Things she left behind

Bubbe was never a material girl.  She wasn't interested in stuff or things; she was interested in people, and learning.  In part, that can be attributed to her generation; she was in her late teens when the stock market crashed and the Great Depression began.

As you know, she died at the ripe old age of 99.  Understandably, she had expected that she would die "soon" for a long time before it actually happened. So she didn't bother replacing things, like her bedspread, that were worn and faded.

When it was time for the family to go through her apartment and take stock of the contents, there wasn't much there of objective value.  There was a treasure trove of ancient photos.  And some random objects that, to Bubbe, would have just been her day-to-day things, but to us were remarkable antiques.

The world's oldest office supplies.

A sifter that must be at least 70 years old.

A very Mad Men coffee pot.

The world's oldest adhesive bandages...

... from an era when people didn't think twice about calling one, pale shade "flesh color".

A well-used recipe box, filled with hand-written index cards.

When the box is closed, it looks like a fake antique from Home Sense.

The tabbed cards dividing the different sections are so ancient that they tear at the slightest pressure.  Fortunately I found this out by tugging on the Salads tab.  I would have been much sadder if I had torn Puddings or Jellies.

The most prized possession I have to remind me of both my Bubbe and my Zaidy is a ring that Bubbe gave me a few years ago.  She used to wear it all the time.  Zaidy made it when he took a jewelry-making course shortly after he retired.  It's a silver band with an oval, opaque, orange stone polished smooth and set on top.  It's a precious treasure, and it fits me so well that I can wear it without having it re-sized (which I don't know if I'd do, because that would change it too much).  It represents both of them and their love for each other, so it's the best memento that I could ask for.

#Veins #ICan'tEven

I'm not a squeamish person.  I watch educational shows that contain "graphic medical procedures" and stare happily at every detail.  By any measure, I have a high tolerance for biology.  Except.  Except when it comes to me.  Inconveniently, I am phobic about any medical procedures performed upon my own self, even if they don't hurt, or involve only the most minimal and brief discomfort.  It's completely annoying.

This is why, although I've been accumulating spider veins on my legs since I was in high school, I've never had them treated.  I alternate between wearing long pants all the time and, on the hottest days of summer, just saying F it, and exposing my pasty, blue cheese thighs to the world.  If you don't like them, look somewhere else.

On two occasions, I did go for sclerotherapy treatments.  The first time, after a few injections I started to feel faint, and I never went back.  The second time, many years later, I didn't even make it through the consultation.

This time though.  This time I'm determined to be brave, and to go through with it.

I found a clinic two blocks away from where I work.  The doctor has rave reviews on RateMDs.com.  I made an appointment.  I spent time during the two weeks before the consultation visualizing how the appointment was going to go, and talking myself through it.  "You're going to be in an examination room with people in scrubs.  You're going to wear shorts.  They will run an ultrasound thingy up and down your legs [*rubs own knuckles against legs*] like this.  See, that doesn't hurt, does it?  Then you will talk to the doctor.  You will be totally fine."

And that is more or less how it went.  Except for the totally fine part.  Because I had forgotten how strongly a phobia can surge up from one's subconscious and start calling the shots.

My self-talk: "You're doing great!  Hey, look out the window!  Isn't that a nice view?  Look, you can see our office right there.  I wonder what's happening at work."

My subconscious: "AAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUUHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

I was keeping it together until the doctor asked me to look at the ultrasound screen.  He pointed at an area that was pulsing red.  "See that?" he said.  "That's why your left leg is worse than your right.  That's where your blood is flowing in the wrong direction."  (Emphasis mine.)  Basically he was showing me that in one of my main veins the valves were slightly degraded, and therefore the blood that should have been flowing back up to my heart to be re-oxygenated was in part flowing back downhill whenever his assistant gently squeezed my thigh.  I can write that now and find it interesting and not terribly threatening, but when I was standing right there I heard "Your essential, life-giving blood vessels are rotting within your aging flesh, and soon you shall suffer and die in horrible pain."

My subconscious:
"AAAAAAAUUUUUUUUHHHHHHHHH!"

So then we had to take a little break while I laid down on the examination table, sweating profusely and apologizing to the doctor and his assistant for making their lives difficult.  They gave me a cup of cold water and a wet cloth for my forehead, and left me alone to stare at the ceiling and contemplate my failure.

Just think of how badly things would have gone if I hadn't mentally prepared myself, right?

Anyway, I did recover enough to complete the examination.  Then the doctor had a little chat with me while I carefully sipped my cup of water and concentrated on not freaking out.  Every time he said "saphenous vein" it got a little harder to wrangle my flight reflex.  But somehow I got through it.  Yay me!

The upshot of his diagnosis is that my veins are just good enough that if we treat them now I can avoid the more expensive treatment which would be necessary down the road if I keep ignoring the situation.  And, if I ignore it indefinitely, it could progress from a cosmetic problem to a medical problem, with painful varicosities and even the potential for skin ulcers.  No more sticking my head in the sand.  I've got to deal with it now.

So, I went out to the reception desk to order two pairs of super-expensive compression stockings ($150 per pair - mercy!), and book the appointment for my first treatment, in June.  I can expect bruising, soreness, and possible discolouration of the skin in the area which may take up to a year to fully resolve.  Fantastic.  I will also have to wear the super-expensive compression stockings for weeks after each treatment, and I expect that they won't be super-comfortable.  (I ordered thigh-highs instead of pantyhose, because the less of me that gets compressed the happier I am.)

Oh, and also, because I have protein C deficiency, which I never thought much about, but which is actually a clotting disorder, I have to take blood thinners before (and after? I'm not sure yet) the treatments.  I am slightly terrified by the blood thinner (Xarelto).  Maybe it will be fine.  Or maybe I'll have a stroke and die, like Joan Didion's daughter.  (On the other hand if I don't take it, I could get a blood clot and die.  Six of one, a half-dozen of the other.)

All in all, I'm being a total wuss about my first foray into middle-aged-person medical procedures. I guess that's just how it goes.  You start small, with vein treatments, and work up to the bigger stuff, like knee replacements or any diagnosis that has the motto "It's not a death sentence anymore, but it's a life sentence."  I hope that the repeated visits to the vein clinic will function as exposure therapy for my phobia.  Either way, I'm going to be brave, and I'm going to get through it.

Bubbe is Resting in Peace Now

She will always be in my heart.

Chop and Screw

First, updates.

Bubbe is still hanging in there.  She has gotten accustomed to having a Personal Support Worker (PSW) staying with her during the day, and has stopped referring to the arrangement as "over-supervision".  It's certainly easier on her family to know that she is being well looked-after by a series of cheerful young ladies in red shirts (the agency uniform).  Good thing we're not living in Star Trek reality.*

*"Redshirt is a term used by fans of Star Trek to refer partially to the characters who wear red uniforms, and mainly to refer to those characters who are expendable, and quite often killed, sometimes in great numbers." http://memory-alpha.wikia.com/wiki/Redshirt

I'm getting along well with my new boss. He's intelligent, reasonable, decisive, and self-possessed.  He also seems to think highly of me, which is a relief.  I'm doing everything I can to make the best possible first impression.  There is still some working-at-cross-purposes among the company directors, which creates problems, on one hand, but on the other hand makes me more indispensable as a go-between and communications facilitator.  I am not longer feeling quite so insecure about my job.

Next, an anecdote.

I was on the subway train yesterday, on my way to meet friends.  I noticed a young man wearing a cowrie shell necklace draped over his black parka; a rather odd sartorial choice, I thought.  He got the attention of another young man and they proceeded to have a conversation. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but I got the impression that the two had been strangers before this interaction.

When the second young man had left the train, cowrie-shell guy turned to me.  He had a grill on his teeth and his eyebrows were shaved into stripes. He asked me, in a Carribean island accent, about something that I was wearing, and then launched into a speech about his music career that was clearly worded to make him sound like a big shot.  He asked me if I went to university or college, because he wanted to perform on campus in Toronto.  "Yeah, twenty years ago!" I told him.  No use getting his hopes up.  But I don't think he heard me.  He was probably high.

He asked me if I had heard of "chop and screw" music.  I had not.  I thought it was something that he made up, but apparently it's A Thing.  He pulled out a CD that had CHOP + SCREW scrawled on it  in black marker, and asked me if I had a CD player on me.  I did not.  (Aren't portable CD players a total anachronism from the 90s?  I feel you might as well ask someone if they're packing an 8-track player, at this stage.)  I told him "It looks good!"  Because clearly he was proud of his CD and I didn't want to harsh his mellow.

Since we couldn't listen to the CD, he told me that he would perform for me.  He proceeded to lean in very close and rap, something along the lines of "Canada, Canada, yeah, yeah."  And so forth.  There were more words, but it was kind of hard to hear what with the subway being so loud, and also I was paying most of my attention to how weird the situation was.  At least I liked the Canada part.  "That's cool." I told him.

Encouraged, he told me that he hoped I wouldn't mind if he did the strong language version.  I said okay, I'm sure I've heard all those words before.  So he leaned in again and did "Canada, Canada, F#@! the *bleep*, yeah, yeah."  At that point the train rolled into my stop, so I bade him a quick goodbye, and prayed he wouldn't follow me off the train.  He did not.  He just said that it was nice to meet me, so I said it was nice talking to him, and then went off chuckling to myself and thanking the TTC for yet another funny, harmless crazy-person story.

Bubbe's Last Hurrah

Bubbe has said many times that she doesn't want to turn 100 years old.  She says "I'll be a freak, like a dog who can ride a bicycle."

I don't see anything wrong with a dog who can ride a bicycle.

But Bubbe doesn't share my opinion.  So, after a bad fall earlier this week, and another episode of worsening breathlessness due to congestive heart failure, she decided to stop taking the medications that prolong her life, and take only those that will keep her comfortable.  It's two and a half weeks until her 100th birthday.  I believe she's hoping to be gone by then.

News of the crisis and indications of its seriousness accumulated slowly.  My father happened to be there when Bubbe started feeling that she couldn't get enough air.  What looked like another normal bump in the road turned into the beginning of the end.

E-mails were circulated.  Relatives got into airplanes and cars headed for Toronto.  By the time I arrived at Bubbe's apartment on Thursday evening, she already had a crowd at her bedside.  I climbed onto the bed with her to hold her hand.

Bubbe couldn't have been more pleased.  She was having the best pyjama party of her life.  Despite being on supplemental oxygen, she managed to find enough lung capacity to chat happily with us all. Short sentences, that trailed off sometimes.  But she was definitely still with us.  Her chin was blackened by a bruise from when she caught the edge of a table during her fall on Monday; her hearing aids kept falling out; she couldn't drink water from a cup or straw because she can't always swallow properly anymore; and she has become incontinent; but with all her loved ones surrounding her, none of that mattered.

We propped her up in bed and gave her water with a little sponge on a stick (a "Swabette", officially).  She kept saying "This is the best time I've ever had!"

A palliative care nurse arrived to hook her up to medication pumps that will deliver morphine and midazolam (a benzodiazepine, for the feelings of anxiety that result from being short of breath) whenever she needs them.  We all got very serious then.  You know that when the morphine line goes in, things are for real.

It was late by then, so almost everyone left to get some sleep.  We weren't sure if that was the last time we would see Bubbe alive, so we said our emotional goodbyes.  Despite her weakness, she summoned the strength to give me a hug worthy of a professional wrestler.  It was hard to leave.

After that, I'm told that Bubbe took one dose of each of her new meds and had a good night's sleep. She woke up bright eyed and bushy-tailed the next morning, demanding coffee and oatmeal for breakfast.  This is the photo my uncle sent:

She had such a good time at her "party" the night before that it totally "charged my batteries", as she often says.  I saw her later in the day, and she was swallowing just fine (note the mug).  She looks remarkably well and happy for someone at death's doorstep, don't you think?

Anyway, the reprieve can't last.  It's inevitable that without daily diuretics her lungs will accumulate water until she simply can't breathe anymore.  I understand her decision to let go.  Beside her other maladies, her hands are numb and she has almost no dexterity.  She can't even press the buttons on her medication pumps herself.  She has also gone a bit bonkers, what with the lack of oxygen to her brain.  She can't tell what's real anymore.  When I went back to see her again on Friday, she told me about a "wonderful dream" she had had.  "Everyone in the family was here, and I was in bed, and we were having a party!"  Then she thinks that stuff that didn't happen actually did, and it's all very confusing.

It's so hard to say goodbye to this lady, I can't tell you.  It's breaking my heart.  But what can you do? No one can live forever.

The Latest Scoop of Poop

You guys, it finally happened.  My step-dad RETIRED.  At least, he sold his shares in what was, until last week, the family business.  There had been much talk of this happening over the past few years, and no action, to the point where I had stopped believing that it would ever happen.  I mean, at one point in the past he even sold the business but continued managing it, and then eventually bought it back again.  But this time.  This time I'm pretty sure it's for keeps.

Despite his failing health, he insists that he is going to start up another business.  He is already in discussions with one or more potential partners.  I wish him all the best with that, and I want nothing to do with it. 

Don't get me wrong.  I love him.  I just love him in that complicated-family-member way that can co-exist with not being able to deal with him.  I'm upset by the changes at my workplace, but not because I'm going to desperately miss him.  I feel sad and guilty about how relieved I feel now that I don't have to work with him anymore.

Anyway, the mixed blessing of working for family is now a thing of the past.  Now I'm just another average wage slave, doing an honest day's work for an honest day's pay.  I'm quite content with that.

I'm cautiously optimistic about my job security.  Only time will tell.  The people who bought my step-dad's shares, already partial owners of the business, were in conflict with him for years.  At one point one of them started demanding that I be fired, after having accused me of something that I didn't do.  I hope that I was being used impersonally as a pawn in their fight.  I hope that this person does not actually hold any personal grudge against me left over from three years ago.  Those were ugly days.

If only they knew the whole story.  There was a time when my step-dad asked me to assist him in some shady activities to enhance his own standing in the fight.  These things, had they been found out, could have gotten me into big trouble.  Not only in terms of my career; but I could have potentially ended up in jail.  It was a terrifying prospect.

Of course I refused, and instead of apologizing for having asked, or being understanding of my reluctance, my step-dad proceeded to lay a giant guilt trip on me for "joining forces with his enemies" or however he put it.  He didn't forgive me for more than a year.  It was so painful and stressful, I can't tell you.

A less scrupulous employee, unrelated to him, might have gone along with his plan, in order to earn a bonus or bank a favour.  There were a lot of strong feelings in the business among many people, not just me.  Some people did strenuously take my step-dad's side.  I have definitely proved my determination to stay on the straight and narrow.  The thing is, that all happened under the radar, and even if I told the whole story to my new bosses, why should they believe me?

I guess it's a question of whether or not they want to give me a chance.  I'll have to prove myself to them starting from scratch, and I will, if they let me.  I'm good value for the money.  A bargain at any price!  Right?

Ketosis

Ken has always been prone to gaining weight.  When I met him 17 years ago (has it been that long already?) we were both in our twenties.  Even then, he wasn't what you'd call "slim".  Over the years, his weight has been up and down, but the long-term trend and forecast were both up.  It made me feel sad, because I knew that those extra pounds would shorten our time together.

A few years ago, I all but stopped making any effort to influence Ken's weight.  I came to terms, as much as I could, with the fact that I would probably outlive him, and decided that I would just enjoy our years together in each moment.  I wouldn't want to regret being a constant nag and the cause of inevitable arguments.  Still, I prayed that he would decide to change his ways and take control of his health.

And then.  Guess what!  It finally happened!  In December, Ken decided that enough was enough.  It was time to change everything.  And so he did.  He switched to a low-carb diet.  He joined a gym and has been working out with the help of a personal trainer at least 3 times per week.  He's been disciplined and dedicated, walking to the gym in cold and snowy weather, even when he's had a long and tiring day.  His diet allows him two "cheat days" per week; sometimes he only takes one.

As of this morning, he has lost 34.5 pounds.  Not only that, but he's gained a significant amount of muscle.  He has gone down one entire pants size!

I can't tell you how happy all this makes me.  Ken would be my bestie no matter what his size, aesthetically speaking, but I used to worry every day about his health.  Now that he's slimming down and shaping up, we're both happier and more confident.  I'm so proud of him.

When he first started on this regimen, i.e. spending 3 evenings per week at the gym, he said to me "This is going to mean that we have less together time."  I said "Yeah, but if you die young it'll mean even less together time!"  Plus while he's at the gym I get to watch whatever I want on TV, even those vet shows on Animal Planet that make him squeamish.  Everybody wins!