The Perfect Storm

I hinted at this in the last post but have hesitated to actually write about recent events until I could find some humor in nearly two months of not very good times. With much effort there might be a smile in here somewhere. But I think right now there are more tears than chuckles.

Two days before her 87th birthday my mother just seemed to turn into someone else. Granted, in our family, it can sometimes take days to realize someone is not quite normal by our standards but this was pretty obvious. Okay--she did fall out of bed on her head; and yes, she did find my wedding rings and hid them under her bed and forgot; and oh alright--she did accuse me of rearranging the soda cans in her refrigerator door as well as stealing her underwear. But I swear I did not empty out her safe deposit boxes and I did not murder my sister!!!

You can see what we are dealing with--very sad. The doctor confirmed she needed placing in a more supervised living situation and so the last few weeks have been taken up with touring Assisted Living facilities, getting endless forms filled out, explaining to my mom for the nth time what was happening and digging up papers dating back to my Dad's discharge from the Marine Corps after World War II. Meanwhile, I got sick again!

 No, Faithful Readers, it has not been an easy time.

Where has my mother gone?

 (And she asks, "Where are you taking me?")

What has happened to my beautiful, competent mother?

(And she asks, "Why do you hate me?")

What right do I have to take her out of her own home and put her in a strange, new living situation?

(And she asks, "Why do I have to go away?")

I say, "Mama, you'll be safer here"

(And she says, "But I'll be good.")

I say, "Mama, you're not eating--you only weigh 100 pounds!"

 (And she says, "I'll eat more--I really will.")

I say, "Mama, you're only going to be one mile from our house and you have friends there already."

 (And she says, "Why can't I just die?")

No one ever told me about this chapter of life.

Attack of the Evil Microbe

It's been a long time since the last post but I was bushwhacked by some foul germ that detected a weak spot in my lungs and moved in like an unwanted relative. In exchange for hosting this ugly bug I got to take to mah bed and play Camille--propped up on pillows and coughing into one of my antique lace hankies. Mr. T was very grateful that attempting to sing arias from anything was out of the question.

I spent the long days in bed listening to talk radio. This probably did not hasten the healing. The shows begin at 5:00 am with Lee, move on to Rush until noon, switch from radio to the computer so I could hear my buddy, Jaz McKay, from Bakersfield and then back to KSFO to wind up the day with Mark Levin. By that time I had usually fired off a few emails to the pack of thieves in Washington and was checking Google Earth for another place to live. Example of Jaz's way to handle airport security: "Yer name's Mohammed? Waterboard him! Your name is Jack? Go right on through."(Common sense reigns in Bako)

Since I did not heal especially fast, after 3 weeks of coughing and bedrest, Mr. T hauled my sorry self into the doctor's. I KNOW that when the doc is using the stethoscope to listen to one's lungs and his head snaps up and he exclaims, "Yikes! This is no good!" that I probably had waited too long. My choice? Hospital or steroids. I opted for the 'roids and kissed my professional sports career good-bye. I was sent home with pills, antibiotics and cough syrup.

I am a wuss about taking medicine and I especially hate cough syrup. What do they do to it to make it taste so terrible awful bad? But this stuff was different. (Besides costing $200.00 for one little bottle!!!!) The directions said 1 teaspoon and the scientist in Mr. T kicked in. Several different measuring devices were tried until the most accurate teaspoon ever measured was poured down my throat.

Surprise! That syrup had zero taste! Further surprise---that was dang fine stuff. Forget the micro-measuring. Mr. T had to take over meds supervision when he caught me gulping directly from the bottle instead of measuring. Oh well--if I had enough lungs left,  I'd have applied for medicinal marijuana while there are still any shops left.

The good news? CT scan showed the MAC had not returned--just an opportunistic lung infection. The bad news?  There were no more democrats left to fire off irate emails to.

Little did I know that this was just the first chapter in the saga of The Perfect Storm that has comprised my life these last 8 weeks. But that's a later post.

Malicious Microbes

The new year has not begun auspiciously. The Bad Germs got back in my lungs and I have been in bed. Now, granted, being in bed is not your grandmother's bed! Being in bed means being surrounded by every techno-toy possible.

The bed resembles control central--laptop, new netbook, cell phone, portable phone, TV and remote control, iPod and radio. What is missing? MY CAMERA!! So, in addition to being pretty ill, I'm going through camera withdrawal. I figured that being out of action for so long would be the perfect time to send it out for "tweaking." There is never a good time for the camera to be gone but there's not much to shoot from a sickbed.

We are also getting badly needed rain--lots and lots of rain. The 18th fairway is under water! Picture to follow somehow.

After 3 weeks of this mess I went to the doctor. He said I was a hair away from being admitted to the hospital. He uses alarmist language because he knows I'm basically an uncooperative patient. He also knows I'm scared to death of hospitals because there are so many sick people there. And where there are sick people, there are GERMS!!!

What I wanted to blog about was the prescriptions I came home with. Wham-O antibiotics, check. Prednizone, check. Cough syrup, check. Inhaler, check. The total for the Prednizone was $3. The total for one bottle of the cough syrup was $200.00!!!! Are you kidding? The co-pay was $140.00!

My immediate thought was Wow!This must be some pretty good stuff-- should I take it or trade it?" Curiosity and total exhaustion from coughing made me keep it. I was expecting the best stuff since the 60ies. Well, 1 teaspoon later----nothing. No bright colors, no deep insights, no heightened senses. Just no coughing. Couldn't a good single malt have done the same thing? Granny would have said so--just add a little honey and hot water.

But the one little pill of Prednizone had the most effect. For the first time I'm starting to be able to get enough air to function(aka TALK). Go figure--for $3.00. We are so fortunate to have the health care we do.

Meanwhile, I continue to frequent my chat room cyberfriends, watch boring TV, and listen to Rush Limbaugh. However, I think things will pick up and I'll be able to return to blogs of SeniorLand, rainstorms and their aftermath, and just regular musings.

A special thank you to Mr T who has been a saint for the last 3 weeks and the dozens of quail who come right outside my bedroom door to eat the seed under the table. They are wonderful entertainment and for that courtesy to me, I won't eat them.

Hic et Hoc

The desert is full of icons—not the church kind—the Real Life kind. The screwed up remote, four-wheel dirt “road” in Kingston that was so well-marked at the beginning and then totally lacking markers when the road dissolved into scrub and rock covered desert wash was an icon of the government running healthcare. Great at the beginning when you need nothing—does you zero good when the sun is going down and you’re really needing a sign to get out of the wash.

Ravens are iconic for the beta male mentality our country seems to promote instead of the Marlboro Man. Misguided yucca huggers have succeeded in making it illegal to kill ravens. But ravens are lethal, cunning interlopers who ravage the natural animal environment of the desert. They kill baby turtles as they hatch; they eat the eggs of native birds; and, ravish the snake population. (I don’t really care about the snakes but still, they have their purpose on the Mojave.)

Perhaps the most striking icon in the desert is WATER. Everything about this dry moonscape right here on earth sucks moisture out and seems to return nothing. Yet, ever so often, in the middle of the desert, there will be a small creek, a spring, a pool and even underground rivers. The Amargosa River is only stagnant ponds in places, a free-running creek in others. Gremshaw Basin is HOT water but you fight the mud mites to get out to soak in it. Of course you also fight the naked German tourists covering themselves with mud as well!

Death Valley didn't get its name for nothing. After dry camping up at Mesquite Campground we headed to sea level Stovepipe Wells and SHOWERS! Ahhhhh--the steam, the abundant water, the clean hair. Yet, at the same time, I was choosing to do something expressly forbidden by the doctors who have been managing my case. I opted for the immediate gratification rather than the risk of a set-back. Who knows? Tomorrow one could get attacked by ravens and end up a pile of dry bones in the desert.

Home Base Tecopa

We can’t seem to move on into Death Valley. Here we have wonderful showers, private pools of hot desert springs waters, INTERNET and great people. So—we explore. Yesterday was the China Date Ranch.

First we stopped in Tecopa Proper. Here is the remnant of the old train station. I am a lover of ruins and here were wooden sidewalks, wooden post pillars and train ghosts galore.

Could anyone find a finer example of a classic pick'em up truck?

This wonderful bottle wall is a work in progress. I believe the final work of art will be in the form of a tiara.

Obviously China Date Ranch is a PC version of what it was originally called. But the ethnic settler was run off and a succession of horse rustlers took over the valley. It was lucrative. When the horse thieves made money they were Republicans. When they “redistributed” the land they were Democrats.

 

 The Ranch has so many types of date trees it is amazing. The dates are protected from the birds by wrapping the bunches of fruit in old clothing—it’s a very colorful orchard! In back of the ranch is a wonderful hike back to an old mining site, 2 “rivers” that converge and a beautifully preserved old berm from the Tidewater Tonopah railroad. The waters are the Amargosa River and Willow Creek. The water is pure.

Hiking the 3 miles was a bit much for me and Mr T was great about carrying both fanny packs and yelling at the dogs so I could conserve breath. A cold beer on the desert is like nectar.

Today the sun was gone—cold and overcast and not good for photography. We embarked on a long circle recon trip in the Jeep—90 miles total of which about 60 were on dirt roads. The plan was to circle Kingston Peak.

The Kingston Wash Road started out just fine. Nice wide dirt road and twice as many signs as needed warning us of who and what was allowed and that we could not drive over 30’ off the road. OK—fine—we can comply. The road quickly turned to a Class 2 road. The Jeep took it in stride. Besides, there were still numerous signs and markers pointing out the trail.

THERE IS TOO A ROAD AROUND HERE!

But all of a sudden, we were in rocks and boulders and washes and unmarked desert. It was now Class 3 and there was not a sign to be seen. Back when it had been proto-dirt road, it was government overkill. Now that information was vital, nothing was in sight. Now—try to imagine health care run by the government—that is what it would be like. No TARP signs here.

 

 Worse, we were quickly losing daylight as well as the road. The NavSys showed no roads of any kind so that was no help. We bottomed out, had to turn around, backtrack, guess, get out and scout—but eventually we found a stretch of desert that got us out of that wash just as the sun sank behind the hills. The last 12 miles we drove on a soft sand dirt road in complete darkness.

The Jeep has more desert pinstriping than it did and we bottomed out several times—but all the tires survived. All in all, it was a great day. Maybe tomorrow we’ll head into the Valley. And maybe not!

Into the Desert

We visited the bookstore at St. Andrew's Priory yesterday. It's first class all the way including the prices. We have a new unit of measuring worth--a Netbook. Many of the icons were priced at $250 or the equivalent of one Netbook. Some icons were as much as 4 Netbooks! I think it's a sign of how our world view has changed after being away from the monks for 2 years. The book title that intrigued me most was Levels of Humility--if one is measuring humility doesn't that defeat the virtue? (Mr T was engrossed in Harlots of Egypt.)

We left our wonderfully isolated camp and headed down the mountain and across the Mojave--again in bumper-to-bumper traffic. At some point in Victorville Jeep and Minnie got separated and then we played leapfrog trying to catch up to each other. First attempt was trying to hook up again at the Lynnwood Outlet Mall--THOUSANDS of shoppers backing up traffic and the attempt failed. The 2nd meeting place was supposed to be the Barstow Walmart--failure. No CB traffic but cell phones got us straightened out. By this time Mr T was on I 15 and I was on I 40--no good. We finally caught up to each other at Peggy Sue's in Yermo--one of our all-time favorite haunts on the desert.

After that it was just plodding across the desert to the hot springs we like to visit. We take the waters and enjoy the last internet connection until Stovepipe Wells. It's cold, windy, cloudy and generally the last kind of weather we'd hoped for. But it will change soon and we are in no hurry. The space and barrenness are soothing and if we take a few days to recover from the days of travel, no one is complaining.

THE NAVY SHOWER

We are dry camping on the grounds of a closed Christian summer camp in the Angeles National Forest. Amazingly we have 20 amp power and for water, a clear running creek behind the Minnie. We have to watch our gray water tank capacity very carefully. That means no real shower! Now Mr. T, being a mountain man at heart, has fine-tuned the art of the Navy Shower. I have avoided such an insult to civilization at all costs, preferring to take what is known in coarser circles as a PTA bath. I will leave the deciphering up to the individual’s imagination.

But I could avoid this mockery of a shower no longer. Mr. T walked me through the salient points. I insisted on a dress rehearsal.

1. Heater on in bathroom, doors closed, shower door open—check.

2. Towel at the ready, clean PJs warming up, dry towel hanging on door handle—check.

3. Shower cap on and get au natural—check.

4. Put shower head into bucket and turn on hot water(while shivering) and wait for hot water to kick in, add VERY COLD WATER to make semi-warm water, move collecting bucket aside and jump in shower—check.

5. Get wet. Turn off water—BLAH!

6. Soap up.

7. Shower nozzle back into collecting bucket and turn water back on. When you feel warm water again then rinse as fast as you can and turn the water off.

8. Collected water goes eventually into black water tank via flushing toilet.

9. While shivering violently, dry off, cuss out Navy, wiggle into jammies and swear never to get this far away from a KOA again.

The virtual rehearsal was clear. The actual practice was not so good. I got as far as Step Four before we realized that no one had bothered to turn on the hot water heater. DAMN! Cuss out Navy and Mr. T., scramble au natural into freezing bedroom and dig out sweats from bottom of ice box closet and leap under covers, turn electric blanket to high.

After much coaxing and sexist mocking of weak women from Mr. T, I gave it try number two. It worked with Mr T reporting a total shower time of 5 minutes including the water off minutes.

But I refuse to call whatever that was a “successful” shower. As soon as I get back in cell phone contact with the Real World I’m making reservations with Full Hook-ups.

Do RV parks come with room service???