When Skeletons Walk November 30, 2007

 

 

By late summer, when the hospice nurse switched Don over to liquid morphine, his wife and kids had almost stopped tiptoeing and holding their breath. Don had always been a mean drunk and they weren’t ready to forgive and release him like the social worker said. Occasionally, as the flesh dropped away from his bones, he acted ready to bring up the subject. But by the time he had marshaled his courage the room would have emptied, everyone suddenly busy with household chores and whatnot. 

            The day he died was like every other day of the previous nine months except that he barely woke at all. Charlene washed his face and hands and wrestled him into a clean gown.  Life went on around him.  By midafternoon, he was breathing deeper, intermittently opening his eyes and staring into space. Charlene slipped the hospice pamphlet from between the pages of a romance novel and read the signs of impending death. She called the nurse.

            The nurse arrived to find Don stark naked and raving out in the yard, Charlene pleading with him to come back inside, honey, come back inside.  He was swinging at Charlene and screaming, wild eyed and sweating.  The nurse grabbed her cell phone and dialed the pharmacist, all the while chasing Don around the yard.  She lacked history with his fists, and so was willing to get close—it was her job.  In twenty minutes, she had accomplished the following:  Don was seated on the porch, his lap was covered by a blue hospital gown, and he was drinking a little water. Charlene sat in the kitchen and smoked a third cigarette.

When the pharmacist arrived with a syringe full of the most sedating medicine on his shelf, Don sprang to life again.  It took all three sons and the pharmacist to hold him down while the nurse jabbed the syringe into his wasted thigh.  In a few minutes, the same group carried Don—now a sweaty, sobbing, angry mess of regrets and confusion—into the house.  Within thirty minutes, the hospice nurse had him bathed and settled into bed.  Soon he was asleep.  With nothing more to do, and offers of additional help—volunteers, the chaplain, social work—politely declined, the nurse left.

The family, exhausted by the afternoon and skilled in the practice of avoidance sat silently in his room while he drew his last, gasping breath.  They reported to family and friends that he died at peace and that the hospice nurse was an angel. 

           

Shiny! Shiny! November 10, 2007

 

 

 

I’m such a dabbler. I’ve done so many things, tried so many hobbies, purchased supplies for so many projects. My house is full, my bank account, empty. I have had a stable career, with a predictable trajectory, one that has carried me up onward and upward to more money and more autonomy. But in my personal life, much like a crow, I am attracted to the next shiny thing, the newest thing. I throw myself into these pursuits with abandon, certain that this will be the final thing, the thing that will satisfy me all of my life. But no. It is never to be. Something new catches my eye, something exciting, full of color and passion, and I fall. Headlong into it, checkbook at the ready, eyes glittering with the fever. I’m like a love junkie, only with hobbies. I enjoy the rush of new knowledge, the contours of the thing, the accoutrements, the sweet certainty of excitement. It’s all uncharted, unmapped. It’s an adventure. And I’m just the sap to fall for it. I will say, in my own defense, that typically I do complete at least one project in each medium. I’m a dabbler, not a quitter, dammit.

            But right now, I’m cleaning out the basement, in preparation for the return of my oldest daughter, whose college career has surpassed her money. She will be here for her last semester. Unlike many of today’s Americans, I have a small house. It’s a classic 1970s era bi-level, with about 1800 square feet. Two baths, one shower. Soon, there will be four adults (3 of them women) and two dogs here. Oh, the horror. And what I’m running smack into is the dark side of my little dabbling addiction…the sheer volume of shit I’ve collected, crow-like, over the year. Let’s look at a small portion of it, shall we?

 

·        Tile nippers. I did love mosaic. But my arthritic hands didn’t. I have gotten rid of most of the tile, but somehow, the little nippers got left behind. Kind of like all the heathens in a Tim LeHaye novel.

·        Five cigar boxes and three film reel canisters of seashells. I live in Kansas. Where did they come from? I don’t recall, your honor. Also, I don’t smoke, nor do I make films. Bizarre, eh?

·        A large box full of silk dye. Many beautiful colors, just like on Easter—but no vinegar smell, most of the time. What a glorious hobby. What a glorious, messy, extremely space-consuming hobby! The entire kitchen was covered with wet silk. And everything turned into a first-grade watercolor painting. It’s a little too “que, sera, sera” for me.

·       Fancy yarns, one large basket. Some of these yarns rival fine cheese in the per gram price. They sit, like Faberge eggs, beautiful but useless. The arthritis again. Can’t knit without hand pain.

·        2 large containers of beads. For my embellished quilting projects. Which are a thing of the past. The beads, however, linger on in the carpet—forever.

·        A Rubbermaid tote of fabric scraps, both couture and quilty. I quickly learned that I am hopeless at altering patterns, and therefore it is cheaper to buy retail. Quilts are nice, but really, I prefer a polarfleece blanky. So much easier to wash the doghair off of.

 

You’re getting the picture, I think. I see a storage space in my future, at least until one or the other of my daughters moves back out again. Meanwhile, I’ll try to resist new hobbies and supplies. I have shrine-making and print Gocco supplies bookmarked on Mozilla, so the illness is still active, obviously.

I try to reason with myself. The only thing I do daily, other than eat, sleep and, well, bathroom duty, is read (and maybe complain a little). I have tried to make a daily habit of art, writing, meditation, yoga, and exercise, to no avail. For a packrat like me, it seems like a godsend that reading is my daily practice. Because books can be borrowed! Borrowed, and then, gloriously, returned! No stash, no surplus, no storage. So I’ve limited myself to what I call “reference” books. Books about writing, books about art, books about books……it’s amazing how many there are, really, when you think about it. Don’t you agree?

November 10, 2007

Rewiring the Hotel November 8, 2007

another entry in the health information category….

Hot flashes are the biggest complaint I see in my practice. They range from mild warmth to drenching sweats, and have an emotional component that runs the gamut from mildly flustered to the screaming meemies. Let me tell you, there is nothing more embarrassing as a health care provider than breaking into a flustered sweat and fanning yourself immediately after performing a hernia check on a twenty-something male patient…I’m sure they think it’s their own hotness that’s got me so steamed up. They don’t realize the exact same thing occurs when I am removing a lesion from an octogenarian’s gnarly foot!

I appreciate the disinclination many women feel about taking HRT (hormone replacement therapy), after all the negative press (though confusingly for us, now much of it is being retracted. Of course.) So let’s explore the options that are out there.

First, lifestyle changes. Are you wearing cool clothing, keeping a fan handy, minimizing caffeine, spicy foods, and alcohol? Uh-huh, I thought not. Put down the vino, doll, especially the reds. Now, stop crying, dear, it’ll just make you have another hot flash. Oh yes, don’t forget “thinking cool thoughts,” as those of us who grew up without A/C recall our mothers advising us. (snorts with derision) Cool thoughts indeed! Oh, and exercise. It seems to reduce the hot flashes too. PS, smokers also have more hot flashes—another good reason to quit.

The next thing you can try, if you are not doing this already, is 2 servings of soy products per day. A friend swears by the chocolate soy milk. I’m allergic to soy, so I wouldn’t know, but it seems to be everywhere now, so have at it. I think I even saw some soy-infested candy somewhere. Soy also protects your bone density to some extent, due to the estrogen-like isoflavone genistein. Some researchers are concerned that this isoflavone is so much like estrogen, it could increase cancer risk, so don’t go overboard. Too much soy can also give you diarrhea. And that’s sooo much fun along with the hot flashes.

Many people have tried Black Cohosh, and feel it helps them. It is an herb that also seems to be an estrogen-type precursor, but the clinical evidence is poor that it significantly relieves hot flashes. It is available under the brand name Remfemin,® or by itself at most pharmacies and health-food stores. Similarly, dong quai and evening primrose oil, two other so-called “women’s tonic” herbs have poor evidence to support their use. There is some decent, though limited, clinical evidence that Red Clover extract works, and you can find it under the brand name Promensil,® or by itself as well. Remember that if you take prescription medication, your health care provider should know all of the herbs and supplements you take as well.

There are a couple of blood pressure medicines and antidepressants that are being used with mixed results for hot flashes, and those are available only with a prescription, of course. These would be most valuable for women who absolutely shouldn’t have estrogen or estrogen-like substances—women with blood clotting disorders or reproductive cancers, or estrogen-responsive breast cancers.

For most women, the hot flashes do taper off and come to an end, but for some, they will last for years. Years of sweaty freakouts and subzero thermostat readings. Sorry to pass on that news, but it had to be said.

There are some women who feel that the hot flashes are sort of “rewiring” their bodies for the later years. (See especially the fantastic book, “Elderwoman,” by Marian Van Eyck McCain at http://www.elderwoman.org) This is a perspective that embraces the changes of menopause as a powerful transition, one which prepares women for the “wise elder” phase of their lives. I think this is great, but if you are only in your 40s, it’s tough to embrace the idea that you are on the cusp of being a wise elder. But, as with many stressors, positive thinking and acceptance of the emotional state can be of help, so you might try this approach. Many holistic providers offer energy work or acupuncture that can ease your transition as well. Just be cautious about multi-herbal preparations, if offered. Herbs are drugs, and “natural” is not necessarily equivalent to “safe.”

Obviously, each woman is different and what works for one may not work for another. The degree of hot flash severity, the number you have daily, and your circumstances make a difference in treatment choices. If you have to change your clothes/wring out your hair each time you have one, and you work outside the home, you would probably be willing to do just about anything to stop the flashes, damn the consequences. On the other hand, if you are just mildly sweaty and irritable, I advise you to dress in layers, keep a steady supply of icepaks around, a fan in every room, and warn your partner to look out. You’re being rewired, and everyone knows that renovation is a bitch.