Gertiecranker’s Weblog

In one of my favorite e-cards Sarah says “it’s time to put yer boots down and declare independence from whatever is holding you back.” Sarah, the cartoon Southern Belle, offers that advice on her Independence Day card—of course she is talking about her Great Grandaddy Detweiler, who raised hawgs until Sarah stomped her feet and said, “No more pork!”, and went out and opened her own feed and seed store.

But here I am, on the eve of my own Independence Day—walking now without a cane (some of the time), and driving my car. I had my last visit with Quick Draw this week (until May of 2009) and we shook hands and congratulated ourselves on jobs well done—at last. All the folks in the office were glad to see me out of the wheelchair and wearing something other than a sweat suit. After my parting from QD, I even walked around the very large grocery store, loaded about $85 of celebratory indulgences in the car, carried them in my house, and put everything away.

Monday I am taking the wheelchair back, and asking the medical supply place to come and get the hospital bed. I even drove up to the Leelanau County Democratic headquarters and got a couple of yard signs to plant out my my mailbox!

Quick Draw’s advice to me (well, he had several advices on some of his favorite topics—some of you will know what I mean) was to “Get over being a sick person.” He meant, go do stuff! Take my cane, or my walker if I have to, but go do stuff.

I think that’s what Sarah meant by declaring independence. I am no longer a passive sick person. I may limp a little, and I won’t jog the Tart Trail or step dance on the tabletops…but I have a lot of reasons to celebrate tomorrow, personal as well as patriotic.

One of the dreams that’s kept me going is the Eleuthera, Bahamas house that my friend Lynn Larson and I are building as our winter retreat. We began the project a year and a half ago when we vacationed in the Bahamas and played a little game of “What if?” which turned into a game of “Why can’t we?”, and which soon became “Let’s!”.

While this was going to be a joint venture, my joint refused to cooperate, and so Lynn has spent the better part of the time since doing this alone–general contracting, designing, clearing brush, and painting. The latest photos show a pretty advanced stage of completion–at last! And I (at last) am in the final stages of getting down there to visit the project.

There have been earlier photos on this blog, but here are some from Lynn’s most recent trip–and a little more of the story.

The first photo is of the original house, in the little town of Tarpum Bay. Mr. Culmer was a fisherman, and his home was among the first in the town. The property was purchased by an artist/educator who lived in Tarpum Bay and whose descendants still own property there–MacMillan Hughes. He was a bit of an eccentric, and left his mark on the town–not only did he have a family compound on the beach, but he also built a castle for his mistress:

The ruins of the castle are still in the town, and the property is owned by the son. MacMillan Hughes next turned his attention to acquiring and renovating the Culmer House as an artist’s studio, and began the project by filling in the basement with cement and rocks, and beginning construction of the house and walled property.

This is what Lynn and I bought–the ultimate fixer-upper. But remember, this is the Bahamas, mon, and the walls are a foot thick, and we are in town, so there’s water and electricity. Plus, the view of the Caribbean is spectacular!

After a false start when our first choice contractor got distracted by his son’s arrest for murder, we found a wonderful builder who’s last name is–Culmer! and who is delighted to be working close to home and on his great grandfather’s cottage. Kervin has done wonderful work, and completed the cottage in record time. These are some of the latest photos and you can see how far he’s come.

This photo is taken from behind the house, looking out toward the ocean. You can imagine what the view is like from the second story….

This is the view from the inside of Lynn’s bedroom–my room is on the left and that’s my storm shutter you see through the window. You can see the church on the main street (Queen’s Highway) and the ocean just beyond. There’s a door from each bedroom out onto a second story deck, just for watching sunsets!

And here’s Lynn, after a hard day’s work paining the interior.

Now here’s the trick: this is a dream come true for both of us. It’s the result of a lot of hard work over our lifetimes, and a commitment to making a reality of a dream. For me it’s also a result of lot of support from my friends–the OC folks who decorated my room and kept my spirits up, my friends from the real estate world who gave me a rocking chair for my deck and a huge supply of love and encouragement, my former staff members (still my friends), and my coach Debby.

The only hurdle that remains for me is getting there, and every day brings me a little closer!

Last night felt like full circle..I went to my first Irish music session in nine months! Before the surgery, I was in such pain I couldn’t walk and sit very well….and then there was my ordeal for months and months It felt good to tuck my whistle in my pocketbook and head for the Loading Dock!

And the friendship and the music was wonderful. Lots of hugs and warm welcomes—including my buddy David the Bug Doctor (who also plays whistle)–he said he was glad to see me, and I said I was very glad for his success in making sure I was able to be there!

Of course, I am still a little gimpy, and climbing up on a stage isn’t my idea of fun. But it’s pub-dark in there and nobody could really see Gracie the Gimp climb up that big step….

So I have my music back. Life is very good.

Well, I couldn’t resist it.  As I am thinking about being green, I had to go out there and paint myself.  As you can see, I’m not too green–I’ve always got a paint brush and a hurdy gurdy.

My Pal Kal, the Progressive Torturist, has discoverend that I have a knotted-up muscle in my bad operated leg, just above the knee.  Kal brought a couple of ‘remedial’ (read ‘painful’) new exercises with him today and I will spend some time “working through the pain”, as I believe the masochists say.

I had a friend, a good one, who became very, very ill. She was one of the first people I knew well who had cancer, and her battle was long and hard—and scary for those of us who loved her. And many of us DID love her—she was kind,and gentle,and good.

One of the people who loved her most was, of course, her husband. Throughout those long, gray months he was with her always—supporting her in every way possible. He cut back on his work hours so he could be there for her when she had to go to the treatment center for chemotherapy. He ran interference with well-meaning friends and relatives. He ran the household and cared for their two almost-adult children.

Gradually, she regained strength and became well again. We were pleased to see her smile and hear her welcoming voice and listen to her music. She went back to work, and visited with friends, and organized a wedding for her son—things were back to ‘normal’, the danger was passed.

Well, sort of. Remember the wonderful husband? It was he who became listless and lethargic, depressed and sad. He seemed unable to get back in the groove, to organize his days into productivity, to enjoy some of the pleasures he had once loved, like bass fishing and good cigars and puttering around the house. As his wife grew stronger, he seemed to diminish, to feel un-needed perhaps and without meaning.

He came out of it after a while, and again became the warm and loving person we all had known. But I’ve been thinking of those days a lot recently, because I think I know how he felt back then. An illness gives meaning to one’s life, it is the battle to be fought and the priority that claims focus and energy. Once the healing begins and the threat recedes, so too does the fight and the sense of purpose that characterized our waking hours.

It’s the same phenomena I have often watched in AA over the years. As the alcoholic begins her recovery, and becomes stronger and more at peace with herself, she finds those around her begin to disappear. They have defined their relationship with the alcoholic by the disease and once progress has been made toward health, friends and loved ones must redefine their roles.

I think that’s not far from what I am feeling right now: all these months I centered much of my energy on my health issues—on fighting pain, getting medical treatment, paying bills, trying to maintain a quality of life despite the onslaught of some frightening moments. And now, at last, I am on the downhill side of the mountain and the path is easier. But now, I am in charge. Every day I find the challenge comes in proactive living, not reactive living. And it’s not easy.

And so I make lists of what I want to do each day. And I construct some visions of myself as a well person, walking the beach in Tarpum Bay and easily climbing the stairs to my bedroom overlooking the sea. I realize that for the first time in many, many years I don’t have a job which carves out my time, and I don’t have medicines, doctors, aches, and wounds. I am regaining my health, my energy, and my time. It’s a new feeling, but—as Kermit would say—“it isn’t easy being green.”

“I dunno, it’s just not the same,” I said to Roseann on my most recent visit to Orchard Creek.

“There’s no sense of community, living at home by oneself.”

She nodded. “Well, we miss you here,” she said. “Nobody else puts art all over the walls in the hallway.”

Now calling my coloring attempts and my beginning water colors “art” is a kindness that endears Roseann to me, and I count her as my new BFF. She’s always optimistic and supportive, gracious and kind. And she’s a good teacher, too!

But yes, I am home—just me and Twister, my Portuguese Water Dog, and Punkin, my aggressively loving cat. We are visited three times a week by My Pal Kal, the TortureMeister, who is helping me strengthen my legs and learn more about mobility. Kal brings rubber balls, therabands and five and ten pound ankle weights and counts leg raises while rubbing Punkin’s belly, which she has shamelessly exposed as she lies beside him on the couch.

I keep trying to convince Kal to take a quick pass around my yard on my riding mower, but he says that there’s no such thing as a ‘quick pass’ around my yard, and he’s right. Dandelion stems wave idly in the breeze, and the fluff floats lazily by the front deck, which is about as far as I can go with my cane or walker. I feel good, which is probably why I am so impatient with the @#$%^& dandelion farm surrounding my house—but thanks to Craig’s List, I think I’ve found a young man with a car and riding mower experience.

I’ve been painting—just working on technique: there’s a blue elephant, a very fat nuthatch, and a purple and red rooster on my fridge, along with a still intimidating list of medications. As far as the latter, though, the content has changed from antibiotics and pain killers to iron and calcium supplements, vitamins, and maintenance medications. QD has cleared me for driving, which I do a little of: I have found that the issue is not with the driving but with what to do when I get to where I am going. Grocery stores are a hassle (boy, are they big!), and farmers’ markets are not wheelchair friendly, for sure. Each day is a challenge…

The biggest issue, though, is the one I voiced to Roseann—I knew I would miss the laughter and friendship of OC. My dining companion is a book, and the midnight sounds are the soft snore of the dog by my bed. It’s good being here at home, but it’s just not the same.

Yesterday was indeed a memorable Memorial Day—Jonathan picked me up at 10:30 AM and brought me 3 miles down the road to my very own house! It was, of course, a bitter-sweet departure—I loved being with Roseann, Barbara, and Helen, my table mates. It was almost like a ladies sleep-over, somehow: we all had become quite chummy and visited each other between meals, and introduced each other to our families. Sad to leave my new friends.

The other exciting event that filled my last few days almost to the point of compulsion, was that Roseann and I began watercolor painting together. Roseann is an excellent teacher, and I so enjoyed working with her. She would set up a palette of colors and show me how to use them—I would paint happily away, and bring her the results. She was always positive about what I was doing, and made some wonderful suggestions about techniques. When I left OC, I left some paintings for the staff, and made several others as gifts for people who had been so kind to me. The fish is one of the ones I like the most—

People brought me going away presents: Angela baked banana bread, Patty gave me generous hugs, and the daughter of one of the residents brought me a huge bouquet of lilacs, my favorite flower.

I go see Quick Draw tomorrow, which should be my last visit for a while. I would like to use a cane, and figure out when I can drive, at least short distances. My Pal Kal (a nurse at Munson who also does physical therapy) will be coming to my house twice a week, beginning tomorrow, and hopefully I can also arrange for some pool therapy at OC.

So yes, I have plans…and a lot of healing to do. But I am determined and well on the road to recovery. I am going to keep blogging, too—there are so many things I’ve learned from the last 8 months, and so many new experiences to share. I do hope you’ll check back, or sign up for the RSS feed for Gertie’s blog.

One last thing I wanted to mention: The Pie throwing contest! OC’s wonderful events person, my friend Kashia, organized a pie throw to raise money for Relay for Life, a cancer fundraiser. It was the STAFF who got pie-d, and as the picture shows, it was fun for all. That guy in the shower curtain with the cute legs is the Administrator, and he probably got the most splats of anybody. I don’t know how much money they raised, but it was fun for all.

I have to tell you, I never thought I’d experience the following event—at age 67 or at ANY age! And it’s all Roseann’s fault: my “friend” snookered me into this….

It all started when Kasha, our OC dynamo social director, came to our breakfast table last Friday and said, “I am looking for some jockeys for our horse race.” Without a moment’s hesitation, Roseann said, “JUDITH has always wanted to be a jockey. She’ll do it!”

Bad Roseann! What she didn’t know is that as a 5^th grader, in the heights of my horse craze, I DID want to be a jockey. Of course, with my passion for ponies, I would have happily settled for being a stable person. I used to play these mind games with myself: if I were a jockey, what would make me the BEST jockey in the world? I was undaunted by the idea that I might have to eat two cornflakes a day, and – harder yet – find myself a real, live horse to ride. I slid away into my dreams, complete with a stunning horse proudly decorated with a horseshoe wreath of red roses, and I looking skinny and unimpressed by the cheers of an adoring crowd, dressed in crimson and white silks.

That daydream disappeared a year or so later, to be followed by the Florence Nightingale dream, the tightrope walker fantasy, and finally the Peggy Lee syndrome. Again, no matter that I wasn’t real keen on the sight of blood, that I was deathly afraid of the second rung of a stepladder, can’t sing and carry a tune, and that I never was skinny in my entire life…

So here was Roseann, offering me a chance to fulfill a childhood dream, and unthinkingly, I said, “Sure. I will be a jockey!”

“Great”, said Kasha. “We have four steeds and you will be riding this reddish-brown one. The others were all taken—Big Brown, Hari Kari, and White Lightening. She held them up—hobby horses on broom sticks with decorated stuffed heads. I immediately disliked White Lightening: she reminded me of my old playmate Connie Wilson whom I threw into the watercress pond. White Lightening was pure white, with long dark eyelashes and pouty red lips. Worst of all, she had a pink satin horn between her ears—a unicorn masquerading as a race horse. Fah!

Kasha also informed us that attendees were to wear fancy hats, and mint juleps would be served, along with tiny cheesecake squares. Everyone would be issued to paper Bingo dollars so they could place bets, and redeem their winnings at the OC ice cream parlor.

Well, by now I am into this! I scurried back to my room, and researched paper hat construction on the Internet. I took the front page from our local paper, The Leelanau Surprise, and followed the directions exactly. I added the pen with the flower on it that I received as a Mothers Day Present from OC. Viola! A hat for the party.

Here’s me in the hat:

Here are some of the others in their hats.

Jockeys were given a special derby to wear, but rebel that I am I preferred my own concoction.

People arrived, placed bets with our facility manager, and found chairs on the patio, where there is sun and shade, so everyone could be pleased. The essence of the show was that each jockey threw a single large plush die, and her horse was moved the number of spaces showing on the top of the thrown die.

Kasha led the applause—we clapped and whistled for losers, winners, and those that just needed cheering up. And in about fifteen minutes, the race was over—down to the end of the walkway and back, with enthusiastic cheering all the way.

Of course that floozy White Lightening won (but only because of her good looks). The rest of us (all three) placed second. The bets were paid off, and we adjourned to mint juleps (really good, though boozeless—Mint and sugar syrup mixed with Seven Up) and small cheesecakes of various flavors in little fluted cups. Then we took our ill gotten gains, marched to the Ice Cream Parlor, and traded bingo dollars for ice cream.

So my childhood dream comes true, I guess, in a whimsical and surprising setting. I lost the race to the glitzy tart of a unicorn—but there was no real skill involved, no real competition, just the gentle laughter of some friends sitting in the sun, enjoying the ridiculous and the sublime.

Morning:

old woman that I am

I must

lower the foot of my bed,

swing my legs over the edge

and push my self up

on my elbows.

It is tough, this getting up,

and I am creaky from sleeping without moving

all night.

Sitting now, I await the pain

that is always there, for years gnawing

at my hip, my back like a hungry rat

feasting on my flesh and energy.

But today, May 19, is a surprise:

for the first time in recent memory

my companion doesn’t appear:

he has taken his sharp teeth and gone

somewhere else

for breakfast.

No, my friends, I haven’t had another setback–but I can see why you think I might have had: I have such a bad rep when it comes to ’smooth sailing’! My latest interruption was not physical but technological–my wireless modem died. I mean, really died! When it’s connecting, its little green light blinks fast and steadily. But on Friday it slowed down to a lethargic blink every five seconds or so. Then, like a EKG monitor, it evened out to a steady green, a flat line of dysfunction.

Of course I called Verizon. Verizon Vern and I spent a chummy hour on the phone, running diagnostics. Vern spoke American English, had my correct data on his computer screen, and knew the exact tests for me to run to determine the nature of the problem. At the end, he said, “Well, Judith, it’s definately the modem. And yours is under warranty. I will put a new one in the mail.”

“When, oh when, will it get here?

“Well, I can’t get in in the mail until Monday; I will FedEx it, and it should be there on Wednesday.”

“WHAT??? WEDNESDAY???”

Of course, what we both failed to think about was that FedEx would want a signature, a hard thing to come by at my house. So here it is, Thursday. I have almost a thousand emails waiting and I will get to then, a little bit at a time. But first–Ginnie, Ron, and the rest of you: I am ok! My modem is OK, too. And I am scheduled to go home on May 26!!!