I’m trying to be levelheaded about the COVID-19 virus, but I find myself of two minds. One of the minds says not to worry, that this too shall pass. And if I’m in good health and living a healthy life, I should be fine…even if I’m in my seventies and have lung issues.
“Oh,” the other mind points out. “You’re a perfect candidate, not only for contracting the virus, but dying from it.”
Great! I think and head to Target for more hand sanitizer.
I read an article by a man who had the virus and said it wasn’t that bad. That was the headline, at least, but as I continued to read about his 103 degree fever and two week hospital stay, I wasn’t reassured. Actually, I had a PTSD flashback because it reminded me of how I felt when I had malaria ten years ago. I had a 105 degree fever for many days–let me tell you it wasn’t good.
I decided to do a little more research on the effect of the corona virus because I wanted to be pro-active. One thing I read is that medications may become in short supply. That’s because many of our medications are made in China (who knew) where factories have been closed down and transportation cut back. So I decided to refill as many of our prescriptions as I could. That was easy. Hopefully there won’t be a problem, but I still have the medication for 3 months.
An issue that is already coming up is the hugging, kissing, shaking hands dilemma. I faced this two years ago when recovering from pneumonia. I didn’t want to be rude, but I was vulnerable to any infection and my lungs weren’t functioning well, as it was. I got good advice from people whose lungs were also not at 100%. One friend told me she bumps elbows with people instead of knuckles. Another told me to hold a glass of wine in one hand and an appetizer in the other at a cocktail party. “Then you shrug and say sorry when they zero in for a handshake,” she explained.
I think it’s important not to be Chicken Little. The sky is not falling. We’ll be okay. Meanwhile I hear my husband on the phone with his cousin. “Worst case scenario,” he chortles, “is our kids get their inheritance early.”
I fell deeply in love with Valentine’s Day on the day my mother let me buy a box of Valentines for my classmates in third grade. My love affair with February 14 had started in first grade when our teacher handed out red and pink construction paper, Elmer’s glue, and scissors. But the cute little cartoon Valentines in the box stole my heart. You can download them from your computer now, but it isn’t the same as going to the drug store and buying the exact box you want.
In my elementary school, if you gave a Valentine to one person, you had to give them to everyone. I still remember that in sixth grade, Barry Reed didn’t give me one. I can’t tell you why he chose not to, but I felt so hurt. I still feel chagrined when I think about it. Back then, it fed on my low self esteem. Not that I hold a grudge, but I really never talked to him again…even when he was seated in front of me in Sophomore English. For the whole year, I ignored him. Instead, I chose to talk to Jimmy Hendrix who was on my left.
Another Valentine favorite of mine through the years is the box of Sweetheart candies. My mother, ahead of her time, didn’t allow us sugar…except for these little sweeties. Here’s the history behind these heart-shaped messaging candies. They are actually the descendants of NECCO candies, which were the offspring of lozenges created by pharmacist and inventor Oliver Chase. In 1866, his brother suggested they print “love messages” on the candy for Valentine’s Day. In 1901, they became heart shaped. In today’s world, messages include: TEXT ME.
There are many legends about who Saint Valentine actually was and how February 14 became associated with romance. It seems that Valentine was a popular name during the Roman Empire so it could have been one of the many early Christians martyred at the time. The story I liked was about Valentinus, who secretly married Christian couples. He was ordered beheaded by Claudius II. If you’re ever in Ireland, you can go to Dublin’s Whitefriar Street Carmelite Church to see a relic of Saint Valentine and a shrine to him. Many people do make this pilgrimage to pray for finding true love.
My husband has a mixed record on Valentine’s Day. One year he gave me a diamond and sapphire heart—I treasure it to this day. Other years, there’s been nothing or worse, wilting flowers from the grocery store. If it’s the thought that counts, either he is a loser or I am. One year we were in Africa on safari. Moe didn’t even think to bring a card but our friend Earl brought his wife, two. Moe tried to buy the second one, but Earl refused. Neither has ever lived it down.
I admit that I love greeting cards. February, especially in Seattle where I lived until I was 45, is a very dreary month. Valentines brightened the days. I’ve always given my grandkids a Valentine and a box of Sweethearts. Now that three are in college, I still send them Valentines, with a little spending money included. It’s an opportunity to say “I love you” in the middle of winter without being grandmother mushy. They like the Sweethearts too.
Here’s another thing on my mind that I’ve been meaning to share to get it off my desktop. I deeply care about the environment.
I know plastic is terrible but I do like my bottle of water when I walk. I’ve never found a substitute that works as well for me. Count me guilty on that count. So, I try to find other ways to make up for my plastic habit.
I don’t use plastic bags in the grocery store.
Also, I no longer buy detergent or anything in big plastic containers. These are two things I’ve done. Any more suggestions?
I have a problem. I did the FoodStats Antibody Assessment. It assesses your immunological reaction to certain food allergens. The doctor pricked my finger and did 6 blood smears. Then sent them in for analysis.
I just got the results. Most of it wasn’t a surprise: Cow’s milk, Goat’s milk, Casein. That’s why I try to keep dairy free.
I’ve also been aware of my nut allergies and never have felt good after eating a delicious bowl of oatmeal. I’ve tried to say that I don’t need to be gluten free no matter my doctor’s advice so I was glad to see my reaction to gluten was low. Unfortunately, my reaction to wheat was high.
The worst news is that three of main stays scored the highest: eggs, sugar and chocolate. 😱
I have eaten eggs for breakfast everyday for twenty years. What am I going to do without them?
I decided to do something different this year. I made resolutions I knew I had a small chance in hell of keeping.
I will wear rubber gloves in the kitchen. This is a worthy goal, as it would save my manicure and aging hands. Many times I’ve vowed to do this, but then it seems like such a big deal to pull the gloves on.
I won’t eat gluten anymore. I actually meant to do this, but then yesterday our neighbor brought over her famous sticky buns, still warm from the oven. They smelled divine and tasted even better. Channeling Scarlett O’Hara, I said, “I’ll become gluten free tomorrow!”
I won’t look at Facebook right before I go to sleep. This is a really good idea because when I do, I can get so upset that I can’t sleep. So far no good.
I will keep track of where my phone is. I’d really like this to happen but thank goodness I have an iWatch. I’ve only had to ping for my phone five times since January 1.
I will not rinse dishes or flatware before I put them in the dishwasher. My children assure me this is safe to do—they don’t understand why I wash everything so thoroughly before. I will try, but I just know the food will get baked on and I’ll have a heck of a time getting it off later.
I will start using the calendar on my phone instead of using my hardcopy calendar. Sure I will.
I will not use as much hairspray. This is another thing the younger generation assures me that I don’t need. But these whippersnappers don’t have my fine hair. They don’t understand that hairspray is my first line of defense against losing any volume I’ve managed to tease out.
I will not try to be perfect all the time. This includes not making my bed everyday. I don’t even know how I became a perfectionist—it’s not my basic personality. It would be perfect if I could make this resolution work.
I am not going to be as empathetic. You may be thinking this is a strange resolution, but I am so damn empathetic that it’s pathetic. I’m working on not experiencing other people’s pain. And I’m not going to be as nice and polite!!!!
Finally, I am going to accept myself as I am today. This includes recognizing I’m a 74-year-old grandmother. My hair is thin; my body’s thick. And if people ask me if I need help getting my groceries in the car, I won’t be insulted. This actually happened to me towards the end of 2019. I laughed and said, “No, I’m good. But in five years, I might take you up on it.”
My husband and I have gotten into regenerative medicine big
time. Both of us just had stem cell therapy.
is defined on Google as: “the branch of medicine that develops methods to regrow, repair or replace damaged
or diseased cells, organs or tissues. This field holds the
promise of regenerating damaged tissues and organs in the body by replacing
damaged tissue or by stimulating the body’s own repair mechanisms to heal
tissues or organs.”
I damaged my left knee this past
summer. The MRI showed three tears in the meniscus, plus osteoarthritis and
“Get a replacement,” my husband ordered.
I’d just nursed him through a total hip
replacement and wasn’t anxious to become the one in the hospital bed. So, I
started with SynVisc injections. SynVisc is made of hyaluronic
acid that helps cushion and lubricate your joints, (which in my case had become
as dry as the Sahara).
“If SynVisc doesn’t
work, the next step is PRP. Then stem cell therapy,” the orthopedist said.
“What’s PRP?” I asked.
“It stands for Platelet-Rich Plasma therapy.
You can look it up on Google,” he said as he injected my knee.
So of course I went to Dr. Google. “PRP is a
form of regenerative medicine that can
harness healing abilities and amplify the natural growth factors your body uses
to heal tissue. Plasma is the liquid portion of our blood. Platelets, also
called thrombocytes, are blood cells that cause blood clots and other necessary
growth healing functions.”
plasma (PRP) therapy uses injections of a concentration of a patient’s own
platelets to accelerate the healing of injured tendons, ligaments, muscles and
joints. In this way, PRP injections use each individual patient’s own healing
system to improve musculoskeletal problems.
So there, I knew what
PRP therapy was. I had a feeling I was going to need it although over a ten-week
period, the SynVisc improved things. I could sleep without too much pain and I
could walk again—almost two miles. But I was definitely not perfect.
Meanwhile, my husband had had pneumonia and was mistakenly prescribed Levaquin, a super antibiotic with an unfortunate side effect in people over 65—it can damage the person’s tendons. And it did. Moe could barely walk because of the damage, let alone play golf.
This is what brought
us limping into the doctor’s office in Kona, Hawaii. The doctor examined us and went through our
health histories and blood tests. On the next visit, he suggested PRP and a
stem cell for my knee. For Moe, he suggested stem cell therapy in the blood
but we’re having phenomenal results,” he said.
Last Friday, the
doctor drew my blood (I have stingy veins—he said something about a turnip)
then put it in a centrifuge. After about 45 minutes, he injected PRP in my
right knee. Then
he injected my left knee along with a stem cell.
All was super easy in
my right knee. In my left knee—so painful!!
“That’s because you
have so much inflammation in that knee,” the doctor explained as I moaned.
My husband and I have been having intravenous vitamin infusions every couple of weeks since September. We have a “Myers’ Cocktail” that contains magnesium, calcium, B vitamins, vitamin C and magnesium. After, there’s a small infusion of Glutathione. These infusions enhance the immune system, reduce fatigue, and help with seasonal allergies plus other benefits. Since my husband was already hooked up, the doctor injected the stem cells for him right into the IV—no pain for him!
“When will we see results?” I asked the doctor as we left his
“Your knee is working day and night on a microscopic level to
improve tissue health. Most patients can see more significant improvements at
weeks 4-8 and 12+ weeks post injection,” he said.
Four to eight
Now, it’s only a week
later. (I’m sure it’s been a least a month). I’ve been under instructions to
rest my damaged knee. Tomorrow I can start a mile walk every other day. For
someone who’s used to walking at least three miles a day, it’s taken a lot of
patience to stay away from my Nikes. But I want to give this procedure a
chance. I’ll let you know what happens.
Where does the time go? It’s really throwing me. My oldest grandson will be 22 next month! It seems impossible that he has been around that long! I still think of him as that towheaded toddler that I could carry in my arms. Now I need a grocery carrier cart to bring in a bag of groceries. Also, I can’t believe the last time I wrote in my blog was October 19! Not only are the years rolling along at warp speed, so are the weeks. Thanksgiving is around the corner so I better write a little bit right now.
First, I want to check in with my hair buddies, especially those who had alopecia effluvium like I did last fall. My hair came back strong with the use of products like Rogaine and the Nutrafol supplements. But I recently have seen some thinning again. It may be just a shedding time of year, but my hair follicles aren’t that plentiful so it shows!
I’m trying hard to be copacetic with all the bodily changes overtaking me but the shape shifting is becoming more pernicious. One good thing–I have a waist again. I was without one for about 20 years. I noticed this the other day when I got out of the shower. “Wow,” I said aloud to myself. “That’s cool.” Then I saw the reason why. My hips have gotten very hippy. As in “you can grab a handful” on either side. So it’s all perspective. Which I don’t have that much of.
When I commiserated with a friend she said, “But that’s not so bad. At yoga this morning when I was doing downward dog, I saw that my arms had been replaced with my mother’s arms. How did they get so crepey?”
“It is creepy when that happens,” I said. “But if you think about it, you’ve been lucky to have collagen in your arms for so long. You haven’t seen my arms for fifteen years.”
“Come to think of it, you’re right about that,” she said.
“I think we need to learn to accept ourselves at this age,” I said. “Otherwise, we’re going to be constantly in mourning.”
“You’re right again,” she said.
“I want to be happy with myself at this age,” I continued. I was on a self righteous roll. “But I’ve decided not to have my cataract fixed. I really don’t need to see everything that clearly. And I don’t drive at night anyway.”
Hello again. On my way to writing about the pluses of getting older, both my husband and I were knocked over by a bunch of ailments so my days got filled up with doctor appointments, etc. We’ve both had so many blood tests it’s amazing we haven’t needed blood transfusions. We also have been X-rayed, CAT scanned, ultra sounded, scoped and MRId. My husband says Medicare is going to send a hit man after us—we’re skewing the whole system.
We’re both feeling better right now so there’s some time for
analyzing the aging process. On the good side, we’re pretty happy most of our
days. We’re able to do less and enjoy more. We get a lot of pleasure from our
five grandchildren and are lucky they keep in touch with us. We’re fortunate to
live in places of natural beauty too. But that old saying, “If you don’t have
My husband, whose middle name is GOLF, couldn’t play for
four weeks this summer. Instead he was having his third bout with pneumonia in
a year. Those of you who know Moe, know that almost nothing can keep him from
the golf course. It was grim, let me tell you. And the only thing that could
stop his cough was hot tea with honey. For three weeks at all hours of the day
and night, I was making tea and lacing it with honey—sometimes I added whiskey.
Now here comes a PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT. We’d just changed primary care doctors and weren’t established at the new office so instead of seeing the doctor, we saw his PA. I have nothing against Physician’s Assistants as a whole, but the one we saw was the same one who missed my pneumonia two years before. Unwisely, I decided to trust her this time. She prescribed my husband Levaquin. Now I know it should be used only for infections that cannot be treated with a safer antibiotic. It’s unsafe especially for people over 65. It gave my husband hallucinations, which passed but it’s caused tendon damage, which may not be reversible. It makes it impossible for him to walk very far and it’s affected his golf. He is not a happy camper.
As for me, I’m trying to deal more wisely with my health issues while I help Moe with his. I’m also learning to be less of a perfectionist. Who really cares if our bed is made perfectly? (My mother, yes, but she’s been dead for twenty years.) Who cares if the walls aren’t perfectly painted? (After last year’s flood that wiped out half our house, those walls seem like nothing.) Who cares if the summer is hot and humid or cold and gray? (The seasons pass so fast now that summer was over and fall begun before I even knew it.) Who cares if I’ve gotten kinda chunky? (Well, I do, but I’m working on changing my attitude about that. I can’t fight gravity or aging or genetics. They all win so I need to give up the idea of being thin. That ship sailed.)
One thing I learned this summer is that we elders do need to be more careful about our health. I’ve always been one to push myself past my limit. Can’t do that anymore. And we can’t delude ourselves into thinking that our bodies haven’t aged. The truth is they ain’t what they used to be. I did that, walking four miles a day, and tore my meniscus in the three places in June. I’ve been suffering ever since. I couldn’t walk for two months—and walking is my favorite thing. I had five injections of SynVisc over the summer, which provides artificial synovial fluid in the knee to give some extra cushioning. I’m back to walking two miles a day so my sanity is restored. I’m going to investigate PRP and maybe stem cell therapy—I’ll let you know what happens.
Writing for me is another sanity restorer. I started writing
this a month ago and got swept up in the chaos of life—both good and bad.
Sitting here at the computer today, I feel I’m regaining my Self. It’s like a