A Perfect Moment

Made it through the trip to Mayo. I am exhausted as usual. I don't know much more than I did before I went. There was one wonderful moment though, one bright spot in the whole trip. The morning of my appointments, I got my breakfast to go and went out to this little garden/park just outside Methodist Hospital across from the Clinic. The sun was warm and healing and I was surrounded by budding/flowering trees of pink and white against a robins egg blue sky. The ground was covered with rich green grass and white tulips everywhere. It was peaceful, and elegant, and perfect. As perfect a moment as I've ever known.

Spirit Weary

I don't know if I have the strength to do this again...another trip to Mayo and more tests. Bladder issues this time. Too many infections too close together. Dealing with infections is my life as far as my health goes. I'm spirit weary and don't want to have to drive down there again. I don't know how much more I can endure, or if I even can endure it any more. It's the old sick-and-tired-of-being-sick-and-tired syndrome.

When I take these trips I feel so alone, even when someone comes with me, they don't come in with me, they don't have to endure the humiliations and the stress, the physical pain and exhaustion. They mean to help but I still have to walk it alone and it's so dispiriting sometimes. I don't want to do this by myself. I don't want to do this at all.

The Big Wind

That was quite some wind last night. An American Indian woman I knew told me that wind is a harbinger of change. There must be some mighty big changes on their way.

I call that kind of wind Mother Nature's pruning service. I suspect as we all go out today, we will find that there are many dead branches on the ground, hopefully none have fallen on any structures.

I wonder often what the outdoor creatures go through during something like that, especially now that it's nesting season. I thought about the four small cardinals nesting in a bush between two fences over at the neighbor's house. They probably had it better than most. It's a vulnerable time as far as little winged ones go. The trees have leafed out quite a bit so hopefully that was more of a help than a hindrance.

For Those Who Are Weary And Those Who Care For Us

I thought I'd share another essay from All I Really Need To Know I Learned In Kindergarten: Uncommon Thoughts on Common Things by Robert Fulghum.

I realize I've been writing a lot about my health and the hospital and health care and we've experienced a lot of loss of friends lately. I know of a number of you who have lost someone close to you recently as well. I know there are a number of you that are facing healthcare crises of your own, or huge, overwhelming changes in your lives, or just having a bad day....or a series of bad days: this essay is for you.

I know a number of you who face all of us who are in crises, and help us as best you can, even when there are times you feel there isn't much you can do: this essay is for you. (By the way, during those times, a simple touch of your hand, or sharing a personal story, or just finding a way to make us forget for a moment or two is the best you can do and more healing than you know. The simple touch of another human being who cares can be more powerful than any medicine or procedure ever could be. Never ever forget that.)

So on this rainy Friday night in Minnesota, I dedicate this essay to all those who are suffering and to all those who do their mightiest to ease or end that suffering. My gift of thanks....my gift to hopefully uplift and ease, even if only for a short time.....

One portion of a minister's lot concerns the dying and the dead. The hospital room, the mortuary, the funeral service, the cemetery. What I know of such things shapes my life elsewhere in particular ways. What I know of such things explains why I don't waste much life time mowing grass or washing cars or raking leaves or making beds or shining shoes or washing dishes. It explains why I don't honk at people who are slow to move at green lights. And why I don't kill spiders. There isn't time or need for all this. What I know of cemeteries and such also explains why I sometimes visit the Buffalo Tavern.

The Buffalo Tavern is, in essence, mongrel America. Boiled down and stuffed into the Buffalo on a Saturday night, the fundamental elements achieve a critical mass around eleven. The catalyst is the favorite house band, the Dynamic Volcanic Logs. Eights freaks frozen in the amber vibes of the sixties. Playing stomp-hell rockabilly with enough fervor to heal the lame and the halt. Mongrel America comes to the Buffalo to drink beer, shoot pool, and dance. Above all, to dance. To shake their tails and stomp frogs and get rowdy and holler and sweat and dance. When it's Saturday night and the Logs are rocking and the crowd is rolling, there's no such thing as death.

One such night the Buffalo was invaded by a motorcycle club, trying hard to look like the Hell's Angels and doing pretty good at it too. I don't think these people were in costume for a movie. And neither they nor their ladies smelled like soap and water was an important part of their lives on anything like a daily basis. Following along behind them was an Indian - an older man, with braids, beaded vest, army surplus pants, and tennis shoes. He was really ugly. Now I'm fairly resourceful with words, and I would give you a flashy description of this man's face if it would help, but there's no way around it - he looked, in a word, ugly. He sat working on his Budweiser for a long time. When the Dynamic Logs ripped into a scream-out version of "Jailhouse Rock" he moved. Shuffled over to one of the motorcycle mommas and invited her to dance. Most ladies would have refused, but she was amused enough to shrug and get up.

Well, I'll not waste words. This ugly, shuffling Indian ruin could dance. I mean, he had the moves. Nothing wild, just effortless action, subtle rhythm, the cool of the master. He turned his partner every way but loose and made her look good at it. The floor slowly cleared for them. The band wound down and out, but the drummer held the beat. The motorcycle-club group rose up and shouted for the band to keep playing. The band kept playing. The Indian kept dancing. The motorcycle mamma finally blew a gasket and collapsed in someone's lap. The Indian danced on alone. The crowd clapped up the beat. The Indian danced with a chair. The crowd went crazy. The band faded. The crowd cheered. The Indian held up his hands for silence as if to make a speech. Looking at the band and then the crowd, the Indian said, "Well, what're you waiting for? Let's DANCE."

The band and the crowd went off like a bomb. People were dancing all through the tables to the back of the room and behind the bar. People were dancing in the restrooms and around the pool tables. Dancing for themselves, for the Indian, for God and Mammon. Dancing in the face of hospital rooms, mortuaries, funeral services, and cemeteries. And for a while, nobody died.

"Well," said the Indian, "what're you waiting for? Let's dance."

A Bit of This And That

It was a beautiful day today and I spent most of it outside. It was nice to hear the birds again and the water going over the rocks. I even discovered my wheelchair has a few new squeaks since I got it back from the repair shop.

Having the ear tubes put in was not fun, it was painful. Gratefully it didn't take long. My ears still feel a little stuffy but hopefully that will ease with time.

I finally finished giving my Yorkie her hair cut. It was my first attempt and everything looks pretty good except her head....I would describe it as the worst butch cut ever seen. Hey, I'm still learning, and hopefully with time I'll get more adept and she'll look much better! We'll see.

A dear old friend was buried today. My mom and I used to play cards with he and his wife and another couple and we always had a blast. We haven't talked much for a few years but I was able to see both of them a few times recently and I'm so glad. I love them both very much and it's hard to lose one of them and see the other one hurting.

I didn't go to the funeral. I don't deal well with large groups right now. I'm weaning off of high dose Prednisone and it is a real struggle for the nervous system among others. It's, I guess, comparable to any kind of addictive type withdrawal. It isn't easy and my body is trying to find it's way back to normal. Mornings are horrible until I get my medications down, then things start to ease. If I can remember it's the Prednisone making me feel the way I am and that I'm not actually losing my mind, it helps, although I don't always get there right away and that can be frightening. I'm down to 12 mgs a day and hope at the very least to get to 7. We'll see. I go down 1 mg every four weeks.