as positive. The doctor was wrong, she did have Covid-19 when I did.

June

The governor has told us we are still in the Pause until the 7^th, but should be able to start opening Phase I. The stimulus checks are arriving, and I find Medicaid different and boring.

I still have issues with smell and taste, the extreme fatigue and exhaustion can be maddening. What is more maddening, my doctor doubts what I tell him as being a fact.

July

Medicaid has become unbearably boring and I have returned to SNAP, relinquishing my senior SWE status. I had, however, made many wonderful friends.

Still self-isolating. Still wearing masks. Still socially distant. X-ray follow-up shows my lungs are clear. However, the original lung cat scan had shown a small line of emphazema. I’m still tired, still taste very little, and smells are off.

I’ve redecorated the bathroom into more of a tropical feel. Flamingos every where. I’ve also taken up watercolor painting.

Spending time at home, I have discovered more DNA cousins, or rather, they have discovered me.

August

NO ERIE COUNTY FAIR!! This is the first time in 62 years that I have not enjoyed the fair. The smells of the food and animals! Not that I’m able, still not able to smell properly. Everything has a chemical or rancid smell. The taste of all the different fair foods, not that I’d taste them properly.

September

Turned 63 this month and have turned my thoughts to retirement. Six month survivor of Covid-19. Still tired. Still unable to taste most foods. Still smelling chemicals.

And most of all, our Hazel crossed over Rainbow Bridge.

October

Who would have thought Halloween would possibly be cancelled, close, but it is different. We have never really had many gremlins on our dead-end street, but even the few are not around.

November

Still working from home. Still exhausted. Still unable to taste or smell properly. My cardiologist will be looking for Covid-19 results from a 2-D echo in February. We’d hoped things would be better rather than worse.

December

Still working from home. Still exhausted. Still smelling chemicals. Still waiting for Mighty Taco to taste normal. Still adding hot sauce to just about everything just so I can at least taste the heat.

There are a few things I have discovered in 2020.

First and foremost, I am not a toilet tissue hoarder. There, I have said it.

DNA is a wonderful thing. Cousins from both sides of my family has discovered me. My Hart brick wall came tumbling down thanks to a cousin who, sadly, has been taken from us too soon from cancer. Seems the first Henry Hart was married to Susan Burton which caused my active imagination to believe I am a cousin to Richard Burton, making me a cousin-in-law of Elizabeth Taylor twice removed.

On my dad’s side of the family, due to boarder changes, wars and political reason, I am 100% Slovakian. I am so good with that.

Covid-19 also gave me some positive things to be thankful for. My A1c has dropped to one point from a non-diabetic reading. I have developed a talent for painting. Trust me, prior to this repeat year of 1920, I had no talent other than enjoying the arts in a museum.

Most importantly, I discovered how very important my family is to me. I’ve always suspected they are special, this just cinched it.

The end of 2020 finds me in more pain than 2019, but every morning I wake up to another day. As this new year is in its infancy, don’t make resolutions you will break by January 2^nd,  count all the blessings you forgot you still have.

love to all, 

L

 

 

The Widow Spooner

For years, Gene lived in a sleepy little place called Tinker’s Cove. She’d been working for a large company in the city when, on the advise of her therapist, she had rented a cottage in the Cove for a month. During that month she taught herself how to make jewelry, actually selling pieces she’d made at the summer fair. With savings and some of the inheritance left by her parents, she bought the cottage at the end of Old Beach Road. The only other cottage belonged to an elderly woman who lost her husband to the sea over fifty years ago. Mrs. Spooner’s garden was her pride and joy, winning first prize every year. When asked what she used as fertilizer, she’d grin and say it was a secret her husband taught her.

Once the summer tourists returned to their city lives, Gene spent her evenings combing the beach for sea glass. She acquired boxes of it. When the harsh winter winds and snow began to blow, Gene would begin making her jewelry for next summer’s tourists.

Late one night, Gene was unable to sleep. Her mind was full of new designs. Tea cup and sketchbook in hand, she took advantage of the Indian summer night. The full moon was bright enough so a lamp wasn’t needed. Just as she was getting up to get some sleep, she saw Mrs. Spooner, her apron covered with blood and dragging a sack around to the back of her house. Looked like Gene wasn’t the only one up in the Cove who couldn’t sleep.

The next morning there was breaking news, the mayor of Tinker’s Cove was missing. Mayor Jacob Milner was also a mainland contractor who had been trying to acquire parcels of land to build a large hotel. He claimed it was to boost the economy in Tinker’s Cove. The locals claimed it was to line his already bulging pockets. It was rumored he was now sending men from the mainland to scare the residents into selling. Gene and Mrs. Spooner lived on a parcel he wanted. After declining several offers, threats began coming. Gene had hired an attorney to help her deal with the mayor. Mrs. Spooner had no one to help her, but the spunky woman was holding on tight and refused to sell.

The newscaster was saying Mayor Milner had not been home the previous evening. Mrs. Milner reported him missing when he didn’t return any of the messages she’d left. His car, wallet and cellphone were still in the lot behind his office. Burglary was not suspected. It was believe he had taken a walk and stayed in one of his empty cottages. The news stated he was last seen wearing faded jeans, a red plaid flannel jacket, and a pair of well worn work boots. Anyone seeing the mayor was asked to notify the police chief.

Later that same day, Gene had made a special necklace for Mrs. Spooner. It was made of light green sea glass; it was her favorite color. Gene found Mrs. Spooner giving her garden the last of her special fertilizer for the winter. Back at the edge of the property, the old woman’s burn barrel was smoking. Gene saw a worn work boot leaning against the barrel. She gazed from the barrel to Mrs. Spooner to the freshly sprinkled fertilizer in the garden.

Mrs. Spooner chuckled. “Looks like we won’t be selling after all. Come in for a cup of tea dear.”

How Was Your Day?

It’s a simple question, one you have been asked or asked yourself. My days are the same yesterday as they will be tomorrow. However, every now and again something happens to shake it up. Today was just one of those days.

About an hour before my alarm was to go off, I heard a whimper coming from our dog. Well, not exactly a whimper. It was more like a death howl. As if the love of her life had left, never to return. The next sound I heard was an odd scrapping noise. Once my sleep filled mind began to focus, I realized the scrapping was my loving spouse shoveling the driveway and cleaning the truck off for me. Willow, our wolfhound mix, feels the need to mourn her master’s disappearance even when she sees him just outside the window. This song of her people stirs Hazel, our cat, into persuading me into filling her breakfast bowl. She has the figure and waddle of a pot belly pig, but believes she is a Greek goddess, Aphrodite she is not. Ah, my chance to get back into bed; the alarm goes off. Three snoozes later, I’m up and moving.

I’ve discovered over my 40 some years commuting to work, some people really must have received their license in a Cracker Jack box. Today’s awarding winner is a woman who likes to be ahead of everyone. To avoid the slowing traffic at a construction site or the mounting potholes, she decided to drive on the sidewalk. When it snows in this area, people avoid the thruway and drive the mains. I get it. If you have ever been stranded on the highway during a blizzard, you just don’t take chances. Now the thruway is clear, but the mains are congested. Thank you Snow Miser for the shit show we call the morning commute today.

I’m not sure what I was thinking of this morning, I grabbed jeans which are about a size larger than I am now, but in my haste forgot my belt. Since the lot is about a half mile walk to the building I work in downtown, I begin to look like a 15 year old from the hood. As I approach my favorite coffee shop, I saw a man in front of me wearing his jeans in a manner making me think we are kindred spirits. He is having an animated conversation. I thought he was on a phone until I saw him shaking it in the air as if to make his point. It appears he is either talking to a ghost or an imaginary companion. Hashtag mentalhealthmatters.  No matter, I’m on a mission to keep my pants up and grab a cuppa. Not necessarily in that order. Coffee in hand, I decided it was a great idea to make a donation to Make a Wish and buy 5 burlap coffee bags to make rugs with. This will become a regrettable decision later.

Ten interviews, four cases written, and several return calls later, I called it a day. Half way to the parking lot, pants, burlap bags, tote, and purse slipping, my mind turned to my kindred spirit with the drooping drawers, wishing he and his imaginary friend were around to help with those damn bags.

A quick stop at the bank for a rousing game of “who’s on first” (don’t ask) I pull into the driveway vowing never to leave again….until tomorrow.

So, how was your day?

The Rocker

As I lay here in the dark, I hear the creaking of the rocker. It’s then I remember I have no rocker.

Mairzy Doats

Mairzy doats and dozy doats

And liddle lamzy divey.

A song you sung on every trip

To keep we five content and lively.

You taught me how to cook and sew.

You taught me to knit, I taught you to crochet.

I took you to concerts of Mathis and Sha Na Na

It was always fun to hang out and play.

You stood by me through my boyfriends

The duds, the dudes, and the crushes.

You were there when Mr. Right came along

And smiled through my stories and gushes.

After years of your hoping and praying

We were able to tell you it wasn’t the flu.

You were there for the sonos and the stress tests

You beamed when you bought her first shoes.

Soon you and your granddaughter were bonding

As she grew by leaps and bounds.

In only a short six months

You were no longer around.

If wishes here horses,

Beggars would ride.

Today’d be your birthday

And I wish you were at my side.

The Living Rough of London

Vagrant. Almsperson. Pauper. Transient. Beggar. Bum. Derelict. Vagabond. Panhandler. Drifter. Bag lady. Hobo. Wino. Destitute. Homeless. Pick one, they all represent names used to describe someone living on the streets. In London, the term living/sleeping rough is used. As my daughter and I were visiting the old city for the first time, I began to notice them scattered here and there.

When first arriving in London we’d decided instead of storing luggage in a locker at Victoria Station, we’d find the hotel and see our sights from there. On our way home that evening we began to notice, not only pub and restaurant goers spilling out onto the streets, but the homeless, or as they say in the United Kingdom, those who are sleeping or living rough.

The same people are in the same spots every day. Only a few blocks from Victoria, huddled in an alcove, crouched a woman wrapped in a blanket. Although she shivers, I’m not entirely certain it’s due to the cold. I fear she may be newly without a home. Her eyes show a fear of something unknown. While her blanket is tattered, the jacket she wears is still fairly new.

Not far from this woman was a man who seemed to have become more accustom to living on the streets. He sat not far from the Sainsbury we’d come to think of as our local grocery. He sat cross legged on a wool blanket which covered a stack of newspapers. His clothes and bomber jacket he wore were worn and thread bare in places. He greeted passersby with a smile and a “Good evening.” Our stay was only a week, but his presence was so pleasant and strong, I know I will never forget him. Mid-week he was missing and I found myself missing his cheerful greeting. I’d hoped he’d found some place permanent, however he was back within a couple days.

In keeping with our “getting lost” theme, we’d made our way to the East End for our Jack the Ripper tour. Believing we were in the proper spot for the tour, my daughter and I noticed a gathering crowd across the street. We had begun to think we were in the wrong spot. A scruffy looking man sat at the top of the underground entrance. He waved, said hello, and tipped his hat to commuters entering or exiting on their way home or to the pub. Who better to ask? He told my daughter he’d noticed us standing here and knew right away we were waiting for the tour. It wasn’t much, I know, but she gave him a pound for his help. While on our tour, story for another time, I literally trip on a poor man stretched out along the side of a building. Deeper into our tour, an entire family was sleeping rough on the street.

 

When we were on Charing Cross Road in search of bookstores, we passed the Wyndhams Theatre. Sitting on the sidewalk between posters, was an amputee in his wheelchair. Next to him was his traveling “home,” a pup tent.

According to a Guardian article, in 2014/2015, there were approximately 7500 souls sleeping rough in the streets of London. As everywhere, housing cuts, downsizing, and out sourcing to name a few, are the reason for the rise in street people. I see it daily and have myself been there.

On one of our final rides on the tube, we sat across from a man with his hair and beard matted and smelling of mold and mildew. He was in layers of clothing, clutching bags with his belongings, and sleeping to the swaying car’s rhymed movements. He brought the reality of the plight of those without a place to rest their heads at the end of the day. As bad as we thought our hotel was, it was clean and we had our place to rest.

In the Beginning

Every vacation takes planning and preparation.  A vacation abroad takes a bit more. For example, did you know it includes the reading of 13 Little Blue Envelopes by Maureen Johnson? Apparently, my reading about a teen backpacking through Europe with an itinerary given to her in blue envelopes by her dead aunt was to prepare me for our trip; clearly a story for another day.

I also made a call to Air Transat to question my taking a crochet hook on board.

“No, it’s not two pointed sticks, it’s one rounded hook.”

“And what is this hook used for?”

“Well, it is a crochet hook. I use it to crochet.”

"Do you know the French word?"  Let’s just say at this point, I was happy this wasn’t on Skype.

Having my fears of plummeting into the North Atlantic assuaged by friends who had flown with the same airline we were taking, my travel panic attacks lessened. However, my fear of getting car sick on the bus was no doubt going to come true.

The day arrives. Luggage, check. Tickets, check. Passports, check. Medical alert and St. Christopher bangles, check. My husband volunteered to take us to the bus station, the type of volunteering I believe is implicated in the military.

The megabus comes from New York City and is usually on time. Unless, of course, I’m traveling and on a tight time schedule. Not only did we get to the bus station 45 minutes early, the bus was late. We should have taken this as a sign.

On Saturday mornings, while driving my daughter to work, we see the same elderly gentleman standing at a bus stop. He is always dressed in a suit and seems to engage in pleasant conversation with another commuter. After checking the arrival time of the bus, again, we saw our gentleman standing by a pamphlet stand hawking his religious wares. The mystery is gone.

Sorry, back on track. We boarded the bus 75 minutes later than scheduled, but we were on our way. And then, we weren’t. Going through the US Canadian border went smoothly and we should have been out of there within minutes. I’d over heard from other passengers the bus was delayed in Buffalo because the breakdown of the bus around Rochester. The company sent a new, off the assembly line bus to replace it. With this, we were told the battery was dead on the bus and they were waiting for a new battery or a new bus. Time was ticking and our time in Toronto becoming less and less. Late and starving, I munched on a granola bar which not only gave me a headache, but car sick as well.

Found it odd I was finally seeing names of places and streets I’d hear of my entire life listening and watching Canadian television. We did have time for dinner in the food court at the Eaton Centre. Let me just say, Canadians are a trusting lot. Where, here in the States, when you eat in at the food court, you get a higher quality of paper plate and plastic cutlery. In Canada, a glass plate and real flatware. I know, right? Trusting. The only plastic I saw during our quick stay was the money. I’m curious, what happens to the money when it goes through the washer and dryer?

Two trains and a bus costing a small fortune, we arrived at Pearson Airport in the allotted time. We met our first of many angels at Pearson. As we were looking for signs to get us to the correct counter, she came up to us and basically realized we were a bit lost, announced she was headed for the same counter and escorted us to Air Transat. We turned and she was gone. With our boarding passes in hand, our first stop was security. Silly me, I set off the alarm with the medical alert and St. Christopher bracelets. However, crochet hook was not detected.

After a couple hours of people watching, free entertainment in my mind, our flight had announced it would begin boarding. The adventure continues.