consolationland

Disclaimer: This is a very temporary morning schedule. On July 1 my excess vacation hours will disappear, so I use up 3 morning hours a day for fitness and cooking.

Last week the Little Free Library had a real treasure — The Holy Bible. This installment contained all four Gospels of the King James Bible in 12 cassette tapes. It’s read aloud by Alexander Scourby, apparently a famous distinguished narrator born in 1913, “known for his deep resonant voice and mid-Atlantic accent.” This looked like a good opportunity for Bible study. I rummaged in my closet for the cassette tape player, blew off the dust, and popped in a tape. Then I went off to do the chores looking forward to some background audio edification.

One chore of the day was already done; it was folding up the blankie roll and mat away from the sliding glass doors. That’s because a team of men were due to pressure-wash our balconies and clean off the moss.

Next chore was already completed too. That was putting on my compression hose, and getting right outside for a walk. It’s a little loop of 2.6 miles, greeting the school crossing guards and a security officer, and sometimes sharing neighborhood news with a circle of dog owners who gather on benches with their coffee to chat and let the dogs jostle and sniff. May and June are peak months for taking flower photos along the way, like this wood sorrel.

Then home at 6:30, to pop in the Bible cassette and work on some lymphatic drainage massage and a refreshing cold water splash in a washtub. The cold water notion came about from reading and watching Wim Hof, a 64 year old physical conditioning teacher in Holland. Wim once climbed Mount Everest equipped with absolutely nothing but a pair of shorts and shoes. Through breathing techniques and acclimating himself to both ice and desert, he’s set 26 world records for feats that would not even dawn on most of us. He seems a high-spirited guy whether relaxing in a tub of ice or making vegetable soup or playing the ukulele and singing flamenco ballads. Anyway, since January 1st I’ve been washing up in cold water every morning. It’s a slow methodical approach, starting with hands and feet and working the way up. When it’s over and the water rushes off, my first thought is “I want another cold bath!” It’s good for lymphedema, and even better for one’s mood.

Another chore in this warm time of year is watering the garden. That’s carrying a two-gallon bucket (16 pounds of water) down 42 steps and around the corner, then back up the stairs. The garden needs at least ten round trips of that a day, five in the morning and five at night. It makes good use of wash water from cutting vegetables and rinsing the blender.  

Another is washing the laundry. For balcony cleaning day (all objects had to be removed from patios), the drying rack had to go in the bathtub. Otherwise it would be out on the balcony in the sun and air. It’s good fortune that the balcony is on the fourth floor, not visible from the ground. To be offended by the wash line, someone would have to film it from a drone. Hopefully local residents have more interesting things to do.

Then breakfast, a pot of the vegetable combo of the day. That’s some mix of greens, summer squash, onions, mushrooms, eggplant, tomatoes, and/or cabbage with beans or tofu. Then it’s packing a big salad and nuts and oatmeal or sweet potato, plus an improving book, and heading for the bus to work.

But that morning, there I was happily washing up in a little tub. Suddenly, I heard a man’s voice through the bathroom door. Oh my gosh! Was he someone on the pressure wash crew? They had planned to just maneuver up the outside of the building, not enter the apartments. What was the man doing in my kitchen? He was pretty loud, too, raising his voice to criticize something or someone — maybe my balcony? I threw my clothes on, cracked open the door, and then remembered that dusty little cassette machine. Either the tape was marred by a long blank pause, or the machine had stalled for some reason and finally activated again. That deep resonant voice was my introduction to Alexander Scourby, in a dramatic kitchen reading of the Gospel of Matthew chapter 23: “WOE to you, Pharisees and scribes, hypocrites!” If it sounded that arresting in my kitchen on a tape, it’s impressive to think how the actual event must have set those original listeners back on their heels.

Gosh, it’s time for the evening bucket trip right now! Those peas will be thirsty.

Jesus Christ died on a cross to save me from my sins.

How can one mind comprehend and appreciate that? It’s like gathering this entire shore, from today’s walk. (Good thing someone brought this 10-inch dump truck. We’re gonna need it.)

Repentance was the theme for all of the feast day. From hour to hour and chore to chore, the central thought was sin and forgiveness, humility and gratitude. The idea came along on a morning walk, chanting the steps with Psalm 50/51 in Church Slavonic. It was there on a visit to the bike shop to drop off a thank-you card for a tire check by a respectful talented mechanic. It was there while buying eggs and hearing the cashier’s Christian testimony. It was there talking to drivers on the bus. It was there at the monastery for Good Friday vigil. It was there at the thrift-store fitting room thanking the staff in hijab with a “Ramadan Karim!” (These women in their trousers, manteau coats, and full veils took over the shifts for the staff out on Easter weekend — and these women did it without a drop of food or water since dawn). What memory of repentance was worth writing down as a story for this day? What example best conveys metanoia, true change of heart, and the grace to return to Our Lord and Savior?

It has to be that midnight special of “The Rocky Horror Picture Show.”

That was well over 40 years ago, for a transplanted co-ed with no street sense at all. On that afternoon I went out and walked the city, scared of going home to my roommates, our campus neighbors and faculty and friends, my loving parents who would call with eager questions about my weekend plans, and the recent verdict of the school psychiatrist. All of them urged me to break out of the comfort zone, date the new boyfriend, and practice the compromise skills that would make me a good wife one day. The accomplished young man had many fine sincere generous virtues, and was eager to enhance and inform my personal growth. From his point of view, compromise was simple. All it meant was no unaccounted AWOL time away from him on weekends, no more nibbling nuts & berries or other rabbit food out of little pocket packets, no singing along to the radio or anywhere else, no high collars or long sleeves, no highly textured fabric, no tied or covered hair, no speaking to other men (including my faculty advisor), and most of all no God. That was just his idea of efficient sensible operating procedures. It was meant to protect us both, and especially him, from What People Might Think. He was fine educational company, and I was overjoyed to be with him and to learn all of his rules. But soon his level of exasperation, and the number of rules, kept growing: no tracing finger lines in the steam condensation on a glass of ice water; no letting shoelace tips tap on the floor; no changing seats midway through a campus party; no more warbling the falsetto “Rrrighty-OH!” from those Felix the Cat cartoons; and some lengthy rubric about maintaining the patina on carbon steel kitchen knives. It didn’t work. Within a month, this man’s last nerve was losing its myelin sheathing due to my rube manners. (As always in this blog, I carefully alter the details to make everyone unrecognizable. For all we know, what sent him storming out of Shaky’s Shrimp Shack could have been seeing me nibble my ear of corn vertically instead of along the row.)

So before one Saturday date night, I ran away from my suitor and just didn’t go back. I was getting scared of his level of upset, scared of facing the disappointment of my roommates, scared to face my inept self. Knowing he was likely to call the house over and over asking the other girls where I was, I disappeared from all usual haunts (language lab, library, local Cathedral, park outside, neighbors). Instead I walked all over the city. Friendly all-new hidey holes beckoned me inside to escape and pass the time. One was a whole new church, the Cathedral of St. Matthew the Apostle, for half a Mass and a rosary. One was the discount cosmetology school, where a waist length of hair drifted to the floor. One was the Yes! natural food store down the Exorcist Steps to the canal, for bulk bin pocket packets of sunflower seeds, savory nut wafers, dried apricots, and coconut date rolls. One was a tour of the Old Stone House on M Street. One was The Hecht Company department store, where the staff bit back smiles at my excitement seeing pullover sports bras (No fussy hook & eye in the back? Whoa, I want one of those!). With this sturdy one-piece garb I purchased the thickest heaviest turtleneck with the highest collar in ribbed hunter-green wool, plus a jade-green head scarf, and put them all on in the fitting room to wear out the door. Last there was the Army Navy store with an eye-catching display window of goldfish bowls heaped with shining nails; I hurried right in and bought my first pair of high combat boots with thick gumsole cleats, then ran my fingers through the fishbowls and picked out a dozen shining stainless six-inch nails and three lengths of rawhide laces. The fellows at the counter struck up a nice chat, and asked in sociable fashion what repair job called for all those nails. At my idea they raised their brows and nodded. I walked out all smiles.

After an evening’s jostle through candle and soap boutiques and chocolatiers and bakeries and endless couples holding hands and bright windows with French menus and musicians on the street, I stopped short at a movie marquee. For months it advertised the same late-late feature. There an hour early was a boisterous queue of fans, though ticket prices at the time were skyrocketing up toward the $4 mark. Somehow I found myself at the window, bought a ticket just like everybody, and was swept inside.

The house was packed. The audience wore wedding clothes and motorcycle leather and chenille boas and bells. They waved umbrellas and sprayed water pistols and threw toasted bread and white rice and ticker tape and confetti. They hollered out the lyrics and lines. They acted out flickering scenes of glare and blare, overstated costumes and makeup, theatrical theatrics. The sound system revved right through the floor and into one’s ribs. An exploding kaleidoscope of plot threw pieces of archetype around from every which where. Something about a wedding? Motorcycles in the house? Thunder and lightning? Transylvania?

I parked my combat boots up on an empty seat back and bit my cuticles, rocking back and forth, staring at the filmed and live antics. The jokes flew like the ticker tape over my head. No word of dialogue made it into long-term recall. Neither did a note of the music, though there was plenty, and loud too; that Mr. Curry could sure belt out a tune. (Apparently one of his show-stopping vocal numbers is still so popular that fans my age who met and courted and sparked at those shows use it as an anthem for their spouses’ funerals.)

This is not to advise being out at midnight in Washington DC, or walking home in the wee hours from the bus stop. But for that performance, my plush seat felt like the safest haven in the world, the last place where anyone who knew me would think to look. That perception of safety is not as outlandish as it seems. The Picture Show was a public event supervised by management and the fire code, not an exclusive arrangement for two. The Show had stable rules familiar to virtually everyone, built up by large-group consensus each week over a period of years, not invented on the spot by one person to manage another. The Show was choreographed consensual adult group play, not private coercion. The Show channeled cathartic singing and dancing, and welcomed a free range of individual creativity equally from all participants. Most of all, The Show was not spurred on by unbearable anxiety and need for control and social image; it was inspired by campy schmaltzy merriment.

In that crowd, no one looked annoyed or distressed by me at all. Someone loaned me an umbrella. Grown men in lace veils served us toast, and I passed around nuts and berries. During some pointless catchy ditty, I heard myself humming right out loud. Shaking rice off a sleek helmet haircut, securely armored by a new foundation garment that couldn’t be unfastened until I took it off myself when I was good and ready, warm in a nubbly wool turtleneck, under a homemade necklace of braided rawhide and flashing six-inch nails, I felt welcomed and free.

“The Rocky Horror Picture Show” was a full-onslaught sensory reset. For those hours there was no brain bandwidth available to worry and brood about my dating failure. Judging by the crowd, the point of this whole folderol was being yourself. For me, that meant genuine repentance for the wrong steps of serving a wrong relationship, and thankfulness to God for setting me straight. It meant breaking neurotic rules and going home to Godly ones. It meant returning to the body and soul that Jesus died for. Instead of driving any more nails into His cross, it meant wearing those nails around my neck for weeks as a reminder and guard over my heart.

Thank you, Mr. Curry. Blessed Easter.

Purple Deadnettle (Lamium purpureum) was a pleasant familiar face on today’s early morning stroll. This fuzzy and appealing little mint has delicate flowers and unique ruddy top leaves. The county extension websites call it an invasive weed, to be firmly banished from our dooryards, but in our neighborhood it’s a soft pretty accent to vacant lots and curbs.

The flower brought back lovely memories from the town of Eagle a year ago, and its people and landscape. In April, the Deadnettle there will grow as a luxurious shawl of soft lavender and lilac shades, flowing all along the contours of the waterways and lowlands, in bright contrast to the stone hill formations and sterling clear sky.

After arranging this tiny nosegay, I couldn’t resist a nostalgic browse of the online Eagle local paper. Main Street has interesting new foodcraft and household businesses, and even a new urgent care clinic. An abandoned building has been turned back into a community center. News features included an alert about proper battery storage to prevent hazardous corrosion and combustion, best practices for spring hunting season, handling and cooking fresh fish for observant Christians during Lent, keeping alfalfa crops safe from weevils, and safe healthy trail riding on horseback. There was an announcement of a joyful musical event planned at a local church; this happy news came with its own illustration — batteries corroded and scorched, no doubt from improper storage. It was heartening to read that scholarships for local youth are being sponsored by the truly outstanding second-hand store packed with bargains and charm (I still wear those excellent walking shoes, 25 cents brand new). The local historian was well over 100 years old during my visit; now he’s even more over 100, and had a party with a deluge of birthday cards. Even the memorial notices show remarkable warmth and tenderness; each resident did not only pass away, but took the hand of Lord and Savior Jesus, or left their earthly vessel, or gained heavenly wings, entered into rest, was called (or, transferred membership) to heaven, was welcomed to heaven by departed and reuniting family, or was now parading in God’s glory.

It still sounds like a healthy and likeable place to live, and a fine memory for a traveler.

This morning, Super Pup and Bingo allowed themselves to be lassoed with not even token resistance, and placed in the car by Angelina with drinking water and a bag of delicious yums made of dehydrated meats. We headed out for the dog park, where Super Pup chased the ball 1,100 times and Bingo softly slipped up to one stranger after another, peering upward with soulful dark eyes in hopes of a pet on the head.

At the park we found these “Blue Shade” Anemone / Grecian Windflowers.

At the demonstration garden, some industrious grower was well rewarded by cruciferous edibles that survived the winter, then bolted out these cheery yellow blooms.

This first outing of spring was overcast but warm. A dapper Spotted Towhee, black and white with rich burnt-orange side stripes, flew up to a twig and shrilled his ratchety “Whaaat?” Frogs were out in force with their husky little sleighbell noises. “As they hear us crashing past or even crashing closer, they will keep merrily croaking along,” I told Angelina. “But as soon as you stop, they will stop too and nestle in silence under the ooze. I keep trying to sneak closer, but any amphibian is enough to outsmart me.” For her nature edification I demonstrated by stepping off the path and holding still. Sure enough — freeze and be quiet, and their songs will disappear.

Here is half a minute of their happy ruckus.

At the end of our power chat outing, the dogs got their yums and Angelina bought us both a slice of pizza. She and I talked the entire time about the nature of evolution, people and dogs as pack animals, cooking, gardening, parenting, stages of grief, the state of medical care, health, and everything else.

Petting the dogs goodbye I told Angelina, “You and I have exhausted every possible topic to talk about. We ran out of words. Unless we can think up something else to say, this friendship is over.”

(That lasted five hours, and then I had to go bring her my extra fluorescent vest so she can walk the dogs with safety after sundown. She offered me an avocado and a really nice extra chair made of wicker that I might take for my studio.)

It was a good spring outing.

Photo: These winter-blooming Hellebore flowers have nothing to do with this subject, but they are more photogenic than my new support hose.

The Usual Huge Disclaimer: Ask your medical care team. Don’t come to a Russian language major for your health information. This is basically a journal entry about the past couple of weeks, and is not meant to apply to anybody else.

Extra Disclaimer: Here’s a show tune I wrote to lighten the mood around this topic. I don’t own the rights to the copyrighted melody or the pastoral Rodgers and Hammerstein lyrics named after The Sooner State. That said, if you want to sing along to this, go right ahead.

Lyyyyymph / Edema

Diagnosis. What to do with that???

And initial fears

when all these years

here I thought my ankles are just fat.

Tweeeeenty / Thirty

is prescribed for these new pressure hose.

They’re the right tight sort

for vein support

Iffen I can pull them past my toes.

Driiiiink / your water

ease up flour and salty snacks and sweets.

Keep up active motion

Slap on lotion

Take some break time putting up our feets.

So here I’ve been hiking around for years on stout thick stiff ankles with chapped dry flaky reddened and often-itchy skin, and thought nothing of it. Windburn made it worse, and so did sunburn, freezing air, gluten binges, and picture-taking strolls in the cemetery and golf course with, just maybe, chemicals to keep those lawns green. I just slapped on coconut oil and resolved not to scratch, and went on with life. Finally I ended up in the ER with an ankle staph infection, apparently after some trivial unnoticed skin break. Ever since then, doctors have been asking questions and referring me hither and yon.

A wonderful vascular nurse determined that it’s lymphedema. She prescribed compression knee-high stockings that apply 20-30 mm of graduated pressure, tightest around the ankles, to wear during the day but not at night. Apparently they help keep the lymph from settling down in the lower legs. She instructed me to put them on first thing in the morning, before the legs start to swell up. She explained that we’ll have to reduce the mechanical swelling in order to let the skin heal. She recommended frequent changes of position and exercise breaks. She referred me for a vein valve leg scan in April. (If there are defective valves close to the skin, they might be able to fix them. If valves are defective but deeper, we’ll stick with compression stockings.) She also referred me to an occupational therapist.

The 20-30 mm stockings from the drugstore are like a circular-knit stack of firm rubber bands, tightest at the ankle. My arthritic hands couldn’t get them up over my bent bunion toes. Uh-oh. I asked Angelina, Power Nurse at Large, to help me. “Am I gonna have to come over to your house every morning at 6:00 a.m. so you can get me dressed?” I asked her with some anxiety. “Maybe,” she said, cheerfully giving it a try. She couldn’t pull the stockings over my bent toes either. Over the next few days I kept practicing stocking techniques, all of which left me in hand pain and close to tears. I was failing as a lymphedema patient!!

Luckily for me, the outstanding occupational therapist immediately calmed me right down off the ceiling with her reassuring and cheerful solutions.

First, she defused my panic by starring me in a fashion show of wrap-around and other support garments, plus hand-held gizmos for pulling them up easily. It was really reassuring and fun trying them all on. Then she gave me a wee thin floppy square of Dycem, a wonder substance which on hard floors provides a non-skid surface. (Wash it with a drop of soap and water, and dry it on a lint-free surface to keep up the non-skid tacky qualities.) She put the Dycem on the floor, and coached me to put my toes in the stocking and slide my foot toe-to-heel. To my delight, the stocking slid right on like magic! No strain on my hands! Next, she gave me garden gloves with grippy nitrile palms. The gloves gripped and smoothed the stockings right up to the knee!

She showed me an anatomical chart of the lymphatic system with its channels and nodes. Our lymphatic system carries and cleans away dead white cells, cancer cells, and waste products. When lymph slows down and backs up into the tissues, it separates the skin more from the muscle and circulation system; then the skin breaks down, loses lubrication, and become dry and thin and fragile. Lymph pressure pushes red blood cells out of the vessels and into the tissues of the lower leg, causing iron oxidation and a brick red skin color (it’s basically rust).

She taught me lymphatic drainage massage to do for 40 minutes every day. We can use diaphragmatic breathing as well as soft gentle directional strokes (“like you’re petting a cat”) to massage and stretch bare skin along lymph channels and nodes all over the body. Stroking the lymph layer upwards and clearing it on its way (starting at the top, and working our way down) will allow the circulation to start healing the skin.

She also explained that the ankle skin needs to be kept clean and hydrated, with water-based lotion. A lotion with water as the first ingredient also helps during the massage, to gently stretch the skin. We need to avoid any activity that causes reddened skin. When the skin is reddened by topical allergens or cold or heat (overuse of hot tubs or saunas), the body will rush liquid into those tissues. (I did ask her about my Wim Hof Method daily cold water wash. She thought this short dip in cold tap water sounded okay.)

She emphasized the need to avoid cuts and scratches, because lymph is so rich in protein; any bacteria entering stagnant lymph will feast on protein and multiply rapidly. If the ankle skin shows redness and swelling or a rash, infection might reach the bloodstream and require intravenous antibiotics. At any sign of infection, it’s time to head for Urgent Care or the ER for immediate treatment.

She also emphasized the importance of hydration, drinking enough water, and cutting way down or out on flour and sugar. She suggested that I photograph the ankles so that we could measure our progress before my followup session.

I asked her, “Could this influence our emotions? I have a literal sinking feeling, a deep discouragement that is very hard to forge through.” She said “Water is heavy. If you are carrying extra water in your legs, that can definitely add to a feeling of heaviness.”

I went home wearing my stockings, and practiced the massage and skin washing and lotion that evening. But if only I had taken that starter photo before the OT session. Next morning I took a look. Whoa, thin legs! What? Are those ankle bones? Where did they come from? Since then the ankles look slender, and the skin is much softer and hasn’t had a single itch flareup. Even foot circulation looks better, with a healthy rosy color and warm feel.

That day I bought nitrile gloves and three more spare pairs of 20-33 mm stockings. (I wash each pair after taking them off, and dry them, for a supply of fresh pairs each day.) Then I shopped from store to store looking for a water-based lotion with water, not oil, as the first ingredient, and with the fewest additives. The simplest formula was Trader Joe’s “Nourish” Hydrating Hyaluronic body gel cream in a pump bottle. The pump doesn’t work, so I have to drag lotion out of the bottle with the pump stick and slop it on the skin, but oh well.

The new routine is an extra 40 minutes in the morning. It’s Wim Hof breathing exercises and lymphatic drainage massage, then a cold water wash (cold tap water feels wonderful for leg circulation and mood), then drinking plenty of warm water, then lotion, then letting the lotion soak in, then with the Dycem as an aid sliding the stockings on for the day. At work it means frequent sitting and standing changes, and breaks in the conference room holding the legs up against the wall. At night it’s all the steps backwards — stockings off & washed, massage, washing, lotion, then earlier bedtime and sleeping with the feet elevated on a cushion.

That is a whole lot of privilege and pampering. During the daily routine I think sadly about the working women back in the Soviet Union, forging around on their feet all day long. Some had massive ankles with rolls of swelling and the skin weeping fluid right through their heavy stockings. And even here, how many single moms have time to fuss with doctors and self-care like this? What about the many people I pass all day, sleeping in their tents on the streets? When do they get clean lotioned skin and the right stockings and adequate diet and rest?

Well, if I neglect this condition, that will not make me more useful to society. This is my homework for now. Lymphedema is chronic and apparently permanent. It’s painless and subtle and gradual, and I wish that someone had diagnosed it for me years ago. Like other gradual conditions, it can coast along for decades. But it can also make us vulnerable to rapid complications such as skin staph and strep infections, cellulitis, strained vein valves, and stagnant circulation leading to blood clots and embolisms. Our task is to slow down that progression in the future.

Maybe someone will read this, and start to wonder about their own ankles. Do they look swollen, or feel stiff or itchy? Does the skin look red, or have cinnamon-colored dot points? Do even soft loose low socks leave red lines on the skin? A medical provider can do the thumbprint test, where they press in a thumb (ow!) and then gauge the depth of the print and how quickly it disappears. Those are all signs to ponder.

Live and learn! This whole adventure is food for thought, and a lot to be grateful for.

Peas are jolly little troopers, happy to be planted even before the temperature warms up. According to the seed packet, they can go in the ground 4 to 6 weeks before the last frost date, especially if the soil temperature is above 40 degrees F.

Here are the peas at bathtime Saturday morning in a blue glass bowl of water for a good 24 hour soaking.

Here they are on Sunday morning, all plumped in together. The soaking is meant to give them a head start on germinating once they are in the ground.

On Sunday morning, hauling out of bed was just not my favorite idea. But those peas needed to get in the ground, so I trudged straight outdoors aiming for an optimistic mindset and humming “Why do fools fall in love?” with the peas and 25 bamboo stakes. The stakes went along the raised garden bed. Each stake got two six-inch holes dug beside them, hopefully deep enough to confuse the crows. Then the 50 or so peas went into the holes under a layer of garden soil.

It’s good luck when peas go in the ground while the weather is chilly and windy and damp. They’ll hatch along on their own and find their way up to the sun. If all works out well we could see 50 little shoots perk up through the ground on or around February 22. If all works out even better, we could have peas starting in 70 days, or early May. Peas are a very pretty sight, and they are dramatic and fast-growing enough to amuse the neighbors. Which is, after all, the whole point.

Meanwhile here’s another view of Mrs. Wing’s daikon, as pretty as… well, as a picture.

It would have been really thoughtful and considerate of me to tell the Wings that for cataract surgery #2, I was going to go ask Angelina to take me to the hospital instead.

And why? Because for cataract surgery #1, it was so wonderful to have their perfect help — doing without the family car for two mornings, and rearranging their schedule. Thanks to Captain’s winter-weather navigation and motoring skills, the surgery and the followup appointment next day were a breeze.

Me being me, my first conclusion was “That was great! Therefore, I would never venture to ask this wonderful family to help me with surgery #2. Instead I will distribute this huge imposition elsewhere so that no one set of neighbors needs to be burdened twice.”

Ya whatever. But because I didn’t dream of asking the Wings to go again, I didn’t dream that they would think they were going to be asked again. Therefore I did not talk to them of my decision. Result: they waited patiently in readiness, having noticed that cataracts come in pairs. Finally they found out by chance (with a glance at this blog) that I’d moved on and hit up someone else without ever telling them, or explaining why.

Captain called me this week with a message from Mrs. Wing, asking me to drop by the house on my way home. The call was a pleasant surprise. “It’s so nice to hear from you!” I told him. “After imposing on you for that surgery, I was afraid to contact any of you for fear you would be upset by how much work that was.”

Tactful moment of silence on the phone. “We were waiting for instructions,” he replied. “Then we read that Angelina took you to the hospital instead.”

Oh dear goodness. I am such a dork.

For some reason, they are still speaking to me. Mrs. Wing gave me a whole sack of fresh vegetables from their expedition to the grocery wholesale store, along with a couple of home-baked supersize macadamia cookies AND part of her harvest of winter purple daikons which grew all sturdy in the cold and snow. Here is one of them, showing only part of its lavish healthy foliage. They really are this beautiful.

And (like the Wings), they are beautiful not only on the outside, but at heart:

Each nibble is perfectly crisp and bursting with juice, and remarkably sweet. Then the hit strikes — wow, what a spicy kick! The foliage was great too in long-cooked potassium broth with vegetables and a bit of wakame, and then the simmered leaves had a good flavor for munching. Those slices will make beautiful kimchi with some grated Asian pear, garlic, ginger, anchovy sauce, and cayenne. It’s a much appreciated home-grown super thoughtful gift.

Well, that is a life lesson for me. When God sends the best helpers, it is my job to be easy to help. That starts with updating everyone on what might be needed in future, and how best to strategize so that no one is too burdened or is left out and wondering about the plan.

Wings never wait around to be thanked or praised. But thank you all the same, dear neighbors. Maybe I can find some way to show appreciation back for all that you do for us.

Tonight we neighbors (is there a feminine plural? neighboresses?) are hurrying down to Angelina’s for Netflix and pizza. The group hasn’t picked out the movie yet. I’d like one with a Gospel message of redemption and salvation. But that may not be the case, judging by the 2023 film trailers I watched last night with the sound off, finger poised to click the mouse button to the next selection. Yike. Depending on the title I may have to leave after our supper of fellowship (is there a feminine singular? galship?).

But no matter what, I’m bringing her a salad for her weekend dinner.

It has steamed kale with grated raw carrots, red onion, boiled firm tofu, boiled eggs, chopped roasted almonds, goat cheese, yogurt, dried cherries, apple cider vinegar, olive oil, paprika, and a sprinkle of tiny fennel fronds that sprang up from an old wintering stalk out in the garden. Angelina is a grand-slam cook and comes from a background of classy restaurants, so it was necessary to think up something marginally gentrified. Besides, she was a Godsend last Saturday taking the lion’s share of weight when we wrestled four 60-pound sacks of topsoil from her car hatch to the garden in the freezing rain. Hopefully she will like the salad.

I’ll bring something to wrap around my feet and legs too, after leaving shoes at the door. The Dog Pack have decided that I am delicious, and are forever looking for an opp to wander up the couch and start nibbling my toes. That’s caused by regular foot and ankle applications of coconut oil. Apparently coconut oil must be some form of olfactory dognip. It would be interesting to see how the dogs react to alternate lubricants week by week — lard, schmalz, marrow, sardine can oil, or birdfeeder suet. As it is now, their collective greetings are all bouncy glee. “It’s Mare! Look everybody, I’m totally sticking my head up her dress! You can too!” Now I could protect my feet by sticking them in one of the tubular cages of chicken wire that we use in summer for the tomatoes. But for a visitors’ parlor Emily Post might vote for my rolled yoga mat. The yoga mat turned out to be good protection. The dogs still found great entertainment value in vaulting up on to my lap for a bite of my food. Whenever they try that, I give them a soft hiss and a firm poke, and they frolic off and pick some more hospitable lap. But it’s interesting; they are still just as pleased to see me every time. And they’ve figured out that if they edge closer in calm submissive fashion and just snuggle up next to me for a nap they know I’ll pet them, so it’s all good.

Update, morning after: We watched the first 5 episodes of a program called “Ted Lasso.” It was a pleasant surprise with interesting character development. I’m re-reading The Brain That Changes Itself by Norman Doidge, so it was interesting to watch how Coach Ted’s brain worked. The character shows hyper-developed and hyper-attuned neuroplastic connectivity skills for matching people up with their best opportunities for personal growth. For example, during various scenes Ted keeps passing by an ignored street musician busking on the street, and always stops to give him pocket change and some word of encouragement. In the finale to episode 5, when a famous celebrity doesn’t show for a benefit concert, Ted steps outside and brings in the busker (“and now, live from… outside!”), and everyone jumps up and starts dancing and has a grand time.

Angelina not only served an ample selection and portions of yummy food, but made a very good and considerate entertainment choice that pleased all of her guests. She’d make a great soccer coach herself.

The usual big disclaimer: For goodness sake, this is not medical advice. This is just one person feeling her way along, not an endorsement of cataract surgery or a prediction of anybody else’s results. This does contain an opinion about the color of my favorite breakfast bowl in my cabinet, but you could already pick out your own dishes and fix your breakfast without my say-so.

In these weeks after surgery, it is still a surprise to wake up and look outside the window. For years, the houses in this complex were turquoise blue. Now after surgery those same houses are heron slate gray. My favorite breakfast bowl was tangerine golden-pink. Now it’s pure pale rose. Those true colors, those slate houses and rose dish are new acquaintances, fresh every morning.

Of course the main dramatic change is sharp visual acuity. All day every day it’s amazing to live without prescription eyeglasses. (Of course, without eyeglass frames it’s easier to see how tired my eyes look, and how sensitive they are to light. But plain tinted safety goggles cover that pretty well.) After three years of wearing a Covid mask, it feels much safer to maneuver without the fall risk of steamed up lenses. (Stepping into a grocery store or library or clinic, I pull up my mask. Then to avoid the steaming I still reach up to take off glasses that aren’t there.) It is amazing to just type on a computer and tell the time on a wall clock and identify my books by title instead of topic order and binding color. Before, on the street corner there’d be buses materializing in the distant traffic, and I’d be there with glasses on bobbing and weaving and shading my eyes trying to figure out what the route number was, worried that if I flagged down the wrong bus and then had to wave it away the driver might be upset. The other pedestrians, the other deer in the herd, they didn’t seem to stare into the headlights at all; when a bus appeared blocks away they could just instinctively sort themselves out by stepping closer to the curb or by backing away. Now I was finally starting to catch on to the same hat trick and could blend in better with everybody else. So that’s all a marvel all day.

Next month the eye clinic team will run some tests and figure out new ideal corrective lenses. Now, the focus going forward is good care and prevention for any potential retina issues. Unfortunately, that is a risk after cataract surgery. (During recovery, resting alone in the dark, that possibility caused my melancholic mind to dredge up the “Flowers for Algernon” dilemma, and if your 8th grade curriculum didn’t make you read that then for sure don’t read it now.) One night it scared me to view what seemed to be a new internal black floater shooting across the visual field; what a happy relief to find it was a spider zipping across my monitor screen. But instead of fretting about the future, it is far better to research and learn all the symptoms of retina difficulties, to be vigilant, and to keep communicating with the care team. So, there’s an Amsler Grid taped to the bathroom wall for frequent vision tests. There’s a retina checkup in two months, and regular checkups after that from now on. This week I alerted the team to report a subtle vision glitch — an early warning? (The surgeon wrote right back, giving the phenomenon a scientific name and explaining that this was a normal short-term illusion and ought to resolve soon. He was right. It did.)

[Memory interlude: That same surgical team did a brilliant job of repairing a retina tear years ago. At the time I told my health-care colleagues in our medical department, “I need to be out of the office for emergency surgery. My retina is detached! They have to re-attach it again. Will report back in a few days.” My cubicle mates made a point of welcoming each other back from any medical time off with get-well cards, flowers, balloons, and cake. But for my return from retina surgery? Nothing. Not a soul asked how I was, or whether they could help. They even avoided looking at me. Finally, a an old-school high-level physician days from retirement stopped by my desk after hours. Looking around and clearing his throat, in gruff but obvious concern he said “So… how’s the rectum now?”]

Another rumination during rest days in dim light has been awareness of shame. It’s a lifelong tension, like chronic hyper-vigilant armoring in muscles and nerves. Some of it comes from being a failure at vision improvement exercises taught by inspiring authors like Meir Schneider. (When Mr. Schneider came to town I joined a large group for a two-hour workshop. He was an outstanding nurturing teacher. He would have been the first to say to me “Whoa, you’d better get a cataract exam.”) Mostly, shame is the memory of people’s frustration and ridicule, their assumption that near-sighted behavior shows stupidity or disrespect. It was the Sister of St. Dominic who used to comically mimic the gobsmacked look on my face when I strained to read the chalkboard. It was grownups warning “Stop squinting; you’ll get wrinkles,” or “For God’s sake come on, look alive!” or “Boys don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses!” (I didn’t know what a pass was, and didn’t even want boys to throw a football at my head.) Now even after surgery, people still say “You were crossing the street at the WALK sign, and when you stepped in front of my car I honked but you didn’t wave!” (No, I was too busy fleeing the path of some yabbo leaning on his horn.) Last week I ventured out at night, wearing wraparound black goggles against the glare. I had to scoot two blocks from bus to train in a crowded but moderately distressed neighborhood where people run about with guns, knives, and tazers. A chipper neighbor (who knew all about my surgery) charged right up behind me on the dark street. He looked forward to how happy I’d be once I realized who he was. When he lunged at my head I spun around with a skewering combative stare, recognized him, and stared even harder. He burst out laughing, backed off, and hurried away. Later he said “Hey!! Even after you saw it was me, you STILL gave me an angry look!” (This behavior must be a vestigial artifact in the deep reptilian brain: Act like an apex predator. Tamper with a woman’s friend-vs.-foe meter. Laugh uproariously at her reaction. Fortunately it’s a gag that most men set aside once they discover Play-Doh.)

On the first day after surgery #1 and the checkup next day, I left the house without my eye shield. Still feeling tired and chilled, I bundled up in a long heavy dress with trousers and high boots and sweater and black hoodie sweatshirt and head scarf and cap and black goggles. I walked very slowly, looking into the distance up ahead, to let the brain balance the new left and right visual fields. For a quiet pleasant route I walked around the block bordering the golf course, an exclusive little cul-de-sac with a security guard inside a booth who waves back when I wave at him. Taking small steps, enjoying the fresh air, I suddenly heard a sharp thwack. Oh no! A golf ball! I’d only been near the golf course at sunset or at dawn or on moonlit nights, never a weekday afternoon. That called to mind the sign posted right at the entrance:

Yike! I shielded the goggles with my hands and ducked my head. Listening hard for any more thwack activity I turned my back to the putting green and walked sideways for the next three blocks, one foot at a time, slowly fleeing for the exit. Soon a little maintenance cart came putt-putting by. The course worker peered at me, and we exchanged waves. Then another little cart came by with two workers, conversing with each other in Spanish. I hollered “Hola Señores. Qué tiempo lindo! Tengan an buen día!” [Wait, where are the upside down exclamation points on this keyboard?] The men hollered back. More handwaves. Another cart. Waving, smiling. The carts kept circling around and trailing along behind me. It looked like a Shriner parade without the fezzes. Maybe the security guard contacted them on walkie-talkies? “Slow-moving intruder. Spanish-speaking granny moves off-kilter, difficulty walking forwards on pavement. Monitor scene. Hover while she heads toward exit. Keep waving.” Finally I sidestepped to the gates, and with more waves the friendly convoy doodled off and back to work and I went back to bed.

This has all been an amazing life adventure.

And just maybe some day the Goodwill housewares shelf will have a dish in a genuine shade of my lost tangerine. I might just buy it and bring it home.