We almost built an ark

Half my yard was under water last weekend, and my garden shed was flooded, but I was one of the lucky ones; the water didn’t come into the house.

The news was full of stories about muddy hills sliding into homes and roads and rivers rising over their banks. The rain came down in sheets, blown sideways by stiff winds that nipped off weak branches and pushed at trees and houses. Driving over the Yaquina Bridge at the end of a white-knuckle trip to Albany and back, I felt it beating on my car like a bully determined to throw me into the bay. It was a time to go home and stay there as rainfall records dissolved on the Oregon Coast.

It seemed as if the rain would never stop, but it did eventually slow down. By Monday, the clouds pulled back enough to reveal little patches of blue sky and a wan sun offering light if not warmth. Annie and I went walking at South Beach State Park. New lakes appeared beside the paved paths. A path that headed west near the jetty had turned into a river too wide and deep to cross. The handicap-accessible path and platform overlooking the beach were barely dog-accessible now, completely buried in sand. Wishing we had skis, we climbed over the wet sand, and I sat on the railing of the fence which barely jutted out of the sand while Annie stared out at the thrashing ocean.

It began to rain again just as we returned to the car.

Today, I drove to Yachats for yoga class. The rain was intermittent, barely more than a mist compared to what we had before. High water signs dotted the road here and there, and I saw new lakes where there used to be dry land. The ocean at high tide was all white foam and high waves crashing on soaked beaches littered with trees tossed ashore during the storm. Red cones marked mudslides along the land side of the highway.

As I type, it’s raining again, dark ad twilight at 1 p.m. We still may need an ark. I admit that I thought a bit last weekend about moving to someplace drier. But I know that when the sun comes out again, such thoughts always melt away.

Queen Sue enjoys a royal feast

In December, I issued my edicts for the annual Twelfth Night festivities. There would be feasting, all would perform, and we would dress “to the nines.” Ah, the thrill of power as my subjects scrambled to obey. We gathered at the Cramer castle in north Newport, where Ms. Sandy had assembled a dessert bar worth of royalty: chocolate flowing from a fountain, fudge, marshmallows, pound cake, Christmas cookies, fruits and nuts, and a liquor bar abounding with red wine, beer, lemon drops and “appletinis.”

The attendees, dressed in their finest–and gaudiest,-came bearing ambrosia, pizza, French pastry, fried chicken, and more. We noshed to bursting.
Then, by order of the queen, we gathered in the drawing room for the performances. Some sang, some read poetry, young Mistress Danielle awed us with a musical theater recitation, and Ms. Orpha filled us with laughter and horror as she described in hilarious detail the creation of the French pastries whose name this royal highness can’t quite spell. It seems one of Ms. Orpha’s glittery fingernails disappeared in the process and any one of us might perhaps find the next bite a bit–how shall I put it?–crunchy. Quelle horrors!

Exhausted with our efforts, we retired to the dessert bar to share the royal cake which would determine the next queen or king. Usually the new royalty is the one who finds a ring in his or her slice of cake, but this year, it was a tiny rubber doll. Mr. David Cramer found the royal doll on his plate, earning the title of King David I of Newport. All hail King David.

I yielded my crown, which included flashing green lights, to my successor and settled at the piano for the last Christmas singalongs of the season. Thank God.

A good time was had by all.

Is This Fair?

Fred, my husband, burst into tears when he saw me yesterday. At the time, he was in his bathroom at Timberwood Court Memory Care Community with a nurse and an aide. They were trying to reattach his catheter bag so it would be more comfortable. It wasn’t working. In fact, in the past 24 hours, both the tube and the bag had broken, spilling urine all over and freaking everyone out. Meanwhile, the urologist they contacted has decided that because Fred has Alzheimer’s, there’s no point in examining or treating his enlarged prostate. He’s supposed to suffer for what could be years because his mind is muddled?

The beginning of 2011 has not been much fun for Fred–or for me. He went to the hospital on New Year’s Eve with intense pain. No one knew what was going on because he can’t communicate. After a belly CT, the doctor announced that Fred’s bladder was greatly enlarged with unreleased urine; it was blocked by an enlarged prostate. A catheter was installed and more than a liter of urine was drained out. Fred seemed much more comfortable, but then he started shaking like crazy and had a seizure right there in the ER at Albany General. Now the doctor sent him out for a head CT and ordered that he stay in the  hospital overnight. Fred may have had other seizures in recent times; we’re not sure about those, but this one happened in front of the doctor, so we’re sure about this one.

He went into a long deep sleep after the seizure. Meanwhile the hospital doctor determined that because he has Alzheimer’s she would not order any tests to explore the seizures. She would give him drugs and send him back to Timberwood the next day.

Once Fred woke up, he was fighting the catheter, fighting everything everyone tried to do for him, and shaking so badly he could not feed himself. He was speaking nonsense words, his speech much worse than it had been a week ago, but they discharged him, and now the urologist is declining to see him. Luckily the nurse at Timberwood is a fighter and she will get a doctor somewhere to take him in. Meanwhile Fred is in a constant state of panic and pain.

Prostate problems are common in mature men. Normally, they see a doctor, who examines them and treats them, either with surgery or medication. But not Fred; he has Alzheimer’s. As for the seizures, the doctor at the hospital said they would normally order an EEG and MRI to find out what’s going on, but not Fred; he has Alzheimer’s.

Is this fair? Send prayers.

Wrapping up the old year

Rain started last weekend and continues unabated, accompanied by winds that rattle the chimes out back and threaten to sail the hot tub cover and garden furniture all the way to the beach. Annie pokes her head through the doggie door and decides she doesn’t need to go potty yet. At church Sunday, the hail pounded on the roof so loudly that Father Brian had to pause in his sermon. He looked up at the ceiling and said, “Oh, great.” But that’s the Oregon coast in winter.

It was a good Christmas, although I have been sick the whole time, with lots of coughing and achiness. I’m feeling better today. I am grateful for the many friends who invited me into their homes for the holiday. I was blessed with wonderful presents, receiving far more than I gave. Now it’s my favorite time of year, when the pressures of Christmas are over, but we still have the lights and the leftovers and a little time off.

I have begun a list of things that happened in 2010. I thought I didn’t do much this year, but when you add it up, it was quite a full 12 months. For example, I played music for more than 100 church services, attended nearly 100 yoga classes, walked Annie nearly 300 times, filled two binders with new writing and finished two books that I hope to see in print next year, I gave up my sweet dog Chico, attended three writing conferences, made two trips to California, drank more than 700 cups of Red Zinger tea, ate more than 300 muffins, joined Oregon Coast Therapy Animals, got new tires on the car and a new garage door opener, drank over a thousand glasses of iced tea, drove to Albany to see Fred at least once a week all year, ate at least 25 turkey-avocado club sandwiches at the Red Door–and yet kept off the weight I lost in 2009. 

What about you? I’ll bet if you start making a list, you’ll find this year was more eventful than you thought. You’ll also discover that even if the bad things stick out in your mind, there were good things, too. Try it.

Happy New Year!

A special Christmas gift: sight

It’s three days before Christmas. The rain has stopped, replaced by blue sky and white clouds. Small branches litter the lawn, and my beloved blue hydrangea is nearly naked, its leaves blackened and shriveled from last month’s snow and blown off by recent windstorms. It’s cold and wintry, but it’s still so pretty here I could just look at the view out my window forever. One of the great blessings of living here on the Oregon coast is that we have four distinct seasons, and they are all beautiful.

Earlier this month, I had surgery on my left eye to deal with a cataract and remove a growth that had sat on the edge of my iris for ages. It went well, with some pain afterward but nothing dramatic. After two weeks of dealing with unmatched eyes–the fixed left one and the nearsighted right one– I picked up my new glasses yesterday. I can see better than I remember ever seeing before. Last night, as I looked up at the bright moon and the trees silhouetted against the sky, I saw my first stars since the surgery. What a blessing. I felt like I could just stand around looking at things forever.

Out my window, a tiny brown bird perches at the tip of a leafless alder branch then zips across the yard and over the roof. From the next block, I hear a neighbor hammering. Across the street, another neighbor has hung out his orange slicker to dry.

Today, the day after the winter solstice, we will have slightly more daylight than we had yesterday. As dusk falls, Christmas lights will appear all around. I have lights on my little tree and around my windows. I can look out at the neighbor’s multi-colored lights wrapped around his roof and bushes. Down the road, two families have gone all out, with inflated snowmen and Santas and sheets of lights everywhere. When I make my treks down Highway 20 to visit my husband in Albany, I see lights hanging from mansions and rustic cabins, brightening the way through the rain and snow.

A sad note: My husband is not doing well this Christmas. He has had several worrisome events lately. He is pulling more and more inward as his abilities fail. Alzheimer’s is a terrible disease. Unfortunately, most of us seem to have someone in our family with this illness. They may forget you, but don’t forget them or their loved ones this holiday season.

Meanwhile, as I sit here typing, the clouds have thinned, revealing more blue sky. Two bright blue Stellar’s jays soar from my Sitka spruce to the Douglas fir next door. My dog Annie sits gazing out, eager to go for her walk.

There is so much to see!

Whatever your situation, look up. Find the blessings and be thankful. I wish you all a wonderful Christmas and a blessed new year.

When in doubt, sing

Fred and I are alone in the TV room at the nursing home. I can’t get the television to work—too many buttons and accessories. I have run out of stories, and no activities are scheduled for another hour. The other residents are still in the dining room finishing lunch.

Before I left home, I prayed, asking whether I should bring the dog to help me entertain my husband or my guitar to play some songs. But the message I kept getting was “neither.” Now here, I know the dog would have been too disruptive during today’s early lunch, and putting on a performance would have kept me from focusing on Fred. I have made this extra trip because Fred was in a bad way yesterday. He started the day hollering and hitting people, then spent the rest of the day weeping. I didn’t know what I would find today, but God told me, “Just bring yourself.”

So now I sat with Fred on the plasticized sofa staring at a blank TV. I stroked his age-mottled hand, rubbed his white-stubbled cheek. He was in a good mood, but I feared he might start to cry in this long silence. I took a deep breath and began to sing “Dashing through the snow . . . ” Immediately this man who can’t form a sentence started singing a perfect bass accompaniment to my soprano melody. We went from “Jingle Bells” to “Jingle Bell Rock” to “Santa Claus is Coming to Town.” I went through every lively Christmas song I could think of. With no sheet music to rely on, I occasionally mangled the words, but it didn’t matter. Our two voices connected us in a way that nothing else could. We both felt the magic.

At last an aide came to make the TV work, and we settled in to watch an old episode of “Gunsmoke.” But the music lingered in the air.

On the night we met 27 years ago, I was singing. Music remains the shining thread that holds us together in spite of Alzheimer’s Disease. God gave me a voice. When in doubt, I must sing.

Seeing Stars

I studied the stars Thursday night, trying to memorize how they looked that night. I knew I would never see them quite the same way again. Not the stars, not the clouds, not the book I was reading or my own face in the mirror. In the morning, Dr. Haines would operate on my left eye, replacing my cloudy, cataracted lens with a new one and removing a growth on the front of my eye. After 42 years of counting on my glasses to give me 20-20 vision, I didn’t know what I’d be seeing.

Melodramatic? Yes, I know people go through the cataract surgery all the time and come out happy. But this was MY EYE, and this was happening about 20 years sooner than expected.

The adventure had begun last spring when I went in expecting to get new glasses and found out my nascent cataract had advanced to the point that it was ready for surgery. I’m too young, I protested. It turns out you can get cataracts at any age, although most people are in their 70s and 80s. The doctor suggested we wait six months to see if the other eye would catch up. It hasn’t yet, but the left one had to be done. While he was in there, he would remove the pterigium, a fatty growth that had been hugging up against the brown of my eye for 20 years.

Multiple doctor’s appointments, a slide show at the hospital, days of eye drops, eyelid scrubs, stop wearing makeup, no food after midnight, and there I was at the hospital, IV in my hand, numbing drops in my eye, rolling into surgery, staring at the lights above me, three deep breaths . . . waking up in recovery with a humongous patch over my eye.

The scratchy-sore pain didn’t start for a few hours, and the pupil stayed dilated until well into the next day, but I started getting surprising glimmers of vision. Saturday morning, I could see the clock on my nightstand without glasses. I could see farther with my “operative eye” than I could with the other. I could even see the computer sometimes without glasses. As predicted, I could also see new wrinkles on my face and dust in my house.

The eye still hurts and it’s blood red in places. My vision fluctuates, and of course my other eye is still super nearsighted, so I won’t be seeing 20-20 till I get new glasses in a couple weeks. I’ll probably be inserting eye drops until Christmas.

In the old days, folks who had cataract surgery had to lie perfectly still for weeks, but things have changed. I asked the doctor when I could go back to yoga class. Tomorrow, he said. But no headstands. I nodded, as if I could actually do a headstand.

Annie, my dog, keeps staring at my face, apparently wondering what’s up with the glasses on/glasses off business. I stare back, naked brown eyes to naked brown eyes.

As for the stars, they were a bit muted last night, but coming out of the doctor’s office Friday afternoon, I saw the most beautiful sunset I ever saw. With two eyes.

What the dog expects

Winter has arrived, no matter what the calendar says. It’s raining hard here on the Oregon coast, with snow expected tonight. School kids are hoping for an extra day off while their parents are hoping the snow never comes. Friends from farther north are already sending their snow pictures on Facebook. For me, if it snows right now, when I don’t have anywhere to go, that would be nice. I’ll take pictures, too.

Meanwhile, I have been writing poems for the Poem a Day challenge sponsored by Robert Lee Brewer’s Poetic Asides site. For the most part this has been really fun. Robert sends out a prompt each morning, and we make it into a poem. This poem is based on the prompt to write a poem about an agreement.

Pact
My dog and I have this agreement:
When I sit on her couch, she will sit on me.
She will stretch out on her back,
paws in the air, head in my lap,
so I can pet her belly forever.
Whatever else I’m doing,
my right hand must stroke her fur.
I must not move, even if she snores
or whimpers in her running dreams.
If my legs go numb, too bad.
If the telephone rings, it rings.
If night falls and I am hungry,
I cannot disturb the dog.
I must love the dog no matter what
as she snuggles in my lap.
This is our agreement.
It suits us both quite well.

Meet Sally, my new pet

Living out here in the wild west, you never know what you’re going to find. The other day, I was out back in my bathrobe and fuzzy slippers waiting for Annie to do her morning business when a misplaced board caught my eye. It has been lying around the back yard for a long time. I decided I would finally put it away. It was all wet and soggy from the rain. I picked it up by the corner, lifted and saw a pair of eyes staring at me.
What is that? I asked myself. It was too big to be a newt, too long to be a frog. It kind of looked like Gollum from Lord of the Rings or maybe a slimy six-inch alligator. It seemed to be saying, “Put the lid back down, put it down,” so I did, anxious to hide this critter before Annie saw it.
Naturally I went inside and looked it up on the Internet. It’s a salamander, an Oregon Ensatina, to be specific. Three days later, it’s still here. Every time I lift the board, I find it. Salamanders tend to live their lives pretty much in the same place, so we may have an extended relationship–as long as I don’t put that board away. Salamanders, who live on bugs, are nocturnal, so I have to stop lifting the board to peek.

Today I got him/her to pose for a photo. I call him/her Sally. Of course.

Fighting forces stronger than we are

Walking Annie on a harness isn’t working. Yesterday she dragged me down the jetty trail. When we finally got home, she trampled me running out of the car after a cat. I’m a mess of bruises today.

It was a rare sunny day, but the tides were high and I didn’t want to risk the beach, so we went to Newport’s south jetty. It would turn out to be an ironic choice because a tragedy was unfolding as we walked.

Annie was pulling on me from the get-go. The bright blue harness did little to deter her as she splashed through puddles that reflected the blue sky and late-afternoon clouds. As we left the road to walk the Old Jetty Trail, she pulled even harder, so hard I wished I could just let her go. I didn’t know if she’d ever come back. As soon as the trail narrowed to a sandy path flanked by Scotch broom up to my shoulders, she pulled me along so hard I had no choice but to follow or let go. I outweigh her by nearly a hundred pounds, but it doesn’t matter. When she pulls, her strength is at least equal to my power.

We were blinded by the sun for a long way, but I had seen police cars and an ambulance near the end of the jetty. A red Coast Guard helicopter circled overhead. I wondered what was going on, but Annie was pulling so hard we never got to the beach. Later I learned that they were looking for a man and woman who had been washed off the jetty. They had parked their bikes on the sand and walked out to the end of the jetty to see the high waves, which I’ve heard estimated everywhere from 20 to 40 feet high. A man at the Yaquina Bay lighthouse saw them go out. Then a huge wave engulfed them. When it receded, they were gone. That was about 1 p.m. The woman’s body was found at 1:13, but at sunset, they were still looking for the man. According to news reports, they were from Portland, visiting the coast to celebrate their wedding anniversary. One minute of foolishness, and they lost their lives, as so many have here in our wild ocean.

We all do foolish things that can change—or end—our lives in a moment.

It doesn’t compare to what happened to that couple, but I was engaged in my own foolishness with a dog I couldn’t control.

Annie knew nothing of what was happening on the jetty. She was hearing sea lions, their barks somehow funneled from the bay down the trail so that they sounded as if they were nearby. She pulled and pulled, trying to escape the unseen enemy.

When we finally got back on the paved road, Annie pulled even harder, tail between her legs, trying to get away from the water. As I struggled to hold her and make progress toward where I had left the car, I started to worry because I couldn’t see my car. I became more and more afraid that my silver box of a Honda, which had just been serviced and washed that morning, was gone, along with my wallet, GPS, various other electronic devices, CDs, books, and yoga gear. There I was in my old shoes with just my cell phone, keys, poop bag, used Kleenex, and my freaked-out dog. What would I do if my only vehicle was gone? Meanwhile, Annie was trying to pull me back toward the trail, and it was getting dark.

At last my car appeared far in the distance behind a pole. Thank God. I had underestimated how far we had walked. When we got to it, I opened the back and sat on the tailgate dangling my legs. Annie, feeling braver now, wanted to go exploring. Not a chance. We weren’t walking another step. But our adventure was not over yet.

Back at home, as I was opening my car door, I saw the neighbor’s gray tabby cat in the blackberries three feet away, staring at me. I should have just let it be. Maybe Annie wouldn’t have seen it, but no. I yelled, “Get out of here, cat.” He ran, and the dog saw him. I had the leash in my left hand and tried to hold her back in the car with my whole body, but she was stronger. She trampled over me and streaked across the driveway, pulling me hard to the left while I screamed, “No!” I considered letting her go, but didn’t want her to hurt the neighbor’s cat. In retrospect, she probably wouldn’t have caught it, but at the time I felt I had no choice. I stopped her, but just barely. Afterward, there I was hanging off the edge of the driver’s seat, hurting all over, my back feeling as if it had been twisted like a wad of aluminum foil. For a nanosecond, I considered getting rid of my dog. But of course, I was soon petting her and telling her I loved her again.

Clearly the harness is not working. We have tried a three-point harness, then a four-point, and a variety of collars in our effort to transform Annie into an official therapy dog. I hate to go back to the pronged collar because it’s tight and rusty, and therapy dogs aren’t allowed to wear them. Nor can they wear choke chains. So what do I do now?

Another person in the therapy dog group had told me about a book called My Dog Pulls by Turid Rugaas. It worked with her golden retriever. Rugaas preaches a system of rewards and training by stopping every time the dog pulls. I have already discovered that screaming “No!” “Stop!” “Don’t pull!” and “Damn it!” doesn’t work. In a tug of war with Annie, it’s a tie at best. I have ordered the book. We’re going to try a new system. Stay tuned to see how it works.

Meanwhile, we’re not walking today. Blame it on the rain. I can’t let 74 pounds of muscle and fur put me in the hospital. I just got back from the chiropractor, and my body needs a break. We have six months until the next therapy dog evaluation. We can do all the other requirements. We can do this. Your advice is welcome.

And dear God, please take care of those people who died on the jetty today. The waves don’t kid around. You can’t fight a force that is bigger than you, whether it’s the sea or a stubborn dog. Please, if you want to watch the waves, do it from somewhere safe. My bruises will heal, but those people are gone.