There was a time when most clothing hung in closets on wire hangers. Suits. Blouses. Skirts. Pants. Sweaters with pokey nobs on the shoulders caused by the wire hanger. I think the wire hangers usually arrived with dry cleaning. At least, that’s the way it seemed to me. Well, actually, the first five of the wire hangers usually came home with the dry cleaning. A week later, so it seemed, there were ten wire hangers. And, then, there were twenty. And MORE and MORE.
As Daughter #1 and I drove into the city from our Wisconsin trip, we chose to go through town using streets and not highways. Arriving at the edge of the city about 3 pm, we thought the highways would be clogged with home bound workers. They were. We also encountered detours that sent us onto streets we hadn’t planned to traverse.
Ribbons By The Highway
When I climb out of the Mississippi River valley at Dubuque, Iowa, either east or west on Highway 151, the cliffs always intrigue me. I must have photographed them dozens of times. Traveling to Wisconsin with Daughter #1, this year, was no different. So, I photographed them, again.
We were going to see Grand #2 graduate from high school. And, to help with her celebration party on the next Sunday. It’s hard to believe that she will be going to college in the fall. Still age seventeen, she won’t be eighteen until August. A young college freshman, I think. Then, I remember that I was only two months older than she when I started my college freshman year. And, I survived, met the man I would marry a year later, and start my next life as college student, wife, and educator.
As you know, I am a poet, and I write a poem every month for the Denver Gem and Mineral Guild’s newsletter, Tips and Chips. The poem below appeared in this year’s July edition of that newsletter.
Ribbons
A Haibun
by
Marj Becker
Climbing out of the town of Dubuque, Iowa, into the State of Wisconsin, I’m always struck by the beauty of the road side decorations. Miles and miles of stone ribbons line Highway 151. Browns. Yellows. Reds. And, black. Layer upon layer of these stones. As if someone has taken mayonnaise and ketsup and mustard and smoothed these sandwich decorations between two pieces of bread.
Red and yellow. Black.
Stone layered between the grass.
Meal for a giant.
The highways from Wisconsin to home stretch out in front of us. Ribbons of highways in front of us and in back of us. Sometimes, straight. Sometimes, curly. Sometimes, four lanes across. Sometimes, only two.
This is where we’ll go.
Over hill and over dale.
Ribbons take us home.
As little girls, we had long hair in braids. And, always had ribbons at the ends of the braids. Dresses were frilled with ribbons at the neck and sleeves and around the waist. Sometimes, curled. Sometimes, sewed on straight. But, always ribbons to adorn the plainest of dresses. Occasionally, around the hem.
A new dress for me.
Mom made one for each of us.
Mom knew what to do.
Be Safe and Be Well.
The Cranky Crone
Thoughtful comments are appreciated.
What do you do when someone you love very much makes you extremely angry? My mother used to say about that kind of situation, “That makes me so mad, I could just spit!” I never realized how she “kept her cool” with all the things life threw at her.
Why Don’t We Speak Up?
Sometimes, I wonder. Are we growing up as sheep? Can’t we speak up to set things right?
Most of the time, these days, I order groceries on line and, after they are assembled, I drive to the store, and they are delivered to my car door.
Oxygen 73%. Heart rate 145. Probably time to call the doctor. I remember when, having a zoom meeting with my PCP, I was reading him my “numbers.” Weight. Blood pressure. Temp. Oxygen 80%. My doc’s response was “Get here, right now!” That memory helped me remember that 73% was really not acceptable. I called my doc’s office; it was Sunday. So I talked with the on-call doc who gave me a choice. Call an ambulance and let the ENTs treat me, or, go to the ER. That made little sense to me. What the ambulance would do, I reasoned, was send me to the ER. So, I asked Daughter #1 to take me.
At my favorite hospital’s ER, I was ushered into an ER examination room; ushered in before three people who had been waiting for some time. They were not happy.
Machines were attached. The oxygen started. Blood work was taken, and the port was left in my right arm for future blood work and injections. I’m not allowed to sit on couches or soft chairs; the bed was lumpy, but soft. So, I spent a lot of time in a “hard” chair. The next place for me should have been the cardiac unit. The hospital, however, was slammed with patients, so I spent my first night in the ER, sitting up in the hard chair, leaning against the bed’s mattress that had been moved to an upright position.
More tests were ordered and accomplished. Chest x-ray. Injected lasix removed excess fluids in my legs. And, through it all, I was able to sleep and doze until morning. With no phone in the room, getting supper and breakfast ordered was a push up. But, it arrived, and it was quite good. We hear so many stories about hospital food, but none of them would fit this day.
My second full day in the ER was also filled with tests and recording blood oxygen levels, etc. Supper time came and went. Still there was no room in the cardiac unit. I’d ordered my supper. It never came. At 9 pm, transport moved me to the cardiac unit – without supper. Now, because I have diabetes, I do need to eat on a fairly regular basis. And, now I was going to a different pace in the hospital with supper. The young transport person assured me that he would get my supper from the ER and bring it to the fifth floor cardiac unit. I never saw him, again.
My nurse and her assistant managed to get something for me to eat at about 11 o’clock- a vegetable salad and a small pudding (that had the only protein in the meal). That got me through to the morning. I was told that I could have nothing by mouth after midnight, buy no one knew why. I had not been told of any pending anything in the morning. There was nothing in the computer. We all decided it must be a secret.
The difference between the ER situation and the cardiac unit was dramatic. The bed was a new breed, and I could choose how hard I wanted the bed to be. The aide asked me to get onto the bed and, when I did, she weighed me! My room had a carpeted bathroom. The room had a small couch and matching chair that could recline. Still, I found it necessary to spend most of my time in the folding hard chair.
Even in the hospital, I prepared for bed at midnight. I actually was able to sleep in the bed. For a little while, at least. At 1 am, I was awakened by a phlebotomist wanting to take fresh blood. “No, he could not take it from the port in my right arm. It had to be from a new puncture.”
It seemed that I’d just returned to sleeping when, at 3 am, transport showed up to take me for a CAT scan. Although it to took only a few minutes, I did not return to sleeping when back in my room. I was beginning to feel the difficulty of not having substantial protein in the last few hours. Still, no one knew why I could have nothing by mouth after midnight. By 10 o’clock, I was ready to eat the furniture in the room. So, I called the nurses station to let them know that if I didn’t get something to eat soon, they could plan on scraping me from the floor. I was finally given permission to order food.
Although food service had some delivery problems, and they generally can’t tell the difference between egg whites and whole eggs, the food was quite good. They have a crusted tilapia that might be served by the best restaurants. I was on a carb limited diet and had plenty to eat.
My mother always said, “It’s an ill wind that blows no good.” This stay in the hospital was no different. No one wants to be in the hospital. While there, I learned a great deal about the AFIB problem and it’s management that brought me to the ER.
But, while there, I met great people. Great doctors and nursing staff. Cardiologists. General practitioners. Housekeeping. Transport people. Specialists such as the CAT scan folks. Everyone was helpful, compassionate, thorough, kind, competent.
If you’ve read the blogs about Isaac from Ghana, you’ll find this interesting. One day, as my housekeeper, Mary, was working I asked her about her “home” country. She, too, is from Ghana. How exciting is this! I now know two people from Ghana.
Discharge came on Wednesday about 3. Change of medicines. Instructions to keep a chart of everything that was charted by hospital staff. Work at keeping the excessive fluids out of my body. Mild exercise – Nora (PT) will know what to do. It seems that I will have a lot more learning ahead for this Greater diligence with regard to other health issues.
At home, I’ve begun wondering what health issues I’ll be dealing with in the future. Time will tell.
Be Safe and Be Well
The Cranky Crone
Thoughtful comments are appreciated.
Dear Readers,
Please accept my apology for not have a blog for you to read, today. Life happens, and sometimes we don’t get to do what we hope. But, God willing and the creek don’t rise, I will post a new blog for you that will arrive in your mail box on Friday.
Thanks for your patience!
The Cranky Crone
Be Safe and Be Well
Recently published is an incredibly exquisite book written by citizens of the West – Unplugged Voices; 125 Tales of Art and Life from Northern New Mexico, the Four Corners and the West. This book of “verbal narratives” was curated and edited by Sara Frances. This book is the history of “common people” who live in Western United States. We can read and study and talk about the Fremonts. About the Greeleys. About the Zebulon PIkes. But, the people represented in Unplugged Voices are the people of the history of our West. A Colorado governor. New Mexico “low riders.” Writers. Poets … to name a few.
Can you make new friends, even if they are half way around the world, and who speak another language? We’ll see.