A Look Back at The Old Neighborhood

Quite a few years ago, I awoke to hear a commercial on the radio suggesting everybody go to the Rusty Scupper and welcome in the new year with Ed Prutzer.  Prutzer, now that's a name you don't hear every day.  But for a time in my life, I did hear it every day.  Ed Prutzer's family were our next door neighbors on Stratford Road.  Stratford was a short row of what is now referred to by relators as townhouses, but we knew what they were: row houses.  Not row homes, but row houses with thin walls. We knew our neighbors very well. Ed Prutzer was a bit of a rascal, so we often heard his mom calling him by both first name and last name, the classic call for kids who were really in trouble. And Ed was in trouble a lot, almost as much as (or maybe even more than) my brother.

Eddie was the first person ever to tell me how babies were made.  I was horrified and didn't want to believe him, but he told me it was the truth.  I reluctantly agreed he ought to know; his Catholic parents had a lot of babies packed into that tiny row house.

It wasn't long after that first radio ad that my friend Dottie and I went to a show in the City and then decided to have dinner there and check him out.  Sure enough, he was Eddie from The Old Neighborhood.  Another time I brought some high school friends to dinner there and Ed greeted us; but it had been years since my last visit.  I recently heard another commercial, so I knew he was still there.

My sister, her daughters, and I saw the musical Wicked  yesterday.  Helen and I decided to go to the Rusty Scupper and say hello to Eddie as well as introduce him to her children.  When we got there, the place was very busy, and the staff at the door told us they would not be able to seat us at all that whole night. We were ok with going somewhere else for dinner, but we asked if Ed could come out for a few minutes to say hello to Barbara and Helen from The Old Neighborhood.  Miraculously...a table with a lovely water view opened. The very solicitous staff seated us and fell all over themselves serving us. My first experience with name-dropping!  Ed came over to talk and we caught up on old times in the 'hood.  Then Ed asked if we remembered our rabbit.

Of course we did. I remembered the bunny very clearly.  She was a black and white ball of fluff named Snooks.  Dad built a cage for her that we kept by the back door of our house.  One morning a neighbor called and we children were not allowed to go outside.  That was strange because in our neighborhood, the moms kicked the kids out and we weren't allowed home until we heard them calling for dinner. It turns out that a dog had torn into the cage, killing the rabbit, and leaving its remains on one of the front lawns.  My father watched for that dog to return.  When he did, he followed it home and confronted its owner.  He told the woman that if the dog ever came back on our property, he would shoot it. The woman told him that if he did that, his kids wouldn't have a father.  I hated dogs for a long time after that.

But I digress.  

Ed told us that his dad had died a few years ago.  We talked a little about how most of the old neighbors were gone, how sad we were that our parents had died, and so on, but Ed had a story he needed to tell us.  Towards the end of his life when he was very sick, Mr. Prutzer told Ed about something that had bothered him for fifty years. He asked if Ed remembered our rabbit.  He did, and he remembered a stray dog had killed it.  No, said Mr. Prutzer in full confession mode, the Prutzer dog did it!  The little part doxie tore our bunny out of her cage and ended her life.  We were in shock.  Ed's dad wanted him to apologize to us if he ever saw any of us again.  So, he apologized, and  we accepted.  I'm so glad Dad never killed that stray dog, and I'm glad that Mr. Prutzer could finally rest in peace.

The bonds of The Old Neighborhood.  The subject of novels. The fabric of life... and deathbed confessions.

Everything You've Always Wanted to Know About Colonoscopies.... or not.

If you're my Facebook friend, then you probably figured this was coming... the colonoscopy blog. Yes, after many years of "Oops, my colonoscopy prescription has expired.  Again." I was finally forced to go through with it.

Let me add my voice to all those who tried to reassure me. Really, it isn't as bad as you convince yourself it is going to be.  After all, we're dealing with an invasive procedure.  And poop.  Heaven knows, we all hate poop. Ugh.  Poop. Yuck. But since the majority of people I know are full of it, poop is something we all must eventually deal with.

I approached the procedure with as much optimism as I could muster.  I told my sister that I planned to weigh myself before the cleanse and after it to see how much weight I lost.  I figured, whatever the amount of poo and excess fluid that left my body, I would subtract that amount of weight from my weekly weigh in.  After all, it's waste material, neither fat nor muscle. Due to its temporary status, I scientifically deduced that amount should not count.  I was anticipating being able to mentally deduct five whole pounds each time I weighed in.  Ha! It was a whopping total of .6 pounds.  Or poundlets, since it wasn't even a whole pound.  Ugh. Damn poop.

The cleanse itself wasn't as bad as I had anticipated.  A person used to have to fast while downing a very salty and gritty concoction that you picked up in its gallon jug at the pharmacy.  Every old person in line knew what you were in for, which was totally embarrassing.  They looked at you and saw poo.  Ugh. Poop. Yuck.

I got to drink a concoction of Miralax and Powerade.  I love lemon lime drinks (especially margaritas), so I bought the light liquid and figured this would be a breeze.  And the first glass went down easily.  But the aftertaste didn't.  By the end of my 64 ounces, I was using a straw, holding my nose, and closing my eyes as I sucked down each dose as quickly as possible. I never felt nauseated, even though a few of my friends had experienced projectile vomiting.  I was determined to follow the instructions perfectly. My friend Nadine had told me that her hubby Chuck had to do the whole thing over again because he hadn't been able to clean himself out.  No way was I going through that!!

Here's my advice about how to best use the bathroom.  Make sure the house has been cleared of people who might feel tempted to comment on the noises or fumes coming from the potty room.  No one needs to hear, "Holy cow! Light a match!"  And frankly, I'm not sure that match lighting would even be safe. My dog, who loves to sleep at my feet,  stayed at my sister's house because I didn't want to trip over her on my sprint to the bathroom.  (I did that once and put a hole in the wall the size of my butt.) Since I wasn't sure when the meds would kick in, I had my book, glasses, a small pillow, and a space heater waiting for me in the bathroom.  What can I say about the heart of the prep?  If you have ever had food poisoning, this is no where near as bad. I even managed to get a few hours of sleep before Dee came to get me at 6:30 am.

The hospital staff was very nice.  They are compassionate and understand that this is a humiliating experience for patients.  I actually felt compassion for them having to deal with poop on a daily basis. I thought getting up to go to work with maniac seventh graders was a challenge.  Ha! I can't imagine how one greets the day knowing you're going to spend it scoping people's colons.   I hope it pays well.

Once you are hooked up to the IVs and heart monitor, you're in dreamland before they wheel you out of the waiting area.  I woke up with a big smile.  It was over!  I survived!  And the drugs were gooood!!  Dee and I went out for a big breakfast, and then I came home for a much needed nap.

While I won't say it's a piece of cake, I will not have these fears when I go for my next one in twelve months.  You see, I need a follow-up.  The doctor removed four polyps, and one was big and needs to be biopsied. I had no idea that they would find anything suspicious.  I always felt fine "down there." And that is why you cannot ignore this procedure once you hit your fifties.  Colon cancer is silent and sneaky.  Maybe a bloody stool will alert you to a problem, but most likely not in time to avoid a problem. Had I done this procedure ten years ago, that polyp might have been removed before it had a chance to expand.  Katie Couric did her colonoscopy on live TV and exclaimed, "I have a pretty little colon."  I don't care if mine is pretty, but I am hoping for good news that tells me it's healthy.

March is Women's History Month.  We all know that, right?!?  It is also Colon Cancer Awareness Month.  Get your ass to a health center near you.

A Bad, Bad Blind Date

In honor of Valentine's Day, I've decided to share with you the absolute worst blind date of my life. It was so long ago that I am not sure I'll be able to remember the details.  I do remember, though, that I swore off blind dates after that one.

One of my dear friends thought I might be a good match for her hubby's best friend.  We'll call him Doofy (the best friend, not her hubby).  I agreed to meet him at his home where we would then go out to dinner.

I got to Doofy's house after work, about 4:30-ish.  I had brought a bottle of wine.  He grinned and said, "Oh, the good stuff." Then he put it in his refrigerator, and sat down to finish the beer he was in the middle of drinking. No, he did not offer me a drink of anything.  He asked if I wanted to go to a nearby steak house and told me we'd have to make a couple stops before we got there.  I knew I was in trouble, but I said that was fine with me. I ignored the reverberating "Danger, Will Robinson" that filled my head.

The first stop was at the local train station where he wanted to greet his incoming grandparents.  Not pick them up, his cousin was there to do that. Just greet them, just say hello.  His grandparents absolutely loved him and fawned all over him, but his granny did not like me. Not one bit. He introduced me as his girlfriend, and Bubbe's nose wrinkled liked she was smelling a fart.  I guess she thought I couldn't hear her ask her little Doofala what he saw in me.  The grandfather assured her I must be very nice. The screaming inside my head got louder.

Next, he needed to stop at a friend's house.  He and his friend cracked open a few beers, and I was left alone in the living room with a wife who wanted to do anything but entertain me.  I fielded such probing questions as "How long have you known Doofy?"  with answers that totally befuddled her. When she ran out of interview questions, I suggested I find Doofy so we could get off to dinner.  I found him in the basement admiring the friend's classic car.  He sucked down the dregs of the beer and I insisted we get moving.

In the car he told me he wanted to make one more stop.  He needed to go to his OA meeting (Overeaters Anonymous) so he could be prepared to not overeat at the steak house.  Finally, I pulled myself out of my shocked state and told him we could go to dinner now or he could take me back to my car.  We went to dinner.  During dinner, he ordered a carafe of wine. I had one drink.  He finished the carafe, and ordered a second.  He lectured me on how fattening and unhealthy my dinner was (a steak, baked potato, and salad from the salad bar).  He had a salad on a dinner plate that was drenched in blue cheese dressing, sunflower seeds, eggs, bacon, and macaroni salad.  His "healthy" salad had twice the calories of my dinner. He also ordered a steak dinner because he needed some protein to go with his salad.  I hoped all that food was soaking up the alcohol because I knew that I couldn't drive a stick shift, and I wanted nothing more than to get home alive.

Back at his house, I asked to be directed to the bathroom before I made my way home.  When I came out of the bathroom, the house was completely dark! Doofy had turned off every light in the house except a tiny lamp in his bedroom.  I peeked in and he was sprawled across the bed, shoes and shirt off, and posed as a gift to me.  He asked for a goodbye kiss.  I mumbled that I had to get home because I needed to get up early for work.  I nearly stumbled trying to find the staircase in the dark.

I was home by 11:30, but it took me forever to fall asleep that night.  When my girlfriend asked me how the date went, I told her that he didn't seem like he was ready to date anyone at the moment.  She said he was anxious to go out with me again because we had to end our date abruptly due to me needing to get up early the next day. Yes, readers, Doofy really said that to her.

I'm sure Bubbe was glad we never saw each other again.

Doctor Appointments

Once when a friend of mine and I were trying to schedule a date for our next luncheon, I glanced at her pocket calendar.  It was packed full of penciled-in engagements.  When I expressed envy over her busy social calendar, she shook her head and laughed.  "They're all doctor appointments," she said. "If I didn't have these appointments, I'd have no social life at all."

Now that's just sad.  But true for so many of us retirees.

I am in the process of follow-up doctor appointments concerning my most recent visit to the gynecologist.  And I hate it.  I don't necessarily dread the results of these appointments and tests.  I dread the time spent in that medical environment.  That special smell encountered when you enter a medical facility. The out-of-date magazines you're almost afraid to touch because someone with symptoms far worse than yours may have sneezed on them.  The looks on the faces of others in the waiting room.

I took my friend Nancy to some of her chemotherapy appointments.  The waiting room overflowed with people in various stages of the disease.  Some had hair.  Some wore cute hats and scarves.  The "society type" ladies often wore heavy makeup and slightly crooked wigs. Some were chatty, but most were eerily quiet.  The look in their eyes was universal, dull.  No light. No joy.  The look of acceptance, fear, exhaustion, and worry.  Being sick hurts, both physically and mentally.

I don't know what is in store for me.  My gynecologist left me feeling  hopeful.  I'm one of the lucky ones with good health insurance.  So, I will have all these tests.  I will pencil-in my appointments.  I will be poked and prodded.  I will take care of whatever ailment is plaguing my old body.

And no matter what the diagnosis/ prognosis, I will take that Thanksgiving cruise with my family this coming November.

Getting old is not for the weak.

I Really Hope I'm a Hypochondriac

I've reached an age where the expression, As long as you have your health everything else is chopped liver, has become my mantra.  I remember listening to my parents' friends discussing their health woes and shaking my head at such boring conversations.  Now, my friends and I constantly discuss our health. Many of us have pre-existing conditions that could have left us uninsurable in the days before Obamacare.  My friends have diabetes, MS, heart issues, back pains, and cancer.  Some of my friends are no longer here because of cancer. I worry about cancer because I have growths on my thyroid that could become cancerous.  I'm regularly checked, biopsied, and ultrasounded.  So far, so good.

Maybe.

Yesterday I went to a clinic because I had all the symptoms of a urinary tract infection.  They can easily get out of control, so I wanted to nip it in the bud.  The doctor was perplexed when the urine test came back with no indication of a UTI.  Then he did a series of blood tests, concerned that the pain in my lower right abdomen was a cry for help from my appendix.  Nope.  All clear.  He gave me three days of antibiotics in case a UTI really was starting up and sent me on my merry way, suggesting I follow up with my doctor if I'm not feeling better in a few days.

Of course, I followed up with the internet and worked myself into a frenzy last night.  A sleep losing, anxiety filled frenzy.  Because, these symptoms of mine are associated with the most difficult to diagnose cancer for women, ovarian cancer.  Ovarian cancer in its earliest stages is rarely diagnosed because the symptoms are ones that women experience for many benign reasons.  But, I focused on two that made me panic immediately.  In laymen's terms, one of them is a feeling of being full before one has eaten enough to actually be full.  I've been experiencing this phenomena for months. Sometimes I am in the middle of a delicious meal that I absolutely have to stop eating because to take one more bite would cause me to vomit.  After a dinner in Baltimore, I couldn't get into my friend Nancy's car right away because I was on the verge of leaving my calamari on the parking lot macadam. I just assumed I was eating too much, the food was too rich, etc. etc. Maybe those are the reasons, but this is something I had not experienced before this past year. And it's weird. You have to admit, it's weird.  I was also chilled by the symptom described as bloating.  My abdomen has changed shape this past year.  It's hard to explain, but I have not gained any weight (in fact, the recent weigh in revealed I'd lost a few pounds), yet my gut is rounder and bigger than it used to be.  I've just blown this off figuring my old weight was settling differently on my bones.

That is exactly why the early stages of ovarian cancer are missed.  The bodies of older women betray us in so many ways that one more change is taken in stride.

In this day and age of instant internet information, we often make the mistake of diagnosing ourselves according to what WebMD says we might have.  It's a stupid thing to do, and in most cases, internet research only results in one being one's own quack doctor.  The scary thought is, what if I'm right?  I diagnosed my dog's Cushing's disease from what I read on the internet. What if I'm right again?

Why not me?  At my age, one in six women will be diagnosed with ovarian cancer.  I can think of five friends right off the bat and not one of them has ovarian cancer.  Hopefully, I don't either.  I can't stand the thought of doing this to my nieces.  I can't get sick and put them through it.  I can't.  I just can't.

I go to the gyno later this week.  I am hoping for the best.  I'm praying that my self-absorbed, drama queen, doomsday, over-reactive attitude will eventually embarrass me. In fact, I'm looking forward to being branded a hypochondriac.

I'll keep you posted.

Life Can Turn on a Dime

Life can turn on a dime.  After sixty-one years, I have witnessed the reality of this cliche as I am sure many of you have, too.  A fall on the ice rendered me unable to walk or work for the next few months. An open door led to the loss of a beloved family pet.  One phone call and a loved one was lost forever. Life was going along just fine, and then....

I am terrified of car accidents.  I don't think I'm as good a driver as I once was.  Ask my friend Dee who screamed and stopped me from plowing into a car waiting to make a left turn.  I also don't think drivers are as good as they credit themselves with being.  Multi-tasking behind the wheel has made the roads increasingly unsafe.  Simple mistakes can be disasters.  Recently, I swerved out of the path of a car driving on the wrong side of the road in the early evening. Scary as hell. It was a mistake that luckily did not result in tragedy.  Others have not been so lucky.

I couldn't even read the latest Lisa Scottoline book that opened with a hit-and-run car accident that left a woman dead and a man and son consumed with guilt.  The opening of that book filled me with such anxiety that I had to put it aside.  It felt too real, too horrible, and all too likely to happen to anyone who operates a car.That's why a recent car accident that has touched my life in an indirect way has filled my thoughts lately.

If you're local, you know that an Episcopal bishop hit a bicycle rider and killed him. The accident happened in the late afternoon.  Complete details have not been released, charges have not been filed, but the media of public opinion has gone wild.  The grief of the bicycling community has been agonizingly expressed, and much of the speculation paints the woman as a monster.  She did what could not be forgotten or forgiven, she left the scene of the crime.

Many at my church know this woman and care deeply about her.  In fact, Sunday's sermon dealt with this catastrophe and our feelings about it. We prayed for the deceased and his family, but we also prayed earnestly for our church's friend.  She did not mean to hurt anybody.  But she did, and her first response was to run.

I had trouble with that.  How could she leave?  How could she not stay and pray over him? Call 911? Do something. Anything.  And then one of the parishioners made it very clear to me.  She said, in her quiet and gentle voice, that we all like to think we would do the right thing.  But in the shock of the moment, can we really be sure what we'd do?

I once thought I was sure.  But if I am truthful, I realize that I am not so confident I'd do the right thing.  Over a year ago, my sister's oven caught on fire.  I'd been trained in emergencies.  I should know what to do in case of fire.  What did I do?  I got myself out of the house.  Myself.  Granted, if one of the kids had not been outside, maybe I'd have sprung into action.  But we left the guinea pigs and birds in the house.  Animal activists could judge us brutally for doing that.  However, in the panic of the moment, we just weren't thinking straight.  And I didn't respond the "right" way.

Life can turn on a dime.  Like a roller coaster, we can be riding high and in the blink of an eye, drop to the deepest depths.  My heart goes out to the people whose lives recently took that painful drop. May the bicycle rider be in peace.  May his family and friends weather this tragedy and heal. And may God also hold the Episcopal priest in His embrace.  None of us are perfect.  None of us are exempt from the possibility of our own lives turning on that proverbial dime.

Things That Make Me SMH

First of all, "smh" is Facebook-ese for shaking my head.  And if you spend as much time as I do on social media, you probably want to respond with "smh" far more often than the easily clicked on "like."  I often end a FB session by swearing to myself that I need a break from the craziness.  But the next day, or maybe within the next hour, I'm back on the Book. I can't help it; I just can't.  So smh, here I am to talk about recent stories that make me crazy.

Alex Trebeck:  Poor Alex.  In the kids' Jeopardy competition, one young lady was eliminated from the final round.  The look on her face clearly displayed her sense of shock when Alex waved bye-bye because one can't continue to a final round with a negative balance.  Those are the rules of the game. The rules are explained to the contestants before the game.  I'm sure the children and their parents signed a folder full of papers explaining and re-explaining the rules.  But this kid was "traumatized" and her parents were pissed.  They demanded the station refilm the ending in a kinder, gentler way with their precious child.  Alex balked, as well he should have.  The ending was not refilmed.  However, Alex was so disturbed that he wanted to quit Jeopardy. Quit over one helicopter parent?  One?  Oh Alex, welcome to my world, the world of the public school teacher.  What teacher hasn't had his/her job threatened by a parent whose child did not earn an "A"?  If we walked out of the classroom every time we were attacked by an upset parent, there'd be a real crisis in education.  No teachers.

 School Takes Away Blind Boy's Cane :  First of all, certified professional educators did NOT bully the kid and take away his cane.  A bus driver took the cane because the boy was throwing it around as he was listening to music.  It was dangerous.  Why the driver gave him a pool noodle makes me smh, but my guess is that he wanted the kid to have something safe to use to tap along to the music. (Can someone tell me why he had a pool noodle on the bus?)  Anyhow, after the bus driver was reprimanded, after school officials immediately returned the cane when they were notified of the situation, the mother decided she needed to inform the news media.  Why? So this would never happen again?  Or, so they could garner attention, public sympathy, and maybe even a few financial donations.  People love to donate money when they see a story on FB that screams the world is unfair.  Who knows?  I just had to smh over this story.

A Joke Gone Wrong :  One of my FB friends posted a story on her page, something about scientific proof that men's intelligence is inferior to women's.  It was a joke.  A joke.  One person wrote a scathingly nasty comment to her about keeping "her hate" off his page. He wrote it to humiliate her and I guess prove his superior intelligence. I just had to smh.  First of all, she didn't put anything on his page.  The joke was on her feed.  If he doesn't want it on his page, he has to remove it.  It's so simple, just click on the upper right hand corner and poof the offending post is gone.  No need to embarrass her.  I just smh, because I'd already met that idiot on a comment thread where he told me to get off my high horse.  I wanted to tell him I was riding a donkey and he could kiss my ass, but I simply responded that I liked my horse and wasn't getting off.  But seriously, he wants me off my high horse, yet he is entitled to ride his?  Are you shaking your head yet?

Merry Christmas vs Happy Holidays :  These memes give me gas.  Seriously, I have asked and have yet to receive an answer. WHO is waging war on Christians by denying them the right to say Merry Christmas?  Who?  I want names. Merry Christmas!  Happy New Year! Happy Hanukkah!  I hear them all this time of the year. Soon there will be Kwanzaa greetings being shared.  I've seen Christmas trees, menorahs, and manger scenes in all kinds of secular buildings. Why make a mountain out of a molehill?  What is gained by feeling attacked as a Christian because the Walmart cashier wished you a happy holiday?  Whatever happened to returning the smile and the greeting. Christians are not being persecuted because store workers want to be inclusive of all the holidays celebrated in December. How ridiculous. So I shake my head and tell myself that next year I'm going to send Season's Greetings cards to these people and sign them Happy Holidays! Love, Jesus.  No I'm not....but I thought about it while smh.

So there you have it.  I smh at all of the nonsense, but I keep going back for more and more. We can all benefit from the wisdom of the immortal Taylor Swift, so I leave you with these words:

I gotta shake, shake, shake shake, shake it off
Shake, shake, shake shake, shake it off
Shake, shake, shake shake, shake it off
Shake, shake, shake shake, shake it off