Tales from the Sickroom, Days 2-5

 Both my son and I have now tested positive for COVID, and I’m having a hard time explaining why he tested positive when he got his shots. 

We are now all on quarantine, because my husband has also been told he can’t go back to work until I test negative. 

The biggest enemy of quarantine is boredom. While I have more advantages than my grandparents had when/if they were in quarantine, boredom is a universal problem. There are only so many games of solitaire you can play on an iPad, only so many websites you can visit. I fried my brain on too many solitaire games a couple of days ago. 

Tomorrow none of us will be at church.  We will go back to the days of online church, where I will make communion bread and we will dig out the last of the grape juice to drink. 

Quarantine also totally throws off an internal clock. I’ve lost a sense of what day it actually is and even had to check my phone to see what today’s date was. 

Fortunately, I fall into the category of “not that sick” and my husband took advantage of that . . . By having us go and do yard work in the back yard this afternoon. He mowed, I ran the edger. 

Tonight I got a nice infusion of courage from the movie “Darkest Hour”, the story of the first weeks of Winston Churchill’s term as prime minister in 1940.

None of us are lying in bed feverish and coughing. 

My release date should come on September 29th, barring another positive COVID test.  The test has already been scheduled.  

And I took advantage of Instacart to restock necessary supplies of apples, bananas and chocolate. 

Unfortunately, I had to settle for dark chocolate Reese’s cups rather than milk chocolate ones. :: places hand dramatically to forehead :: Oh, the humanity! Life is so unfair! 

On the other hand, if the lack of milk chocolate Reese’s Cups is an indication of how unfair life is, I think that is something I can put up with. 

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Tales from the Sickroom, Day 1

 I have been ill off and on since around Labor Day. The worst of it was around the beginning of September, when I had a bad sore throat and it hurt to swallow.

I felt better right after Labor Day. Then I relapsed.

Finally, I did what I probably should have done when this whole thing started.

I signed up for a COVID test. 

The process took about five minutes and involved swishing a long-handled Q Tip in one nostril while the person counted to 12, then repeating the process in the other nostril. For those of you that had a COVID test where the swab was shoved up your nose almost to your brain, no, this was not like that. You just had to get enough to be tested.

After said swishing was completed, I broke off the cotton portion of the Q Tip into a vial filled with liquid, sealed it in plastic which contained the ominous orange and black warning "BIOHAZARD", then dropped it into the collection box. All of this was done at our pharmacy's drive thru. 

The test said "one to two days" and I had mine done Sunday, so I didn't expect to hear until Tuesday what my results were.

Last night my phone dinged with my results.

I tested positive.

First off, I was shocked but not really surprised. It's a shock when you see "positive" on a test where you wanted a "negative." Second, even though I've been vaccinated, I've heard about breakthrough COVID and I figure this is what it is. Third, I'm grateful I did have the vaccine because I would have been much sicker without it. 

Today I called my doctor's office.  I am to quarantine for the next 10 days. And my husband and son need to get tested.

When I told my son, he didn't get why he needed to be tested because he'd already had his shots. But I got him tested anyway. And my husband is scheduled for tomorrow. 

I am not really that sick. I just have lagging congestion, the occasional cough, and residual fatigue.

Last year, I would have been terrified at a positive COVID diagnosis. 

This year, I'm just annoyed because this morning, I was on either phone, e-mail or text notifying everyone who needed to be notified and changing appointments that needed to be changed. (I'm reminded of my mother in law's comment after she had a seizure -- probably due to a lack of magnesium -- a number of years ago. Her complaint was, it's in the middle of a busy week!) 

But, I'll take annoyance over hospitalization any day of the week. 

I can't use "It's The End Of The World As We Know It" as my theme song in this particular snarkfest because I don't "feel fine". If anyone can find a funny song about illness, send it my way. In the meantime, I will be waving from the sick room.  Cheers! 

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Getting on with it, 20 years later

What more can I say about 9/11 that hasn't already been said, twenty years later?

We who are old enough to remember where we were, we've talked about where we were when we found out and how we felt. 

We've been through a 20-year war that began as a direct result of 9/11 and just ended in chaos a few weeks ago, and that's left everyone wondering, was it worth it? 

"Homeland Security" is now a regular phrase in the nation's vocabulary. 

We've grown used to the TSA's pat-downs, to taking off our shoes before we go through security screening, to buying 3 oz. bottles for our liquids.

This year's graduating seniors weren't even born when 9/11 happened. They learn about it in history class. 

Too many of us are too suspicious of anyone that doesn't look like us. 

And every September 11th, for too many, the bandage gets ripped off the wound, leaving it raw and exposed. We hear the reading of the names at Ground Zero, see the tears, see the photos of lost loved ones. 

Some want to remember. Some want to move on. 

Today, one of the "name readers" at Ground Zero specifically remembered her sister. I think the sister's name was Cathy.  

Cathy's sister said that one of Cathy's phrases was, "Get over it."

And then she said, "We've never gotten over it, but we've gotten on with it."

Getting on with it.

Maybe that is what should sum up these 20 years since 9/11. We have gotten on with it. 

But how well have we gotten on with it? 

Sixty-five children of 9/11 victims grew up to be first responders. 

Others enlisted in the military, wanting to serve and defend their country. 

And others looked for meaning in this tragedy. Some found a way to "get on with it" by serving others. 

Others have not.

They have "gotten on with it" by pointing fingers of blame at people who were not to blame, and encouraging hatred of people that should never be hated.

They have "gotten on with it" by using the phrase "America First" to excuse their hatred towards people and ideologies they do not like. 

Which leads to the question:  How am I "getting on with it"?

I'm remembering a personal loss today, in addition to the losses on 9/11:  my father died on September 11th, 1993, after fighting with Lou Gehrig's disease. He would probably be the type of person to say, "Get over it."

I also lost my mother in 2017. 

Like everyone, I am navigating a world dealing with a pandemic. 

I've spent nearly 20 years dealing with the reality of autism, the losses that it sometimes brings and the many gains it has brought.

There are days I seethe in anger and frustration at the finger-pointing and blaming going on in today's society. I fear that another 9/11 will not unite us. Instead, it will break us. 

My heart is especially broken over Christians fighting Christians over how to handle the pandemic, how to respond to racial issues, how to deal with the current political climate, and other subjects. 

So where do I go?  How do I "get on with it"? How do we all "get on with it"? 

Well, the longer I live, the fewer answers I have. 

But for me, I have to look to who is outside myself, and that is God. I know Him as someone who knows and understands my anger and pain, and my questions, and who can take it. I don't understand Him at times, and I don't understand at times why He continues to allow pain and evil in this world. 

And yet, I believe, in spite of my anger, in spite of my pain, in spite of the many times I have shaken my fist at God and demanded to know, why are you allowing this to happen?  I still believe He loves me, I still believe He is a God of love, I still believe He exists, and I still believe He is there.  

So how do I get on with it?

I reach up, put my hand in His, and together, we move forward.

Today is a day to stop and remember. For some, it's a day to stop and grieve. 

For all of us, tomorrow will be another day to get on with it. 

So, to combine the words of Cathy's sister and the last words of Todd Beamer, one of the heroic passengers of United Flight 93 . . . Get on with it. Are you ready? Let's roll.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Anyone have a hobbit hole for rent?

Okay, guys, I need a hobbit hole. Preferably in New Zealand, although they are back in lockdown after one case of COVID. 

It all started on Tuesday, when I went to a new skin doctor and was told that I needed, among other things, to wear a pair of compression stockings. After hearing that, I feel like I should also be shopping for a walker and/or cane. (The stockings are for a good reason; to improve blood circulation, but I still can’t shake the feeling that these are for people older than I am! I will be 58 in October.) 

Yesterday, I measured my leg to get a proper fit for said stockings. My thigh circumference is bigger than Scarlett O’Hara’s waistline in Gone With the Wind! (No, I will not reveal my thigh measurements.) No wonder Southern women were always getting the vapors and fainting.  They couldn’t breathe! 

Next, I spent thirteen hours over two days proofreading a transcript littered with inaudibles, mistranscriptions, dropped words, dropped portions of sentences, and sentences that were completely dropped from the transcript.  This was not the court reporter’s fault; she was working under difficult circumstances. Nor is it my employer’s fault.  They work to meet deadlines from above.  The person who did the transcription . . . I’ll be charitable and say that they probably need plenty of practice.

Then yesterday, I started seeing reports about a truck parked near the US Capitol which allegedly had explosives.  After January 6th, that would be frightening enough.  

When I heard where the truck was, my eyes nearly popped.  

It would halfway make sense if that truck was parked outside of the Capitol, the White House, the Supreme Court, or even the Jefferson Memorial.

But the place where this nutcase chose to park his truck and air his complaints was . . . The Library of Congress.

I’m a former librarian. What this guy did was not just unlawful and dangerous. It amounts to blasphemy!

I was left shaking my head and thinking, The Library of Congress? Of all places? 

****

My above comments should be read with an appropriate amount of snark. These below comments are meant to be read without snark. 

When the nutcase parked his truck, employees at the Library of Congress and surrounding buildings had to be evacuated. I wonder how many people had flashbacks to January 6th, especially the Capitol Police. When you hear the word “bomb” you have to take it seriously. Especially in this day and age. 

I snark about wearing compression stockings, but they’re for a good health reason. At least I know where I can get them. And I hope it will help my skin problems (I have stasis dermatitis on my left leg.)

My job can be stressful at times, but I’m employed. Many are not. 

I told my husband that my experience proofing that particular transcript was a new definition of hell . . . but Afghani refugees, and Afghanis who can’t get out — especially women and girls — are living their own hell which is much worse than me having to proofread a difficult transcript. 

But yeah, I’d still like to have a hobbit hole to hide out in, if for no other reason than to have an excuse for a second breakfast. 

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

"I'm too young for this!"

Several years ago, a young man in the youth ministry replied, "Yes, ma'am," when I asked him a question.

Later, I said to his mother, "I appreciated his manners, but I'm too young to be a ma'am!"

We both laughed as I said that. 

Today, I had another episode of, "I'm too young for this!" 

It all began with a trip to the dermatologist's office. I've been having serious discoloration and itching on my left leg for some time; have had two biopsies, both showing "spongiotic dermatitis", and finally decided to try a new dermatologist.  When I made the appointment, I said "eczema" was my problem.

The dermatologist came into the examining room, took one look at my leg, and said, it's not eczema, you've got some fluid buildup there.  The official name for my condition is stasis dermatitis.  

He's prescribed me a skin cream and also told me that there's a skin cream that can help with the itching. 

He's also told me to get a pair of . . . wait for it . . . compression stockings.  

He explained that it was supposed to help with the fluid . . . but all I could think was, "Compression stockings?  Those are for old people. I'll be 58 in October.  I'm too young for this!"

I am also supposed to keep the left leg elevated above the heart when possible.   

I told the doc, "Gee, thanks," sarcastically.  Later, I apologized for my snarkiness and said that what I hoped was healthy snark was one of the ways I dealt with things.  I think the doc understood.  I did tell  him, in all seriousness, that at least this was something that I could do (and told the nurse afterwards that it's better than hearing, there's nothing you can do.) 

On the way out of the building where the doc's office is, I stopped at their pharmacy and got a bottle of the over the counter stuff to help with the itching. 

So, I will be off to the Internet, that purveyor of all things necessary (and most things unnecessary) to find myself a pair of compression stockings. 

And since I'm supposed to be keeping my leg elevated, I am sorely tempted to call my insurance company and ask if they would be willing to pay for a La-z-Boy recliner because I need it for medical purposes.

I am sure, however, that their answer -- delivered with the appropriate snark, of course -- will be, "No."

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Two vaults, two outcomes

On July 23, 1996, American gymnast Kerri Strug, competing in the Atlanta Olympic Games, sprinted down a vault runway and launched herself into the air.

When she landed, she badly injured her foot.

Believing that she needed to vault again for Team USA to win the team gold medal -- and told by her coach, Bela Karolyi, that she needed to "shake it off" -- she sprinted back down that runway, launched herself in the air, and this time, landed, held her balance on one foot, and saluted the judges.

Then she collapsed onto the mat in pain. 

Team USA had the gold medal, the first team gymnastics gold ever.

Hooray for the USA!  Hooray for Kerri! What grit, courage, and bravery, to push through the pain for her team! 

Fast forward 25 years. 

On July 27, 2021, American gymnast Simone Biles, competing in the Tokyo Olympic Games, sprinted down a vault runway and launched herself into the air.

While in the air, she realized that she didn't know where she was. She had what in gymnastics is called "the twisties." She had no idea of her body position in the air, and when you're a gymnast, that is dangerous.

Through sheer grit and athleticism, she landed her vault.

Then she had a conversation with her coaches. 

Then she took off her bar grips, which she'd put on to compete in the uneven bars, hugged her teammates, and sat down. 

The news broke moments later:  Simone Biles, the best gymnast in the world, had withdrawn from the team competition. 

The remaining gymnasts, Sunisa Lee, Jordan Chiles, and Grace McCallum, stepped up and won the silver team medal for Team USA. The Russian team, competing under the name "Russian Olympic Committee" due to a doping scandal by other Russian athletes, took the team gold for the first time since 1992.

Afterwards, Biles explained that she was not in the right head space and feared that she would cost Team USA any chance for a medal, so it was best for her to withdraw. She also said that she trusted her teammates to do the job. 

And instead of leaving the arena, she stayed in her sweats, gave chalk to her teammates, gave hugs and encouragement, and was the first one to go and congratulate the Russian team for winning the gold medal.

Immediately, the social media sphere lit up, with both commendation and condemnation.

"Simone did the right thing."
"Simone let her team down."
"Simone could have seriously injured herself." 

"Simone should have stayed home and given someone else the chance to compete!"

Many condemners trotted out Kerri Strug's 1996 vault as an example of grit, courage, and pushing through. "Kerri didn't let her team down like Simone did!"

A Twitterer commented that "the team lost". To the reply, "The team won a silver medal without her; that speaks to their talent," the Twitterer answered, "Silver medal. The first loser." Then he posted a video of Kerri Strug's 1996 vault with the comment,"Now that's bravery. That's putting the team first. Your 'silver medal stance' is a loser attitude. The US Olympic team didn't go there to 'win' second. Anything short of gold is failure."

I'm very glad that this person is not Simone's coach. 

In 1996, Kerri Strug felt that she had to push through to win a gold medal. It turned out that Kerri didn't need to do that vault. The US would have won gold without it. 

What the general public didn't know at the time was that Kerri Strug, and the rest of the Magnificent Seven, the Fierce Five, and the Final Five (the nicknames given to Team USA in 1996, 2012, and 2016 respectively) were the products of an abusive coaching system where injuries were either ignored or not taken seriously, emotional abuse was rampant, and their team doctor was a child molester.

In fact, a photo from the 1996 Olympics shows an injured Kerri Strug being helped off the floor by Bela Karolyi . . . straight into the arms of Larry Nassar, who was convicted of sexual assault in 2018. 

I don't know if Nassar abused any of the team members in 1996. We do know that he abused the team members of the 2012 and 2016 team, along with nearly two hundred other women. Simone Biles is one of the women he abused. She stated in an interview that she's the last survivor of Larry Nassar's abuse to be competing, and as long as she's around, USA Gymnastics, the governing body of the sport, would not be able to sweep abuse under the rug. 

Kerri Strug probably felt that she could not say "no" to her coach, that she had to push through for that gold medal. For all intents and purposes, she didn't have a choice.

On July 23, 1996, Kerri Strug didn't have a choice but to run on an injured ankle lest she risk the wrath of her coach.

On July 27, 2021, Simone Biles had a choice, and she said, no. It is not safe for me to compete. 

Those that believe she let down her team, that she is a "quitter", she is "selfish", she is "a sociopath" (that latter comment is from Charlie Kirk, president of Turning Point USA), let me ask you: are you willing to pay her medical bills if anything happens to her? If she breaks her neck like Russian gymnast Elena Mukhina did in 1980 and American gymnast Julissa Gomez did in 1988?  

Elena Mukhina lived as a paraplegic until her death in 2006.

Julissa Gomez lived as a quadriplegic in a coma until her death in 1991.

The day after Simone Biles withdrew from the team competition, she also withdrew from the all-around. It's uncertain whether she will compete in the individual apparatus events. 

I'm disappointed that I will not see her compete in the all-around. I'm sad that she did not compete in the rest of the team competition.

But Simone Biles does not owe me or anyone else an explanation or justification for her decisions. Simone Biles is not obligated to display herself for our entertainment. If she does not feel safe competing, whether it be for physical reasons, mental reasons, or both, she has the absolute right to say, "No, I'm not going to do it."

Sometimes, a coach may need to give gentle encouragement or a dose of tough love to an athlete so that they can compete. 

Sometimes, a coach needs to empower the athlete to make the choice whether or not to compete. 

Kerri Strug did not have that choice in 1996.

Simone Biles had it in 2021, and exercised it.

The outcome for Kerri's vault was a gold medal, and a serious injury.

The outcome for Simone's vault was a decision not to risk serious injury, physically or mentally.

I honor Simone for her choice.

It's time we give it to our athletes.

They deserve it.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Glass + Hot Oil = One Big Mess

It all started on Sunday afternoon, when I thought I'd get a head start on a proofing job. 

I think most of the people who read my writing know that I proofread depositions for a court reporting firm in another state. The money I earn goes to pay back debt. Right now, we have my student loans (from a failed attempt at court reporting school), a loan we took out to help pay for a roof replacement, and our mortgage to pay back. There's allegedly a secret clause in every student loan contract that says that you are not allowed to die before you pay back your loans.  If that's the case, I will have a very long life.

The job I had was 270 pages and had a hard deadline of yesterday at 3:30. Deadlines are the nature of the business here; lawyers need their stuff back at a particular time, which means the people I work for have to have their stuff back at a particular time. 

So, I started work in mid-afternoon on Sunday. I thought, well, I'll just do what I can today, I've got until 3:30 tomorrow.  Plenty of time, right?

Then I realized, no, you don't have until 3:30 tomorrow. Because you have to leave at noon to take your son to an appointment at 1 p.m. and it's going to take you an hour to get there!  

Cue stress level rising exponentially. 

I had thought about asking my husband to start going to the gym with me early in the morning before we both start work (we both work from home). When I added up the amount of time I needed to get my work done before I had to leave, I realized that doing that was just not possible. I couldn't even get to the gym, and it's something I've been badly inconsistent in doing. 

Monday morning, I started work around 6:30 a.m. 

I finished at just before noon.

I've been using the pomodoro technique; a technique where you work for a certain amount of focused time, take a five-minute break, then go back to work. The particular app I am using tells you what time your job will be done based on the number of pomodoros you think it will take to finish the job. 

The app said I would be done around 12:30.  When the time was calculated, it included the time breaks.

Remember, I said it would take an hour to get to a 1 p.m. appointment. 

I couldn't even take the breaks I needed! 

Well, the job got done. I was also able to get my son to and from his appointment. 

We didn't get home until just past 2:30. And I still needed to eat lunch. 

I spent the afternoon recuperating, then started dinner.  I decided to make salmon patties.  Quick and easy. :-) 

So I mixed up everything I needed, which included putting oil into a frying pan to fry the patties.  

I made enough for today and tomorrow. 

And afterwards, I poured the hot oil -- keep in mind, the hot oil -- into a glass jar that I keep for that purpose.

In the middle of the pouring, I heard a crack. 

And I saw oil start to pour out from the bottom of the jar.  

You see, I had forgotten basic science:  that when you pour hot oil into a glass jar, the glass jar will break! 

My kitchen counter, my kitchen floor, and one of my kitchen cupboards ended up being covered with slippery oil.

My husband sprang into action and cleaned up the mess. After dinner, we washed the dishes (mostly my set of cutting boards) that were in the path of the spilled oil.

Just writing this out is exhausting. 

Fortunately, I made enough salmon patties for dinner tonight.  There will be no danger of me pouring hot oil into anything. 

And I have two more hard deadlines to meet. 

While I'm lucky to have work and grateful that my schedule is flexible, days like this can wear me out.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.