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Tag: health
A Funny Story about My Eye Business
(And I hope the last time I ever post about this stuff.)
One Friday, after my usual eye doctor visit I had another appointment, with my grandson, to attend his birthday party, which had been arranged specifically to mesh with my schedule.
We had a lovely time celebrating this lovely grandson and the hour arrived to let him get to bed, and us home.
It’s a long drive over narrow, hilly, curvy, crumbly, bumpy country roads, from his house to mine. Some of the roads have few markings, due to paint rub-off, due to overuse and under-upkeep. Some of the bridges are only barely wide enough to be two lanes.
Quaint.
Plenty good enough for me. I drive a Ford truck. One of the last of the Rangers. Just a bit jazzed up from the last owner . . .
However, I noticed someone following me almost all the way. It’s harder, yet, to drive at night with lights in your rear-view mirror. This person was not exactly tailgating, but sure was sticking like glue. Sighs.
Also, on these country roads, we often encounter deer, skunks, armadillos, dogs, cats, possums, etc. We always drive with attention to the woods along the road, looking out for the gleam of the eyes of something that wants to hop out before you just as you pass, so you can hit it. With the smaller creatures, it’s mostly too bad, but with skunks and deer, you can really acquire a messed-up vehicle if you hit them.
So I swerved a time or two.
We also sometimes encounter huge trucks, used to help chicken farmers keep their chicken houses cleaner, that we fondly call “Tyson’s Soup Trucks”. I don’t think you can Google that and learn what it is, so just use your imagination, okay? It’s gross. Anyone would rather go one-on-one with a cement truck than with one of those. Okay?
So, we really, really yield the right of way when one of those “soup trucks” is trying its best to maneuver a tight country curve. So I yielded, really yielded, once.
As I neared town, as the road smoothed and straightened and had a more substantial shoulder, I noticed my almost-tailgater friend also had blue lights atop his car. Sighs. I was in no mood for being spot-checked, but so be it–I stopped.
The officer was really handsome, young with a baby face to match, doing his level best to look stern and official. I’d take him for a son, if his mom didn’t want him. He told me I’d been weaving and driving on the shoulder, crossing the center line, etc. Well? I guess he was so busy watching me, he forgot to watch the road. I should have bumped a skunk for his driving pleasure?
Then he began searching inside my cab with his flashlight. Then he wanted to know where I’d been and where I was going. Wow. I am plenty old enough to be his mom. I’m used to asking those things of folks his age.
I’ve been to my grandson’ birthday party and I’m on my way home.
Not convinced.
Okay, before that I had an eye doctor appointment in the really big city, to get a shot in my eyeball.
That got his attention.
And here is the funny part.
You know how the thought of getting a shot in your eyeball makes you shiver, but doesn’t do that for me anymore?
He shivered. Not a little, barely perceptible shiver, but a big shiver, one due the enormity of the thought. His big hand stopped pushing that little pen and he lost his cool for just a moment. And after that, he decided just to give me a warning and then he let me go.
But not before he left his parting remark: “Well that explains your red, weeping eyes.”
Hmm. Driving a jazzed up truck, weaving, red-eyed granny–I’m sure he was disappointed.
Eye Update
You may have noticed my vision is not what it used to be.
You may remember my long ago posts about eye health and the lovely treatments I have received at the hands of an expert ophthalmologist, a pioneer in treating exactly the condition I have suffered: macular edema (ME).
Well, in the words of his assistant, who saw me last Friday, “I have exceptional news for you!”
I did not need a treatment.
I am so excited.
The situation was a bit humorous at first. In my daze of happiness, I automatically exited the exam room and headed for the back hallway where those who need further treatment wait while trying to encourage each other. It is hard, even after two years, to allow someone to give us a shot in the eyeball. For some it is really hard. We have to psyche ourselves up and, some of us being old, we don’t always do a very good job of it.
Sometimes, as the day for an appointment approaches, my husband will catch me sighing or shivering and ask me what is wrong.
I usually tell him, “Oh, just trying not to think about it.”
I don’t have to tell him “what” I’m (not) thinking about anymore.
Anyway, as I headed for the “back row”, the doctor and nurses laughed and reminded me I did NOT need a shot and could leave.
Weird.
I got used to it very quickly, though.
Usually, after the shot, I would drive (I could still see, see?) to the nearest posh restaurant and treat myself to one of their marvelous salads, for being a good girl. Sometimes, if I’d done poorly and felt sorry for myself, I’d add one of their marvelous cheesecakes or a cloud of a tiramisu.
NO CHANGES, THERE, LAST FRIDAY!
The big change—and what seemed oddest—was not needing a Kleenex for my poor eyes, which would usually be irritated by the antiseptics used to prepare the area for this invasive procedure.
But hey! It has worked!
If, at the next monthly checkup, I still can read 20/50 and the ultrasound still looks great, I’ll be switched to every 3 months for my checkups. What a relief!
I am very, very thankful.
But I think I’ll miss my friends on the back row . . .
Pompoms and Bonbons
They Kind of Go Together
Have you ever studied how sugars give us quick energy? I did, in 7th grade, which happened several decades ago, for me.
Several decades.
I had to memorize the benefits of various components of normal foods and other things we might eat that are not normal foods, to pass a homemaking test.
Back then, almost all girls studied homemaking. We each wanted to make a home — to turn a house that housed two strangers into a safe and welcoming nest for two who acted as one entity — and to welcome the regular appearance of new, tiny, perfect strangers joining the melee.
Things changed. Boys who desired to be professional chefs felt they should take homemaking. Girls who wanted to know how to fix their own stopped sinks felt they should take shop. Besides, the gender mix was fun. But I digress.
While learning to make a home, we learned good nutrition. All the diets recommending eliminating carbs to lose weight find their basis in pure science, quoted in our homemaking textbooks from the late sixties, and it was old news even then.
You cannot have bonbons unless you get a-movin’. Or else, you will grow fat.
They taught us. We learned it and passed tests. Sugars are for quick energy. Consume sugars and you must burn them or else you will grow fat.
We also learned:
- Too much sugar consumption could lead to diabetes. Fact.
- Honey, although it can have a similar effect, is not as bad. Fact.
- Protein is for long-lasting energy. Fact.
- Salad before a meal improves digestion. Fact.
Educated people knew these nutrition facts back then. So before a basketball game, players received instructions to eat protein and sugar. Coaches often kept Snickers and other rich candies on hand to rejuvenate a team member, if needed. Players often had a double cheeseburger for lunch and a double chocolate malted for a pre-game treat. Cheerleaders ate like that, too. Such athletic types could actually feel the added boost, they told us.
We envied them.
Today I do not. Today I work from several more facts, not known to science back then:
- Forcing the body to deal with too much sugar destroys the pancreas. Yes, after denying it awhile, scientists have again admitted too much sugar in the diet does cause diabetes, after all.
- Sugar consumption totally zaps immunities.
- Sugar is addictive.
- Sugar consumption causes high blood pressure.
- Tooth/gum diseases can cause heart attacks.
All these facts, in famous research, such as the Nurses’ Study, form the basis for much of the health protocol at the Mayo Clinic and for Dr. Atkins’ work, not to mention the “come latelies” such as “South Beach” and “Lose the Wheat Lose the Weight”.
But one more fact that spurs this post, a fact no one could have possibly known before: I woke up with a sore throat today. A bit achy and too tired for cheerleading, I’ve decided to post about good health until I again possess it.
Be well!
Weekly Photo Challenge – Lunchtime!!! Mmm!!!
What to have for lunch – the eternal question.
Spending my daytime often solo, I have devised the plan I love:
Cook a decent supper, and then reheat for lunch the next day.
Our supper last night was sublime. If I do say so, I cannot help it. I just had to try this combo. I could not stop myself.
The results?
A few swai filets, breaded in egg, almond meal, and course black pepper, sautéed in olive oil, served over a bed of hot morrow squash, al dente, in a sauce of winter onions braised in butter and sour cream, with swai pan glazings and a skif of cayenne stirred in.
We nearly foundered.
But “nearly” only counts in hand grenades and horse shoes.
I got my reward, very carefully warmed over, today, with a cuppajo, or should I say, a very aromatic mug of Arkansas’ own Biff’s coffee, from which I receive no remuneration save the golden drink, itself.
Drool on, Michelle W.; I can’t help it.
The Traumatic “What-If”
The traumatic what-ifs happen. They happen to very nice people. They can ruin sleep and even ruin life for people who basically did nothing wrong.
Sometimes we think what if about the future.
What if a tornado were to strike? What if a burglar came to the door? What if I miscarry? What if the thought police read my post? And on and on and on.
We call those what-ifs “worry”. We can make great use of them if we take notes, plan for the future, and then forget it. We stock the basement with candles, drinking water, maybe helmets, and then we relax. We lock the door or place a chair under the knob and then go on to sleep. We take our maternity vitamins and trust our medical pro. Etc. We do, in other words, whatever we can to avert disaster, normally, and then we go on to the next topic.
We call that wisdom.
We are bringing the scary future worries into the present, actual, factual preparations. Dealing with them in the present is what we should do. When we acknowledge actual, possible disaster, it does not seem so scary. When we use known fact to make ourselves safer, we actually benefit. We plan to succeed, maybe update now and then, and let the plan be enough.
Or we fixate on it and go through life abnormally worried about everything. What if the tornado sucks me out of the basement, what if the burglar comes down the chimney . . . We can drive ourselves crazy. We can have nightmares (if we’re not losing sleep.)
We suffer trauma when nothing has actually happened!
PTSD changes from POST– to PRE-traumatic stress disorder.
What a shame. How avoidable.
We call that waste.
However, sometimes we look back.
We look back on our past traumatic experiences and think too much.
We actually worry about things in the past.
Things that only might have happened.
But did not happen.
They are “what-ifs” from the past. There is no way we could ever go back to the past and be in danger from these what-ifs, but we go back there, mentally, and worry about what-if they had happened.
Now, I will grant that once we have experienced actual trauma, our brains are shuffled a bit. That is true. We do not walk through true danger without knowing it, without adrenalin, without fight-or-flight, without some sort of harm or terror.
But we sometimes do not stop there. Sometimes we worry most irrationally: We worry about the future, but we go back to the past to do it.
Sorry, but what we call that is just a bit wacko.
How do I know? I know, because I’ve done it, and I’ve seen others do it.
When my son fell out of the rolling car, I was sleepless many nights. He was fine. He was not crushed. The car did not roll into the street causing an accident. Someone was there to help. We all lived happily ever after.
But I worried.
For days.
What if my baby had been crushed. I’d have probably had to go to court. I could have had my children taken from me. I could be in prison. My poor baby would probably have died. Or worse. My poor teenager would have felt guilty. What if the car had continued rolling into the street, and had struck another car. Or another child. Two children could be dead right now. What if my teenager had to go to court. He was old enough to drive. He could have lost his privileges to drive. What if he had become suicidal….
This is only a fraction of what I suffered, and if you’ve ever gone down this path, you know it’s really a maze that keeps taking you back to the beginning. You never get out. The end of all this is either such weariness that insomnia is impossible, or else the end is insanity.
Oh. An added bonus is that some get to enjoy substance abuse. Why we don’t worry about that is a puzzle to me.
Okay. I did stop worrying about the past-future-what-ifs and I’d like to share with you how to do it, in case you find yourself needing to know.
Last week I opened my email to find a death threat. Whether this was spam or the real deal is yet to be determined.
The officer asked if I owned a gun and suggested I might want to keep it handy and be aware of my surroundings. These words sent me scurrying to the closet to pull out my Smith & Wesson. I loaded the pistol with bullets my husband had stored all these years.
Realizing we were low on ammunition, I let my fingers-do-the-walking in an attempt to find replacement ammo. A number of calls later I located a store and told the clerk I’d see them first thing next morning.
I tucked the weapon into a safe hideout and crawled in bed for what I hoped would be a good night’s sleep. Before closing my eyes, I asked God to keep me safe through the night. My gun was loaded. I knew how to use it. I was prepared.
This is a wonderfully-written, true tale of fear and foibles by DiAne Gates. Read more, here!
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