October 28, 2020

First, I want to begin this essay with these words: I am at home, and I am well.

But last week at this time, I was in my local hospital. I’d arrived there by ambulance on Sunday the 18^th, and on Wednesday, I was awaiting transportation to a larger General hospital in a city that lies about thirty-five minutes to the east. That hospital has a full function cardiac department. I was going there in order to have my second, ever, angiogram.

The last one occurred in December of 2002, about four months after my first and only heart attack which I suffered in August of that year. In November I’d begun having angina, and the doctor told me if angina woke me up from a sound sleep, then I was to head to the hospital, which I did.

An angiogram is a test that takes pictures of the coronary arteries and the blood vessels that supply the heart. During the test they use a catheter, inserted into a blood vessel to inject a special dye into the blood, in order for the pictures to be taken.

Due to the ongoing presence of the pandemic, new rules are in place in our hospitals, here. In order for me to be able to undergo the angiogram, I had to first have two negative Covid-19 tests, taken within twenty-four hours. Once that was a fait accompli, (late Tuesday afternoon) the procedure was scheduled for the next day. I didn’t even think of complaining about the Covid tests, even if it did feel like my brain was being sting-tickled with vinegar and a wire. Taking every precaution is one way we prevent the disease from spreading. I happen to believe that is very important.

Eighteen years had passed since my last angiogram, and as one would expect after that amount of time had passed, some improvements have been made to the procedure. The major one I was aware of was this: that if a blockage was found and if the doctor decided a stent would be appropriate, it would be done then and there.

Unlike that last time, the access point for the catheter was not my femoral artery, but my radial artery – in my right wrist. And also, unlike that last time, my test results this time were excellent. There were no blockages, and nothing to explain the couple of incidents of unstable angina that I’d experienced. They did find some mild plaque in one of the arteries. The doctors reached the conclusion that this plaque could be treated with medication. They added two new meds to the ones I was already taking, and increased the dosage of two others, and I’m (obviously) fine with all of that.

I am grateful for all the services that I received, beginning with the ambulance ride to the hospital. I was taken into the emergency room immediately, put on a stretcher, and hooked up to blood pressure and heart monitoring equipment.

They admitted me to a room on the Cardiac ward around nine Sunday evening. After the first Covid test came back negative, I was moved from that room to another, this one with a roommate who was also awaiting the results of his second test.

My roommate turned out to be a gentleman. I’m old fashioned enough that I felt some objections wanting to emerge as I realized that. I soon learned that this was not uncommon at all. They have to manage the patients they have, as well as the ones they don’t but might receive. Restricting rooms by gender means blocking beds from use, and even under normal circumstances, that’s not good.

I came home early Thursday afternoon, and I have decided to take things easy, rest a fair bit, and try to “chill”. I’ll probably get back to pushing myself eventually, because I don’t think such a relatively short stay in hospital is enough to convert this A type personality into a beta forever.

But it’s always, good, at least in my humble opinion, to take full advantage of the opportunities we’re given. And that is never so true as when the opportunity comes wrapped in a scare, and reminds us that we are, after all, very mortal.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

 

 

 October 14, 2020

It’s autumn, all right. We used to call it sweater weather, but we’re older now. It’s jacket weather, to be certain. I love the “fresh air” days. You know the ones I mean, those days when you open the door and inhale deeply, and then sigh with the pure pleasure of smelling fresh air. We’ve had a couple of them this month, already. Last Friday, our daughter, who is a very early riser, decided have the doors opened wide, to bring all that lovely fresh air into the house. We were still in bed, bedroom door closed, and she had really hoped that she would be done with her cleaning project and house airing before we got up.

Our thermostat for the furnace is in the living room, a major recipient of all that fresh air. This meant, of course that the furnace was chugging away throughout the time the front and back doors were wide open. The thermostat is set at 72, but I think the outside morning temperature here on Friday was about 42. Well, the outside temperature and also the inside temperature—in the living room.

An interesting thing happens in the rooms that have closed doors and open heat vents when the furnace keeps pumping out the heat because the thermostat in the living room tells it to. I got up for a bathroom visit just shy of 7 am and while I might have considered staying up before opening the bedroom door, I changed my mind and headed straight back to my very warm and toasty bedroom afterward.

Normally first thing in the morning before actually getting up, I do like to have the blankets off for a bit, as I tend to sleep warmer than I like, but thanks to that open door and shot of cold from the bedroom to the bathroom and back, that was not a problem on Friday.

David got up for the same reason I had when I came back to bed. I told him to put his robe on, which he did—bless him for doing that so trustingly when the bedroom was so toasty. He took the puppies with him, as he always does, putting them outside while he goes into the bathroom. Then he came back to bed. He'd left the dogs in the living room because our daughter, and her dogs were up and downstairs. The puppies love that. They don’t miss us at all during those mornings when they get to be with Jenny and their mommy dog, and the others.

That is to say, usually, they love that.  Missy-dog has a distinctive sound she makes when the bedroom door is closed, and she wants in. I’ve heard it because a few times David has ejected her from the room during afternoon nap time. It’s a pitiful and pathetic low-pitched moaning-whine, and I heard that sound five minutes after David came back to bed on Friday morning.

I got up and opened the door, and Missy shot into the room, and around the bed, likely trying to get as far away from the cold as possible. Even Bear, who doesn’t mind (and often prefers) being left alone on the sofa with a blanket around him perked up, ran down the doggie staircase, and headed into the room, too.

Bear, our boy puppy, son of Mr. Tuffy, and Zeus, our daughter’s teacup chihuahua can neither of them jump onto the couch so yes, we have a doggie staircase. But I digress.

When we all four of us got out of bed an hour later, those darn doors were still open. My office, however, had been closed up the entire time, so I just headed into that small sanctuary of warmth and stayed there until the doors were finally closed. The house did smell nice and fresh, and really that freshness was and is worth a bit of discomfort.

Autumn is also soup weather. We do buy canned and packaged soups, for convenience, and for cooking. David can’t eat regular spaghetti sauce as it gives him tummy troubles. But he does like a soup – tomato with basil and oregano – so when we make spaghetti, we use that. We also use canned mushroom soup when we fry pork chops. It’s either my homemade coating mix, or mushroom soup when it comes to the chops.

But the soups I was referring to are the ones I make myself. I will confess to using a bit of prepared vegetable, chicken, or beef broth—I prefer the powdered forms—but everything else in my soups are home ingredients.

There are family favorites, of course: cream of potato (either with leek or bacon), cream of mushroom, and cream of broccoli. Any stew or pot roast is the source of homemade beef barley soup with veggies, or occasionally just beef and veggies soup. I also will make either chicken noodle or chicken with rice soup. A new favorite the last couple of years has been butternut squash with red pepper soup. Sometimes, I get a text from our second daughter asking if there will be soup. Others, it’s my husband who hints for soup.

I am more grateful than I can say that even at this time in my life when I can’t do anywhere near as much as I used to around the house, I can still make a damned good pot of homemade soup.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

 

 

 

 October 7, 2020

The fall colors, in our neck of the words, are beautiful—not yet at their peak, but progressing nicely, the reds and yellows eating away at the green. We make a game of it, David and I, each fall when we spot that first tree that is blazing with some red and gold. We call it a traitor, because, of course, it’s a sure sign that winter truly is on the way.

Autumn is my daughter’s favorite season. She hates the high heat of summer, and the general wetness of spring. She’s not a fan of winter, either, because of the added risk in driving, something she does a lot of daily because all her clients are in the community.

But autumn, she declares, is cool and crisp and clean—and a joyous break from the heat and humidity of the weeks just passed.

I used to love to take walks in the fall, to feel the cool crispness in the air, to feel my cheeks chill from it. Every season has its own beauty, and while I know the secret is to cherish each one for its uniqueness, I haven’t quite mastered that yet.

As I write this, I am still battling my usual fall cold. I get one in the spring, too, and because I’m on heart medications, I pretty much only have sleep as my weapon against it. As with all colds, some days are better than others. Mostly, I become annoyed at my inability to do as much as whatever had become normal for me, just prior to the cold’s onset. But this, too, will pass, and so I do my best each day to acknowledge that fact and then dismiss the inconvenience of it all.

Last night, we had the last serving of beans from our garden. The entire enterprise is pretty much done for the season. We all think that the amount we harvested was well worth the effort we put in.

I didn’t spend all that much time sitting outside in my back yard this year. There weren’t that many days that were “just right” for me. I tend to be conscious all the time, whether or not my legs are getting any drafts on them. Even a breeze that feels warm can bring agony later. I’ve tried having a blanket on my legs, but that doesn’t always work. In the end, being grateful for pain medications does not mean I want to consume them copiously. So I take care.

But the back yard did see plenty of use this year. We had a few small gatherings of family for family suppers. Great-grandchildren were here a few times, and the back yard is a good place for them to run off some of their energy.

As well, our daughter bought a small charcoal barbecue, because as far as she and her dad are concerned, steak tastes so much better grilled over charcoal. She even purchased a bag of hickory to add in with the charcoal. I’m not surprised they both like that “smoky” flavor. They’re alike in a lot of ways. I like it well enough but would choose my propane grill if given the choice. Of course, because of the amount of time it takes the charcoal to give you that good, hot burn, we did only use it a few times and yes, only for the steak.

We had a few meals grilled outside in foil, for which the propane grill is the best. Jenny has taken over all of the outdoor grilling. That isn’t something that David was ever interested in doing, so I’m glad that she really enjoys doing it. Our daughter likes to marinate chicken breasts, then wrap them in foil. She also loves those small potatoes in foil—with salt, butter, and maybe a couple of drops of olive oil. And our favorite new thing this season was whole carrots, wrapped in foil, and grilled. Butter, and perhaps a tablespoon of honey goes in with those carrots, and my, they are very tasty, indeed.

David and I are staying home these days. The numbers of infections is rising in our province, though here in our county, they’re up and down, and at 11 as of yesterday. The situation is wearing on us, just as it is on everyone else. It’s stressful to always have that “what if” scenario in the back of your mind. There’s really no escaping the fear that lies in wait for a weak mental moment.  They call it Covid fatigue, and it is that, but we have to be made of stronger stuff. Yes, acknowledging that this virus will be here for another year or so feels like too much. And for some of us, a total of two years is a lot of time, because we don’t all necessarily have that many years left.

But when it’s a matter of public health, of doing what’s best not just for yourself but others, you just have to suck it up. We’re all in this together, which, turned around, mean’s we’re not, any of us, alone.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury