Something's Afoot

After a couple of weeks of stress, I had to break out the big guns.

Yes, I went for the pedicure and Sangria.

Don't judge me. I couldn't help myself. It was either that or half a bottle of Xanax, and since the pedicure and glass of Sangria didn't require a prescription it won out. Actually, I showed enough restraint not to ask for seconds and thirds and mores on the Sangria, so I feel I accomplished something.

Especially after the past couple of weeks.

Besides, after wearing nothing but sandals and thongs (yes, I said THONGS, because flip flops are what CB radio enthusiasts see you on - they are not things to be worn on your feet) my feet were in sore need of pampering. My back and shoulders were also in sore need of pampering, but as the nail salon does not offer massage, I had to settle for the massage chair instead.

And it was very good.

Very good indeed.

Someone Really Needs To Keep Me On A Leash

Ah, the hospital!

The logic of its layout, the simplicity of its design. Each floor a perfect, squared off, number 8 pattern. Elevators for visitors in the center by the main desk and waiting room, patient rooms on the outside of the hallways, nurses' stations and essential rooms on the inside hallways. The top and bottom are used for storage or exercise or even transport, as one set of elevators is located at the top of the 8.

No one could get lost with such a simple setup, right?

Yeah. Right.

So, I get off of the elevator to go to Mom's room. I make a left at the main desk, then a right and head down the hall to the second room from the end. Surprisingly, her door is closed. I wait for a minute or so, then travel back to the main desk to see what's going on. No one is at the main desk, so I wait for a few minutes. When no one shows, I decide to go back to Mom's room and go on in. After all, I'm her daughter. I have a right to be there!

I quietly open the door to find the privacy curtain closed and the lights off. Thinking she must be asleep, I decide to leave the few things I brought her from home in her closet and back out quietly. As I open the curtain, I'm surprised to see she is not there! The bed is made, her flowers and cards are gone, and there's no sign she's ever been there.

Being the calm, reasonable person I am, I immediately panic.

Where is my mother??? What have they done with her??? Did she (gulp) pass away while I was gone and no one bothered to let me know??? I rushed out of the room headed toward the nurses' desk. I wanted answers, and I wanted them NOW.

And as I rushed, I happened to look over my shoulder at Mom's room number.

It was the wrong room.

Seems as though I was supposed to turn RIGHT as I got off of the elevator instead of left, something I've only done about eleventy thousand times in the past month. Only for some reason, this time my very small brain misfired yet again.

Thankfully, I found Mom on the opposite end of the 8, alive and well.

However, I'm considering checking in soon.

It's Too Much To Handle Here, So I Moved It

Yep, the stroke stuff is too heavy for here.

We here at His Unfinished Work have lives outside the stroke world.

Well, maybe not just yet, but we will soon.

We hope.

Maybe.

Anyway, in order to alleviate the strain that this normally uplifting and somewhat humorous (we hope) blog has been under lo, these past two weeks, another blog has been born.

If you'd like to hear more about Mom and the trials and tribulations of dealing with everything a stroke means to a family, please visit

Post-Stroke

for more information.

The first post contains some of what you've already read here, plus some new stuff. This way I get to save the glam for here and the gloom for the other place.

Works for me.

The Day Mom Went To Rehab

Today around 4 p.m. Mom finally made her way to a room on the Rehab floor of the hospital.

It's been eleven days since the heart attack and nine days since the stroke. Funny, but it seems like it's been forever and not really real all at the same time. As I told the nurse tonight, in MY plans I still had another good ten years left before we had to worry about any of this stuff. Then we'd sell the house, move Mom into assisted living or in with one of us, and we'd all live happily ever after. We had all kinds of time to deal with this.

All kinds of time.

So now I'm looking at assisted living places, hoping she'll be able to get well enough to live in one. The criteria? She has to be able to get out of bed, into a wheelchair and to an exit all on her own in case of a fire. So that means I'm also looking at "extended living centers," which Mom would call nursing homes. At the same time I'm looking at plain old retirement apartments, but right now they look like pie in the sky.

Prices are ranging anywhere from $1675 per month for the retirement apartments to around $5,500 per month for the nursing home. Since Mom didn't have any long-term care insurance, her savings will be eaten up in short order if she has to choose the high-end option.

She is still foggy mentally. She sees people and things that aren't there, confuses people she doesn't know with people she does know. She thinks it should be breakfast time at midnight. She thinks she's in a different city.

We're praying hard for her mind to clear up and her thought processes to become more normal. We're praying for her physical ability to get dressed, bathe, and take care of personal hygiene by herself. We would be blessed beyond measure if she could somehow manage to live in a retirement apartment.

We'd appreciate any prayers on her behalf, and do so appreciate the prayers you lifted up so far! Thank you all for remembering her, and for remembering us.

God is good.

What A Difference A Week Makes

Tonight is the one-week anniversary of the call that changed life as I know it. And because of that I might just have a little problem sleeping.

Mom is still in the hospital after suffering the heart attack last Thursday night and subsequent stroke on Saturday night.

But the difference is night and day.

Instead of a respirator, she's breathing on her own. Instead of being sedated, she's wide awake. Instead of garbled noises, she is speaking fairly clearly. Yes, she's a little cloudy mentally as of yet. No, she still can't move her left side.

But the difference is night and day.

Instead of expecting death, we're living with hope for her life. Instead of fearing the worst, we're hoping for the best. Instead of giving up, we've given it to God.

The difference is night and day.

Many thanks to all of you who have lifted her up in prayer over the last week. Prayer is what has kept us going; what has kept us from jumping off the deep end. To know you took time to pray for our family is a sweet, sweet thing. Thank you.

It Ain't Over 'Til The Fat Lady Sings, And I'm Not Even Humming Yet

Thursday night around 11:30 p.m. the phone rang. Both Hubster and I wondered who on earth would be calling that late as he answered the call. I heard him say, "What's wrong?" and then, "Who is this?" before he said, "Hang on, we'll be right there!"

It was my mother. She was having trouble breathing. So much so that she could barely talk to let Hubster know.

We rushed out of the house, calling 911 as we drove. We made record time to her house, and entered to find her an ashen gray color. Every breath sounded as if it came through water because her lungs were filled with fluid.

And I was scared to death.

The ambulance, thank God, showed up a couple of minutes after we did. They quickly went to work providing her with oxygen through a CPAP mask, which forced the oxygen into the lung space she had left. We were assured they would meet us at the hospital shortly after we arrived, and they didn't feel as though they'd need to use the siren and lights. I called my sister to have her meet us there.

We arrived a few minutes ahead of the ambulance, but contrary to what we were told, there were full sirens and lights running. They asked us to wait in the waiting room until the preliminary work was done, then they'd call us back.

My stomach was in knots. I had never been this scared in my life. My sister and I, sitting in the waiting room together, exibited what must be a genetic trait. Both of us had trouble controlling our bouncing knees as we waited to hear from the doctor.

And so we prayed.

I had to use the restroom, and being the directionally challenged woman we all know me to be, got lost on the way back. I ended up in my mother's room in the ER, and found she'd been put on a respirator.

My mother is 74 years old.

She was moved to CICU, and to tell you the truth, I don't remember a whole lot about the rest of that day. I know I was awake for a full 24 hours, and I remember that Sis had to be forced to go home and rest. As for the rest of the first couple of days, it's a blur.

Mom was on the respirator for a couple of days and I noticed that while her legs and right arm moved constantly, her left hand didn't seem to move. Since she's left-handed we were all especially concerned. I suspected that in addition to the heart attack we knew she'd had there might have been a stroke. However, a CT scan showed no clots or bleeding, so a stroke was ruled out. Tests were done to determine if there was a clot in her lungs. Nothing there. She came off of the respirator, but wouldn't wake up.

Then a very alert ICU nurse did an assessment of her on shift change. The left side of her face was drooping, her pupils weren't the same size. There were all the classic symptoms of the stroke I feared to begin with. Another CT scan was done and it was confirmed.

A massive stroke affecting 3/4 of the right side of her brain.

We still couldn't get her to wake up, and thought she would stay that way. Another heart attack or stroke was almost a certainty, and with that she would die. And that was how the story would go. My mother was going to die. I could say it, but it was like a very, very bad dream that I didn't want to believe.

Everyone went in, one by one, to say goodbye. Children, grandchildren, great-grandchild. Each had their turn.

I don't know how we got through that night, but we did. More importantly, so did she. And she's been improving ever since.

Yes, she's still paralyzed. Yes, there is still the possibility of another stroke or heart attack soon. But guess what, folks?

God is good.

More people were praying for her than I could ever imagine, and God was merciful.

I got my mom back.

She's alert most of the time. She's feisty. She refuses to have a feeding tube put in because as she SAYS (get that? She's TALKING) the speech therapist is a "moron" or "needs glasses" to believe she can't pass the swallow test necessary for her to be able to eat on her own. Whenever my sister and I talk in whispers about her while she's in the room, her keen ears pick up on it.

For instance:

Tonight we were whispering about how this would be my last night staying in the hospital since Mom graduated to a regular room. I told Sis I'd stay with her in the morning if she'd show up around noon. Sis whispered she could bring me some lunch when she came if I'd like, and Mom said "You could bring ME some, too!"

So much for her being asleep.

She's asked for orange pop. She wants a milkshake. Sis made the mistake of handing her the cup that had the swab sponge in it we use to give her moisture in her mouth, and Mom wouldn't let go of it. It took two people to pry it out of her hand, and she was trying to get a drink the whole time.

Yeah, she's feisty. She's stubborn. She's a FIGHTER.

And we'll get through this just fine.

A Deeply Weird Dream Sequence Which Should Be Made Into A Motion Picture Coming Soon To A Theater Near You

Night before last I did not sleep well, even with the help of my little friend, Ambien. The thought processes just would not stop rolling through the few poor, overworked brain cells I seem to utilize. My legs and feet were cramping, no doubt from All The Walking I did the past couple of days.

You know, the half a block to the bus stop and back can literally cripple. Be warned.

Anyway, last night I decided I probably needed to relax a bit more before going to bed. Looking in the fridge, I found (1) a bottle of white wine given to me by the cleaning company last Christmas with "Season's Greetings" and holly on the label, (2) a bottle of Bailey's that was purchased some eight years ago to have with coffee in celebration of Valentine's Day, and (3) a bottle of Yago Sangria that I received from my sister-in-law as a personal shower gift for my wedding shower....EIGHTEEN YEARS AGO.

Yeah, I'm sentimental that way. I save liquor bottles with the liquor still in them to remind me of special occasions.

Well, one special occasion anyway.

So I decided eighteen years was long enough to let the Sangria age to its full bouquet. I peeled off the cover and screwed off the top (the sign of a QUALITY wine), then poured out a paper cup full of the stuff.

And yea verily, it was good.

Just to make sure it was a Romantic Moment In Time, I made Hubster take a sip. Being as he doesn't like any type of wine, he automatically pronounced it nasty and went to rinse out his mouth.

It was a moment we'll cherish forever.

After watching CSI New York, (a piece of dramatic genius where someone drowned because an entire bathroom filled with water and I had to know WHY? WHY WOULD SOMEONE DO THIS??? And really, what a gross way to go...) I headed to bed.

I fell asleep almost immediately, and slept like a log until this morning. As the alarm went off I did the "fifteen more minutes" thing and dreamed a bit more. Then I got up and rushed off to work.

On the way to work I listened to talk radio, something I almost never do. There was a commercial for the upcoming Rush Limbaugh show. "Over 50% of all emergency room accidents in a certain period of time were attributed to snowboarders between the ages of 10 and 24! And WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO ABOUT THAT, MR. LIBERAL OBAMA???"

I started laughing so hard I almost had to pull off the road. And somehow, that made me remember the dream I had in my fifteen extra minutes.

It seems as though I was reading through some blogs and found one that had an offer for free electric cars. Knowing my readership is in the single digits, I decided to call my BFF Sophie, the writer of BooMama, to see if she'd write about it on her blog so more people could take advantage and save money and the environment and not have to ride the bus with Speed Racer the Demon on Wheels.

Because of course, I have her phone number because like, we're best friends and we talk on a regular basis. And we have so much in common because I'm a grandmother and she's a young mother and I'm into wearing the same outfit every day and she's into FASHION! and all.

Sophie welcomed my call with her warm, Southern accent, and I immediately fell into my very own warm, Southern accent so that she could understand what I was saying. Because we all know that The South is a totally different country and they speak a totally different language.

Y'all.

She told me she had seen the post about the cars already and that she AND HER TEAM were working on a post to get the word out. She thanked me for calling and asked me to call again soon, because she missed talking to me.

Me too, Sophie. Me too.

That was the second time today I laughed with great abandon. It's a good thing it was raining and I decided to drive instead of riding the bus. People might have gotten the idea I was a bit strange or something.

And the greatest thing? It was all in Technicolor and Surround-Sound.

When I dream, I dream big.

Day 2 Of The New Experience: In Which El Autobus Es Muy Tarde

Split-second timing. That's what it takes to run this city's transportation like a well-oiled machine. Split-second timing.

And that could be the reason I was late to work this morning.

It seems we still have a few kinks to work out between the number 53 and the number 51 route. One of those is that the 8:04 bus needs to actually SHOW UP.

But hey, I'm petty that way.

Instead, I had to wait fifteen minutes for the next bus to show. Of course, being the manic/anal/OCD person one might think I am, I brought out the printed trip plan which PLAINLY STATED what time the bus was to be where I was standing. And as I was muttering to myself about mothers who never stress the importance of BEING ON TIME to their children (ahem, pot calling kettle...you there?), who obviously grow up to drive a bus and make people late for work, a kindly gentleman approached and asked if he could assist me.

Gee, I dunno. Got a bus in your back pocket?

I thanked him politely and stopped acting like a bag lady. Although I now know how some of them got that way.

They rode a bus.

Tonight I will be taking a later bus home than I did last night in hopes of avoiding Speed Racer, the Devil on Wheels. Remember what I said yesterday about getting carsick? Yeah, he almost made THAT dream a reality. He went so fast that he couldn't stop AT the stops, but managed to brake hard enough to slide in twenty feet past, while throwing the passengers forward a good three feet.

It was scary.

The highlight of the evening was meeting up with Price at the last stop. What a surprise! It seems as though we share a stop, if not a bus. He was so proud of his pupil. I had to hand him a Kleenex and tell him to stop being such a pansy in front of all the other people...

Not really.

So, we're off to the Metro again. I can't wait to see what wonders tonight brings!

All Through The Town

Hey, guess what?

GASOLINE IS RUNNING AROUND $4.00 A GALLON!

I know, it's a shocker. And here's another one for you...I started riding the bus to work today.

Now, for your basic suburban-type girl who has almost no experience riding public transportation, this is a Very Big Deal. I don't like to do things unless I know exactly what the protocol is, what I'm supposed to wear, how I'm supposed to act, where I'm supposed to be, when I'm supposed to be there, what I'm supposed to have when I'm wherever I am, and how I'm supposed to use it.

I have a fear of being caught in the middle of downtown with no way of getting home or to work. I have a fear of being late, a fear of missing my connecting transfers, a fear of having a crazed, drunken, cocaine-snorting man with a switchblade sitting next to me or accosting me at one of the transfer stations, and an even greater fear that the busdriver will be mean. I also have an innate fear that one of the female passengers will have bathed in a vat of "Charlie" that morning and the green fog of the aroma will be such that I will be unable to breathe, or that I will get carsick and throw up in the middle of the floor just because it's there.

I think these are all valid and reasonable concerns given my history and propensity to remain calm about all things bus-related.

So to prepare myself for this new venture, I emailed a friend of mine who has ridden the bus for lo, these many years.

"Price," says I, "tell me all you know about riding the bus or I will activate the little people who live in your computer and they will come out and shoot you in the thorax with darts that will sting with the fury of a thousand bees."

Because I believe in being polite and kind when I ask for information from a friend.

Price wrote back with the following fact: "There are wheels on the bus, and as I understand it they go round and round, round and round, round and round."

That Price. He used to be quite the jokester...until I unleashed the little men with the darts.

Afterwards he gave me almost all the information I needed. I say "almost" because he didn't tell me that sometimes the driver accidentally doesn't see a person standing at the stop he's supposed to stop at and that person has to RUN a block to make sure she catches up with the bus before he leaves the next stop because that's the last bus with that number going that way that will get her to work on time.

It was his revenge for the darts.

All in all it was a very pleasant experience. We'll see how the rest of the month goes. If I can keep it up, I should save about $120/month. Hubster isn't convinced I'll make it a habit at this point since I'm such an independent sort, but I'm willing to give it a month to see.

In the meantime, the wheels on the car are staying still, staying still, staying still.

Picture perfect?

A nice, relaxing weekend. One with a cool breeze, just-right temperatures, sunshine, no work to do, nowhere to go, room to sit back, breathe, and enjoy life with a great big sigh of utter contentment.

Yeah.

Not in the cards for us this weekend, my friends.

This weekend my one and only niece is getting married. The one that was my flower girl eighteen years ago, toothless grin and all. Now she's all grown up and getting hitched to the love of her life tomorrow night.

Oh, and the teeth? They grew back in.

The Girl is a candle lighter. She has to be there for the rehearsal at six tonight. I, on the other hand, will be freaking out trying to deal with the overload of work my part-time job decided to load on me this weekend, hoping to get it done before we have to be at the wedding tomorrow evening. In addition, the Cutie family is coming in from out of town, so we're all getting a family portrait or eighteen done on Sunday afternoon/evening in the out-of-doors.

It's supposed to be slightly warmer than Hell itself. And about eighty times more humid.

Yea for the Midwest, y'all. Where Spring can turn to blazing hot and humid Summer with the blink of an eye...

Even though you've planned it to still be Spring SIX MONTHS IN ADVANCE.

We have three married couples in their thirties, three children under the age of four, two teenagers, a grandpa and an elderly woman in the throes of menopause who will be trying to smile pretty while not sweating, screaming, kicking, crying or throwing a tantrum. And the rest of them may have problems, too.

Pray Interweblings. Pray hard.

Pray for cool temperatures both outside and in our hearts, sunny dispositions and days, and great photos. These are the first we've had taken in about seven years, so we're due.

Either that, or we need it to be so bad we'll be able to laugh about it for years to come.

Hey, what's life without a sense of humor?

The Weather Ain't All That's Severe

It's tornado season here in the Midwest. As such, it's Gloryland for weatherpersons on all local television channels. It's their time to shine, and they aren't about to give up the spotlight for love or money.

Not on your life.

Tonight, for instance, we're under a Severe Thunderstorm Warning. One station has a helicopter out taking pictures of the clouds that MIGHT turn into tornadoes IF the pressure goes a certain way and the moon is in the seventh house and Jupiter aligns with Mars on the second Tuesday of the third year of a vernal equinox if you're having meatloaf for dinner.

The other local stations are just as bad. The female weatherperson (far be it from me to call her a Weather Bunny, or any such other derogatory chauvinistic name) keeps saying the same thing in a variety of different ways. It is her mission in life to save lives, by golly, and that through the wonders of meteorology. Watching her, you would think a drop of rain and a gust of wind was the most dangerous thing since the H-bomb.

No wonder little children are scared out of their wits.

For those of us without cable or satellite (yes, there are those of us out there in the world, children), the viewing choices are mighty limited. We can choose from two channels that are broadcasting the same exact "up-to-the-minute coverage" of the Non-Tornado, two additional channels that are broadcasting identical "eye-witness coverage" of same, yet another two channels with twin broadcasts of "we're-there-for-you coverage" of the storm, a PBS station and an independent channel.

It's slim pickens 'round these parts.

Even Hubster, the King Of All Channel Flippers, can find nothing to watch. He's almost going into withdrawal as we speak. Were it not for a fire which was started by a lightning bolt from All The Severe Weather, he and the weather/news people would be in big trouble right now. As it is, Hubster has a certain glazed quality to his eyes. I'm thinking the portable defibrillator may be in order at any time.

It's almost enough to make a person wish for re-runs.