It's Me: Jennie Block Taylor

I am experiencing a lull in my self-assigned tasks. The cookies were baked and eaten. The tamales were assembled and devoured. Wrapping paper has been discarded; boxes taken to recycling centers and economy again embraced as I bid farewell to the holiday season. I still have tasks on my task list that involve paint and/or grout, but I am currently leaning heavily on the seasonal weather excuse (it’s too cold outside to engage in activities that rely on good ventilation). This has allowed me to slide on to the slippery slope of more leisurely industry.

My self-assigning of productive activity allows for (without encouraging) sedentary demonstration of my tactile capabilities. My rear has been largely engaged – getting larger every day – in a comfy chair while my hands work crocheting another afghan. This allows for television viewing. I turn to my British streaming channels for gentile entertainment as I work to quickly fabricate adequate fabric to keep my lap warm. This past week, I’ve watched a series about the Arts and Crafts movement of the late 1800s. This provides for, with minimal exertion, sustenance of fifty percent of my New Year’s resolutions: learn more and create more. I am using a stepper and writing in my journal most mornings, succeeding in maintaining my other two resolutions: move more and write more. I am absolutely my best employee. I wish I could say that supervising only myself was easier than supervising others, but I can be very difficult to deal with. I am frequently very hard on myself which results in a hostile work environment. This brings me back to what I’ve learned about the Arts and Crafts movement. It valued the craft person, the craft created, leisure, and the community of craft persons. I think I need to discuss this philosophy (appreciate the work done as well as the worker) with my boss.

Participants in the Arts and Crafts movement often lived in communes. My commune is comprised of me, myself and I (and my new kittie, Cinnamon) residing in my comfy, cozy home. Life in retirement is GOOD! A warm, partially-finished afghan encourages completion in order to expand the generation of warmth: a task that supports and enriches the community (and decreases the amount of yarn stuffed in to the recesses of my sewing room). So what if the paint on the wall is chipped and grungy, and the grout on the floor is soiled and stained; the community is comfortable. Now, I just need to convince my boss.

I began 2020 with a hike. It surprised me and everyone I know. I had read about it in the newspaper. I’m of an age that enjoys reading the newspaper. Everyday, I get up, make the bed, go to the bathroom, make a cup of coffee, fetch the newspaper, sit down and read it. It is one of the joys of retirement, because it replaces, get in the car and drive to work. The reward is typically simple leisurely self-indulgence; however, every once in a while, I am inspired by something I read to do some activity that is rewarding and self-indulgent.

So when I read about “trekking in to 2020 with a hike in one of the State’s Parks” I was hesitantly all in. I asked friends if they would accompany me, and was almost disappointed when one agreed. That constituted a contractual agreement to get up and get moving to start off the New Year. And we did. We made the hour-long drive to the State Park, while reviewing New Year’s Day trivia. The newspaper article had said that the 1.5 mile hike would be broken by New Year’s Day trivia contests, and “interactive frivolity.”

When we arrived at the park, the Ranger leading the hike explained that the hike’s destination was 1.5 miles away, and then we would again hike 1.5 miles to return. That was exactly 1.5 miles longer than I had anticipated. We did perform very well during the trivia contests, winning our choice of either a frisbee or a plastic set of binoculars. We both chose the latter. We performed moderately well during the first half of the hike which was predominantly uphill, and much better on the second half which was predominantly downhill. At our aforementioned destination (the top of the hill) we played kazoos and sang “Auld Lang Syne” (which we knew to have been written by Robert Burns in Scotland in the year 1788, translating as “times gone by,” because that was part of the trivia we had studied on our drive to the park) in an act of interactive frivolity. We were part of a group that got separated from the Ranger on our return trek, adding .5 miles to our hike. I was very proud!

The next day I awoke with sore feet, aching legs, and the burning desire to take down my Christmas decorations, so I did. My Christmas decorations are a compilation of artifacts from my Mother’s creative life (stitcheries, stoneware representations of historic New Mexico churches), my children’s childhoods and my marriage. Taking them down is always emotional, and typically done on New Year’s Day, because the day after was historically a work day, but now I’m retired and am able to go on long hikes on New Year’s Day. With the exception of the calendar day, the taking down of Christmas was much like years past: filled with memories. I realized that they were happy memories, and that I didn’t have to go to work the day after taking them down, which reminded me that life is good.

Today, I got around to making my New Year’s resolutions. They are very familiar because I resolve to do these things every year: move, write, learn and create more. The difference this year, is that I began the year with a hike. I’ve never done that before, so this may be the year that I experience success in keeping my resolutions. I think it’s a good sign that my feet, and legs don’t hurt as much today as they did yesterday. I’m going to move along and create something (right after I pet my cat).

Saturday, December 14th, as I prepared to embrace my newly declared routine, I thought, “I know, what I need is a cat to sooth my sore neck and and comfort my lonesome heart.” I had been thinking about getting a cat. I have spent hours talking to the indentation on the couch where Phil had spent much of his last four years. Not once did the indentation (or Phil) answer me. I imagined (I currently reside in Imagine Nation) a cat might be more conversive.

I was determined to adopt an abandoned cat. Happily (not so much for the abandoned kitties), you can now peruse available cats online while firmly implanted in your own couch indentation. I’ve always been hyper-emotional, so actually going in to a shelter was not a good idea. I knew that visiting the shelter could have the negative effect of transforming me into an eccentric cat lady (visions of Grey Gardens danced in my head) with a house full of cats. So, I opened up my laptop, went directly to Google and searched “cat adoption Albuquerque.”

In keeping with my “Night Before Christmas” theme: and what to my wondering eyes should appear, but Cinnamon devoid of any reindeer. She was available, after being abandoned in a parking garage ( I can think of few places more terrifying for a cat – a parking garage being the modern equivalent of a room full of rocking chairs). She was being fostered by a local used video game store as a part of my community’s Animal Humane Association’s “Cats in the Community” program. Without bothering to change out of aged sweatpants and a stained top, I jumped into my car and drove directly to the store. In a rare lucky break, sweatpants and stained tops were the attire sported by most of the other store patrons. As I walked in the door, I was greeted by a friendly sweatpants-clad employee who asked, “Can I help you find something?” I responded “a cat.” He immediately went in search of Cinnamon. It was love at first sight on my part; Cinnamon wasn’t quite sure of me.

I spent about thirty minutes allowing Cinnamon to get to know me. Various shoppers came and went, greeting Cinnamon and ignoring me. When there was a break in the shopping traffic, I asked what I needed to do to adopt Cinnamon. The store employee got a member of the Animal Humane Association staff on the phone in order that they might interview me. I was asked questions about my home, including its current animal population, and put on hold while a background check was done. While relaying this story to my children, they were relieved to hear that I had passed the background check and been okayed for the adoption of Cinnamon (my son-in-law did ask if she used to be a stripper – I let him know that beyond her name, little was known about her past). The staff waited while I went to get the cash required for the adoption fee, as well as a cat box, litter, litter scoop, food and water dishes, food, toys and a perch/hide-away. I returned to the store, presented the cash, signed numerous documents and then headed home with Cinnamon and her accoutrements.

Cinnamon and I had a Merry Christmas and have had a dozen good nights since. And while she doesn’t seem to understand what I say, and I don’t understand her mewed responses, we continue to happily converse, our conversations accompanied by the many cinnamon-themed songs that best-friend Shari has supplied daily. She will have absolutely nothing to do with the cat perch/hide-away that I purchased, and adorned with fluffy crocheted mats. She prefers to perch on my lap or the tops of cabinets and book shelves. She sometimes sits on the Phil-indentation spot on the couch; at which time I remind Phil of how much he always enjoyed having a cat on his lap. I don’t hear a response, but I’m sure he smiles.

Life is good!

It’s Friday the Thirteenth, and I’m busy establishing a new retirement routine. So far, it looks a lot like my previous routine. I’ve returned to write a Friday blog post now that I’ve regained use of my right arm (function was severely restricted following removal from my VERY long driveway , via shovel, of record-level Thanksgiving Day snow). Our Thanksgiving Day meal went on as planned with the added requirement of guest-provided massage to the host’s serving arm.

I’ve decorated the house for Christmas. I’ve cut back from my usual five to six boxes of Christmas decorations to about four boxes. I experienced a moment’s sadness when I realized that the decorations had been up for almost a week and I was the only one to have seen them. Happily, the workers from Gas Appliance Repair dropped by on Thursday and only charged me $110 to admire my decorations (and let me know that my gas fireplace would not result in my death from carbon-monoxide poisoning). Life is good!

This week, my friend Shari, her sisters, sister-in-law and I lamented our increasing loss of neck function, with a coinciding increase of neck-related tingling and pain. This threatened to discourage the “life is good” mantra, until Shari’s sister-in-law, chartered the DUDS (“Drink Up Degenerate Shriners”) club which is advocating wine consumption as, if not a cure for degenerative disc disease, a very effective distraction. We all immediately submitted our names and MRI results for membership consideration. This brings me back to my new routine activity and its similarity to previous routine activity.

For years, lacking the creativity to write original song lyrics, and inspired by the success of Weird Al Yankovic, I’ve changed a word or two in well-known songs to arrive at lyrics more in keeping with my day-to-day experiences. My most well-known (sung to the tune of Deep Purple’s “Smoke on the Water”) is: “Smoke on the Pop Tart; a fire in the toaster.” I’ve never got past two lines as that was all the flaming Pop Tart in the toaster inspired. The pervasive neck pain of my fellow Baby Boomers inspired the following (sung to Joseph J. Lilley’s tune and building on Frank Loesser’s lyrics for the song “Jingle, Jangle, Jingle”) :

I’ve got spurs that don’t jingle, jangle, jingle (because they’re on my cervical spine; with a few on my heels). As I go riding my mobility scooter along. And they sing, ain’t you glad that you’re a senior? As you wish you could move your head from left to right.

And that, my friends, is why I’ll never be a famous writer.

Many years ago, a friend told me about an outing she took her Mother, and elderly Uncle on. Both were suffering from Alzheimer’s. She buckled both into backseats and climbed into the front seat. She looked into the rear-view mirror just as her Mom tapped the Uncle’s shoulder and asked, “Do you know who that is?” while pointing to the front seat. Her brother, my friend’s Uncle replied, “No” to which my friend’s Mother replied, “Neither do I.”

This morning, someone asked me, “Who are you?” When I realized it was my reflection in the mirror, I got worried. Being worried was a consolation, because it provided me with a response: “I’m someone who’s known far and wide as a world-class worrier.” Despite my ability to respond to the question, I am in the midst of an identity crisis.

For many years, I was an employee. For almost as many years, I was Phil’s wife and while I celebrated the loss of the employee moniker, the loss of wife status is throwing me for a loop. The majority of husbands and wives drive each other crazy. Phil and I were no exception, so it’s somewhat of a surprise that I miss him so much now that he’s gone. Caring for him was a job that I was proud of, and frustrated with. People, or maybe just me, are difficult to understand.

I’m just a little over a week away from the one year anniversary of my retirement. It’s exactly a week from Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday. I love Thanksgiving, because there are no presents (except when my birthday falls on Thanksgiving), so nobody is disappointed with the gifts they’ve received, and everybody gets to eat lots of good food. Eating lots of good food is usually accompanied by lots of laughter and good food and laughter are two of my favorite things (okay, more clues to my identity – worrier who likes to eat food and laugh). Another couple of my favorite things, are friends and family who are always a part of the Thanksgiving celebration (my identity is becoming clearer and clearer).

So, it looks like I’m a Mom, friend, sister, Aunt, retiree who loves Thanksgiving, likes to eat and laugh while not having to go to work weekdays. Bring on your questions, lady in the mirror. Life is good, if maybe a little lonelier than it used to be.

Phillip Wayne Taylor passed away November 2, 2019 at the age of 72. So began Phil’s obituary. On October 29th, Phil decided that he had had enough of potentially successful treatment at the expense of his life (you know, the ol’ story – the doctor tells the patient’s family, “the treatment was a success, but I’m afraid the patient died”) and he chose to enter hospice. He had two days of comfort, and positive interaction with friends and family, before slipping into unconsciousness, and passing away on the morning of November 2nd. I, along with our children, and his best friend were with him.

He had been ill for more than half of our 42 years of marriage. Death had hunted him and he had eluded it, time and time again. He, and we, thought that he was invincible. Of course, he wasn’t, and neither are any of us.

Family and friends gathered to say goodbye. The love of my friends and family sustains me. The love we had for Phil (faults and all), sustains his memory. And so, life is good, but death isn’t all bad. When we’ve been suffering, it provides relief. When we’re tired, it provides rest. When we’re apart, it brings us together. It provides an opportunity to remember good times and the best of people who’ve passed. It casts a shadow that softens difficult memories, while encouraging forgiveness. It reminds us to tell the people we love, that we love them, while they can hear us. The gift of death, is the same as the gift of life: love.

“In my life, I’ve loved them all.”

I spent most of my first summer as a retiree focused on zucchini. It was hard not to, as the zucchini I had planted as innocent-looking seeds grew as fast and as large as Audrey II in “Little Shop of Horrors.” The fruit of the plants went on to monopolize my kitchen, my freezer, my baking, and my diet. I miss all of that zucchini.

Although the plants went the way of the compost pile back in August, my freezer still contains an abundance of shredded zucchini awaiting its day in the baked-goods spotlight (zucchini bread; zucchini muffins; and a gluttony of other gluten and zucchini filled sweets).

Today is day twenty-two of my husband Phil’s hospitalization. I strongly recommend avoiding hospitalizations (particularly those in excess of seventy-two hours). If at all possible, don’t even drive on the same side of the street as a hospital. They’re just too full of germs, uncertainty, misadventure and inedible food. Things that are promoted as being edible, are not. Phil claims that the pureed food stuffs contained on his meal trays are inedible and, therefore, he does not eat them. Hospital dietary staff do make an effort with appearance (pureed indeterminate breakfast food is pressed into a mold so that it resembles a waffle – all pretense is lost as soon as a fork cuts into it and any hint of enticement – and flavor – evaporates). While the meat and carrots are pureed to a smooth mush; the mashed potatoes are lumpy. Hmmm?

The foods of Fall are supposed to be sweet and/or intoxicating. Neither sweet (unless you count artificial sweeteners, which I don’t), nor intoxicating foods are served in the hospital. If you’re really hurting, they may give you an intoxicating IV solution, but it’s hardly worth the trouble. They do not offer caregivers any options for intoxication, whether the caregiver is hurting or not. Really, they shouldn’t, because we caregivers all hope to drive away from the hospital to shower and sleep (except for those sainted caregivers who sleep in the “sleep chairs” provided in patients’ rooms).

Phil’s room overlooks I-25, and I watch as people speed by, on their way to somewhere. It’s Saturday, so I don’t think many are going to work. They’re probably awash in the ecstasy of weekend excitement. The joy of weekends was one of the perks of gainful employment (that and the paycheck). I remember the joy of retirement disorientation in which all holidays were Memorial Day. Those were the good ol’ (hospital free) days.

Green is my favorite color. It’s prevalent in nature (I love nature). It’s the color of money (we all need money). It has many wonderful shades. I love green. This is why I was so confused when I became repulsed by the paint color on a car I spotted in a parking lot. It was not quite a pale green. It was the green equivalent of Pepto Bismal Pink. It was a weak, sorry excuse of a green. I stewed over the cowardly shade of green the entire time I was in the grocery store. As I walked by the Granny Smith apples, I said, now that’s how to be green.

I think I was experiencing displaced anger. It wasn’t the paint’s fault that whomever mixed up the color had poor taste. It may not have even been the paint mixer’s fault. Perhaps he or she was color blind. I continue to be frustrated by the challenges associated with having a family member in the hospital. Phil has told me not to yell at the hospital staff for fear that they might retaliate against him when I leave for the evening, so green was the recipient of my disgust and frustration.

While working (for pay, not my current full-time, unpaid patient advocate duties), I would take out my frustration on my family. That was not nice of me. I was looking forward to retirement, and hoped to be a kinder, gentler family member. I continue to try to be nicer to my family members (especially those who are hospitalized), so that left me unconsciously looking for a frustration release valve when I encountered the sad, soft, sickly shade of green.

Where was my compassion. I should have felt sympathy for the person who had to be seen driving the vehicle. Maybe, I should have tucked a nice shade of green dollar bill under the windshield of the vehicle with a note encouraging the car owner to put the dollar towards a paint job. Maybe, I should have let it go. The problem was, what might fill the void left behind. So, I stand behind my color condemnation. Perhaps a nice shade of green cocktail will sooth my color sensitivities.

The P.H.E.R. is like the U.S.S.R. only more dangerous. It turns out that the Medical School of Phil did not provide me with the expertise needed to accurately diagnose Phil. How can that be? It’s the Medical School of PHIL! Sadly, last Saturday, we ended up back in the Presbyterian Hospital Emergency Room (P.H.E.R.). In all fairness to Phil, and me, hospital staff misdiagnosed him, too. They thought he was just experiencing pain, and hesitated to admit him for simple “pain control.” I explained (maybe not in the nicest way) that he needed to be admitted to determine what was causing the pain. They admitted him for “pain control.”

A few tests later, having diagnosed him with a very rare widespread life threatening infection, doctors started coming out of the woodwork (each charging us a fifty dollar co-pay to satisfy their curiosity). So, less than a year after retiring from a job that required me to spend ten to twelve hours a day in a hospital, I’m back to spending ten to twelve hours a day in a hospital.

Phil has it much worse than I, because he’s spending a solid twenty-four hours a day in a hospital, and he feels horrible, and rather than improving, he’s deteriorating daily. This makes me sad, so when I came home today, I cleaned house, watered the yard, did laundry and made myself a mock Irish Cream cocktail (milk, Irish Cream coffee creamer and brandy). I put so much brandy in it, that it curdled the Irish Cream coffee creamer. I still drank it. I first started making this mock cocktail after experiencing a very bad day while I was working ten to twelve hour days in a hospital. Retirement is turning out to be a lot like work.

Phil can use prayers! I may need more brandy and Irish Cream coffee creamer (I’m good on the milk). And, just maybe, medical professionals (not all, but some) need to be reminded that at the core of each interesting case is a human being: the patient.

Phil, my husband, is a medical marvel. He’s battled many, MANY illnesses, and if he hasn’t won the battles, he has survived them. I’m fairly savvy about medicine and medical issues, not because I am a medical professional, but because I’ve been enrolled in the Medical School of Phil for over 43 years.

The courses can be tough, with a high failure rate (I haven’t always been as sympathetic as I should have been). Some of Phil’s illnesses have required surgery, surgeries have been botched, and led to additional illnesses. They’re always uncommon illnesses with really difficult to pronounce names (his physician struggled to pronounce Poly Arteritis Nodosa during our visit yesterday). Phil worked in uranium mills in the mid 1970s, so some of his illnesses may be related to that. Some of his illnesses may run in his family, but if so, they have only caught up with him. Regardless of who or what the plague (one of the only illnesses he’s avoided) of illnesses are related to, they’ve found a domicile with Phil. He would love to evict them all, but his many attempts have been unsuccessful.

Week before last, he was diagnosed with pneumonia, and spent the night in the hospital. He was pumped full of IV antibiotic, and sent home with a prescription for a VERY powerful antibiotic to be taken orally for six days. We’ve been sent home with prescriptions before, and because it was a way to get out of the hospital, we were happy to take them and run.

This time, it didn’t work out so well. Phil who is a kidney transplant recipient, and who takes large daily doses of steroids for another weird, torturous, illness (Bullous Pemphigoid), started experiencing wide-spread tendon pain on about the fourth day of the antibiotics. We decided to read up on the med, and found that patients who are transplant recipients and who are on long-term steroid therapy, can develop wide-spread tendonitis (to the point where tendons actually rupture) and a whole lot of other not nice things when taking antibiotics in the Fluoroquinolone family. WHAT? We should have read that medication information sheet more carefully; however, when we have read them carefully, and brought up concerns in the past, we have been quickly pooh-poohed and told that of course we don’t understand because we haven’t gone to medical school. With the exception of “The Medical School of Phil,” this is true. The thing is, Phil has suffered (not alone, because illness-related suffering tends to impact entire families) from so many, and such diverse illnesses, that “The Medical School of Phil” provides pretty diverse and comprehensive training, but, what do I know?

As of today, Phil is having difficulty standing due to intense pain and muscle weakness. He can’t drive because he can’t grip the steering wheel, or press the brake hard enough to stop the car. The good news is that he no longer has pneumonia and, that I’m retired and I’m available to care for him. Life is good!