From Bad to Worse

My mother in the ER.

What can I say? My mother is old. She is frail and weak. Her days are numbered.

Update on Dorothy

My mother this past Easter, with flowers sent by my sister.

My mother is in her late 80s. A year ago, she suffered a "silent" heart attack that gave all of us an abrupt wake-up call. I haven't posted about her in a very long time, but she's still puttering along, like an Energizer bunny, but with a dwindling battery. (Even Energizers eventually run out of juice.)

Retirement, So Far

I've been seeing a satisfactory amount of my bed lately.

It's been a week since I finished up my previous job. I think I'm really getting into the swing of things and am following an aggressive schedule of sleep.

I'm only kind of exaggerating. I have slept well, thanks to significantly reduced stress, but I've also been trying to implement some of the "good health" objectives I had set myself. They were:

1. Walk every day
2. Meditate
3. Do yoga
4. Eat well

You wouldn't think those would be hard to do, would you? I sure didn't, but right now, I'd give my self a B-. I'm making progress, but there is significant room for improvement. For example . . .

Objective 1: Walk every day

I did walk on the first three days of the week, but the reasons were pathetic:

• I locked my keys in the car at the mall and had to walk/bus home.
• I had to walk back to the mall the next day to fetch the car.
• Steve needed the car on Wednesday so I had to walk/bus to my dentist appointment. This resulted in my needing a nap that afternoon. (I'm not exaggerating how exhausted I've been.)
• Thursday's walk consisted of shopping for hard-to-find supplies for my Christmas gifts. (I think that counts because, man, was I tired when I got home!)

On Friday, it was just too darned cold. I did put on real pants and a bra [You can see how my standards have fallen with retirement. But in all seriousness, I don't think there is a 34GG bra in the world that could be considered "comfy."] with the intention of braving the arctic air. So I figure that counts for something. But the sad fact remains: I did not even once put on my boots and Go for a Walk.

One of the books I'm reading points out that most resolutions fail because they are far too broad and dreamy. They state, "I will lose 10 pounds," instead of the more realistic: "I will put on real pants, put on my boots, and step outside every day." The latter addresses the psychological obstacles that get in the way. So . . .

Restating objective 1: put on real pants, put on outdoor footwear, and step outside every day.

Objective 2: Meditate

So far, most of my meditation has been done by candlelight most evenings while soaking my joints in the bathtub. I figure it's a good combination. I like efficiency, even as applied to relaxation practices, but what happens if I don't take an evening bath?

Restating objective 2: practice bath or non-bath meditation before bed. 

Objective 3: Do yoga

I made it to yoga on Wednesday -- but I need to start doing it at home. I can't afford to pay for more than once a week, but my body would benefit from more frequent stretching, balance, and relaxation.

Restating objective 3: do at least one half sun salutation every morning and one balance posture. 

Objective 4: Eat well

The "eating well" part is on an upward curve as well. I've been diligent about drinking green tea at least once a day, usually instead of coffee. I did quite well at avoiding mass-produced foods during the day, but dinnertime is a bit of a hit-and-miss affair as I often find I'm just too tired to pull a real meal together in the late afternoon. Having said that, we did enjoy a couple of really nice dinners at home, including this smoked salmon pasta, which I invented and loved.

The dirty ladle really doesn't add much to this picture, does it? Time for a re-shoot. Rob, can you send more salmon?

The salmon was wild-caught and hot-smoked by Steve's brother, who lives in Victoria, B.C. I simply broke the fish up into a white sauce* with shredded zucchini and a little lemon and tarragon. It was really, really yummy, for those of us who like smoked salmon.

I also get blindsided by the snack monster. Man! I just want a nosh! I did well on one day by preparing a healthy zucchini loaf, but I need to make snacks part of my daily plan so I don't just lunge for the carbs.

Restating objective 4: Plan a healthy snack every day.

So that's the state of things one week in. I'm doing better and feeling better. It's working!

* P.S. Did you know that what I have always blandly called "white sauce" is the same thing as sauce Béchamel? All these years, I thought Béchamel was some kind of Holy Grail of culinary sauces. Now I know it's just a snobby name for a basic ingredient.

I trust my doctor.

Much as my previous health-related post was fun in an OCD, hypochondriac sort of way, I'm actually quite glad that I have a good doctor who is on the ball and whom I trust, rather than having to rely on "crowd sourcing" (where I ask the unwashed masses to weigh in) or on the vagaries of the Internet as seen through my own neurotic lens.

As for any official diagnosis, the jury is still out. But I did want to follow up on the responses to that post.

Comments on the post itself and on Facebook suggested that aging and autoimmune disorders were strong contenders, but also raised the question of possible gluten intolerance.

Meanwhile, three medical wannabes ventured to do the survey. Here are the results. I can't figure out what it means. Can you?

If my reading of this is correct (the lower the score, the higher the ranking)
then Lupus got the strongest combined score, and Fibromyalgia got the lowest combined score.

Of course, three answers (and one of those skipped the ranking question) is about as far from scientifically reliable as Sarah Palin is from the presidency. Which is to say, it might have seemed reliable at some point, but it's not.

However, the comments on the survey were interesting.

Interesting.

I was actually diagnosed with sleep apnea years ago, but I kind of rejected it for several reasons:

• I felt that my daytime sleepiness was more likely related to undiagnosed diabetes (getting my blood sugar under control has helped tremendously with that!) 
• I wondered if the oxygen levels in my blood (part of how they diagnose apnea) were a function of living at very high altitude.
• The doctor who diagnosed me was kind of an apnea fanatic: apnea was the answer to every question.

But it's worth mentioning to my current doctor who doesn't seem to have a particular bias.

For now, I'm focusing on doing what I can to feel better. I've reduced my hours at work for a couple of weeks so I can rest and allow my body to heal. Some probiotics are on the menu. The exercise part is hard because I'm tired, but I do understand the importance both for the physical and mental benefits. (When I reduced my work hours, one of my plans was to take the dog for a good walk every morning. Hasn't happened yet, but it will.)

As a few of you commented, the depression is a priority. I'm combining traditional medicine as well as psychotherapy and light therapy (it's too coincidental that this coincides with shorter daylight and less skin exposure to sunlight).

But I will finish this post on a brighter note.

I am blessed to have many people in my life who fit this description: Steve, Pat, Winkie, my children, even my pets. I love them all.

Lamentations of Wynn Anne

Empathetic kitty waved her tail in my face
while I lay prostrate with neck pain.

Aching joints and arbitrary pain
Beat me down to bed again,
Clinging to pillow and
Downy coverlet.
Eager for relief I reach for
Futile pills and unguents. They
Guarantee naught but prolonged days.

Hark, Lord!
I call to thee!
Jesus, lift me from this place!
Kneel beside my weakened form and
Lift me with your gentle arms.

Migraines wrack my pounding brain,
Nausea slams me back again.
Over and over and over -- the same.
Pulsing lights and empty hours spent
Questioning the whys and hows of
Redemption and of peace.

Sleep is sweet, while it lasts, until
Tomorrow comes with mounting bills.
Undone by stress and marching time, and
Vomit flung at importune times.
Weary am I,
X-hausted [Seriously? Ed.] by these
Years. I last, but rather would have rest, my
Zest for life eroded by this dolor.

---

Well. That sure was a miserable bit of poetry! I must add a few notes.

1. I am not depressed. I have struggled with this in the past, and will undoubtedly do so again, but I am not now (despite the tone of this post). I'm just frustrated and am indulging in a little visit to "Pity City."
2. My body has been dragging me through the sloughs of misery: anxiety attacks, worsening migraines, and various joint ailments have plagued me these past few weeks. Not to mention the diabetes that is my constant companion now.
3. The verse above is a rather sloppy acrostic of the Roman alphabet. (My poet friends will cringe while reading, no doubt.) I chose the title of this post before I started writing it. In doing "research," I learned that the Book of Lamentations in the Bible is written (mostly) in acrostic form, using the letters of the Hebrew alphabet to begin each line. I thought it gave a nice structure to this post.

Despite my lamentations, I have woken this morning (mostly) pain-free, without nausea or flashing lights.

When did they stop saying that?

Photo taken March 2013

There was a time when people would comment, "Wow, you don't look like you have four children!"

This was generally deemed to be a compliment, but it always struck me as odd: what does a mother of four look like? Should I have more frown lines? Should I be older? Should I look more like Mama June?

But then Heidi Klum has four kids and, dayum, I wouldn't say no to having her figure! She probably has full-time nannies, so that explains her lack of wrinkles. Plus Botox and cosmetic surgery. And laughably good genes.

Now that I'm 50 (okay, technically, 51), I still get the "wow" part of the comment, but people have stopped remarking that I "don't look like a mother of four." Which, I guess, answers my questions: a mother of four looks like a middle-aged, slightly overweight, menopausal woman who has not gotten enough sleep of late.

Interestingly, the "you don't look like a mother of four" comments dried up only a few years after my last "when are you due?" query. (Actually, I only ever got that comment once, and it was when I was working in the baby department at Sears, so babies were clearly on the guy's mind. I felt sorrier for him than for myself. At the time, my youngest was under a year old.)

So I now look like a mother of four children (who are now well on their way to adulthood) and I don't look like I will be popping out any more. I'm absolutely okay with that.

Unravelling the Mysteries

A photo of me and my siblings, taken sometime before 1980.
Top: Christine
Middle: Wynn Anne, Pat
Bottom: Andrew, Stewart, Douglas, Harvey

That picture was taken when we were all young and healthy, while our parents were still (relatively) healthy. And it was taken before much usable research was done into the mysteries of the human genome.

Since then, the world of genetics has blossomed, and we've learned more than we ever dreamed. Cystic fibrosis, from which two of nieces suffer, was one of the first diseases whose genetic marker was pinpointed by researchers. It is now one of the first to be targetted for gene therapy!

Am I turning "crunchy"?

Some of the bounty from our weekly food basket.

Oh, my god. I just reflected on a few things that have come together in the past few weeks.

1. Steve and I started taking a parenting course that includes expressions like relationship mindfulness, radical acceptance, and opposite action. These are pretty flaky concepts, people.
2. I signed up for home delivery of organic, locally grown vegetables. 
3. Steve and I started taking a yoga class together. 

You see where this is heading, don't you?

In six months or less, we'll be living off the land, shearing our own sheep, carding and spinning the wool and wearing poorly woven shawls as we embrace you in all of our deodorant-free mugginess and share our stash of gingko biloba.

Okay, probably not. But all three of these things are new to me and I like them.

The skills we're learning in the parenting course have broader applications and really do help me understand and empathize more.

The food is great - tasty and fresh and bountiful. Not to mention convenient.

Yoga was a pleasant surprise: relaxing and peaceful, which is just what I needed. And doing it with Steve made it a kind of date. [Confession: I almost wimped out on the way to the very first class, because we were late and I'd had a crappy day and just wanted to go eat comfort food. Steve gently insisted. Yay, Steve!]

I didn't set out to make these kind of changes as New Year's resolutions, but it does seem to be turning into a year of positive change.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go hug a few trees. See ya later!

Another Year Older

Wynn Anne and Steve, May 1993

And it's not just any year older. I have reached the milestone of 50 years.

I don't feel 50. I feel, maybe, mid-thirties. And when I turn toward a mirror, I expect to see Wynn Anne circa 1990. I think my self-image froze in time about then.

Reality, however, has not been so kind. Gravity and failing cells have allowed sags and wrinkles, not to mention arthritis and diabetes. It is, alas, the common condition: we cannot keep our first blush of youth; our bodies march inexorably toward death.

Doesn't mean we have to rush things along, but it is the reality of aging.

Hmm. This isn't quite where I thought I was going with this . . . Let's get this particular meandering back on track!

In the lead-up to this milestone birthday, I wasn't feeling very celebratory. Diabetes, the angina scare, and a puzzling increase in the frequency and severity of my migraines left me resentful, truth be told. So I told Steve that, yes, I wanted a party, but to please keep it small. Still festive, but small.

He did as asked, but also managed to surprise me by arranging for my sister, Pat, to come up from Oakville. I was completely taken by surprise when she stepped out of the car. For some perplexing reason, I thought she was a cleaning lady. (Wha? Where did that come from?)

And then I blurted out, "I thought you were a duck!" The latter was a tongue-tie that combined from my having posted a note on Facebook about puppies and the fact that I was currently playing a game that involved ducks.

I did not, in fact, think she was a duck. And I was beyond elated to have her here. I couldn't stop hugging her.

See? She doesn't look like a duck. Or a cleaning lady.

The next day, Pat helped me get ready for the party and accompanied me on a mani-pedi.

Pat helped me choose these very girly balloons.
(Did you know there is a helium shortage in Ottawa? So we were told.)
I was in full-on princess mode, and loving every minute of it.

I also had one frivolous and very specific request: I wanted a piglet cake. As a Timid Traveler and Generally Anxious Person, Piglet is a bit of an animal spirit for me. The idea for the cake was inspired by this cake, which I discovered on Pinterest, but here's a link to the baker's blog.

Steve scoured the Ottawa area and found Justkist Cakes, who produced this absolutely huggable sculptured cake. Yes, it's all edible except for the head. 

Can you say, "Adorable"?

I didn't get pictures of everyone. As I've said before, I kind of lose my paparazzi momentum about half way through a party. Sorry, Emily, Peter, Barb and Stuart, Katie and Rovic, and Laurel, and Elliott!

Paul and Nancy

Kathryn sings Happy Birthday while Claus helps out with the beer.

Ron and Heidi

I forgot to get pictures of the delicious food, including Tiramisu made by Kathryn. Of course, when the time came to serve the cake, there was some understandable horror about having to pull off Piglet's head.

AHHHHHHH!

But we got over it. 

Even Elizabeth, who might have been traumatized, found it funny.
(She later ate an ear. Solid sugar.)
There were, of course, jokes about John the Baptist and Lord of the Flies.

A pretty perfect birthday party, I would say. Thank you, Steve, Pat, Barb, and Kathryn, for all the hard work, and to my friends and family for an uplifting day - and for your generous gifts. 

The man who made it happen.

The Crone

Once upon a time, I was young, and met many of our culture's criteria for prettiness. I was slender, my face was more or less symmetrical, I had a clear complexion, I was short, and I had discernible breasts.

I received a good bit of attention for this, not all of it pleasant. A pervert flashed his member while I walked past on my way home from high school. ["Flashed" makes it sound like I could've missed it if I'd blinked; let me assure you, I would have to have taken a nap to have missed it.]

A health-club sales prospect once pressed his full body up against my back as I showed him the squash courts. [Oh! Now I get it: the SQUASH courts! Hah! I did not find it funny. I was afraid he was going to push me right over into the court many feet below.]

But most of the attention was innocuous: doors held open, smiles. Inclusion.

Then I gained weight. And then I aged. And gradually, I have become almost invisible. You may doubt me, but it's true. I recently stood patiently waiting for a fitting room for at least 10 minutes before the pretty, young attendant even acknowledged me and directed me to a room that had been vacant the entire time. (No one had left in the previous ten minutes, so I know it hadn't been recently vacated.)

I remember also one colleague who virtually stopped communicating with me when I gained weight, only to "rediscover" me when I lost 25 pounds. Even Jennifer Hudson, who lost 80 pounds, agrees.

People are friendlier; there are more opportunities, more flexibility in so many different ways. I think it’s messed up that people are so image-driven and your appearance affects the way people treat you,” she added. “It’s crazy and it may be something we do subconsciously, but there it is.

Frankly, I've reached a point where, even if I could exercise and diet my way back into a size 6, my skin, age spots, under-eye circles, and boob-saggage would clearly mark me as non-sexual and therefore invisible (except to a certain significant other). I have not inherited good genes in that department.

Gloria Swanson as Norma Desmond in Sunset Boulevard. Source
Why are there sequins on her face? Are they covering moles?

I can see how women once idolized for their beauty - like Norma Desmond in Sunset Boulevard -- make youth their obsession.

I'm not quite ready to embrace the role of Crone, nor am I bitter or disgruntled about fading to the periphery (though rudeness, as displayed by the fitting room attendant, is not okay). I'm just reflecting on what it is to be me, overweight, approaching 50, and entering menopause. It is an entirely new stage of life. And unlike the other stages (childhood, adolescence, womanhood, motherhood ...), I think I would like to navigate this one, rather than just ride the currents.

Incidentally, all of this meandering was triggered by this hysterically funny video. Enjoy!

"All the things I have to look forward to, now that my womb is ... old." ~ Shannon Bradley-Colleary, the Woman Formerly Known as Beautiful.

Time Expired

The "come hither" look is undermined by the pustular sore on the eye lid.
(This picture was really hard to take!)
(Hey! Look! My eyes are following you!)

I saw my doctor this morning. I told him that I felt like my warranty had expired. As with the corollary to Murphy's law, little things (and big) were malfunctioning: I had a stye that wasn't responding to hot compresses; I had a sinus infection; and I was trying to pull myself out of a depression.

He chuckled when I used that metaphor (he looks like Santa Claus -- white hair and a well-fed belly -- and his demeanor reinforces that impression) and told me about an al-Qaeda hostage who, at the ripe old age of 50, was seen by his captors as ancient, as if he were "time expired" and not worth investing much effort in keeping alive. (In that area of the world, average life expectancy is approximately 54 years.)

The doctor wrote me prescriptions for antibiotics and discussed causes and treatment for my depression. I mentioned that I had recently stopped taking meds for my ADHD (they caused intolerably dry mouth); he said that likely precipitated the depression and that it could take a few more weeks to sort itself out. In the meantime, I have a short-term med to keep things stable.

So I guess this means I've extended my shelf life. Yay for good drugs!

Nothing Lasts Forever (but the Earth and Sky)

When we were just starting out, acquiring our first car, our first set of living room furniture, our first pots & pans, it never occurred to me that these things would wear out, need replacing. That, in short, we'd have to do this whole thing again.

It's not that I dislike new cars or redecorating a living room, it's just that I feel like I've "ticked that box":

Sofa? Check
Car? Check
Coffee table? Check
Really good mattress? Check
Matching plates and bowls? Check
Good interview suit? Check
Perfect pair of black business shoes? Check
Perfect black dress boots? Check

But then this happens:

The previously perfect "chair and a half" that now
sags and droops on the most-used side.

Soles wear through, straps break, fabric pills or wears through. Parts wear out, paint chips, wood gets dinged and scraped.

Even without the fickleness of fashion or the vagaries of personal preferences, things need to be replaced. We fight this entropy for a little while, resoling shoes, steam-cleaning upholstery, putting the chipped plates at the bottom of the stack.

It is merely a pitiable struggle against the inexorable march of time.  Eventually, we donate the worn items to offspring setting up their own homes or to others who are just scraping by and appreciate these previously loved items.

And it wouldn't be nearly so irritating if it didn't also apply to this middle-aged body of mine.

New game, kids!

Find the spots, wrinkles, bags, and lumps of which Wynn Anne writes! 

Bonus points for finding the cluster of red blood vessels. (Click to enlarge.) 

See if you can join all the spots to create a picture of a cow or a space ship!

What fun!

Hair thins and greys, skin sags in wrinkled folds, spots appear — and grow — on previously unblemished skin, lumps — LUMPS! — appear. (And, Jeff, I know you're going to chastise me for taking spectacularly unflattering photos of myself, but, guess what: this is me!)

It gets worse; it's not just aesthetics. Joints ache, muscles weaken, and organs complain. I now have osteoarthritis in my hands, such that a gentle rap on my pinkie has me swearing, holding my hand and practicing Lamaze breathing for several minutes.

And, of course, the mind goes.

• About 30 minutes ago, I got out a mug, placed in it a bag for Berryblossom White tea (smells delicious), then turned on the kettle and came back to my laptop to write. 
• About 3 minutes ago, I went into the kitchen to get a glass of water and saw my neglected mug reproaching me. 
• About 3 seconds ago, I remembered that I wanted the drink so that I could take my pills.

[I do concede that some of this moment-to-moment forgetfulness is simply ADHD, but still.]

Folks, I'm not even 50 yet. I can't imagine what a sad case I'll be when I'm 80. And unlike the sofa and the car, I can't trade in my joints and neurons for an upgrade. At least, not yet. (Laura - drop the asthma research and get working on this!)

My point is, I am resigned to this process, but I'm not happy about it. You may now call the waaah-mbulance.

Morbid Meanderings

Death comes for us all
even at our birth — even at our birth,
death does but stand aside a little.
               ~ Robert Bolt, Sir Thomas More, Act II

Sometimes Often, I think about my impending death. No, I'm not ill (well, not in any kind of terminal way), but death is an inevitability, so it's always at the back of my mind.

Always.

It may be a slightly OCD thing.

When I had young children, completely dependent on me, I would sometimes obsess over what might happen to them if I suddenly collapsed, like Julia Roberts did in Steel Magnolias. The image of her wee toddler there wailing his little heart out traumatized me something awful.

I frequently contemplated making "in an emergency, please call" cards, just in case I died on the way to picking up a child from school. I never did that, but it was probably a manifestation of how burdened I felt by the responsibility of caring for my children.

Sometimes when I'm driving, I'll think, "What if I had a massive coronary right now? How would I manage to stop the car without killing anyone?"

And whenever I sign a document with a date on it, I fret if I accidentally put a future date on it: what if I die before the actual date? Then there would be an impossible document: either the date or the signature would be fraudulent! (For some reason, this does not bother me when it comes to post-dated cheques.) [Haha! Cheques! Who writes cheques anymore?]

Yes, death is a constant companion, and not in the good "live each day as if it were your last" kind of way.

So it will come as no surprise to you that when I saw this ad, I clicked.

'Cuz who wouldn't want a casket made by Trappist monks?!

Sadly, it looks like they don't deliver to Canada. But it's given me a new death-related thing to obsess about. Yay?

Feeling Nostalgic

You just never know when googly eyes
will come in handy.
Evidently Christian Louboutin
agrees with me.

Maybe it's because I visited my great-nephew recently.

Or maybe it's because the challenges our kids face now are so much more complicated. Their broken hearts are harder to heal than their scuffed knees. If, that is, they even come to us with their heartaches.

More likely, it's because my biological clock is striking midnight.

In any case, I have been feeling very nostalgic for when our kids were young. On Sunday, as I was walking into a craft store, I glimpsed buckets of sidewalk chalk and remembered all those summers that the kids decorated our driveway. 

Inside the store, I saw a kit of random craft objects (Styrofoam ball, sticks, glue, glitter, feathers, paint) designed for open-ended creativity, and I remembered the kits I put together to bring up to the cottage with us - full of many of the same things. (The Lego required a whole separate bin.)

I can't remember when we stopped buying these things. When we were packing to move from Colorado, Steve asked if we could get rid of the small box of ornamental feathers, buttons, and googly eyes I had carefully labeled as "Glue-on-ables." I think I said no. I think I lost the argument.

Just a little denial there. 

But, while I have fond yearnings for those younger years, I will not for a single moment miss my fertility. Well, except maybe for a few moment of fondness for the miracles of pregnancy and newborns. I am so glad I got to experience those. 

But I certainly won't miss the monthly reminders. I can think of no redeeming feature of menstruation.  

I am very ready for this phase of my life to be tied up with a pretty (red) ribbon, so I can move on to the next phase. (I do hope there will be babies, just not my own.)

Tiny Dancer

I'm a bit of a stickler for rules, you may have noticed. There is a right and a wrong way for everything. In this, I am very much like my older son. His world has a lot of black and white, and very little grey.

Sadly, sometimes I come down on the wrong side of black and white. Tonight, for example, we went to Brian's band barbecue fundraiser. It was an extremely casual affair, with picnic blankets, hot dogs, tug-o-war, egg-races, ice cream, and lots of sugar-buzzed little kids running around while parents chatted (and secretly wished the event included beer so they could be buzzed as well).

When the band started playing, my foot started wagging along with Emily's.

Those kids are surprisingly good! 

And while they played, a little girl (about six years old) grabbed some streamers that were lying around and began to dance. She sashayed with wild abandon between the audience and the band.

And I Was Irritated.

The show's not about her, I thought.
She's stealing the attention from the band, I thought.
She's just an attention whore, I thought.
She should be dancing behind the audience, I said to Emily.

Righteous indignation was mine. And then I thought:

Wait a minute. There is music playing. A child is dancing. I am grouchy about it. What is wrong with this picture?

I was wrong with this picture! I'm glad she danced. I hope she never stops.

Let them praise his name with dancing and make music to him with tambourine and harp.                                                                                                                       Psalm 149:3

Sadly, I didn't get a picture of the tiny dancer,
but this wee girl shows the same joy.

What was I just saying?

Last night as I drifted off to dreamland, I had a brilliant idea for a blog post. A perfect balance between humour and insight, with just a touch of mommy-blog thrown in. Then I fell asleep.

*Musical interlude. Visit our snack bar for a refreshing, cold drink and a super-sized popcorn! (Grab me some Twizzlers while you're there. Unless they have Goodies/Good 'n' Plenty. In which case, get me some of those.)*

When I awoke, I remembered that I had had a Good Idea. Yay!

Unfortunately for you, I could not remember what that idea was. Several times throughout the day, I got the feeling that the idea was just, just out of reach. Like when you're searching for a word or a name.

This kind of thing happens to me with alarming frequency these days. Just last weekend, I was shopping for Steve's birthday present (he's turning 50!). The store I was at didn't have what I was looking for, but while there I remembered that I also wanted a proper cake stand with a cover. (A little self-indulgent shopping is allowed.) I walked to the other side of the aisle - no more than 3 seconds away - and completely, COMPLETELY forgot what I was looking for. It was gone. Phhhhp! Gone. Like mercury on a cracked floor. (I did that once. Twice, actually.)

Anyway, my shopping goal had vanished. All except for a niggling sense that I was no longer just idly browsing, but had a Purpose, an Intent. (And had a sudden propensity for Germanic capitalization. Actually, it's A. A. Milnes-ian capitalization, if you must know. It means Something is Important.)

I stopped. I looked around. Nothing. I tried mentally retracing my steps, to no avail. Finally, I walked back to where I had been and glanced along the shelves. My eyes lighted upon a completely unrelated item, which just happened to be the thing I had looked when I remembered the cake stand. Would you believe that I suddenly remembered the cake stand?

The store didn't have what I was (secondarily) looking for, but that's beside the point. The point is: I appear to be losing my marbles.

Oh, sure, you're thinking, "Oh, that happens to me all the time. It's normal, just a sign that you're overworked, overstressed, under-slept." ("Underslept"? WTF? Sleep-deprived!)

This post has now gone over-the-edge with asides, capitalization and general nonsense. Sorry. This is Serious. (A. A. Milnes-ian capitalization again. Incidentally, you have to read those words with special intonation to acknowledge the importance.)

Anyone whose family has been touched by Alzheimers must have these fleeting or lasting worries. My forgetfulness is undoubtedly normal. Especially for someone with ADHD. This isn't the first time I've obsessed over this. I actually had a brain MRI (or was it a CT? Can they even do that? Can CT scans go through skulls?). Plus, there's just normal aging. I'm almost 50 (in a year and a half)!

Believe it or not, all of this, all 458 words of it, is an apologia for not having a really interesting post for you today. So, um, sorry about that. If I remember what I wanted to write about, I will.


This is a neuron.



This is a neuron with Alzheimer's.

Dawning realization

I just realized that when my niece has her baby (sometime in the next 30 days or so), I will be a great-aunt. Good grief. This will be the first grandchild amongst all my six siblings. My first great-niece or great-nephew.

I'm kind of stunned because "great-aunt" is a term reserved for, well, for my aunts, in relation to my children. Not to ME. And great-aunts are, frankly, old. Always have been. I've loved my aunts (my kids' great-aunts) to bits, but they've always been the older generation.

To make things worse, as hubby pointed out, my brother will be a GRANDFATHER. An old man, I tell you.

As I was lamenting all of this out loud, my 13-year-old chimed in, "But Mom, you've always been great!"

I think he should get an increase in his allowance, just for that.