Health

I have a right to …

/ paigepugmom / 2 Comments

Fill in the blank.  I have a right to go to the beach, to get a haircut, to attend church … Well, I have a right to be sick of hearing about what you have a right to!  Yes, we all have rights and suddenly everyone seems to be an expert on yelling about their first amendment rights.  It’s true, and in a nutshell the first amendment does indeed guarantee freedom of religion, freedom of speech, freedom of the press, the right to assemble, and the right to petition the government.  Like Matthew 5:45 who wrote “The rain falls on the just and the unjust” … the first amendment falls on the intelligent and the ignorant.  Yes, you have a right to free speech but you do NOT have the right to yell fire in a theater.  You have the right to free speech, but you do not have the right to incite hatred and violence (racism, discrimination, etc).  They are called “hate crimes” not “free speech” crimes.  Freedom of speech does not mean you can say any old thing that comes into your head, and once upon a time, people knew the difference.

This nation has been permeated with this toxic “me first” mentality.  If the fish rots from the head down, then this nation has gone petulant from the president down.  He espouses true rights with false logic, and on the subject of religion, obviously knows not of what he speaks.  Another Matthew quote (18:20) “When two are three are gathered together in My name, I am there…”.  Church may technically be building, but spiritually, church is anywhere and everywhere.  I have felt closer to God, alone, kayaking, with only the sounds of the water and the birds.  Church can allow us to worship as a physical, tangible group … but restriction from being inside the physical structure does not prevent us from being with God and with modern technology, we can worship virtually.

Opening churches has become political.  Wearing a mask has become political.  Why?  It seems that in the advent of the “make me great again” mentality, it’s all about MY rights.  Keeping me from working, from going to the beach, from hitting the bar is somehow infringing on those rights.  Being unable to work is truly causing suffering for a great many people, and there doesn’t seem to be any way around it. It’s not fair and we, as a nation, as a government need to do all we can to help those affected.  Slowly some business are working out plans to use the social distancing guidelines to be able to reopen.  But, let me emphasis this … if you are sick or dead … whether or not you have a job is going to be a moot point.  You may be willing to risk your own life, but do you stop to consider the lives of those around you?  All those people that holler “Give me liberty or give me death” might just have to amend that placard to say “Give me liberty and give me death” and I really hope they don’t get their wish.  For all those people who claim this whole pandemic is some kind of liberal media hoax … visit 96,000 graves.  Talk to 96,000 families.  Tell the doctors and nurses it’s a hoax.  Go on, I dare you.  But know this, as much as you yell and scream about the health care system being part of some conspiracy theory … those same doctors and nurses will take care of you if you were to become ill.  Think about that for a minute.

It’s this simple.  Wearing a mask is protecting other people.  Social distancing is protecting other people.  Since when did looking out for other people become political?  Since when did denying yourself in protect others become political?  I don’t know, but I have a strong feeling it started on a Tuesday back in November, 2016.

When might makes wrong…

/ paigepugmom / Leave a comment

A disturbing wave of “protests” have reared their ugly and misguided heads as of late, and I find the “reasoning” behind these protests somewhat confusing.  I use the term “reasoning” with quite a bit of generosity in the direction of the people for whom it aimed.  These “liberate (insert name of state here)” cries from (often) MAGA hat wearing, flag waving, truly misguided people is worse that confusing, it is dangerous.

While their anger at the situation is understandable, to blame the government for “imprisoning” them at home is wrong.  Of course they feel helpless, desperate, confused and scared … those are very common emotions these days.  Everyone is likely one or more of the above.  Even if you are able to work from home, it’s still a stressful time.  You might have to juggle kids trying to do distance learning while you are trying to work. And if you are one of the essential workers, from garbage collectors to cashiers to a nurse or doctor (and bless you if you are), you’d likely rather stay home than go to work knowing the dangers and stress you will face.

And the president isn’t helping.  He will never admit to it, but statements like “they are very good people” is most certainly a spur to encourage their protests.  It is validation from the most powerful and important person, for many in the crowd at least.

To turn on the t.v. and see people, in crowds no less, demanding and chanting “open our state” must make your blood boil.  It sure sets me off.  Don’t these people understand this lock down is for their own good?  God, I feel like I am talking about a group of unruly kids “this is for your own good” instead of grown up, supposedly mature men and women.  What good is everyone going back to work when the virus is still out there, undetected in many people?  You are willing to risk your life for the freedom you imagine has been taken away from you?  You are willing to risk your life for a paycheck?

Well, risk your own life as much as you like, just don’t you dare risk mine.

/ paigepugmom / Leave a comment

 

DSC_4174

This young girl in Haiti lives very much without the basics that we take for granted.  And now, when we’re chaffing at the bit about having to stay inside and social distance from our routine, I wonder how she is doing.  While we’re hoarding toilet paper like it’s the zombie apocalypse, she still has to fetch water from a common tap.  We have the luxury of Grubhub and Doordash.  Of working indoor plumbing.  We worry about the coronavirus but don’t spend any time fearing an outbreak of cholera.  I don’t mean to minimize our fears, because they are very real with very real consequences.  I am still recovering from a serious lung infection and, while I feel 100%, my body is still healing.  This coronavirus could send me back into ICU, or worse – so yes, I am concerned.

This situation is a wake-up call for the world.  Of just how interconnected we are, and how no “big beautiful wall” can keep out danger, real or imagined.  It is also showing our penchant for prejudice.  Here, Chinese-Americans are being spit on, yelled at, or otherwise verbally attacked, according to an article in the New York Times.  It doesn’t help that our “leader” insists on calling it “the Chinese virus”.

This is the time to face facts, to react with calm deliberation, and to look out for our neighbors whether they be across the street or on the other side of the globe.  We can’t directly help China or Italy, but we can stop bigots from attacking people for simply being of a certain ethnic origin.

We can stop hoarding supplies and stop the self-fulfilling prophesy of shortages.  Buy what you need, realize the supply chain is still intact and that the coronavirus does not give you diarrhea so there’s no need to turn your bathroom cabinets into your own version of Sam’s Club.  We can, if financially viable, get a take-away from a local restaurant a little more often.  We can pray for those who cannot work from home and have lost their precious income, but as an old Russian proverb goes, “Pray to God, but row towards shore”.  In other words, keep giving to your house of worship, keep donating to food banks, keep giving blood, keep supporting international aide groups.  It is all needed now more than ever.

 

 

Scarred for life

/ paigepugmom / Leave a comment

Where to start.

September 13 … a Friday night (Friday the 13th … not that I believe in that superstition … just saying) and I was preparing to attend the football game between FSU and Virginia the next evening.  There was no hint of the adventure to come.  But, for some reason, I suddenly felt nauseous.  Nothing I ate or drank stayed down and my stomach felt crampy.  These symptoms continued through to the next morning and I was forced to cancel going to the game.  Monday saw a trip to Urgent Care and Wednesday started out with a repeat visit as I hadn’t been able to keep anything down since that Friday night.  Urgent Care drew blood and sent me to the emergency room where they did more tests and prepped me for emergency surgery.  Sixteen days later, I was discharged … with several inches of large intestine removed and a scar that ran from my lower abdomen to just under my chest.  It’s a nice straight line that does a little dogleg around my belly button, and I’m damn proud of it.

Why the surgery?  At the time, no one knew what was going on … simply that there seemed to be a large mass in my abdomen. What was it?  I prepared myself for the worst.  Cancer.  A colostomy bag.  The list running through my brain until the anesthesia kicked in.

I remember hitting the morphine button.  A lot.

When I woke up enough to realize I was awake, my parents were there and soon after, the doctor walked in.  He explained my large intestine had herniated up through my diaphragm and gotten stuck.  The trapped tissue had died and released toxins into my chest cavity.  One lung was partially collapsed and there was a real danger of pneumonia.

I learned many things in those sixteen days in the hospital:  When you check into the hospital, leave your dignity at the door.  I believe I inadvertently mooned about everyone on the fourth floor at least once.  When you finally are allowed clear liquids, you’re grateful for chicken broth.  When you need help to go to the bathroom, you don’t wait until you’re sure you have to go.  When you’re as helpless as a baby, you realize superheroes aren’t born on Krypton, they are the nurses that you depend on and are there 24/7.

And you realize the true meaning of endurance, of just what the human body (and mind) are capable of surviving.  There’s a Japanese word for it, kintsugi.  It refers to vases (or anything really) broken and repaired with precious metals.  It is the essence of resilience.    It is the strength we gain from surviving trauma … it is being proud of your scars.

End of an era …

/ paigepugmom / 2 Comments

I’m faced with a difficult decision.  My dear old pug, Coco, is going on 14 and his health is not good.  He has significant nerve damage to his back and hind legs, he’s practically blind and deaf.  He sleeps 99% of the time.  He’s incontinent.

But …

He doesn’t appear to be in pain.  Then again, maybe that’s why he sleeps so much?  Resting from what little activity he’s capable of?  How am I to know?

DSCN0313

He’s a fine old pug.  He’s been my sole companion ever since Scooby Doo passed away four or five some odd years ago.  He’s always been more of a sleeper than a runner, not that pugs are knows for running anywhere (unless it’s to the food bowl).  He would thrash around a favorite toy but it’s been months since he’s shown any interest in toys.

I didn’t realize how much time and energy I poured into caring for him until the decision about his future began to percolate in the back of my mind.  It formed in the depths of subconsciousness and grew until it nudged at my consciousness.  We went to the vet who didn’t offer a recommendation one way or the other, except to support whatever decision I made.  They did suggest that the only way to know about his back was to do an MRI, but I drew the line at that.  At 13, he was hardly going to be undergoing any surgery and what good would it do to know?  The prognosis wouldn’t change.  So we went home.

And the thought took up residence in my waking moments.  It was time.  Then, of course, the doubts and questions followed.  Was it?  Wouldn’t there be a sign?  He didn’t seem to be in any pain or discomfort, and he was still eating … but then again, he had difficulty walking, was incontinent, didn’t show any interest in his toys or playing, slept most of the time and frequently didn’t move for hours.   What kind of life was that?

To be brutally honest … I was tired.  Tired of cleaning up messes, tired of cleaning the dog, tired of carrying him up and down stairs, tired of looking to see if he was still breathing when he hadn’t moved from where he was lying all night or all day.  I was tired of being on constant alert for “a sign”.  I was emotionally exhausted.  I am emotionally exhausted.  I am tired.  I am waiting for my dog to die.  I am risking his last days being painful so I don’t have to make that dreadful decision.

And that thought tells me everything I need to know.  I need to do the only thing left I can do for him.  I need to let him go.

Both sides …

/ paigepugmom / Leave a comment

Now that I’ve joined the ranks of the cyclist commuter, a couple of things have become blindingly apparent.  Okay, it’s only been two weeks, but if these things are so obvious after only two weeks … it begs the question, how could they have been missed in the first place?

Simple.  Unless you’ve been in the other situation, you’re just oblivious to it.  Cars and bikes are to each other like cats and dogs.  They glare at each other at best and do battle at worst. It’s a scary enough standoff in the daylight, but in the wee small hours of the morning … the stuff of nightmares.

Drivers, I’m talking to you now.  There’s this thing called a cross-walk, and a walk light that will periodically indicate it’s safe to cross.  It’s called the right of way, and when you are trying to make a right turn on a red light, odds are the person in the crosswalk has the right of way and is preparing to cross the likely busy road.  Please, for the love of all that you hold dear, LOOK before making that right turn!  Twice last week, at one intersection, cars blew right past me even though I’d begun to venture into the crosswalk with the right of way on my side.  I may have been in the right, but when a 3,000 pound vehicle meets a 40 pound bike … the outcome is pretty easy to calculate.

The rate of fatalities of cyclist has been increasing, on average, since 2001.  In 2016, the officially reported number was over 800.  This is an average of several websites I researched.  Injuries are in the thousands.  A cyclist I know was clobbered by a car making a quick left turn, resulting in several broken ribs and a concussion.  He was lucky.

This is my new fear of the day.  There are two places on my commute to work where I have to cross particularly dangerous roads – both have a crosswalk, but neither have cross walk lights and so I have to wait for a lull, and dash across.  Technically speaking, people, if you come up to a crosswalk and there is someone in it, you BY LAW, have to stop!  This is, apparently, an unknown fact to a majority of the drivers out there.  The result is now I cycle and sprint to work, arrive sweaty and without the need for any kind of caffeine or other stimulant!

There is a plus side to this bike car equation.  It’s making me a better driver.  I’m keenly aware of cyclist, especially at intersections.  I look at more than just other cars, and the biggest pet peeve of the cyclist – when pulling up to the light, I stop short of the cross walk instead of on it.

It only takes a few seconds to make that extra visual check … and, it may just make a cyclists’ day a little safer.  Just think of it this way, a cyclist is one less car on the road and therefore one less car you might get stuck behind!  We’re helping to alleviate the crowded roads, so think on us kindly and please, don’t run us over!

The price of helping …

/ paigepugmom / Leave a comment

It’s a good thing to help someone, right?  I think so … but have you ever encountered a situation where, by helping one group – you’re hurting another?  This happened to me, quite by accident, and now I’m in a real quandary as to what to do.

For ages, I’ve been a blood donor … not the most regular donor, but I hit the one gallon mark years ago.  It’s important, for me, to donate blood.  I know someone who, because of her particular type of cancer, depends on occasional blood transfusions.  And it’s not just putting a face on the need for blood donations – it’s the fact I’m very popular with the Red Cross.  They call me, email me, text me … it’s somewhat akin to being stalked by a jealous ex-lover.  In defense of the Red Cross, it’s not them – it’s me.  I’m O negative, the universal blood donor type.  Anyone can receive O- but, here’s the rub, O- can only receive O- … how unfair is that?!  Anyway, because it doesn’t hurt (except the part where they stab your finger for a tiny drop of blood for iron levels testing) and I like adding to my growing collection of Red Cross t-shirts, it’s a very small and super easy task.  You just  sit there (or lay there) and read a magazine or cruise facebook for about 20 minutes.  According to The Red Cross website, one pint of blood can save potentially 3 lives, and every day (yes, every day!) 56,000 pints of blood are needed.

Here’s the unfortunate pickle in which I find myself.

Last year, I went to Haiti with the mission team from St.Timothy’s Episcopal Church.  We support 25 children in Chapeteau … a village which, well, is barely a village.  There are no roads, the shacks have no electricity and no running water.  They are the poorest of the poor.  We support local industry, we don’t go in and -shazam- build for them, we help with resources to help them build.  We go to maintain that physical connection, to show them by action rather than just words, that someone cares.  Someone out there in the big world knows and cares.  You are not alone.  That is why we go.  Last year was my first trip to Haiti and every day since, I feel changed by the experience and can’t wait for the next trip.

And that’s the problem.  That is where the crossroad of help one and hurt another meet.  As long as I go to Haiti, I cannot donate blood.  According to the Red Cross, one must wait a year after traveling to certain countries in order to donate blood.  If I go to Haiti every year, I’ll never have that one year buffer, and I’ll never be able to donate blood.

Haiti is very important to me, for many reasons – but so is being a blood donor.  I cannot do both.  I have to choose.  But how?  And who?

Enough already …

/ paigepugmom / 2 Comments

Photo on 5-5-18 at 4.47 PM #3

One week and two days down … I’m so OVER this broken shoulder business.  It was a novel experience, a “that was interesting” experience but I’m over it.  It annoying to figure out how to do things one handed, although I am quite proud of myself in that I managed to successfully mow the yard this morning!  Granted it’s a self propelled electric mower, and I dutifully kept my left arm in its sling, but ta-da … done!  Full disclosure … I live in a townhouse and have a yard the size of a large walk in closet, but it was a step towards normalcy.

The phrase “single handed” has taken a new and personal meaning.  To do something single handed means turning a mundane task (such as mowing the lawn) into an olympic event.  Vacuuming become Everest, washing one’s hair … herculean … putting on socks … try it and you’ll see.

It’s also, unfortunately, a handy (pardon the pun) excuse for spending an inordinate amount of time on the sofa watching tv or reading.  Can’t practice the violin, or the guitar, or any of my art projects … takes away that guilty feeling of “should” and replaces it with “can’t” … at least for the next 6 weeks and 5 days.