walking on Hospice Air

This morning, D.G. and I were invited to be guests on All Sides with Ann Fisher. D.G. went to the studio, and I joined the conversation on the phone. If talking about Hospice and end of life issues can be a blast, this one was.

Ann is a very knowledgeable and gracious host, and her interview with Drs. Morrison and Jackson that preceeded us was a treasure trove of information that had to have been helpful to all those listening. D.G. and I were just ourselves, overflowing with gratitude for all of our experiences with Hospice Care.  And to Ann for affording us the opportunity to tell her listeners what Hospice does to give a family peace of mind, a sense of calm, and the knowledge that help from nurses is but a phone call away, 24/7.

I'm about to take a nap-- after all, those of us in the public eye :-) need to get our rest. But first, I want to post this on my Facebook page--if only to beat D.G. to the draw!

And I learned a medical term for what drove me to the end-of-life conversation: it's called "intractable nausea."

the moving finger writes, and having writ moves on...

My Uncle Harry used to quote that phrase, which I have since learned is from the Rubyyat of Omar Khyyam (thanks Google). I have no recollection of why or when Uncle Harry said it, but I thought it was both out of the blue and out of context. As I had the urge to write a wedeb90blogspot today, those words become exactly apporopriate, and I understand them. I have been writing--something, anything-- for years, and I can no more stop writing than I can breathing, which, thanks to all the good care I am geting, I seem to continue to do, successfully.

I think what prompted this blog was looking over some of the 70 blogs I have posted since December, 2009. Why did Sir Edmund Hillary climb Mount Everest, a reporter asked.  "Because it was there," Hillary replied. And that is the simple answer as to why I am a blogger : the blogger dashboard is there in front of me, bare, and the moving finger writes.

My blogs, and my Designated Daughters blogs, are going public (in her case, puiblic-er, she's on Womens" Day blog spot three times a week). We are going to be on Ann Fisher's show on Tuesday, August 31 in the 11:00 a.m. hour,on WOSU radio when the subject will be Hospice care. I know two physicians will be talking from 11:20 to 11:40. and then D.G. and I will be heard, she in the studio, me, at home, in bed.

We are experienced in the subject. Bob was in Hospice care for three months beforr he died; I was in once before, and I "graduated" with the help of a wonderful  physical therapist.  This time, I am in as long as the afore-mentioned-heart keeps beating. And I am at its mercey--- and in the hands of the Lord.

It's not the heat. it's my stupidity

It is really hot and muggy; Ohio at it's summer worst. Plus, I hate, hate, hate air-conditioning. But how callous and unfeeling of me to complain. There are hundreds of people out there who have no air-conditioning to turn on. Our brave troupes are sweltering in Afghanistan. It is terrible enough that our brave troupes are in Afghanistan at all.

I'm up to my old self, again; bitching about circumstances I have no right to bitch about, and then feeling guilty. If all the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players, what is my role? Cranky old dame? Normal for 90? Or just aching for a spell of lovely weather?

That's it! I am aching for a lovely, breezy, 75 degree afternoon with the chance to veg-out on the deck with a wonderful book. (The last wonderful book I read was the Imperectionists. It was so good I read it twice.)

That breezy afternoon ain't gonna' happen. I faithfully watch our TV weatherman, who looks to be about 19 years old, and I am so unamused at his boyish enthusiasms that I pay scant attention, primarily because he loves to talk about rain; chances of, possible storms, or pop-up showers, even SEVERE weather, (run to the basement) . Ha.

I am more than aware that parts of the country have had devestating storms and floods. I support the Red Cross when they ask for help. Here we are: back to cranky 90.

Yesterday was nice, mid-morning, so I was wheel chaired out to the front driveway, in my pink nightgown and looked at my newly weeded  (?) front yard. Outside, in my nightgown! This is what I have come to? Phyllis Harmon Greene, who was known to wear gloves and hose and even an occasional St. John.

I don't think I appreciated 80 enough.