Mental health with feathers

Woodpecker

Hope is the thing with feathers, according to Emily Dickinson.  A good walk with birds is the thing for my mental outlook. So much to do at home, but the dark rainy morning had changed to a gorgeous sunny afternoon. The sunshine grasped me in her talons and dragged me through the bright blue sky to the trailhead at Renner Road and US 75.

Mockingbird, juvenile.

Greeted by a woodpecker. Under the watch of a kestrel. A red tail hawk circled overhead. A mockingbird posed. Mallards bickered and bullied in Spring Creek under the highway.

Bad boy mallards

Kestrel photo good enough for an ID.

Odd, loud, buzzy, rattled bird calls tantalized me as I got closer to the US 75/190 George Bush tollway interchange.

Kingfishers avoid paparazzi

The buzzy calls led to a pair of kingfishers on a telephone wire above the creek, but under the highways. No mistaking the shape of the kingfishers, or the glorious blue when they swooped along the creek declining to be photographed by the paparazzi.

Teeny brown birds in a budding tree consented to photos but declined to be identified. On the way back I spotted a heron looking scruffy near a heap of trashed grocery carts.




Something was bothering me earlier.  I wonder what it was... besides the ugly grocery carts.




© 2013 Nancy L. Ruder

Who ya gonna call?

Home from work. Find myself phoneless. Panic kicks in, narrowing the sidewalk for reason.

Not in the car, under the seat, down in the crevice.

Not in the trunk, but glad my "new" car has a light in the trunk.

Not in my purse.  Dump everything out.  Try again. Still not in my purse, or the car, or the trunk.

Would anyone still be at work? Would they check email before leaving?

That's the trouble with living alone with just a cellphone.  No way to call myself!

Where did I go today? Rode in Janie's car. She lives way out in the country, and I won't see her for five days. Went to Fadi's for lunch, and sat in that goofy booth. Too tall cushion, too close to the pillar. Easy place for a phone to fall out, but be sure to get the cauliflower*.

Loaded stuff into the trunk--a big bag of pinecones.  Phone on the street where I parked?

Not hyperventilating, but getting close.  Go check the mail kiosk and near the recycling cart. It is NOT yet time for dumpster diving!

Did I flush it? Is it on vibrate? Is it out of juice? We're talking a disaster of Biblical proportions.

The last paranormal removal specialists at work received the email, and called my number. They wandered the library listening, listening.

How do I spell relief? G-H-O-S-T-B-U-S-T-E-R-S! Deep down behind a cushion in the back office a little blue phone was playing that song. The phone was found, and even brought to my condo.





I just wanna thank Egon, Ray, Venkman, and Zeddemore, plus Sharon and Pam. And since I can't figure out how to change it, my ringtone will probably remain the Ghostbusters theme song forever. And yes, I still miss those old card catalogs. Also the funny little Ghostbusters who lived in my house.

*Cauliflower--Stewed in its own juices with lemon juice and spices, then fried with zero trans fat oil. 

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Bipartisan spirit at the fiscal cliff birdfeeder

Don't know about you,

but I'm feeling like

the tiny gray

junco

standing on the icy

patio way beneath the feeder.

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Reading till the ball drops

My final read of 2012 was David Egger's Hologram for the King. True, the year is not over. I might pull one more National Book Award nominee out of my sleeve. Still, Egger's book just sapped the energy out of me. Should we all just sit around wondering if that lump on our neck is a benign  cyst or a malignant tumor? For me the heart of the book was the question of creating/building/making/manufacturing tangible goods vs. the creation of technological illusions/digital smoke and mirrors.

Closer to the surface the Egger book is the story of a fifty-something man who thinks he is dying.  I've already read one fifty-something man who thinks he's dying book this year, and that one was more fun.  Jonathan Tropper's One Last Thing Before I Go has plenty to consider without slogging through the desert sands.

Books I hope to read in the coming year:

Fiction
Stockholm Octavo

Flight Behavior
Yellow Birds

Nonfiction

Spine of the Continent
Lost Carving
House of Stone
Let the Meatballs Rest
Consider the Fork

The library just got a dictionary of modern proverbs that looks fun for browsing.

Happy reading in 2013, and no, I never did make pie crust.


© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

The Nancy Awards

My friend Jeannie can predict the Oscar winners every year.  Most years she has seen every movie nominated in a major category.  Most years I go to one movie max.

I went to see "Lincoln" at the movie theater, and enjoyed it greatly. The last time I'd gone to a movie theater was to see "The Conspirator" a year and a half ago.  Seems like Abe has to go to Ford's for me to go to Cinemark. I loved Daniel Day Lewis' interpretation of Lincoln as storyteller.  Sally Field was amazing--I completely believed her, but still remembered to go home and take my calcium pills. I never could cross over into total suspended disbelief for Tommy Lee Jones as Thaddeus Stevens.  Curmudgeon Tommy Lee was still crusty Tommy Lee, just with a bad wig and no sunglasses.

But now I present the Nancy Awards for the best new books I read all the way through during 2012.  I will have to add poetry, children's literature, and audiobooks to the awards in 2013, and maybe an old timers hall of fame.

Fiction

   


Nonfiction
    

I would laud on the praises for these memorable reads, but I need to fold laundry, make the Krunch, walk, make soup, vacuum, pay bills, and Skype with my grandbaby.  I'll just say they made me cry, get angry, laugh, feel wrapped in a cocoon of wonder, understand myself and others better.

Happy Sunday.

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

The Case of the ImperturbableTurtle

Perhaps it's the last warm day of the year, but I still used the a/c in the Buick after my brisk walk through the woods.  My brain needed serious numbing out after a week of standing beneath falling anvils and player pianos. A fast walk was needed. I've been perturbed on several psychic fronts, but thank heaven for the Online Etymology Dictionary! Without it I would have called the turtle un- not im-.

imperturbable (adj.) 

c.1500, from M.Fr. imperturbable and directly from L.L. imperturbabilis "that cannot be disturbed" (Augustine), from assimilated form of in- "not, opposite of" (see in- (1)) + *perturbabilis, from L. perturbare "to confuse, disturb" (see perturb). Related: Imperturbably; imperturbability.

Photographing turtles on logs is more difficult than getting little kids to eat raisins on peanut butter-filled celery. Turtles don't want to be tagged on Facebook, or tacked to Pinterest. They usually bail out before I can pull the camera from my pocket.

This turtle did not want to go for a swim.  It sat and sat while leaves floated down all around and onto it. The December light was already low at 4:30, but the turtle did not want to put on flip-flops and shower in the bathhouse. If it pretended the photographer was not there, it might extend the season a little bit longer. I took photos from three sides of the little pond before it finally dived.






© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

We have nothing to fear but puppeteers

And fear itself, and giants and fairs, oh my!  But we might be overreacting about dirt.

Been a rough couple weeks with very anxious preschoolers.  One little guy was totally freaked out by a visit to the State Fair of Texas, and could not nap for days. I don't think he was sleeping much at night, either, as he was in tears most of the week and barely able to function.  And no, the little dude did not witness Big Tex going up in flames.

I have my own state fair anxieties. What are normal fears at age three, four, five, fifty+?  Growing Up Brave: Expert Strategies for Helping Your Child Overcome Fear, Stress, and Anxiety, by Dr. Donna Pincus, was a good guide on this topic.  Good reminders for the Halloween season, too!

Normal fears for preschoolers, ages 3-5:

• Costumed characters
• Ghosts
• Clowns
• Monsters
• The dark
• Sleeping alone
• Separation anxiety
• Specific fears such as dogs, bugs, water, blood, or elevators

And for all ages, debilitating anxiety and excessive stress make kids unable to store and retrieve information, to focus, and therefore to learn.

A second student is absolutely terrified of puppets.  She can play with a puppet herself, but seeing a puppet show sends her into a massive panic attack. Just anticipating an upcoming puppet show sets her into terror. Rather than remove her before the puppet show, we are trying to give her the coping skills to ride it out and the cognitive tools to understand the situation.

As for dirt, I'm just beginning An Epidemic of Absence: A New Way of Understanding Allergies and Autoimmune Disorders, by Moises Velasquez-Manoff.  The hypothesis is that medical elimination of bacteria, viruses, and parasites has brought a new slew of ailments in the developed world.  Ignoring the evolutionary functions of these "bugs" may be contributing or causing the skyrocketing rates of peanut allergies, autism, inflammatory bowel diseases, eczema, rheumatoid arthritis, Type 1 diabetes, multiple sclerosis, and asthma.  The costs of these diseases are in the billions of dollars each year. 

The book reviews in the New York Times, Wall Street Journal and Kirkus have been very intriguing.









© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Universal reptile insomnia

Image from eHow 

Waking up at two a.m. to ponder the freshness of your supper salmon based on particular intestinal clues is not so good. It lets the mind wander too much among the recent past and future what-ifs. If you have recently spotted a large snake on your patio you might have way too much information and way too little home maintenance. That is, if you've learned that said Texas Rat Snake can climb walls, you may be nudged by a vague unease about the flap on the dryer vent up there under the eaves.

And if, what if... the snake is not in the dryer vent, but the mice are living large in there, then what???

Reference points for anxious wee a.m hours pondering:

1. Childhood buddy's gerbil escaped while I was at her house for a sleepover.  Gerbil was finally found in their clothes dryer the worse for the adventure.
2. Discovering a nest of snakes in the fuzzy, linty dirt below the dryer vent at the house when my sons were small and the dryer ran 24/7 all winter.  Baby snakes slithering under the front door or into the delivered newspaper.
3. Finding my dryer vent duct tubing impacted with lint.
4. Years of reading Ellen Stoll Walsh's Mouse Count to children...  "Little, warm, and tasty, fast asleep."

This is not a home maintenance project to tackle at two a.m. After work I rushed to Home Depot. There I found a "universal" Deflect-O dryer vent bird guard. Back home I got the memo that  "universal" usually means the product fits every situation except MINE!

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

The scratch that itches

Is it okay to scratch where it itches?  Is it okay to scratch your head continuously while spending your day at a public library?  Why are you scratching?  Do you have head lice?  Are you off your anxiety medication?

What is the evolutionary function of itching?  How does scratching relieve an itch?  Why does watching someone else scratch make us feel itchy?  How does scratching send a signal to other people? Do we want to sit where a scratchy person has been sitting....?

I have two jobs.  Monday through Friday I work with preschoolers. Most Saturdays I work at a public library in an affluent neighborhood.  Still, we have regular library users who may not have a permanent home address, timely hygiene opportunities, or who may not be taking medications regularly. They may offend  sensibilities of the local residents. While these users may be eccentric and entertaining characters, the library staff worries and prays for their health and safety when they leave the stacks. In most public libraries users only need to be residents of the area to obtain a library card for borrowing privileges.  Libraries offer many services for non-borrowing visitors. And those visitors using internet computers and restrooms, reading newspapers, drinking coffee with sugar, and staying in air-conditioning on 100+ degree days are part of the marvelous, civilized, public-supported concept of libraries. Sometimes those visitors itch and scratch. Other times the privileged local kiddies have head lice. Itching crosses economic borders.

Back in the Monday-Friday classroom we attempt to teach children that nose-picking, hair-sucking, underwear-exploring and other scratching habits are socially unacceptable. We watch for the telltale scratching that signals a case of head lice. If a case is suspected or reported, the lead teacher straps on her spelunking head lamp and begins searching every student's head for nits. While she does this, I try to maintain normal class routine. Usually I begin to wonder if I might actually have head lice. Sometimes I want to scratch all my hair right off my head!

If you read these words, can your refrain from scratching?

• mosquito 
• eczema
• chicken pox
• stress 
• anxiety
• fleas
• lice
• crabs
• hives
• jellyfish
• chiggers
• poison ivy
• poison oak
• diaper rash
• Oklahoma*

NORRIS: Is there such a thing as sympathetic itch, just by talking about it, you can actually trigger that sensation?

Dr. YOSIPOVITCH: Oh, that's an excellent point that has been shown in study where people, healthy people, sitting in a auditorium seeing a patient scratching and itching, about 60 percent of the people in the audience started scratching themselves. And it was documented

*The months between Thanksgiving 1987 and Thanksgiving 1988 are my Year of Itching Dangerously in Edmond, Oklahoma.  My three sons had chicken pox in succession, inside their noses, ears, and every other orifice. Our rental house was infested with fleas and then mice. I was pretty sure I was stressed to the max and  lousing my mind....  No, I meant losing my mind! Typo alert. Take Benadryl. 

 

 © 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Invisible and odorless

The spider usually sets off the smoke detector in August, so I was surprised to arrive home and  hear a repeating piercing beep.  Went upstairs and opened the smoke detector carefully, not to spoil Mario's handiwork. Replaced the 9v battery.  The alarming beeps continued.

Back downstairs, I gingerly opened the thermostat, again remembering Mario's electrical rescue, and replaced the AA batteries.  The beeps were giving me goosebumps.

Upstairs again to check the doorbell chime.  Back downstairs I found a forgotten smoke detector that's wired-in. This was turning into an Edvard Munch moment with bonus stair-climber workout.

Rounding the corner into the bathroom I find the beep source, the carbon monoxide detector I saved from my parents' house. Isn't carbon monoxide a winter killer?  Every CO horror story I've ever heard clamors into my anxiety between the shrieking beeps.

I move the detector to different electrical outlets feeling guilt for never pushing those TEST MONTHLY and RESET buttons. Should I be getting myself outside into the hundred-degree fresh air before I become woozy and unconscious?

There was that spell in junior high when I wouldn't ride in the car in the Nebraska dead of winter without the window open because I was so sure we were all a-gonna die from fumes. It's a miracle my family didn't just drop-kick me out into a snow drift and drive away. This anxiety was between my two phases of moth phobia, but smack in the middle of the pancake anxiety year.


Now, I could just unplug the *%! bleaking CO detector and throw it in the dumpster, then toddle off to beddy-bye. That story would have the pride-goeth outcome where I drift into a happy sleep with a tad bit of nausea before death.  Or I could let the CO detector keep shrieking, and have a sleepless night worrying about dying, kind of like a bad night camping. Or I could maybe call the Fire Department and have them check it out.


Feeling too torn to actually call 9-1-1, I looked up the phone number in the Yellow Pages for our Fire Department.  Sure, wasting those precious seconds could be the difference between life and death, between dying in my sleep and going outside into the hundred degree fresh air to live another dang hot day. Apparently when it is not a 9-1-1 emergency, the Fire Department phone is answered by a cleaning woman who might be your mom. She hems and haws with you about whether or not your CO detector might have gone a little funny in the head.  She reassures you that putting your call through to dispatch will not cost you hundreds of dollars and could be good for your peace of mind, which you are rapidly losing what with all the shrieking barks of that Tasmanian devil CO detector.

So that's how I ended up with four hunky Plano firefighters in their turn-out pants and suspenders in my kitchen taking readings on their carbon monoxide gizmos and filling out official forms.  They took readings near my gas water heater and upstairs near the gas furnace.  When I mentioned that my fireplace is gas, they ask if I had used it recently.  It was clear they might would drive me straight to the loony bin if I answered yes.  

I thanked them profusely for retrieving my peace of mind, and told them I would be calling my 89 year-old next-door neighbor right away.  "I don't want him to have a heart attack seeing the firetruck."  


"We don't either," they said sincerely.








Let's review what we learned in this Unit, boys and girls:

• Firefighters are our community helpers.
• Check your smoke detectors regularly.
• Stock up on batteries.
• Test your electrical outlets monthly.
• A carbon monoxide detector is a good thing to have, but they don't last forever.
• It's good to know a Mario who can fix electrical problems.
• It's wise to check on elderly neighbors in this heat.

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Long-Term Plan

Long-term thinking mixed with short-term anxiety has gotten me stuck right here. My rut, but not my Jeep.  Lauren drives me home from the car fix-it shop in her husband's old green Jeep. I can barely climb up and into the Jeep, but falling out is easy.

Lauren is very clear on her line in the sand. She would rather live under a bridge than ever teach preschool again. I mention the spiders and bugs under the bridge, Lauren insists preschoolers bite more than bugs. I haven't been bit, but life under the bridge seems likely in my long-term future.

Lauren much prefers being the auto fix-it shop counter gal and sometimes mechanic. She makes me laugh.  Her story reminds me I  need some thinking outside the box to avoid a future under the bridge.


Michael Wollf's excellent heart-rending op-ed about long-term care was syndicated in the Dallas Morning News on June third, but is accessible at this link. Our nation needs, desperately needs, some rethinking on this issue.

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Stile queen reverie

Not crossing over the fence in the photo, but sitting atop the stile. A rare photo of me from that era when I was the family snapshot taker. The SLR camera was new, so '91 or '92, an extravagant gift from my husband who wanted it himself and bought with time payments. First roll of black and white film out at Connemara. Oddly calm, almost bemused, pleased with my aviator sunglasses and bargain tan mohair cardigan, and for one tiny second sure my three sons are not breaking arms or legs or needing stitches. All the anxiety seems to be stored in that skinny, clasping wrist.

A stile is an arrangement to allow passage for creatures smarter than sheep and cows. Today I barely qualify, having left the wrong key when I dropped off my car for service. The stile photo is part of a collage about myself made a few years later while I was climbing over the fence of divorce, so '96 or '97. It hangs on the wall behind a door that's always open, so I'd forgotten the stile collage.

The collage is glued to a blueprint, appropriately.  My engineer parents created my blueprint, and regularly inspected the construction site. It is in heavy-duty laminating done by Kinko's that cost a fortune.  I hadn't asked the price, and was horrified to be spending the grocery money on laminating.  The collage was to be a talking-piece at my session with the therapist, but now I would have the dragonfly encased in amber forever.

Today I would say I'm still not over the fence, but I am not immobilized in amber or otherwise. I've supported several people making their passage to new meadows. I've watched hawks, bats, and scissortails swoop, hummingbirds and herons feed. My wrist is not so bony, and the hand not so clenched. I'm still borderline panicked about the grocery money.

Thanks to Kathleen for the image and poem that provoked this meditation. Thanks, too, to my extrovert sister, the Nebraska 4-H Style Queen winner. What year was that?

stile 

O.E. stigel "device for climbing, ladder," related to stigen "to climb," from P.Gmc. *stig- "to climb," (see stair). An arrangement to allow persons to pass but not sheep and cattle.

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Doctor, doctor, doctor give me the news

DR3 starts my new license plate (aka "tag" in Texas). Time to learn the number using mem nonic devices. Or pneumonic. Pneumatic?  I get confused, and having Wild Bill on the phone while I'm searching for a large Phillips screwdriver doesn't aid my concentration.  I need the screwdriver to put my tags on the new Buick. Wild Bill lives in the condo next door and is nearing 89 years of age. He and his little-dog-not-named-Toto are watching me out the doggy-peek window. A WWII vet whose airplane went down in the Pacific, Wild Bill is a frequent reminder of my dad.  And Dad's veterans life insurance paid for my new/old car.  Dad played complex games with himself to remember names and nouns in the last five years of his life.  So this is the circle of life.

Just returned from meeting my grandbaby in Oregon, so I'm aswirl in  baby fabulousity and grandparent love. Earth's axis has shifted. Most of the things I can't remember just aren't that important at the moment.

Still, it might be good to know my tag number. Doctor Three, Doctor Three, Doctor Three .... paging DR3. Mnemonic device needed STAT. ("Stat" in medical parlance is actually not an acronym; it's short for statim, the Latin word for immediately.)
"Mnemonic" trips me up and makes me seem really clueless because I always say it wrong. The m is silent. ( Everybody is silent if and when the grandbaby goes to sleep!)  


Turns out Henry F. Phillips started the Phillips Screw Company in Portland, Oregon, and I have  three Phillips screwdrivers too small for this job.  My shoulder still hurts from lifting my carry-on into the overhead bin at PDX. It doesn't want to torque: 


Torque is a measure of how much a force acting on an object causes that object to rotate. The object rotates about an axis, which we will call the pivot point, and will label 'O'. We will call the force 'F'. 


We will call the grandbaby "O".  We may call the whole screw project "F" if I can't get Wild Bill off the phone and the license plates onto the car!  DR3 give me the news.  I've got a bad case of Phillips screwdrivers!

Dr. J wrote out prescriptions at my appointment, and I went straight to my WalMart pharmacy to get them filled.  I was down to my last blood pressure pill.  Standing in the line at the Drop-Off window, I was fascinated by the pharmacy tech's nametag.  It was on backwards, and showed a grid of emergency situations and store code words:

•  Lose your child at WalMart?  Code Adam.  
• Fire?  Code Red..  
• Bomb in the store?  Code Blue.
• Chemical spill?  Code Orange.
• Accident?  White.
• Hostage situation?  Code Green.
• Tornado about to blow the roof down?  Code Black.
• Terrorist or shooting?  I forget because I drifted into a scary daydream.  That would be the pits to be waiting for a Zoloft refill when terrorists take over the WalMart!  

As a preschool teacher I suspect Code Yellow would mean somebody peed in their pants while driving around on a motorized shopping cart in the Twinkie aisle.

Way back in my hospital kitchen hairnet days we were always agog about "Dr. Red" and "Code Blue" alerts on the PA.  Code Blue was a cardiac arrest call for the crash cart.

Remembering to say the tags are successfully attached to the vehicle.  The Grancy is totally bonded to the grandbaby.  Holding said infant reduces blood pressure significantly and causes euphoria. Wild Bill and his little dog are good for right now.  Can't lift the toolbox back up on the shelf...

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

28,800 beeps

The back-up battery in the fire EXIT sign high above the circulation desk is dead, so something up there is beeping at least once per second.  Once per second for eight hours works out to 28,800 beeps, fifty questions, and a dozen jokes.  "Your popcorn is done!"

Yup, really done.  The building manager will "get right on it" Monday and change the battery.

This must be how Dad and all the other nursing home residents feel with the perpetual beeping of call buttons, fall alerts, and escape attempt beeps around the clock, day after day.  The library staff is alternately zoned out on the beeps or agitated.  We are trapped, just like Dad.

My blood pressure machine squeezes my arm, then beeps.  Again, with the trapping and beeping.

Library reading pressure is on.  My reserved books have come in all at once, and I'm feeling the squeeze.  I have two jobs, and Dad, and beeping, and a half-sewn comforter to finish, and a blood pressure log to keep!  Now I have Stephen King's hefty 11/22/63 begging me to time-travel.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

We admitted we were powerless over fabric stores

Just when did my therapeutic meanderings between the calico and corduroy cross over to the dark side? It started so innocently, choosing festive fall prints to sew ninety napkins for students, staff, and real family.  The sound of the winding bobbin got my blood rushing. The smell of hot, steamy pressed-open seams was driving me wild!  True, it is difficult descending the dank ladder into the sewer of true sewing addiction when no amount of squinting can get a needle threaded.


© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Decreasing altitude over a golden NYC

Except for the wind, it was magical.  My fairy godmother AKA my newest daughter-in-law was flying me into the City That Never Sleeps for Danger Baby's twenty-sixth birthday surprise.

We were definitely humping and bumping in our little AirTran jet from Atlanta as we neared La Guardia. Beginning our descent I was loving the golden twinkly lights of New York, recognizing the Empire State Building and the Chrysler Building, and admiring the lights of the bridges.  Descending lower I noticed a large sculpture of the Earth.  But wait, we were ascending again and still bumping around like crazy.  The pilot came on the speaker to tell us our aircraft is equipped with a wind sheer alert system, and we couldn't land at this time. 

We would circle counter-clockwise again over the twinkly golden lights.  Then we would circle clockwise, and everyone on the plane would concentrate on breathing IN 1-2-3 and exhaling OUT 1-2-3.  We went past the Earth sculpture again.

To barf or not to barf?  That is the question.  I don't want to retrieve the paper barf bag because my sister says that back seat pouch is the home of all Cooties.  Anxiety, I know, is "the shallow breathing of a narrowed mind".  I really don't want to be the first passenger to move from narrowed mind to "chunky industrial-weight puke"* and I don't want to reach into Cootie Central.

There goes that Earth sculpture again.  It is the Unisphere from the 1964 NY World's Fair. Must have read about it in my Weekly Reader that year! 

It's time to visualize Ryan and Ramius steering the Red October submarine up the Penobscot River in Maine and reminiscing about fishing.  Breathe in/breathe out.  Focus on Sean Connery as Admiral Ramius.  Always a good visualization...Breathe in/breathe out.

The pilot lands our AirTran.  We burst into simultaneous applause.  Life is good.  I'm glad to be done with the bonus air sightseeing tour of NYC.  My stomach is one chunk away from industrial-weight! 

*Radioman [shouting amiably over the engines] So you don't like flyin', huh? This is nothin'! You shoulda been with us five, six months ago! Whoa, talk about puke! We ran into a hailstorm over the Sea of Japan! Everyone was retchin' his guts out! The pilot shot his lunch all over the windshield, and I barfed on the radio - knocked it out completely! It wasn't that lightweight stuff, either; it was that chunky, industrial-weight puke! [proferring a candy bar] Here, ya wanna bite?


Jack Ryan: [through clenched teeth] Next time you get a bright idea, Jack, put it in a memo!

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

What is this peculiar sensation?

Mark the calendar!  I feel relaxed.  Wow.  I can't remember when last I had this feeling.  How can I replicate it, bottle it, maybe sell it like a magic elixir on eBay?  What is the recipe for feeling this relaxed? 

• No spa massages or lovers' trysts were involved.  I did spend five dollars in quarters to experience the good vibrations of the self-serve car-wash wand and brush.  The Buick Skylark may have had an orgasm.  Just removing the petrified bird poop and snow slush to achieve a clean car was a peak experience.  Engaging in work that makes an obvious difference is very satisfying.

• Relaxation does not derive from an absence of labor.  I worked at the library Saturday reading book reviews and taking photos to document the appearance of the building prior to the upcoming renovation and expansion.  Work, yes.  On the clock, yes.  Delightful, completely.  I took 141 photos to document the building from every angle possible without a helicopter.  Then I spent four hours in intense Photoshopping to edit the photos down to sixty useful records.  All time spent "in the flow" to the best I can understand Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi.

• Sunshine and sixty-something temperatures helped enormously.  Pulled on Janie's big boots for a second effort at creek clean-up, wading in the shallow water and collecting ugly litter.  Hauled three bags full to the dumpster.  Wade in the water...

• Tried something new without allergy anxiety.  Just pulled the onions out of my lamb kebab sandwich from Fadi's. 

• Took Dad an old-fashioned root beer float from Sonic.  Tasted so good, but Dad's coughing and choking informed me that was his last root beer float.  We laughed together and shared family news.  He was completely sharp and in the moment.  Then suddenly he was talking about the little boys playing leapfrog behind his bed.

• Spotted Eeyore the tailless squirrel near my condo.  Could there be a whole gang of tailless squirrels?  How big can Eeyore's territory be?  Don't get around much anymore.

• Fooled around with the design for this blog.  This was play without expectations for an outcome.  In the big scheme of things it doesn't matter if there's an Itty Bitty Blog Roll. 

• Walked, vented, and lunched with a friend. Ritual and habit bring their own stress reduction.

• None of my problems are solved, but it's O.K.  All is good.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Relaxing in a _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Friday's preschool napper storytime group gave me a good reminder for mental health.  I pass it on to you hangman style.

The kids all knew where the green dog was in Go, Dog, Go, but only one had an idea about the yellow dog.  That dog is reading in a panic.  Been there too much lately.  It's time for a mental health break.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Guilt trip through the galaxy averted

Dad wasn't happy to have his picture taken, and underwhelmed about the tater tots, but otherwise looks better than he has in four days. It was nice to find him out of bed and kidding around with Penelope, the aide. This was a huge relief because a call from the speech therapist, at 2:30 made it sound like Dad had pneumonia.

I stopped at CVS to get some bite-size Milky Ways. I was afraid Dad's last words to me would be, "You never brought me the Milky Ways." That would be a heavy guilt trip.

The speech therapist found Dad unwilling to do the swallow test today he had agreed to last week. It is a big jump from there to saying he needs a chest xray right away. Clearly, I need to learn the players in this sit-com.

So far, I am putting my faith in Penelope. I think she could jolly anybody out of a funk, even me.  She wears giant dangly earrings and does an endzone dance before she transfers Dad from his wheelchair to his bed. Dad can't understand everything she says, but she has his full attention.

So, I guess I'll go back to CVS to buy more Depends.  Dad's going to be around awhile.  He likes the White Rock Marathon volunteer shirt I brought him.  If he keeps getting up and looking perky I'll share my favorite DRC Half volunteer shirt!
Maybe tomorrow I'll hang the toy airplane.

© 2010 Nancy L. Ruder

Heading out at seven a.m.

Two staff members boosted Dad out of his wheelchair and up into the SUV well before dawn Thursday.  We disassembled Dad's customized wheelchair and folded it, lifting it on top of all the stuff in the back to obscure any view in the driver's rear mirror.  Couldn't really sort stuff and discard it in front of Dad, as he was already plenty anxious, so we had way more than would fit in his new room.

Dad was not the only anxious one.  No one looks forward to 650 miles in the dead of winter, twelve hours, who knows how many Depends changes of an angry, demented, frail parent prone to coughing and choking.  We had lowered our expectations so far that the slightest good fortune felt like winning the lottery.  We had danced to learn there was no road construction south of Wichita, and that temps would stay above freezing the whole trip.

On my solo trips home after visiting Dad at the Care Center, York is the breakaway point, when I break out of the gravitational pull.  Take the ramp off I-80, wipe away tears, and head south on Highway 81.

This trip, York felt like the fail-safe point.  Beyond it we were fully committed.  No turning back.  Damn the torpedoes.  Full speed ahead.


The sunrise was a gorgeous emergence of rusty rose, then pure gold from the gray clouds.  In the back seat, I faced the sunrise.  In the front, Dad looked straight ahead or slightly to the west.  Rarely taking his eyes off the road, rarely speaking, Dad held his anxiety tight inside. It would be 500 miles before he flipped out and railed against being captive of his hairbrained daughters.



© 2010 Nancy L. Ruder