Caleigh O'Shea's Blog, page 10

Blogging Break Time

Most of us, in all conditions, are weighted down with superfluities or worried to acquire them. ~Charles Dudley Warner, American essayist and novelist

Can’t you see yourself
Curled up on this seat?
Nestled ‘neath the trees
Away from the noisy street?

Can’t you feel the wind
Gently caressing your face?
Playing with your hair?
Slowing your hectic pace?

Can’t you hear the quiet
As peace envelopes you,
Casts aside your burdens,
Bestows a calmer view?

Our lives are often fraught
With too much activity.
Time to take a needed break,
Nurture my creativity.

Note: Happy Labor Day! I’m taking a short break and will be back soon.

Why I Don’t Go Swimming

I have a fear of water, believe it or not. To put a wire 12 feet over a swimming pool frightens me. I don’t like water. — Philippe Petit, French high-wire artist

I realize swimming is great exercise, beneficial for building endurance, toning muscles, and maintaining a healthy weight.

But I’m totally with Philippe Petit here — I’m afraid of the water, so I don’t enjoy swimming and frankly, can’t ever see that changing.

Unless I’m forced into a pool to do something like physical therapy … maybe.

Like most kids I knew, I had to take Red Cross swimming lessons at our large public pool. But I hated them.

June is far too cold to warm up the water in that behemoth, so while the instructors wrapped up in heavy towels and sat on the banks, we kids were in the water. Splashing, kicking, blowing bubbles.

And freezing.

Technically, I learned to swim; however, I’d hate to put that knowledge to the test.

And fear of the water isn’t my only problem.

Call it excessive modesty (or just plain weirdness), but even from a young age, I was self-conscious over appearing in public in a bathing suit.

Also known as a second skin.

Little Debbie was all legs and thin as a rail; most of the other kids were round.

Did you know “Rounds” float, “Rails” don’t?

Really.

Perhaps worst of all is the cleanliness factor.

Signs told us to shower before and after entering the pool, but five seconds under a cold trickle doesn’t make anybody really clean, does it?

Nor did it help to overhear kids admitting (often gleefully) that it was “too much trouble” to walk back to the locker room and use the bathroom, when the pool was treated with chemicals anyway.

WHAT???

Fear of water runs far back in my family tree. My late grandpa was so terrified of water, you couldn’t have pushed him into a pool. His daughter (my mom) used every excuse in the book not to have to go swimming. I must’ve inherited that gene.

Growing up, I had friends who were lifeguards. Friends whose families spent weekends at the lake. Friends who relished pool parties.

Not me.

When my son Domer and I flew to Dublin, Ireland, many years ago, I was grateful the flight was at night, so I didn’t have to think about dropping into that Big Pond.

But at least I’d have been wearing clothes, not a swimsuit!

Welcoming You Home

Among these kinds of beauty the eye takes most delight in colours. ~Joseph Addison, English essayist, poet, playwright, and politician

According to Feng Shui (the Chinese art of placement using energy forces to harmonize with environment), your front door is one of the most important areas of your home, representing the face you show the world.

Before a recent walk with Monkey, I would have guessed most front doors in my community were neutral colors. But I’d have been wrong.

Now it seems there’s an explosion of color possibilities for front doors, all designed to boost a home’s curb appeal while making an impression on visitors.

Who knew?

So let’s take a look at some of the doors Monk and I found.

1. A nice shade of dark green:

2. A peachy-keen Turquoise. Perhaps the owners had leftover paint and decided to slap some on the bench as well?

3. A muted shade of red (for Feng Shui good luck):

4. Basic wood, probably stained though:

5. A really deep charcoal gray that almost looks navy blue:

6.Another pretty shade of blue (the overhanging porch makes it look like two different colors, but it’s really just a medium blue):

7. Getting back to the basics in white:

8. Helloooooo, Barbie:

9. True navy (though paint experts would probably call it “marine” blue!):

10. I’m guessing this color is Cream. Or perhaps Bisque, or Almond, or some such:

11. A pale shade of aqua — I can almost hear the waves at the beach and smell the salt air!

12. Is this Cranberry? Or Maroon? Or Garnet? Well, it’s red anyway:

There you have it. By the way, if you see weird white markings, your eyes aren’t deceiving you. I’m trying to protect the owners’ identities by camouflaging house numbers and such.

So, did you find a favorite? What color is your front door? Have I prompted you to undertake a DIY project and paint it a different color? What color would you choose? Do tell!

Tears, Averted

Memory only slumbers—never dies. ~Thomas Paine, English-born American Founding Father and political activist

My soul-dog Dallas has been at the Rainbow Bridge for nearly three-and-a-half years now, and not a single day has passed that I haven’t thought of him.

Getting Monkey two years ago has been a help … but I guess it’s true what dog breeders are quick to point out: Dogs aren’t interchangeable.

One dog can’t replace another. One dog’s personality, quirks, appearance, habits, and so forth is completely different from another’s.

Even if they’re the same breed. Or same sex. Or same size.

Even if they have a similar “look.”

The other day, Monk had to go to the vet for a routine vaccination.

Dallas always submitted. Dignified. Resigned.

Not that he enjoyed getting poked with a needle, but he accepted it, trusting me and the vet.

Not Monkey.

Nope, he was spoiling for a fight. Yanking his arm away when the vet tech tried to hold him. Squirming and wriggling and spinning in circles. Giving me the side-eye for not intervening on his behalf.

Worst of all, the exam rooms were full, so since it wasn’t a “doctor visit,” they escorted us into the “Comfort Room.”

You know, the one where they ease ailing pets across the threshold to the Bridge.

Gulp.

I looked around at the pamphlets explaining the procedure. At the small wooden boxes displayed for the cremains. At the quotes on posters on the wall. At the plush sofa, pillows, and box of tissues.

And I found myself reliving March 2, 2020, all over again.

If not for Monk’s antics, I’d have broken down and sobbed uncontrollably.

Instead, I knelt down and focused on the poor, scared fur-baby who needed me.

And it wasn’t long before we both were smiling again.

Whew, glad that’s over, Mama. Aren’t you?

What Now, Mama?

If you have a job without any aggravations, you don’t have a job. ~Malcolm S. Forbes, American entrepreneur and politician

Here I am, overseeing the garden,
Watching Mama’s pretty plants,
Chasing cute little bunnies away,
Listening to the birdies’ chants.

I’m lying in this patch of dirt
Beside the rolled-up garden hose,
Always attentive to my Mama,
No matter wherever it is she goes.

This morning she tried to walk my legs off,
Strolling around at break of day.
Don’t you think I’ve earned a rest?
Shouldn’t I really get a say?

Not around here, I’ve gotta complain.
Mama’s the alpha — the boss — she notes.
I’m just a little Monkey, you see.
Is it fair, the way she gloats?

Here’s a warning for other pups:
Choose wisely the job you want to do,
Else you’ll find yourself just like me,
Wishing for peace and a bone to chew.

Note: This is some sort of rhyming verse.

The Dreaded Colonoscopy (2)

We are at our best when we give the doctor who resides within each patient a chance to go to work. ~Albert Schweitzer, Alsatian writer, humanitarian, physician, and more

Okay, let’s continue this “crappy” story, shall we? If you missed Part One, please go back and read it first. We’ll wait.

And if you’re unable to handle talk of the bathroom this early, come back and read when you’re steadier.

My colonoscopy was scheduled for right after the lunch hour.

Usually, I prefer getting unpleasant things over with early in the day, but turns out, the Mayo Clinic folks knew what they were doing.

I was to receive mild sedation (not anesthesia), meaning I’d be awake but in a “twilight” state during the procedure.

They explained they’d take a few small samples from my colon, remove any polyps, and biopsy everything.

After checking in and undressing (I could keep my sneakers on!), they helped me onto a bed and covered me with a nice warm blanket.

They started an IV (in my sore right arm), and told me to lie on my left side. I noticed a large TV screen and asked if I could watch the procedure. The nurse laughed and said, “Sure, but most people just fall asleep.”

Then I saw an angry-looking black hose, coiled up like a snake on the counter beside the doctor.

Uh-oh, I thought. Good thing I’ll be out of it!

I remember nothing more until I awoke a short time afterward and received instructions on after-care: things like not driving, not eating heavy meals, drinking plenty of fluids, etc.

Basically, taking it easy.

No problem. A nap sounded pretty good after being strapped to the toilet for two days!

With doctor approval, I drove myself home (approximately eight hours) the very next day — See? Not as bad as I’d feared!

A couple of days later, they happily informed me that nothing was wrong.

No H. Pylori. No SIBO. No gluten intolerance. No Crohn’s Disease. No ulcerative colitis. Not a single polyp. And I’d done an exceptional job cleaning out, too!

Okay, I argued, but something’s wrong. What about all that diarrhea?

The best they could say was, It’s IBS.

Now for decades I’ve “known” I have Irritable Bowel Syndrome, but it’s never been formally diagnosed. And doctors must rule out everything before they’ll diagnose it.

My medical team theorized my gut got out of whack when I combined an over-zealous consumption of fiber (not my fault since I was just following doctor’s orders) with the intense stress I was battling.

So they urged me to try a low FODMAP diet and see if that would work.

I can honestly say I felt better immediately. No more belching, no excess gas, no diarrhea. Woo-Hoo!

The diet is fairly restrictive for the first four to six weeks, giving my gut a chance to heal, but there are plenty of options, and it’s interesting to try low-FODMAP foods I didn’t know I could eat.

While I’ve yet to enter the 8-12-week “reintroduction phase” — where you gradually try other food groups to see which you react to — I know it will be equally interesting.

This whole experience has been an eye-opener. How many years did I waste, living in fear when I could’ve ruled out the BAD stuff early on, found out what I could and couldn’t eat, and lived a normal life?

Don’t be like me.

If you’re 45 or over, get screened for colon cancer (the third leading cause of cancer-related deaths in men and women in the U.S.). A few hours of embarrassment and discomfort pale when compared to the relief of knowing you’re healthy!

The Dreaded Colonoscopy (1)

We are at our best when we give the doctor who resides within each patient a chance to go to work. ~Albert Schweitzer, Alsatian writer, humanitarian, physician, and more

Today I’m going to talk about poop.

If you’re eating breakfast, or naturally queasy in the morning, may I suggest you come back and read later?

Okay.

As you’re probably aware, my mom was diagnosed with cancer — specifically colon cancer — back in December.

Just last year, I’d had the Cologuard(R) test, where you basically deposit your sample in a Cool Whip container, then ship it off to a lab. Results arrive shortly thereafter, and thankfully, mine were negative.

So I figured I was off the hook for further testing.

I mean, my doctor judged me to be at average risk, and a noninvasive test sounds way better than the alternative, right?

Not so fast, Grasshopper, cautioned my mom’s doctor. Since we now have a direct family member with cancer diagnosed, my sister and I were strongly encouraged to have at least a baseline colonoscopy.

To rule out anything untoward.

Sis and I talked about going together — misery loves company and all — but I scheduled mine, and she opted to “wait and see how yours goes.”

Whatever.

I’m the firstborn; I’m used to being the guinea pig.

So I traveled to Rochester, MN, to Mayo Clinic, for the procedure, promising myself that, while there, I’d inquire into the persistent unexplained diarrhea I’d been having for months.

Yes, months. Gross. But I’d seen a doctor here and was told I had an overgrowth of “bad bacteria.” The recommendation? Take probiotics and increase my fiber consumption.

That only made things worse. And when you consider the caregiver stress I was under from dealing with my mom, well, I was a mess.

And understandably afraid.

However, I knew the Mayo experts would run the proper tests and put me back on the right track.

And they sure ran a lot of tests: for H. Pylori infection in the stomach, for SIBO (small intestinal bacterial overgrowth), and for celiac disease (gluten intolerance). Tests for Crohn’s Disease and Ulcerative Colitis, too.

Some involved simple blood draws; for others, I had to swallow nasty-tasting liquids, then blow into a bag.

All the while, I was fasting. And hungry.

And I hadn’t even gotten to the colonoscopy part yet.

Now, everybody will tell you the prep is the worst part of a colonoscopy.

They’re not wrong.

I had to mix seven capfuls of Miralax into a 32 oz. Gatorade bottle TWO times, drinking the first batch the night before the procedure (along with downing two Dulcolax stool softeners) and the second, the morning of.

Nasty and salty. Especially on an empty stomach.

Then you poop it all out. By the time you’re clean, you’re passing mostly light yellow-colored water.

Just what a person with diarrhea wants to see, right?

Say, this is getting long. Come back tomorrow for “the rest of the story.”

Note: Comments are closed on this portion, but the Like button is enabled. I hope you’ll comment when I’m finished with my tale!

Monkey Pays a Visit

Do not regret growing older. It is a privilege denied to many. ~Author unknown

I Monkey here.

It’s been chaotic of late, so Mama has let me take over her blog again. (Besides, I have w-a-a-a-y more interesting things to say, heh heh!)

Recently, I became ecstatic when Mama got out my harness and leash, promising me a ride in the car. We were heading, she said, to see Gramma.

Woo Hoo! I haven’t seen her in ages, and I’ve missed her.

You see, Gramma’s old, and she’s in a place where there are lots of other old folks. I guess Mama told you a bit about that, but she always leaves out the really interesting things.

Things only I Monkey can share.

When we got there, I started walking ahead of Mama, and suddenly, the doors slid right open. I kid you not! I looked at Mama, and she wasn’t touching them; nor was there anybody operating them on the other side.

Weird.

Then we saw a long line of old people seated in chairs with wheels. Mama said they were waiting for the dining room to open so they could eat.

Before I Monkey finished pondering that, my ears picked up lots of oohs and aahs, and I noticed folks pointing at me and saying, “Look! It’s a puppy!”

My “puppy” days are behind me, folks, but at least they got the species right. Still, I’m a little sad learning that old folks might not see enough dogs to tell the difference.

Hmm. Maybe more people ought to bring their dogs for visits.

We kept walking and passed a big desk-thing (the nurses’ station, Mama said), and they all wanted to play with me.

But I wasn’t having any of that. No way.

He’s skittish, Mama told them kind of apologetically.

Whatever.

I get to choose who touches me. That’s the rule.

Besides, not a one of them had any food, so there was no obligation on my part.

Eventually, we made it to Gramma’s room, and boy, was she happy to see me!

“He’s bigger,” she said.

“Nope,” Mama said.

I agree with Mama. She measures out my food and treats daily, and she makes me walk all the time, so I won’t turn into a “chunky monkey.”

We didn’t stay too long — Mama was afraid I’d pee on the floor (huh!) — and on the way back out, we followed an old lady in one of those wheeled chairs.

I sneaked up behind her to give it a quick sniff — no, she never knew — but golly, I’ve never seen so many wheeled folks in my life. There was a whole contingent of them outside the dining room.

Mama says some pups, too, have to use wheeled devices to get around. Like if they lost a leg to sickness or an accident.

I Monkey think that sounds dreadful. Losing a leg. Hmph!

Physician, Heal Thyself!

In our busy 21st century life the one commodity that seems to be going extinct is time and we forget that healing takes time. ~Dr. Frank Lipman, Functional Medicine leader

Over the weekend, I went to our local urgent care center to have someone examine my still-hurting arm.

I’d heard dire warnings from other musicians about letting these aches and pains slide untended, and I figured I needed a referral to physical therapy, sports medicine, or orthopedics.

The nurse checked my vitals and sent in a woman doctor, who introduced herself, apologized for wearing a mask, and whispered that she’d “lost her voice.”

Say what??

“This isn’t happening,” I told her, with an emphatic head shake. “I can’t take any medicines, and I can’t afford to get what you’ve got.”

“Well, I don’t think I’m contagious,” she said. “But I’m not sure.”

“Nor am I,” I said. “And I won’t take any chances.”

So she ducked her head and scurried out of the room, leaving me to wonder why she’d even bothered to come to work if she didn’t feel well.

When I told my sis this story, she was amazed I’d had the guts to send the doctor away.

But I don’t do pain-relievers well (even aspirin and Tylenol), and I visit my mom in the rehab center regularly. I really can’t afford to get sick, or to bring her an illness.

Shortly afterward, a gentle-mannered male Indian doctor showed up.

One who could speak above a whisper.

After examining my arm and listening to the story of how I thought it might have happened, how long it had been going on, and what measures my chiropractor had suggested I try, he agreed.

“It’s tendonitis,” he told me. “Probably started in your thumb and traveled up to your elbow.”

He recommended I wear an elbow brace, keep icing the area, apply Voltaren to ease the pain. And rest.

“Rest is key,” he noted.

“But I can’t do that,” I fretted. “Music — and exercise — are my sanity. Besides, I’ve got two more weeks of summer band….”

“When can you rest?” he asked.

“I won’t start symphonic band until after Labor Day. Will that be enough time?”

He nodded. “Oh, yes! That’s good. And if you don’t play the flute during that ‘off’ season, you should be just fine.”

Thank Heaven.

Fear of the Unknown

We all fear what we don’t know… It’s natural… Yet, you were not afraid when Spring became Summer. You were not afraid when Summer became Fall. They were natural changes. Why should you be afraid of the season of death? ~Leo Buscaglia, American author, professor, and motivational speaker

I really must apologize for being so long absent from this wonderful blogging community.

Back in December, my mom went to the hospital and was there nearly 10 days before being transferred to a facility in town for rehab. She was there until early March, when they deemed her ready to resume life at home.

I had my doubts, but nothing I said mattered. Medicare insurance regulates much of the care for our seniors.

At first, Mom did okay. But when she found it challenging to navigate all our stairs and prepare light meals for herself, I took over. It wasn’t long before she climbed into her bed, refusing to leave it for anything but bathroom visits.

That meant I was carrying a tray of food up and down stairs three times a day. Fetching glasses of water for her pills. Answering the door when home care nurses, aides, and therapists arrived.

The longer she stayed abed, the worse her mood grew. She was afraid, and I didn’t know how to make things better because I was afraid for her.

You see, her diagnosis wasn’t good. Cancer. And she opted not to pursue surgical or diagnostic therapy because of her age and weakness.

Being “on call” 24 hours a day, seven days a week has exhausted me in ways I can’t fully grasp. No one — from the local electrician or accountant to the President or the Pope — has to put in that many hours without a break.

They shouldn’t have to.

Nor should I.

Besides the physical strain, I’m shouldering the emotional burden of realizing I’m losing her. And that one day, I’m going to be an “orphan.”

My only sibling is nearly 800 miles away, and she and Mom go at each other like oil and water. Playing peacemaker falls to me — another chore I didn’t ask for.

Recently, Mom reluctantly agreed to hospice, something that can support both of us in this difficult journey.

I’ll take all the help I can get.

You know, there are folks who gush over how “rewarding” caregiving is, but I’m not one of them. It’s hard, often thankless, work, and most times, I’m barely managing to tread water.

Out of the blue, I have fears I never had before: How is this stress affecting my health? Are we doing right by Mom in the long run? Am I irreparably neglecting my work, my friends, and Monkey so I can tend to Mom’s needs?

I’ve learned the importance of managing my fears by getting lost in a book; immersing myself in music, exercise, prayer; playing with Monk; and seeking the companionship of friends.

After a month on hospice, Mom decided to try immuno-therapy for the cancer. She revoked hospice and is rehabbing locally. I’m relieved to share the burden of her care with people more qualified than I, but I fear the treatment will be hard on a person her age … and might not be successful.

We will see.

So, forgive me for not visiting your blog-homes as often as I’d like and know I’m thinking of you and will return when I can.