Eyes on the Road

(c) 2011 Christiana Lambert

Driving down the road this morning I thought, I’m not ready to return to this road. Oh the specific road and the weather conditions were not the same, but the task was. Sometimes an aged love one just hits a phase in life when it is always something and each time it’s hard to tell whether or not the something is really, really big or just limiting and/or painful.

Either way, it’s hard to watch strong people you love grow weak. And now an even harder part for me is to keep my past experiences with my mother from filling my heart with worry that may or may not be warranted. My job is to provide support and ask questions, not to freeze with fear in light of all sorts of imagined possibilities. Truly I need to remain in the moment—neither in the past nor the future.

I have my own physical limitations these days, which means I’m trying to plan my runs for the perfect time. My PT says not to run until I’ve been awake for two hours and yet I know that waiting for the heat of the day does me no favors. As I reached that two hour point and started to finish getting ready to leave, the phone rang with a change of plans. My chauffeuring skills were needed sooner than previously planned. Hadn’t showered, but at least I hadn’t added the sweat from a work-out yet.

Out of my running clothes and into something more suitable for a hospital, I jumped in the car. But as I drove off, my emotions fluctuated between mourning running in the cool morning breeze and realizing that this wasn’t really about me—someone’s life could hang in the balance and this trip was an opportunity to help him in a difficult time.

Gripping the steering wheel, I remembered just how hard it is to keep living your own life between each phone call and any actions those calls require you to take—and how aware you have to remain of the awesome responsibility of working with medical professionals when answers aren’t clear. You really can’t rely on the outsiders to care as much as you do, but at least this time there are many minds to help remember symptoms, actions, and possible questions to share with those outsiders.

I came home weary from the short trip, not because it took long or required much effort from me, but because of the uncertainty surrounding someone else’s pain. No run for me—I just wasn’t up to hitting the road in the heat of the day. But it’s not good to sit and stew—and so I danced—albeit inside in front of my fan. I got in my “me” time—a few hours to forget the past troubles and the worries of this day—after all.

And thank goodness the next call I received brought better news than expected. Whew, right? So back to the original plan—until the next phone call.

The walls in the hospital room we visited were covered with inspirational expressions which no matter how true, may not always bring comfort in the moment to those seated in that room. Still, I need to take whatever comfort I can from them—this is not about me or even about my mom or what we went through together. As the sign read: Every day is a gift. One phone call at a time. Now to remember that life is best lived in between those phone calls.

Seasoned to Go

Starting to sound like a person who lives in the country—all I talk about is the weather. So what’s on our menu this week? Not snowy or rainy days—although afternoon thunderstorms are possible—but instead temperatures in the 80s. I am so confused by all this weather this month.

Home from the nursery!

More, more, more!

But, finally, I can bring home annuals! And I did—the first batch anyway.

As always, I started at the small, quiet nursery where I can look and think—without being run over every other minute. So the delivery truck was late and thus there were holes on the tables—that just helped me to think more creatively, right?

Every year I feel jealous of the woman who works there planting the containers—she gets to try out all sorts of different combinations in a variety of sizes. She doesn’t have to worry about whether or not she can afford the finished product because someone else can. I may only get to “play” with a few containers, but I would never give up the opportunity to paint my own summer dreams with the year’s pots and baskets.

Ready to get into the sun.

Me, too.

I also have two built-in flagstone planters to fill in. Thanks to the imposing Colorado Blue Spruce and its shade out front, I’ve given up on experimentation with plants there. Impatiens, impatiens, and more impatiens are what work in that protected space. After painting our house bright colors, I felt a little stymied by palette options for the flowers. I’ve played it safe the last two years, but am mixing it up this year—won’t know how that works until the plants bloom into constant color.

Waiting for the rest of the story.

The next question is: has the puppy/dog grown up enough to leave the back yard’s exposed bed alone? I’m tired of planting marigolds for their odor—I want choices! Think I’m going to risk it, but for that bed I’m going to have to venture out to the crazy, bustling large nursery where plants are tucked in every corner—and every corner might yield something I didn’t know I wanted.

After all, my “hanging” wall is one basket short of being empty. Who knows what colors might yet blaze against that white wall? Not me—yet.

Oh, it’s finally the season to dream again—and then to plunge my hands in the dirt and make those dreams come true.

Authorize Your Own Right to Question

(c) 2010 Christiana Lambert

I am not my mother—in so many ways. One major difference is that I do question all forms of authority—in this aspect I am the classic Baby Boomer. But when you come of age watching all sorts of experts and leaders fall, you know that everyone can’t know everything nor do everything right. Besides, we live in an era with access to so much more information that we can and should take responsibility for verifying that what we are told makes sense.

Mom loved to read and learn, but she had this maddening habit of reading one article, expert, or whatever and quoting that viewpoint for the rest of her days.

I’m no lawyer and didn’t study journalism, so I don’t always ask things three different ways or check out three different sources, but I do know you can’t just trust the first reference you find. Plus, sometimes new information becomes available or other information exists that isn’t widely known. I drive my husband crazy because I have this natural habit of continuing to ask questions—not to be ornery but because to get the true picture of a story, you sometimes have to know the back story and other associated facts.

For example, these days it’s easy to find checklists to try to discover whether or not someone has a certain health condition. But surely a diagnosis isn’t based solely on such general listings—if not we all end up thinking we have most conditions. Often a definitive diagnosis arrives from looking at the subtle information found between the lines of those listings.

And when medical personnel study in school, they must learn a staggering amount of information about a staggering amount of conditions. They can’t be experts in everything.

What we as patients are is experts in our bodies, our family traits, and our experiences. We start to see patterns and often become experts—most likely not in the biology and chemistry of the conditions we experience—but in the subtle indicators that are more personal to us. I am seldom wrong about strep in myself or the people in my home and I’m pretty good with pink eye, too—because this is our experience. And I think families such as ours who are afflicted with celiac disease often tend to know more about the subtleties of the condition than doctors who are not well-acquainted with the condition and whose medical school training happened before current protocol changes.

Medical personnel are frustrated that so many of us think we can know what’s going on based on our layman’s access to a variety of information coming from sources ranging from valid to those so invalid as to be dangerous. But that doesn’t mean our insights and questions aren’t worth considering in combination with the expert’s own knowledge.

I’m not so much of a rebel as to push back hard when I disagree with a practioner, but I always bring up my questions and concerns in a respectful manner. In retrospect, sometimes I wonder how I could have pushed harder in certain situations. Just last month I received confirmation from a doctor my daughter was seeing for something I couldn’t get my mother’s doctor to recognize four years ago—would have liked to help Mom with that problem but no one would listen.

As patients we have to fill out copious pages listing familial connections—so often it feels as if no one reads them even though I believe most medical people believe they do matter. Maybe they don’t feel they have the time—was so glad when my daughter’s new specialist asked us about every connection listed.

When there don’t seem to be good, easy answers—the kind that would come easily if all our conditions fell into line with those checklists—then that’s when I think the professionals really ought to listen to family stories and the oddball personal information provided to them or even check into the quirky medical possibilities suggested to them.

Mom was the epitome of the hard-to-diagnose patient with her commingled conditions. Since many of my family members seem to specialize in being those people whose conditions fall into the gray areas of those checklists, we need medical authority figures who can tolerate a little questioning. Some of us don’t rebel against authority to cause trouble but to discover truth that may be hidden. Good leaders hear what team members say in order to arrive at the best possible outcome.

After all, I don’t think doctors like uncertainty any more than patients and their families do.

Timetables Adjusted

(c) 2013 Trina Lambert
Forsythia delayed by spring snows and cold.

You never know what to expect around here from year to year—especially in the spring. Last year we were about four weeks or more ahead of schedule—this year, we’re behind. I’d like to get excited about the fact the nurseries are holding sales to get rid of some of their inventory, but I’ve nowhere to put the flowers either!

This wet, cool weather does remind me, though, of May two years ago. I had such big plans for getting out and about with my new puppy and new rescue dog. And, got out I did because I didn’t want my house torn apart! But the reality didn’t quite match my dreams.

In my dreams my back didn’t get hurt driving to pick up that puppy and the initial weather back home was actually nice much of the time.

But in my reality, I still had a lot of fun with my two pups, even if it meant taking them out into the cold rain while wearing my mother’s hand-me-down chartreuse slicker and walking much slower and for shorter distances than planned. There would be other sunny days and runs ahead of us, right? And, how much could I plant anyway if a puppy might come around and dig up my handiwork?

At least that’s what I believed before I knew how long I would have to wait for sunshine and growth.

Funny how the cold rains remind me both of what I don’t want to remember and what I most definitely do want to remember. That stormy May stripped away my assumptions about what I could do and not do for my health and forced me to slow down and stay close to home. In the quiet days when I grieved my active lifestyle, I gathered my dogs around me and learned to be still—with them.

My heart, riddled from loss—expected and unexpected, had developed holes, small and large. The only way to begin to patch or fill those holes was to give in to the pet therapy offered to me, even if that also meant walking outside in all kinds of weather when I really just wanted to stay in and wallow in my pain.

All those planned hikes and runs melted into slow walks, even when the rains disappeared, throughout the summer, into the fall, winter, and even into the next spring. Healing had its own timetable, but through it all I had my dogs. When I finally began to run again—almost a year and a half later—in order to re-develop a healthy form, I had to start doing so without the dogs at my side, but still hope to include them one day soon.

This week, our dog Sam’s hiking backpack arrived for all our planned hikes. And I need to buy a new pair of running shoes—because mine are worn out from running, not just from walking the dogs. Plus, when the weather finally settles down enough for me to plant flowers, I’m not so worried about my now-grown dog Furgus eating them.

Right now, as afternoon stretches toward evening and though creeks are overflowing, the sun is out and drying up many paths—at least those away from flood plains. Turns out, there’s still time to run before the next storm. And if the dogs are lucky, the weather will hold long enough for their walk, too! So often, dreams have their own timetables, too.

Rain Gauge Nerd

(c) 2013 Trina Lambert
Wrong gauge–no hundredths!

Nothing says Nebraskan like a rain gauge and last year I was an ex-pat Nebraskan (in Colorado) without a rain gauge. My old gauge had broken and no store seemed to have any in stock—didn’t matter much because last year the rain hardly fell. Knowing that was pretty much all we needed to know.

Early last month, I found several gauges at the store, but didn’t put out the one I brought home. Rain gauges aren’t usually that fond of April snows (well, neither am I but at least the snows don’t break me!) With the most recent snowfall just a week ago, (yeah, I know—that was a May snow), I’d forgotten that now might really be the time to break out the rain gauge.

Never mind that some people around here have taken to putting out fake flowers—as if they’ve given up hope on spring. The grocery stores, usually loaded with plants, have no more than some bags of soil stacked outside and the occasional hanging pot—which can be whisked back inside. No doubt, there is no point in rushing to plant annual beds yet, but this morning the skies cracked open and the rains dropped hard and furious, along with pea-sized pellets of hail.

I remembered the rain gauge and—sometime after the hail stopped—ran out into the wet where I plunged it in the first open soil I found: in a pot filled with hen & chicks that had safely overwintered outdoors. Bring it, I thought!

You see, I am neither farmer nor a daughter of a farmer, but am the granddaughter of farmers. The towns in Nebraska are populated by many people who like my parents, left the farm, or like me, had parents who had left the farm. In a place where rain falls in “hundredths” of an inch and where dust once covered the lands, rain is most often a blessing. Yes, people stand around and compare how many hundredths of an inch they got, even if all they are doing is cultivating a bluegrass lawn.

I’ve lived in Colorado for over 28 years and not found many people here worried about hundredths of an inch, even though we have way more reasons (or is that fewer?) to count those hundredths since average rainfall here is much less than further east on the prairies. For many city and suburban dwellers without farming in their family backgrounds, they don’t seem to realize water comes not from faucets and spigots but from aquifers and rivers and streams—until drought restrictions are put in place as they are now, despite the seemingly endless but still too-little, too-late moisture we’ve had this spring, or until a developer is denied a permit.

Yes, it’s time Coloradans take a little more interest in knowing how much is falling from the sky, even if doing so doesn’t sound very sophisticated. With watering limited to twice a week, a little data might be helpful for planning. I got my rain gauge at the local Ace Hardware: the venerable A&A Trading Post.

And please, spare me the tales of how the water is all going downstream to Nebraska where they might need it to grow food. All of us from cities, suburbs, and towns—whether in Colorado or Nebraska or wherever—ought to be thinking more about how water affects the food supply and less about maintaining perfect lawns.

I’m not giving up turf, trees, or flowers—what we grow in our communities aids in producing cleaner air, keeping temperatures lower, and providing bees with pollen—but doing so with an eye on the numbers helps us to work with what we do have.

However, what I don’t have after all is the right rain gauge for the region. While checking my gauge’s numbers after this morning’s precipitation, I discovered the numbers do not break down into hundredths! Why bother? Good thing Ace is the place . . . for nerds of all kinds.

I Don’t Whip My Hair Back and Forth–But I Could!

(c) 2013 Trina Lambert

When I was a young 20-something in the 80s, I worked with a couple older women—who were younger than I am now! However, they represented two different generations. One was 44—and graduated in the same year Peggy Sue did (in Peggy Sue Got Married), meaning she was born early during World War II and, thus, a member of the Silent Generation. The other was 36 and very much a post-war Baby Boomer.

Those two women couldn’t have been more different. The older woman was a conservative Christian who would rather have been home than at work, although her kids were mostly grown. The younger woman had come of age in southern California during the late 60s and had lived—and was still living—a chaotic life. Truth is, I enjoyed time with both women but for very different reasons. Even though I was the young one, eventually I found I had more in common with the older woman than the younger woman who I finally realized was never going to grow up. What had first appeared hip and exciting turned out to be out-of-control and totally lacking in grounded values. Yes, partying until 5:00 a.m. every weekend night may lead to a lot a sick days by the time you are 36.

The older woman seemed to feel it was her duty to act and look her age and that the younger woman was fooling herself by trying to pretend she was still young. And while I agree that she needed to act much more like her age responsibility-wise, I don’t think her looks were the problem. It’s not as if she ran around squeezed too tightly into too-short clothes. No, the older woman seriously thought “older” women should not have longer hair. And by longer hair, I mean hair that went a few inches past her shoulders.

Really? For the life of me, I can’t even figure out what the crime is in wearing your hair longer after 35—maybe that was a Silent Generation thought—after all I am, just barely, a (rebellious?) Baby Boomer. Since I’m way past 35 or 42 and still have longer hair, obviously I’m not abiding by those rules. Doesn’t it really matter how my hairstyle looks on me, not how old I am? (Shh—I’ll even wear white after Labor Day if the weather merits it! Rebel against arbitrary rules, I say.)

For awhile, I went to a hairdresser who, I swear, was trying to make me look old and fat. Despite telling her I wanted my hair longer (my round face isn’t flattered by short hair), she kept cutting it short—until I stopped going to see her. I think she must have believed in the “no long hair after 35” rule—for me, anyway.

This winter I achieved a new milestone—not only can I put my hair into a ponytail, but also I can put the ponytail high on my head and really keep the hair off my neck. That works so well for me because I spend a lot of time exercising: doing yoga, running, ZUMBA dancing, skiing, hiking, etc. And when I exercise, I sweat—not because I am an “old” woman but because I work out hard.

Quite frankly, I’m not going to let anyone tell me I’m too old to exercise, wear my hair long, or whatever if I still can. I didn’t need someone else telling me that staying out until 5:00 a.m. was a bad long term plan—I learned that on my own without first having to get fired for absenteeism. Age slows us down more than we’d like it to in the first place—why let someone else decide for us when we should slow down if it really doesn’t harm ourselves or other people, one way or another?

If wearing long hair makes me a rebel who won’t act her age, then so be it. How about I just keep the ponytail but stay away from wearing spandex shorts and cropped tops and singing “I Whip My Hair Back and Forth”? Deal? I thought so . . .

Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Zs

Daughter sleeping in 1996–maybe I shouldn’t have let her twin brother choose this picture!

Despite the fact my daughter looks a lot like me, I’ve become convinced she can’t be related to me—or at least not when it comes to sleeping! Her sleep clinic appointment last week left me with my mouth gaping.

When it comes to sleep difficulties, it seems people either sleep too little or too much—and neither group understands one another.

Growing up I was that kid who didn’t nap and who didn’t fall asleep until late at night—wait, so was she.

Things have changed for her, though. Now she’s that person who can sleep for hours at a time and still nap—and then fall asleep again within minutes of hitting the pillow. And all this while a college student.

I was sitting there listening while she described her sleep schedule to the doctor and thinking that in college I slept about ¼ as much as she does. OK, so I exaggerate—I slept about half as much as she does. Of course, I fell asleep in classes—I got about 5 hours of sleep each week night and probably 7 hours on weekends—why would I expect to feel rested?

On the other hand, she has every reason to expect to feel rested yet doesn’t. Despite what people close to her may think, you can’t force yourself to sleep as much as she’s sleeping. For most, that kind of sleeping is impossible. Even when I had mono, if I napped too long during the day, I’d be unable to fall asleep at night or would wake up in the middle of the night. As her doctor said—her sleep schedule is not normal, especially for a 20-year-old. So, lucky her, she gets to sleep overnight at the clinic some time after her semester exams end.

Here’s hoping the sleep test is one exam my daughter passes—or fails in a way so that the doctor can help her figure out how she can feel more rested and still get up and out to live a little more. New knowledge could show her how it’s not too late to wake up to a brand new day—even if she will always be wise enough to sleep more than I did when I was in college.

Yearning

My mother’s hands, circa 1950s.

Back to the word choosing the blogger—I really had other plans for “Y” but yesterday another word insisted I change those plans. No, this time my back isn’t out (“B”) and I’m not ill (“I”), thank goodness. While in church enjoying the musical celebration for the retirement of our choir director (18 years at our church and 50 years as a director), I suddenly found myself yearning for the retirement celebration my mother never got.

See that’s the thing when people start falling into dementia—there’s no good way formally to celebrate what people have done and who they have been without pointing out that they are not that anymore.

The choir director and his wife were part of the senior class listed in my deceased father’s college yearbook (from his second degree, post-Korea) so they are not young. But they are still doing very well—no doubt they have decided to enjoy life while they can by giving themselves more freedom and control over their own time.

I remember suggesting to Mom that she give up the organ bench once or twice a month so that she could enjoy her music as well as the other activities she wanted to pursue in her life. However, she until forced to do so by getting pretty sick with shingles, she did not do so. Although her downhill slide began around that time, she continued singing in her choir and participating in the musical life of her church for a couple more years until after she had an accident while visiting us which lead to her staying with us to recuperate.

A little later she decided she was done living away from us, which meant the day she had come to visit us turned out to be the day she left behind her own church and her former life.

Oh, the music didn’t quite leave her hands right away—she managed to play organ for her new retirement community weekly until a hospital stay ended her formal participation in service. But within a couple months she was just lost, so much so that she needed to go into secure 24-hour care.

Ever since she turned twelve she’d been playing in church on and off. One day she just disappeared from the bench where she had sat—in one church, school, community group, or another—for 67 years. Her hands silenced, the hymnals closed, and the music set aside, who was she without her music?

I still yearn for her to have lost her abilities gradually—that she could have chosen when to leave and could have been toasted and roasted while she still sat on the bench.

How delighted she would have been to hear music made in her honor. I have to believe that somehow she was able to listen to the musical goodbyes at her memorial service, but yesterday I was reminded again just how much I wish she had heard that joyful noise on this earth.

And, yet, the music she taught me and that she gave me over the years prepared me to be part of yesterday’s musical goodbyes—for someone who is still here to delight in the songs. Thanks to her, how can I keep from singing?

Exertion–not Overexertion

(c) 2013 Trina Lambert

Earlier this year I started working out with a heart rate monitor and was very frustrated by what it told me. Still, I gritted my teeth and committed to working with it for a few months to see if I would become stronger by first slowing down. All these years I’ve been telling myself to speed up and now I have to tell myself to slow down!

At the same time, I’ve wondered how accurate the traditional heart rate ranges are for a person with exercise-induced asthma who pre-treats with ProAir, a medication known to raise heart rates. I don’t have breathing difficulties in my regular day-to-day activities, just when I’m exerting myself aerobically. In fact, if I pre-treat very long before my activity begins, I get very jumpy.

As for that question, I just found out that National Jewish Health cardiology is doing outreach into the neighborhoods by offering Walk with a Doc monthly events where a specific health topic is discussed and then people go on a walk with the health professionals present and ask more personal questions. When I wrote the program with my question, the doctor in charge suggested I come and talk with them there—which I will do at the June event. However, he did give me hope that I may not have to restrain myself at the level I am currently. You mean I don’t always have to run like an old woman??!!

Typical run exertion rates Jan. 2013

Since I’ve been using the watch for around three months, I have finally collected quite a bit of data and there is definitely a positive trend occurring. My watch “knows” what’s happening throughout my run, but the straight data I get is more along the line of mean and mode—it doesn’t really tell me what my median heart rate is. However, I can find a summary of that data through the training load chart. Checking it yesterday, I was surprised and delighted to see that my willingness to “listen” to my watch these past several months has paid off.

According to Polar Fitness, “Training intensity and duration as well as physical parameters (for instance, age, weight) affect training load.” The training load chart is divided into three zones: red indicates “cumulative training load is on a very high level” that is potentially straining your body so much so that taking a break is recommended; yellow indicates “cumulative training load is on a high level” and training level should be reduced in intensity; and, green, which indicates “you are recovered from previous training sessions” and can increase training sessions or their intensity levels.

Typical run exertion rates April 2013

I’m very happy to report that I haven’t hit the red zone in over two and a half months and that my workouts in the yellow zone this month have been very close to the green zone. For the most part my highest training loads happen in ZUMBA class where I do not make any effort to slow myself down. But even those sessions have improved greatly since I began changing my running patterns by exerting myself more as the watch suggested I should.

This news makes me ecstatic because it means that very soon I should be able to begin increasing my speed without overexerting my heart. Then I’ll just be running like the middle-aged woman I am! As well as exerting myself in a much safer manner than previously. Yaroo!

Waiting

(c) 2012 Christiana Lambert

And not very patiently either!

Tuesday morning, up before 5:00 a.m., I was putting on the ski pants I had washed to hide away because I was done with snow. Well, I was done with snow but Mother Nature wasn’t. So there I was out pushing a snow blower while snow continued to fall on my head, the recently cleared sidewalk, the streets, etc. Of course, with late April snow the stuff closest to the streets was pretty much as heavy as wet cement. Finally gave up and started pushing it aside with a shovel. But not only was it snowing, but was really cold for April—if the pavement hadn’t stayed warm, our work would have been a lot harder.

When it comes to snow blowing, once I’m awake and out there, I usually don’t mind spending time outside in the snow. It’s easy to fall into a peaceful rhythm—until spring arrives. Then I have to spend way too much time unclogging the machine—that’s when I know it’s time to move on to the next season.

Now it appears to be that season—even if the blossoms aren’t on schedule yet. No pink crabapple petals and very few forsythia blooms appear, but the grass is oh so green (and long—speaking of that next season!)
Finally, I can dream of planting. Even in normal years I don’t plant my annuals until after Mother’s Day—not sure but I may need to wait even a little longer this year. Still, instead of looking out my window and thinking about the shovel, I saw spring and thought about my trowel. And colors beyond green—purples, pinks, corals, yellows, reds. What joy will come in selecting this year’s hues and blooms? What to pick? What to pick?

Sitting here I can almost smell the earthy scents of my favorite nurseries, one quiet, calm, and small and the other bustling, large, and almost overwhelming in its choices. Oh, yes, what to pick?

The waiting is the hardest part, especially in years when Spring tarries in her dance with wintery blasts and falling snows. But when she bids the cold goodbye, oh my! Don’t want to wait . . . but guess I will, if only because I know that rushing into planting would only serve to break my heart.

Just as surely as April showers bring May flowers, so, too, does April snow. But April snows are especially good at reminding us to stop trying to hurry the calendar—and just wait. After all, Mother (Nature) knows best.