Still walking

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I had trouble getting out of bed this morning. I thought most of the damage was on my left side, but late last night my right knee refused to straighten. This morning it was red and swollen and still didn’t want to function. My right wrist and shoulder also bothered me.

I skipped my first class; just couldn’t get moving. By 11 am, after a long, hot shower, I was able to walk again and took the bus to my memoir writing class. Amazingly, I was able to walk fairly easily after sitting 2 hours. I find I’m much more comfortable when I continue walking and exercising the knee. I got off the bus at Whole Foods, bought stuff for supper, got another bus and came home. Now I’m back to working on the Japan trip.

A different kind of day

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When I began blogging I wanted to make this a true account of what life is like for an old woman. Most of my posts have been positive; mostly I enjoy myself. This post is different, but it’s part of my story.

Now I am feeling very old. I didn’t begin the day that way: I was out of the house by 8 am and went to meet Phyllis, who never showed up. By 8:15 I gave up on her and went walking by myself. It’s a gorgeous day, sunny and cool. I went into Frick Park, walked briskly down my usual path and stopped occasionally to take some pictures. I’ve been playing with the camera, getting ready to take it to Japan. I wanted to try some new settings.

Walking through the park alone on a weekday is a little scary. I guess I never would have thought about it, but Mary scolded me when she found out I went alone. There were a few runners and dog walkers, but I was alone for long stretches. There are places where I could hear an echo of my own footsteps. Nothing happened and everything was good until I got back to within 2 houses of home. Strangely, there was a plastic lawn chair and a table under a tree in front of the old coach house. I’m sure it was never there before. As I continued looking at it I tripped on a bump in the sidewalk and fell, hitting my knees, hands, torso and finally my lips. I was lucky, nothing broke. My knees are sore; my left thumb is bruised and scraped; a small stone cut into the palm of my left hand and, most embarrassing, I have a fat lip. I’ve been icing it, which has helped.

No one saw me fall. My street is blocked at one end so it’s very quiet. No cars drove by and there was no one to help me. I ascertained that nothing was broken (my worst fear), and that I did not have to use my cell phone to get help. I sat for a few minutes catching my breath and recovering. Then I had to get up. There was nothing, not even a bush, to grab onto. With painful shaking knees I lifted myself off the ground and almost fell again. Slowly, painfully, I managed to straighten up and walk home.

The worst part of all of this is what it does to my self-confidence. I’ve fallen before, usually without giving it much thought. In recent years I have congratulated myself on not having frail bones that break easily. But all of this brings up thoughts of restricted movement and activities. The worst part about aging is the possible loss of mobility and independence. This kind of event makes me horribly aware of how close I live to the edge.

Walking in Frick Park

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My walking partners haven’t been around all weekend. This morning I decided to walk by myself. The exercise isn’t as good; I tend to walk slower when I’m by myself. But I’m glad I went alone this morning. It was a beautiful day and I spent a lot of time photographing. Although the leaves haven’t fully turned yet, they’ve started to fall and you can see the approach of autumn.

I’m not entirely happy with my photographs. I spent a lot of time this afternoon trying to learn the controls on my camera. I want to get better results when I am in Japan.

Take a walk with me. The stretching tree is half-way in my walk. I use it to stretch out my calf muscles; less pain later. I usually turn around there, and retrace my steps. Today I took another trail–all uphill. It’s a beautiful trail and I wanted the extra exercise.

I haven’t been able to embed my slide show in this post, but you can see it here.


Art and Ephemera

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Weather today is wonderful–warm sun, cool breeze. I walked over to the Center for the Arts, about a mile away, to see the work of Adam Grossi, the nephew of a friend in New Jersey. The show was interesting, although I have to admit I don’t really understand what he is trying to communicate. Only a couple of paintings really spoke to me. Strange, because he is a terrific writer. I have the feeling he is still searching for a language in his painting.  Maybe it’s my age that’s speaking.

The walk was great. I found a route that keeps me off of Penn and Fifth Avenues, both heavily trafficked. It feels wonderful to walk in the cool shade, emerge into the too warm sun, then back into the shade. I passed a house where someone was playing a strange sounding musical instrument. Earlier, on my way to the Center, they were singing with the music. There is something special about walking by and catching a few notes, just as walking past someone wearing perfume: I don’t want to be overwhelmed, just given a small taste.

Some of the trees are strange and special. Planted in the narrow parkway between sidewalk and curb their roots show above ground and form a wooden platform under the tree. I don’t know whether the cause is the  narrowness of the space, the clay soil, or both. I also saw a house I would like to own. It’s not for sale and I haven’t seen the inside, but it’s relatively new and thoughtfully designed. Very interesting.

This and that

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Len and I gave a brown bag lunch today to try and promote our Osher blog. I was disappointed in the turnout–not nearly enough people, but the people who came were very interested. I would like to see lots of contributors to the blog. Then it will really be an Osher blog, not a Len and Ruthe blog. Len’s wife made wonderful chocolate chip cookies–the highlight of our presentation.

Since I can’t eat lunch during my presentation I decided to skip my afternoon class and go to eat instead. Then I walked over to the Phipps for a last look at the Chihuly show. I got to the Phipps before the rains came. It started to pour as I was thinking about leaving, so I waited and was able to get to the bus without opening my umbrella. Rain in Pittsburgh often moves through quickly. I find that with a little patience I can stay dry. We’ve had unseasonably warm weather most of this month. Today’s rain came in with a cold front, but they say temperatures will remain in the 70’s for the next week. Still too warm.

I am supposed to walk tomorrow morning; first time since Tuesday. Here’s a picture from Tuesday morning–more sunshine coming through the trees.
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I took some pictures today at the Phipps, mostly in the Japanese Garden. I don’t think any of them are interesting enough to post. Waiting for the bus yesterday I took these pictures of Dippy, the bronze dinosaur in front of the Carnegie Museum. Notice how clean the cathedral looks; almost like a new building.

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Communication failure

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In the last few weeks I have come to realize I’ve not been getting all of my email messages in the Hotmail account I’ve had for many years. So I’ve changed the address associated with this blog, and I will send the new address to my contact list. I can’t figure out a way to complain to Hotmail. They have a contact form for suggestions, but I can’t find one for complaints. I suppose that’s looking a gift horse in the mouth; it is a free service.

Communication

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No class today, but I went to the University for a lunchtime talk, a brown bag lunch. I stopped at Camille’s Sidewalk Cafe, a relatively new place on Craig St. to pick up a plastic bag lunch. Len and I ate here last week while we prepared for the brown bag lunch we are giving on Thursday about our Osher blog. Camille’s has free wi fi, making it a very attractive place to work, and the food is good. It’s also not a crowded as my favorite lunch place, Eatunique, down the street.

I gave my order to the pretty young South Asian woman who asked for my name to put on the receipt. In her ears, my very ordinary biblical name became Ruff. I’m sure that’s a long u. The young caucasian man who gave me my lunch called me Ruf, with a u as in up. Within 15 minutes I had a sandwich and two new names. I sympathize with the Asian woman. I would probably mangle her name even worse. I often meet an Indian woman at the art shows I attend. She has told me her name several times, but I cannot remember it. It’s probably a perfectly ordinary Indian name. The next time I run into her, I’ll ask her to write it down.

Friday already

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The week seems to go by faster and faster. On our walk this morning Mary complained that I hadn’t posted anything for a while. I’ve spent most of the week working on plans for my Japan trip next month. I have begun another blog about the trip and posted planning details as they occurred. This week I rearranged my air travel, made more hotel reservations and mostly tried to figure out how I can get to everything I want to see. I’m still working on it. I will be leaving in three weeks and I’m beginning to feel the pressure.

Writing Practice

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I am taking a memoir writing class this semester. I have no intention of writing my autobiography and I don’t particularly enjoy dredging up my ancient history. I’m just trying to improve my writing and this was the Osher offering. In a sense, I suppose keeping a blog is a form of memoir. In the first class we were given two topic suggestions: the kitchen of your childhood;  or the most important thing that happened to you. This week’s suggestion: write about a family secret. We don’t have a lot of family secrets. Most of our dirty laundry got washed in public–my father’s paranoia, my ex’s alcoholism. I thought of one tiny secret, seemingly not important, but it opens up a Pandora’s box of aggravations. I’m still trying to decide if I want to go there. Class is on Tuesday.

For the first week’s topic I wrote about an experience I had with my father in an emergency room. It was a profound experience for me, but it actually had much more to do with health care than with my father, who was being subjected to what passed for care. This is the story I wrote for class:

I got a call from the nursing home at 10:30 on a Sunday morning; My father, Maurie, had coughed up blood and they sent him to the emergency room. I threw on clothes and rushed to get there before they did anything to him. My father was 92 years old. In previous occurrences of bleeding no diagnosis had ever been made.

The emergency room was unusually quiet, but I had never before been there on a Sunday morning. They had already done an EKG and taken a chest x-ray and found nothing. I spoke to the doctor at length, possibly for half an hour. He wanted to put a tube down Maurie’s throat to see if he could determine where the blood came from. He told me Maurie could hemorrhage, bleed to death. He repeated this several different ways, telling me over and over how my father could die. I restrained myself and didn’t say that at 92 there weren’t many other outcomes. The conversation was chilling. Finally I asked what he would do if he found the source of the bleeding; would he want to operate? Before he could answer I told him I wouldn’t want him to operate on a 92 year old man. My father had a DNR, hated hospitals and never wanted any procedures done to him.

The doctor emphasized again that he could bleed to death. I felt like I was signing my father’s death warrant. I knew he wouldn’t want any invasive procedures. I kept thinking about the sore throat he would have if they put the tube down him. I asked the doctor if he would be in pain if he bled to death. He said no, but continued to torture me with terrifying details.

This conversation was the most difficult half hour of my life. I felt like a killer, but I knew deep down I was right. Finally he agreed to send Maurie back to the nursing home without any further tests. When I told this to my father he thanked me. We both went back to the nursing home where I had to repeat this terrible conversation to try to keep them from sending him back to the hospital if there was another occurrence. In fact, he lived comfortably another two years and didn’t have to endure the terrible sore throat he would have had after the test.

Happy New Year to all of you

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Continuing a practice begun when I left childhood, I did not go to a synagogue yesterday, but I did take the day off from my class. I’ve never been able to resolve my feelings about observing this holiday. I feel that treating it as if it were just another day would be a kind of betrayal. So, as is my custom, I spent most of the day at home and later went to Robin and Steve for a lovely holiday dinner.

I am certainly Jewish. The religion and culture has shaped my life, and the way I think, in hugely important ways, both good and bad. As a child I spent much time at the synagogue learning Hebrew and attending services. Many of my early memories involve time I spent at the synagogue.

The end of the Second World War brought about a rush for consumer products. Many people had more money than they had seen in almost two decades. Rationing ended and consumer product manufacturing was ramped up, people bought personal and household goods they hadn’t seen for many years. Most important, they wanted to show off their wealth. The Jewish holidays were an excuse to buy new suits, new hats (women’s hats were hugely important), flashy jewelry. The services became a time to make sure your friends and neighbors saw your largess; God was an afterthought. As an earnest, impressionable thirteen year old I was appalled. This was the beginning of my abandonment of organized religion.

Many things contributed to my feelings. My father spoke constantly about anti-semitism. My mother kept kosher and observed the dietary laws, and frequently complained about the difficulty of preparing for the holidays, which were never celebrations. All of this made being Jewish more negative than positive. When I began to understand the extent of the Holocaust I was forced to question what kind of a God would permit such slaughter.

Alice, at Wintersong, has a wonderful quote from Epicurus (341–270 B.C.) that captures my feelings about God:

Is God willing to prevent evil, but not able? Then he is not
omnipotent. Is he able, but not willing? Then he is malevolent. Is he
both able and willing? Then whence cometh evil? Is he neither able nor
willing? Then why call him God?

Robin and Steve celebrate Judaism in a wonderful, positive way that I thoroughly enjoy. I remain a Jew and celebrate with them; I will deal with God when, and if, the time comes. Today our celebration will be even more joyous: Eli has returned from Chile.