Search This Blog

Sunday, May 19, 2024

5/19/24

 Sunday, May 20, 2024

I stopped journalling for three weeks before Dr. Ryzka put me on prednisone.  I wondered during that period whether I would ever start again.  I was a little surprised at how quickly I picked it up again when once I started the prednisone.

I let Lilly out (again) at 5 a.m. when I woke.  It's a very beautiful predawn with a steady breeze NNW breeze moving the newly-leafed branches of birch trees and the magnificent deep red maple tree across the street.  Even with the storm door closed as I wait for Lilly's return, I hear the cardinals calling.  I'm too lazy to get up and give Merlin a listen to hear who else is up and sounding.

Prednisone, day 7.  Last night was a disappointment.  I worked up the courage to try sleeping in my bed, retiring at about 9:15.  By 10, it was clear that I'm not ready, too much shoulder pain and discomfort - left, right, right, left.  I was able to disentangle myself from the top sheet and quilt and to get out of the bed with some P&D, to get my heavy cotton robe on by myself, and moved back to the TV room and the recliner, where G was still awake, watching a streaming soap and then SNL.  Lights out at midnight, pss at 2ish, 3:30, and lights back on at 5 for Lilly'as outing among the swaying tree limbs.  I need to count my blessings.  My blessed mother used to tell me that when we lived in considerable misery in the roachy basement apartment at 7303 S. Emerald.  I sit here now 75, almost 80 years later, thinking of how much she endured in those years after WWII.  Just thinking of it knocks me for a loop.

At 5:15, I turned off the slow cooker, planning to eat the overnight oatmeal around 6 when I take my 7th 20 mg. prednisone, hoping for more pain relief and lubricity this morning.  I take the prednisone as planned but still have the shoulder/hands pain which causes me to send a Secure Message to Dr. Ryzka later in the morning.  I do wonder whether I am misdiagnosed.

Zionism.  There is a guest op-ed in this morning's NYTimes titled "Will Zionism Survive the War?" by Professor Yuval Noah Harari of the Hebrew University in Jerusalem.   The professor defends various understandings of Zionism and argues that the version of it represented by Benjamin Netanyahu and his coalition's hard right-wing government in Israel is the worst.

In recent years, however, Israel has been ruled by governments that turned their back on the moderate forms of Zionism. . . In its own words, the founding principle of the Netanyahu coalition is that “the Jewish people has an exclusive and inalienable right to all parts of Eretz Yisrael” — Eretz Yisrael is a Hebrew term referring to the entire territory between the Jordan and the Mediterranean. The Netanyahu coalition envisions a single state between the Jordan River and the Mediterranean Sea, which would grant full rights only to Jewish citizens, partial rights to a limited number of Palestinian citizens and neither citizenship nor any rights to millions of oppressed Palestinian subjects. This is not just a vision. To a large extent, this is already the reality on the ground.

 I have been wondering for months whether Zionism is Israel's Original Sin, that is to say, whether the whole idea of establishing a Jewish state in Palestine (or elsewhere for that matter) is intrinsically racist, or tribal, colonial, and exclusionary.  Professor Harari writes:

Born in the late 19th century, modern Zionism is a national movement similar to the ones that arose during the same period among Greeks, Poles and many other peoples. The key idea of Zionism is that Jews constitute a nation, and as such they have not just individual human rights but also a national right to self-determination. (My emphasis added.)

Is it accurate that Jews constitute a nation with a national right to self-determination?  I note first that the idea of a right implies its corollary, a duty, which is to say that since Jews have a national right to self-determination, others, i.e., non-Jews have a duty to respect that right.  If I have a right to life, all others have a duty not to kill me.  Questions that come to mind include: (1) In what sense were and are the Jews of the world a "nation" and in what sense are they not?, and (2) when, where, and how did this supposed right arise?

A nation is generally considered a group of people sharing many common characteristics like language, history, customs, values,  religion, and usually geographical territory.  Thus, it seems natural enough to speak of the Sioux people of America's Great Plains as the Sioux Nation and of the Kurdish people occupying contiguous land in Iran, Iraq, Syria, and Turkey as the Kurdish Nation.  Can we reasonably say the same thing of the Jewish people spread across the world in Theodore Herzl's day when Zionism was developed?  Some Jews lived in Palestine as a distinct minority among majority Muslim Arabs, but many more lived in Russia, in Eastern, Central, and Western Europe, throughout the Americas, in North Africa, in the Far East, seemingly everywhere, as a diaspora.  They spoke many different languages and had many different customs.  If they had anything holding them together it was their ethnic ancient history and their religion, but even in their religion(s), they were pluralistic, as they are today, witness the many atheistic or agnostic secular Jews in Israel itself vs. the ultra-orthodox and everybody in between  How could it reasonably be said that a Jew with deep roots in Morocco, a Jew in Brooklyn, New York, and a Jew in Bialystok, Poland, were members of the same nation, each with a common right of national self-determination?

If there is or was such a right, in what is it based?  Where does it spring from?  Israel's settler class, her gush emunim, believe it comes from the Almighty, as in the lyrics to the theme from Exodus, sung by Pat Boone:  "This land is mine.  God gave this land to me. . . If I must fight, I'll fight to make this land our own, until I die, this land is mine."  For those of us who don't accept the notion that God is the source of Israel's right of self-determination, where else shall we look?    Perhaps the UN Partition Plan for the British Mandate of Palestine in 1947, but that plan was never put into effect.  It prompted the Israel-Arab War of 1947-48 which established boundaries for the State of Israel very different from those specified in the Partition Plan.  Did the right originate in Israel's Declaration of Independence in 1948 or Israel's recognition and acceptance into the United Nations in 1949?  But the former is, as they say, a self-licking ice cream cone, and the latter is simply the recognition of a de facto state, a sovereign entity with monopoly control over the use of power within its own territory and by and on its own people, another self-licking ice cream cone.

It seems inescapable to me that the Jews of the world have not comprised a nation since the first century C.E. and that they had in Herzl's time and now no national right of self-determination.  Zionism was made up out of whole cloth by Herzl in 1896, an invention, a pipedream brought on by the pernicious, ubiquitous, anti-semitism of European Christians.  It also seems to me that an inherent characteristic of a Jewish state is a privileged status for Jews and, at best, a tolerated but less privileged status for non-Jews or, at worst, expulsion of non-Jews, which is what we have had throughout Israel's history.  It has culminated, after the 1967 war and especially since the ascendency of Likud and related political parties, in a racist, indeed apartheid state.


Saturday, May 18, 2024

5/18/24

 Saturday, May 18, 2024

Prednisone, day 6, and I still have bilateral shoulder pain and hand pain in the morning.  I overcame the temptation to sleep on my bed last night and spent the night on the recliner again.  I was awake in the middle of the night and listened to the first part of the NYTimes Magazine long feature "The Unpunished: How Extremists Took Over Israel," the balance of which I listened to when I awoke at 5 a.m.

Major accomplishment: (1) I lay down and napped, under the covers, on my bed and got up on my own.  Getting up from a left-side laydown was not bad, but doing the same from the right side was a problem.  I'm keeping my fingers crossed that this persistent shoulder (and hand/wrist/fingers) pain will disappear very soon due to the prednisone.  I wish I had paid more attention to Dr. Ryzka when he mentioned something about when I would feel better.  I hope to sleep in bed tonight for the first time in two months.

Two telling tales about Israelis, Israel's government, and the Palestinians.  One is a guest opinion in this morning's NYTimes by Megan K. Stack entitled "The View Within Israel Turns Bleak."  She describes the hard, bitter, venomous attitude of the Israeli public toward Palestinian Arabs, not just in the Occupied Territories, or "districts" as the Israeli government calls them, but in Israel itself, where about 20% of the population is Arab.  She describes the widespread distribution of military rifles and ammunition by the government among Israeli Jews, but not among Israeli Arabs and the widespread fear among Israeli Arabs.  She reminds me of a term I heard for the first time yesterday or the day before watching the Isaiah Berlin Lecture at Oxford University by Professor Margaret MacMillan of the University of Toronto: "Kabinettskriege" or "cabinet wars."  Cabinet wars, unlike "total wars," were limited in scope, goals, and outcomes, and limited to fewer and more professional fighters.  Total wars engage total populations, involve more of the total population through conscription and otherwise, and have massively different impacts on people's thinking.  Total wars lead to widespread hatred and demonization of the enemy, meaning not just the combatants but the peoples from which they come.  "We're gonna have to zap, the dirty little Jap," and all that.  The Tokyo firebombings, Dresden, Hiroshima, and Nagasaki become acceptable in total war, not in cabinet wars.  From the beginning, the Israeli-Palestinian conflicts have been total war, existential war, giving rise to near-ubiquitous fear and hatred.  I say "near" ubiquitous because there was a "Left" in Israel ab initio, and at least until October 7, 2023, there were many Israeli Jews who worked for and yearned for peace with the Palestinians.  Not so many anymore.

     The other piece is the very long historical article I listened to during the night and early morning from the current NYTimes magazine "The Unpunished: How the Extremists Took Over Israel" by  Ronen Bergman and Mark Mazzetti.  It's the history of the Settler Movement in Israel, of "From the River to the Sea," of Gush Emunim and Greater Israel, of Exodus and "This land is mine, God gave this land to me."  It's the story of racism and apartheid and so much of what is wrong with Israel, has been wrong from the beginning and became worse after the 1967 war.  It's the story of Israel's right-wing terrorist movements, of Rabbi Meir Kahane, of Dr. Baruch Goldstein, of Yigal Amir and Yitzhak Rabin, of Benjamin Netanyahu, Itamar Ben-Gvir, and Bezalel Smotrich.  It's the story of how Israel became like America's Jim Crow South, and has become or is becoming a pariah state.

LTMW I see our good neighbor John MacGregor out for a walk in the 70℉ sunny weather.  He wears a short-sleeved, lilac-colored shirt and coral-colored Bermuda shorts, with his arms crossed behind his hunched back resulting from childhood polio.  He stops to study something on the street or in the grass on our lawn before deciding to proceed up into Mequon rather than down County Line Road.  I wonder whether his choice is affected by the gentle hill on County Line vs. the level road in Mequon.  I doubt it since he appears to be in very good condition from his multiple walks day in and day out.  I almost always feel some shame at my own non-existent exercise habits when I see John out and about.  We're the same age and he has had some daunting health scares since we have been next-door neighbors, but I daresay he will long outlive me, and live better, despite the history of polio, because of his exercise discipline.

    I also see a female goldfinch plucking a big beak full of nesting material from the $8 cotton ball I have hanging on one of our shepherd's crooks.  Her male partner is perched on the tube feeder with several strands of cotton stuck on his beak but blowing horizontally in the steady breeze.  I need to supplement the sunflower and safflower seeds in the feeder this afternoon.



Schroeder the Fisherman

I sat on the bank above Bernadotte/ And dropped crumbs in the water,

Just to see the minnows bump each other, until the strongest got the prize.

Or I went to my little pasture /  Where the peaceful swine were asleep in the wallow,

Or nosing each other lovingly, / And emptied a basket of yellow corn,

And watched them push and squeal and bite, / And trample each other to get the corn.

And I saw how Christian Dalllman's farm, / Of more than three thousand acres,

Swallowed the patch of Felix Schmidt,  / As a bass will swallow a minnow.

And I say if there anything in man - / Spirit, or conscience, or breath of God

That makes him different from fishes or hogs,  /  I'd like to see it work!

Edgar Lee Masters, Spoon River Anthology (1914)


Friday, May 17, 2024

5/17/24

 Friday, May 17, 2024

MaryBeth was in the hospital last night, Geri minding E while Sharon tended to her mother.  Geri got home at 10 p.m. and unwound for 2 hours watching Lawrence and Alex.  I couldn't sleep and was up till 1 a.m., then up again at 4:30 to enjoy my overnight oatmeal and prednisone pill around 5.  Then, resolved not to start my day with blustering, rude Joe and strange Mika, I watched several YouTube pieces on William Blake, an almost lifelong favorite of mine, perhaps mostly for the few lines I so frequently turn to

Every Night & every Morn

Some to Misery are Born 

Every Morn and every Night

Some are Born to sweet delight 

Some are Born to sweet delight 

Some are Born to Endless Night 

It's hard to believe that William Blake truly existed, that he walked this Earth, wrote his lines, drew and painted and engraved his images, and saw his visions.  Has there been anyone like him other than Shakespeare perhaps?  I suppose I, like everyone else, was introduced to him in high school, perhaps by Brother Coogan, and again in college, by John Pick, but I recall being most "into him" during my first year in the Marine Corps, more than 60 years ago, when I enjoyed his lyrical poems so much and tried to understand his prophetic poems while stationed temporarily at Naval Air Station Glynco outside of Brunswick, Georgia, where I became a fan of Sydney Lanier and The Marshes of Glynn.  (How's that for a run-on sentence?_

Blake lived during the reigns of George III and George IV, during the revolutionary eras in America and France.  He died almost 200 years ago yet he seems so incredibly modern, so contemporary,   How often I think of the lines I quoted above about the "lottery of birth," its impact on me and my sister, and indeed on everyone.  Consider Donald Trump, born a millionaire son of a racist, domineering father who instilled in him a dog-eat-dog, zero-sum game worldview and life philosophy.  Then consider the overwhelming majority of other human beings on this planet.  William Blake never would have fallen for Bill Clinton's brazen bullshit that all you need to succeed in America, or anywhere, is to work hard and play by the rules.

I'm thinking today of the opening stanzas of Blake's London:

I wander thro' each charter'd street,

Near where the charter'd Thames does flow. 

And mark in every face I meet

Marks of weakness, marks of woe.


In every cry of every Man,

In every Infants cry of fear,

In every voice: in every ban,

The mind-forg'd manacles I hear 

Are we not today utterly beset by Blake's "mind-forged manacles"? We are surrounded by agents hellbent on mining our weaknesses and causing us woes.  Misinformation, disinformation, lies, misleading half-truths, messages expertly designed by marketers, advertisers, politicians, public relations professionals, foreign and domestic "influencers," and hidden persuaders to make us unhappy about this, that, or the other thing, to make us want something we don't have, this product or that service, this politician in office rather than that..  We live each day in a war zone in which the mission of the warriors is to penetrate our conscious and subconscious mind to affect our behaviors not for our benefit, but for the benefit of the persuaders.

Prednisone, day 5.   I've heard too many stories of patients being quickly healed of their PMR pains after 1 or 2 days on prednisone.  I worry that on the morning of day 5, my shoulders will still painful and my fingers stiff and painful.  My lower back stiffens up as usual after being on my feet and active for a while, though I am not as concerned about that as I am about the shoulders and hands/fingers.  The final step in the diagnostic tests for PMR is responsiveness to prednisone.  Am I misdiagnosed, or simply expecting too much, too soon, considering how wracked I was just 5 days ago and how much better I have been since?



Dem boids.  Lilly showed up at about 6:30 and I let her out at 6:45.  I turned on the Merlin app on my iPhone and Merlin said the air was filled with the sounds of a Northern Cardinal, an American Robin, a House Sparrow, and a Brown-Headed Cowbird.  Spring has sprung.

Leo Bloom: I beg your pardon?

Concierge:  Who d'ya want? Nobody gets in the building unless I know who they want. I'm the "concierge". My husband used to be the "concierge", but he's dead. Now I'M the "concierge".

Max Bialystock:  We are seeking Franz Liebkind.

Concierge:  Oh... the Kraut! He's on the top floor, apartment 23.

Max Bialystock:  Thank you...

Concierge: ...But you won't find him there... he's up on the roof with his boids. He keeps boids. Dirty... disgusting... filthy... lice-ridden boids. You used to be able to sit out on the stoop like a person. Not anymore! No, sir! Boids!... You get my drift?

Leo Bloom:  We... uh... get your "drift". Thank you, madam.

Concierge:  I'm not a "madam"! I'm a "concierge"!

Major Accomplishments:  (1) I lay down on my bed for the first time in two months.  (2)  I was able to get up and out of bed from lying down on my left shoulder.  (3) I stripped my bed and washed the linens.

Thursday, May 16, 2024

5/16/24

 Thursday, May 16, 2024

Lights out at about 11 p.m., back on at 3:30 a.m, out again at 5:45 and up at 6:55

Prednisone, Day 4.  I woke up with a very sore right shoulder and limited ROM in my left shoulder, bilateral sore wrists, looking forward to ingesting my 4th prednisone around daybreak. . . took the prednisone at 5 a.m. with my overnight steel cut oatmeal.  I got up at 6:55, pain in both shoulders especially the right one, and very stiff fingers, tender hands.  Am I expecting too much relief too soon, considering what bad condition I was in on Monday, needing help to get into the Honda, requiring a wheelchair escort at the VA?  I bounce between wondering whether I may be misdiagnosed, unhealed by the prednisone and accepting that I'm in much better condition than I was in on Monday when I took the first dose.

Lust for Life; decrepitude and attitude.  I'm reading an article by Elizabeth Keating in The Atlantic: "Questions We Don't Ask Our Families, But Should." She writes that when her mother died, she realized how much she didn't know of her life.  I had the same feeling of regret as I worked on my memoir years ago, my own mother having died in 1973 at age 51 and her own mother having died when my mother was only 6 years old.  What was her life like growing up with her Irish immigrant father and 3 brothers in the 1920s and during the Great Depression?  As a young wife during World War II and the terrible years after the War?  With my father (with whom I didn't speak for 13 years, but that's another story) I was able to ask some of those questions when we reconciled, especially when he lived with us in his last years.  As I sit here on my recliner, typing this at 4:30 in the morning at age 82, how I miss them both, so many memories still and so many regrets.  I'm thinking of Emily in Our Town:  "Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it?—every, every minute?

A sentence that caused me to pause as I read the essay was this: "I wish I had a fuller sense of [my mother] as a person, especially how she was when she was young, with a lust for life."  What can one say of "lust for life" in old age, when one is like Robert Frost's The Oven-bird: "The bird would cease and be as other birds / But that he knows in singing not to sing. / The question that he frames in all but words /Is what to make of a diminished thing."  

Perhaps Cicero's most famous essay is De Senectute, or On Old Age.  In it, he defends the value and advantages of old age against those who see only Frost's diminishment and concludes"

…my old age sits light upon me…, and not only is not burdensome, but is even happy. For as Nature has marked the bounds of everything else, so she has marked the bounds of life. Moreover, old age is the final scene … in life’s drama, from which we ought to escape when it grows wearisome and, certainly, when we have had our fill.

It is the last clause that I think of in illness, incapacity, dependency and pain.  Freud theorized that we are all governed both by a Life Drive and by a Death Drive, Eros and Thanatos.  He thought that we all hold an unconcious desire to die which is countered and overridden by the drive or urge to live, to reproduce, to thrive and enjoy pleasure.  Many, maybe most, psychologists and analysts take issue with his theory of a Death Drive, but the older and sicker and more diminished I become, the more I am inclined to believe it.  I am often like Dr. Doolittle's Pushme Pullyu, acting to prolong life my life with medications and doctor visits at times and at other times wanting to "get it over with," as my father would often say about experiences as different as enjoying dinner and going to a doctor's appointment.

After he turned 80, Henry Miller wrote an essay called, appropriately enough, On Turning Eighty.  He wrote:

If at eighty you’re not a cripple or an invalid, if you have your health, if you still enjoy a good walk, a good meal (with all the trimmings), if you can sleep without first taking a pill, if birds and flowers, mountains and sea still inspire you, you are a most fortunate individual and you should get down on your knees morning and night and thank the good Lord for his savin’ and keepin’ power. If you are young in years but already weary in spirit, already on the way to becoming an automaton, it may do you good to say to your boss — under your breath, of course — “Fuck you, Jack! You don’t own me!” … If you can fall in love again and again, if you can forgive your parents for the crime of bringing you into the world, if you are content to get nowhere, just take each day as it comes, if you can forgive as well as forget, if you can keep from growing sour, surly, bitter and cynical, man you’ve got it half licked.

What I note is that there are a lot of "if's in those sentences, starting with not being a cripple or an invalid, having good health.  To the extent the opposite is true, to that extent life becomes a burden from which, in Cicero's words, "we ought to escape when it grows wearisome and, certainly, when we have had our fill."  I am reminded of an evening, decades ago, when I accompanied Tom St. John to a Milwaukee Rep perforance of A Christmas Carol (because Caela wasn't feeling well.)  Before the perfromance, we had dinner and a drink in the course of which Tom remarked, for some forgotten reason, that he wished he could live forever, but as a perpetually young, healthy guy.  I said it sounded like living in Hell to me: eternal life in the same condition, at the same age, in a state of stasis, like Paul Cook's descripton of Heaven in the original Bedazzled film:

Dudley Moore:  What was it like up in Heaven?
Peter Cook:  Very nice, really.  We used to sit around all day and adore Him.  Believe you me, He was adorable.
Moore:  Well what went wrong then?
Cook:  I'll show you. (climbing on top of mailbox)  I'm God, see.  All around me are the cherubim, seraphim, continually crying "Holy, holy', holy," the angels, archangels, that sort of thing.  Now, you be me, Lucifer, the loveliest angel of them all.
Moore:  What sort of thing do I say?
Cook:  Anything that coms into your head that's nice.  How beautiful I am, how wise I am, how handsome, that sort of thing.  C'mon, start dancing.  [Dudley Moore starts a softshoe dance.]
Moore:  You're wise.  You're beautiful.  You're handsome.
Cook:  Thank you very much.  Now make it more personal, more fulsome, please.
Moore: You're immortal, invisible, you're glorious, the more perfect . . . Hey, I'm getting a bit bored with this.  Can't we change places?
Cook:  That's exactly how I felt!
This very funny and memorable scene from the movie raises a very serious theological issue about the nature of Heaven, the Beatific Vision., time, eternity, and Bliss.  What is Heaven like?  Will it be like an earthly Eden where we will be reunited with our loved ones?  Will our bodies really be resurrected in a perfected conditon?  Young?  Middle-aged?  Or will we share in the divine nature of God who has no body, no parts?  Or is Heaven like T. S. Eliot's vision in the concluding lines of The Hippopotamus"
I saw the ’potamus take wing

I saw the ’potamus take wing

Ascending from the damp savannas,

And quiring angels round him sing

The praise of God, in loud hosannas.

Blood of the Lamb shall wash him clean

And him shall heavenly arms enfold,

Among the saints he shall be seen

Performing on a harp of gold.

He shall be washed as white as snow,

By all the martyr’d virgins kist,

While the True Church remains below

Wrapt in the old miasmal mist.

How did these thoughts become so meandering?  I started intending to think and write about the competing urges to live and enjoy life as a blessing and the urge to "get it over with" as a burden in old age.  I need to focus my thinking.

. . . 

“You know how it is: you’re twenty-one or twenty-two and you make some decisions; then whisssh! you’re seventy: you’ve been a lawyer for fifty years, and that white-haired lady at your side has eaten over fifty thousand meals with you.”  The Stage Manager in Thornton Wilder's Our Town.



Wednesday, May 15, 2024

5/15/24

Wednesday, May 15, 2024

 

Pain, etc.  Geri wondered whether I might try sleeping in my bed last night but I declined, noting that my shoulders were still not well.  I fell asleep in the recliner sometime after 8 p.m., woke and tried unsuccessfully to figure out how I used to make overnight oatmeal in a slow cooker bain-marie, opted for a simpler method, went back to sleep around 11:15, and lights back on at 3 a.m., with aching shoulders, hoping the next prednisone pill will bring some more relief to my shoulders.  My hands and some fingers are still stiff and unable to clench.  Am I expecting too much relief too soon after letting the disease persist for so long?  I nodded off again at some point and lights on again at 5:30 when I took my 3rd prednisone pill with my oatmeal breakfast.  I'm very disappointed that both my shoulders are so painful, and my hands too.



Major Accomplishments:  (1)  Glucose reading, 215 at 11a.m.  (2) A very welcome shower at 11:30 a.m., without assistance.  (3)   Able to dress myself without assistance.  (4)  Lunch of carrots, celery, almonds, olives.  (5) Teleconference with Deena re lymphedema.  (6) Emptied the dishwasher.  (7) Filled the dishwasher and cleaned the counters. (8) Did a load of laundry.  Major impediment: recurrent backaches requiring sitting, and resting.

Glucose reading:   3rd prednisone pill and breakfast at 6 a.m., a big serving of steel-cut oatmeal with blueberries and 6 prunes.  Reading about 5 hours later, no food or drink in between except for water.  A1c equivalent of 9.11!  Whoa!  Prednisone?!?

B: Steel-cut oatmeal, prunes, blueberries

L:  carrots, celery, almonds, green and black olives

D:  lentil soup, baked salmon, black beans and rice, marinated mushrooms

Tuesday, May 14, 2024

5/14/24

 Tuesday, May 14, 2024

First things first -

I'm grateful for my wife and life partner Geri who has been my Godsend, my guardian angel, especially during these last days of pain, sickness, weakness, and disability.  In our 37 years of marriage, I have watched her care for so many others, never anticipating that the time would come when she would be called upon to care for me in distress and helplessness, but as with so many others, so with me.  She is more than I deserve.  

When her sons and their families gathered for her 80th birthday, I read a tribute to her after dinner, including in part, the following:

. . . I added her devotion to duty.  It sounds as if I were thinking of a soldier or a 'first responder' but in all of the roles she plays in her life, Geri has an innate sense of duty. 'Sense of duty' doesn't capture what I'm referring to.  As a child to her parents, as a parent to her children, as a life partner to me, as a sister to her brother Jim, and as a friend to her many friends, she is true, caring, trustworthy, attentive, solicitous.  The people in her life can count on her for help, for advice, for an open ear and a ready hand, to respect confidences, to pitch in when some pitching in is needed and to butt out when some butting out is needed.  When my twice-widowed father came to live with us, Geri became his best friend at a time in his life when he so badly needed a real friend.  When her older brother lost his wife and his children were spread out across the country, Geri encouraged him to move near us and she personally cared for him for several years.  We should all have these qualities but not all of us do and few have them as innately, as suffusely as Geri does.  This sense of duty carries into all her undertakings, e.g., as an employee, as a volunteer (ombudsman at a nursing home, child welfare investigator, poll worker) and even to our pets.  When our beloved cat Blanche needed to be hydrated by transfusion every day, Geri turned her ironing board into a gurney for her, hung the hydrating solution from a closet door, and served as her nurse.  And Lilly, . . . words fail me.

. . .  my list is inevitably incomplete.  She is who she is in all her uniqueness.  She is special in large part because she doesn't treat herself as special, as better than or not as good as anyone around her.  But she is very special to me, and she's very special to her family and to her many friends who count themselves privileged to have her in our lives.

What would I say now of her "sense of duty," knowing how she has cared for me, indeed nursed me, through my 'slough of despond', helpless, needy, alone but for her at my side and at my back, literally, pushing my wheelchair around Zablocki?  Her mother could have aptly named her Grace, an undeserved blessing.

[I inserted the photo of Geri, in her  70s, caring for her brother Jimmy, in his late 80s, because it illustrates so well her character as a caregiver.  She was asking Jimmy for his hearing aids so she could inspect their batteries.  She did this at least every week.  Jimmy kept having problems with the hearing aids and Geri kept fixing them, patiently, caringly, and lovingly.  Jimmy has moved on to be closer to his daughter and now Geri gets to care for me.  I think of my sister caring for her Aunt Mary Healy, her sister-in-law Jerri Burns, our own father, Jim's niece Mary, and so many others.  I think of my mother caring for Kitty and me and our wounded father after Iwo Jima, and caring for her father and her brother Jim, and so many others.  I have been so blessed with strong, good women in my life.]

Pain, etc.   Where to start?  Yesterday: I was thrilled when I was wheeled into the doctor's office and saw that the rheumatologist is a middle-aged man, not a young resident.  He is foreign-born, a Pole, Rafal Ryzka, who I learned graduated from Jagiellonian University medical school in Krakow, Poland.  He took a long medical history and had a very high confidence that I had Polymyalgia rheumatica.  I loved the guy.  He prescribed 20 mg. prednisone daily and we were able to pick it up at the VA pharmacy before we left for home to take the first pill.  I took another 20 mg. pill at 6 this morning, after waking up on the recliner at 3 a.m.  I feel much better than I did yesterday, especially the hip pain, and I have better ROM of my shoulders but still some pain.  My hands, on the other hand, are still stiff, weak, and somewhat painful, as is my back.

Before yesterday:  I was crippled and despondent, fearful of an uncertain but dark future.  The worst times were the middle of the night fears about what the future might entail.  In the weeks leading up to the appointment with Dr. Ryzka, I thought of myself as a Dr. Jeckyll/Mr. Hyde, multiple personality character: Miserable, depressed, full of dark thoughts in the nighttime and morning hours, almost normal in the afternoon and early evening hours when the pain abated.  During the night as I sat or lay awake, I thought of the preferability of death over the way I was living, thought each night of suicide if it turned out I was condemned to a life of persistent bad pain over most of my body and limited to over-the-counter medications (Tylenol, Aspercreme, and Voltaren) and painful and ineffective physical therapy.  I feared being unable to lift myself off the recliner when I needed a pit stop, not being able to lift myself off the toilet, and having to call  Geri or 911 if I became trapped on the chair or the toilet.  I wondered whether I should buy a pistol and ammunition "just in case" but always knew I couldn't 'do the deed' in a way that cruelly caused avoidable trauma to Geri, my dilemma or conundrum, perhaps the dilemma facing many suicides.   It was the second time in my life that I regularly engaged in 'suicidal ideation,' the other being 10-11 years ago when I was experiencing severe and persistent pain from ulcers in my bladder.  In each instance, the cause was severe, unrelenting pain and a sense of helplessness and hopelessness.  This is the reason I was hoping so desperately that the rheumatologist would concur with my self-diagnosis that I have polymyalgia rheumatica and needed prednisone, not Tylenol.  It was a terrible and terrifying time.  It brought home to me my weakness, my ambivalence about the blessing and curse of old age.

Major Accomplishments:  (1)  I refilled my bi-weekly pill boxes.  (2) I put on my winter jacket by myself, and (3) walked to the mailbox to gather our mail for the first time in how long?

Big Challenge: returning to my bed to sleep instead of the recliner.  Probably not tonight, shoulders are still iffy, at best.

Monday, May 13, 2024

5/13/24

 Monday, May 13, 2024

Polymyalgia rheumatica

    HOPE


Rafal Ryzka, M.D.

Froedert/MCOW/ZABLOCKI

Jagiellonian University, M.D., 1999