My mom used to say “this whole getting old thing is for the birds,” and I think she may have been on to something. Still, I suppose it’s marginally better than the alternative.

Pacemaker, huh? How’s the FM reception on those things?

Take care, keep us posted.

Yes, I’m envious of your four-star restaurant with a hospital ward in the back. I can’t even tell you what I ate that first meal, except I vaguely remember some soggy noodles and some dry bread and vegetables boiled to mush. I think there were nuggets of mystery meat in the noodles. Makes me queasy thinking too hard about it.

I survived by turning cooking into a hobby. I probably spend way too much time at it each day, but I’m finding it enjoyable in its own right, on top of getting to eat better than if I tried to rely on other peoples’ ideas about “heart-healthy”. I’ve been remiss not posting more recipes in the ComestibleZone, and this is a good reminder to start.

Glad you’re feeling so much better now, bowser.

Food. The way it worked is that I had a large menu, with the carbs numbered for each item. So, in an effort to turn you bright green with envy I’ll describe a typical day’s eating. The person taking the order kept track of the meal and the days carbs, salt and liquid intake. All of them were limited for me. And after ordering it was 1/2 and hour or 45 minutes and the meal came.

Breakfast: Ham and cheese omelet, with or without bacon strips, a fruit bowl with strawberry, a couple of melons, grapes, orange slices and kiwi fruit, and if I wanted Cheerios with Splenda and 2% milk. And I was limited to 90 carbs.

Lunch: Sirloin Steak, or Curried shrimp and rice, steamed vegetables, and a fruit and cheese plate with more melon and other fruit, cheddar, feta and one other sweet cheese. Diet Pepsi.

Dinner: Grilled salmon, generous portion, steamed vegetable, another fruit and cheese plate and another fruit cup. I loved those. And a diet Pepsi.

There were many, many other choices but those were mine most of the time. Not bad, huh!!??

I could get stuff like applesauce, yogurt, sherbet and juices from the nurses, and those didn’t count against my daily allotment. They were very nice and never did refuse to get something. In fact, they’d stop by, sit and visit when they could. I enjoyed them.

She was only six years older than I am now.

Since then, I’ve taken the CPR course twice. Its a good thing to know, if for no other reason than peace of mind.

Later I got slammed in the ribs, breaking 3, and thinking I would suffocate. Pain. Then pancreatitis, then a gall stone, both of them as painful as one can imagine and still stay conscious. There are 4 or 5 more broken bones, but they were relatively minor. A broken nose took me right to my knees, though.

I think after a while one realizes that extreme pain is nothing personal and all one can do is get help. Nothing else matters. Focus. Concentrate. Then it’s no longer your problem, it’s theirs and all you have to do is lay there and hurt. That’s all you can do anyway. It will go away. One isn’t happy, or comfortable, but at least one is simply a passenger, an observer and the problem is someone else’s. Being an observer is a great trick if one can do it.

It may be entirely different if one is a long way from help. But that’s how I’ve handled a few painful situations.

An aside, kind of cute. I got to the ER this time and they wanted to draw blood. I hate, despise and abhor that process as my veins are smaller as I’ve gotten older. A new ER tech wanted to do it, and the RN told him he could try once. He was nervous, poked me, fished around and gave up. He said he would call the nurse. Through the pain I was able to grunt and tell him no, he started this and he was going to finish. Get another needle and try again. He did, and failed. Humiliated and embarrassed. I pointed to the other hand and managed to say we were going to stay with it, get the needle and hurry up. Missed again, got it the fourth time.

I congratulated him, let the nurse know he did a great job, and he was beyond grateful. He even followed my gurney up to the room, and as there were a bunch of people with me who outranked him he stood in the hallway and waved shyly. I have to admit to feeling a bit useful.

I won’t have to open the bedroom door, just walk under it.

She almost died in my arms back in March. She doesn’t remember any of it. I have her in a Rehab facility, and at times, because of the dementia, thinks she is there because I grew tired of her.

I am a strong woman. Almost having Mom die in my arms grabbing at my arm and screaming for help because she couldn’t breathe, has me scared shitless to have her come home.