Pillville Residents Go to the Mall

You didn't want to see a photo of the mall, did you? So here's a picture of the tomatoes purchased at the farmer's market on Sunday.

Miracle Ear! Sears! Trying out the new wheelchair!

Are you excited yet? If not, I'm guessing you do more interesting things with your day, but here in Pillville an outing that includes all three of us (my mother, the man who loves me, and myself) is a rare occurrence.

I'm happy to report that my mom's hearing aids seem to be working a bit better. The new Miracle Ear technician is very handsome, and I suspect that, if through some miracle of shape shifting, I could become him, my mom might hear me a bit better. The new batteries and the cleaning will help too, no doubt.

During the visit from the in-home nurse this morning, we were advised to wheel my mom at least part of the trek to Miracle Ear due to her sudden blood pressure fluctuations, and that went well, too. The chair is just light enough for me to get it in and out of the hatch without a great effort.

I didn't do any shopping at the mall--which is just how I like it. Sometime in 2014, I hope to buy:
1) some new lingerie
2) a cardigan sweater
3) a couple of t-shirts that look nice with the cardigan sweater.
4) one of those fizzy water machines
5) a deck of yoga flash cards and a yoga book (on-line, probably, so I'm not sure this counts)
6) a tube of lipstick

I still have ten months to accomplish this. But I absolutely hate to shop with anyone, and I hate to just browse (unless it's a thrift store or a garage sale.) I prefer the get in and get out method of shopping.

The man who loves me researched new jeans at Sears. I tell him that he reminds me of Gandhi since the weight loss after his surgery--and if he doesn't get new jeans soon, he may look even more like him once his pants fall off. This smaller version of him makes me feel quite zaftig. 

I had a dream not too many months ago where we went to a Halloween costume party as John and Yoko. He was Yoko and I was John.

If we were to go to a Halloween party this year, we could give this a try:

Looks to me like she's a bit heavier than he is.

Report from Pillville: the Podiatrist, the Cardiologist and Miracle Ear Part V, etc. etc.

The Podiatrist:
Doctor+ power tools-general anesthesia=thank god, I'm sitting down on a chair that has arms because I began to sway. My mom was a trooper, though. Corns removed on the outside and inside of little toes. Toenail fungus ground into near oblivion. Plus, I acquainted her with some spiffy new shoes from Arcopedico. I discovered what a miracle these shoes were for my backaches when I was walking to and from the train before I left the City of Angels. They're easy on the toes, too. Mom has the blue ones and the hot pink ones. I now have three colors--hot pink, orange, and green. The red ones are tempting....don't worry I can stop at any time. Uh, but what I really need is a pair of Arcopedico sandals...in some nice colors.

The Cardiologist/the carotid artery and an echocardiogram of the heart:
"I've never had any tests like those before," she said.
"Are you sure? You have a pacemaker.....wouldn't they perform these tests before installing a box in your chest?"
Hmmm. Who knows? Maybe it's one of those past memory fragments that's just fallen away. In any event, now we await the results--the doctor will call if there's anything scary to report.

Miracle Ear:
5 appointments=1 working hearing aid. The only thing good I have to say about Miracle Ear at this point is that the technician who has been taking care of my mom and the her receptionist are the sweetest. There's a little hug fest every time we say good-bye. Really, these are nice, nice people. The hearing aid tech had tears in her eyes on the last visit when she had to break the news that one of the new hearing aids arrived not working. Hellooooo people, can you hear me? Floss, wear sunscreen, and take care of your ears. Hey, you with the ear buds and the music so loud that I can dance to it, turn it the fuck down.

The New Medication (Namenda): 
So far, so good. I've been watching and waiting. Yesterday, I heard a little freakout outside the laundry room (smoking area #2.) It was the first thing in the morning and I rushed downstairs, half gym clothes/half pajamas, to check it out. She had a ball of lint in her hand the size of a mouse. It startled her. But the same thing has been happening on the patio with spiders all along. She's always had a big reaction to things that scare her. I swear I can still see her and hear her screaming in our kitchen as she fashioned a dish towel into a sling the day my brother broke both the bones in his arm 45 years ago. Blood is even worse. I won't churn those waters. And the morning shortly after my high school graduation when she figured out I was pregnant? Oh, if I ever self-publish my book, you can read about it.
I asked her at dinner last night if she noticed feeling any different from the new drug. She shook her head. "Not at all," she said. But the only thing she was really feeling right then was the gin.
The real trouble is that whenever I want to think of the name of this drug...uh, I can't remember it. I got it now though....Amend+Namasté.

Bone Density and the Density of the Demeanor in Doctors' Office Staff:
Call to office #1: Hello again, you little bitch, I'm not asking for your first-born child, I'm just asking if you could ever-so-kindly double check to see if there is a bone density scan in my mom's records that maybe didn't get sent to her new doctor.
Call to office #2: Oh, hi, gosh thanks for calling me back so fast, wow, yes, please fax the scan to my mom's new doc. Oh, and you have some of the doctor's notes and you want to fax those, too? You have a nice afternoon, too.

The Calendar:
There's some white space in front of us. I told her last night that the only thing we have on the calendar for the rest of October and November is an appointment at Miracle Ear. Of course, that could morph into a series of follow-ups, but maybe not. "You might need to start going out to do other stuff," I said. "Fun stuff." She likes staying home, she said. Watching the birds, and the boats. Crocheting. And she has a stack of books that the man who loves me gave her for her birthday.
And yes, she should see a gastroenterologist. The Beano has been an utter failure. Flatulence and poor hearing is a comically cruel combo. My son laughs about it---says it's an awesome  way to proceed with life--giving up that bit of self-conscious propriety. He's got a point, but I'm not signing on to that yet. Farting just doesn't match up with those cute pink shoes.

Location of my Head: Above Water

Here at the end of week one, where the citi-states of Margaritaville and Martiniville have merged, I am happy to report that my mother and I seem to be compatible housemates.
I'm doing okay with remembering to turn to face her when we speak--but sometimes there are still misunderstandings. Rhyming is charming if one is reading "Cat in the Hat;" it's less charming when words sound alike, and you are struggling to decipher them because your expensive hearing aids are not living up to expectations. Tomorrow we are going to Miracle Ear. Allow me to channel my mother's demeanor here: there'd damn well better be a miracle.

Cooking for my mother every evening is making me eat better. We've consumed a boat-load of veggies this week and enough fish to oil our brains. So far this week we've eaten two boxes of greens, carrots, red and green peppers, mushrooms, zucchini, yellow squash, broccoli, cauliflower, onions, peas, tomatoes, avocados, sweet potatoes, and two containers of hummus. Now if I can just get some  extra calories in her. She says she'd like to gain 20 pounds. I'd be happy with any progress at all. I've set out cookies and encouraged a middle of the night bowl of ice cream if she wakes. Butter seems to be the key, though. She eats it like cheese, sliced thick, as she says her grandfather did. She detests margarine and the memory of squeezing the orange packet of dye into the lard during the depression as a butter substitute. She's not ever going to eat that shit again, she says.

My mother is great at helping out with household chores. She folds laundry and empties the dishwasher. She's already figured out where things go. She feeds the cat in the morning. She makes her bed every day.

There's still (involuntary?) moaning, groaning, and growling, but it doesn't bother me the way it did immediately following her surgery three years ago. It does rule our certain activities though--like going to the theatre which she enjoyed immensely when we'd go to New York several years back. I'm hoping she'll growl ferociously when the boys on the noisy motorized scooter speed by on the walking path.

It seems that there's been a scaling back of the martinis. One instead of two. This began on night #3 when I encouraged her to have a glass of wine for dinner instead of a second martini. This slightly more temperate atmosphere makes for better story telling. Tonight I learned that her final job at John Deere was fork-lift driver. So easy compared to working on the assembly line that it was like sleeping, she said.

M has been with us this week. Always a beam of sunshine and ready laugher. Hoping my head remains above water when I am on my own with my mom in the coming week.