On Sunday, Mr. B. and I played pickleball for the first time. For those of you who don't know, in a nutshell pickleball is played on a badminton-sized court, often sharing space with either a basketball court in a gym, or a tennis court outside. It can be played by 2-4 people, with 1-2 people per side.
Every Sunday afternoon, the Sanibel Rec Center has pick-up pickleball. Mr. B. and I have wanted to try playing for a while, but were intimidated by our lack of experience. We'd get down to the Rec Center, walk into the gym, and see all these players whacking and volleying the ball, and everyone seemed to know what they were doing. We felt out of place and couldn't work up the courage to throw our hat into the ring, so to speak. Until this Sunday, that is, when we finally managed to be brave enough to step out onto the court. The pick-up games start at 1:00, so we waited until 2:00 to get there, figuring most people would be tired out by then, and maybe we'd be able to get a court to ourselves. We wanted a chance to get to practice playing before inflicting our newness on anyone else. Our plan seemed to be a good one. We walked in, and the middle court was free. So we were heading that way when we were stopped by a woman with short gray hair, a paddle in her hand, and a wild look in her eye. "Are you here to play?" she asked? Well... that should have been obvious, given the rackets in our hands. Anyway, I guess it was a fair question, since we probably looked pretty hesitant.
"Yessss...," I said, "But we've never played before."
"That's no problem. We just need to get another player," she said. She looked around the gym, trying to catch someone's eye to get another player to join us. Her search went on for a few minutes, and I was really hoping she'd fail, and Mr. B. and I would get to use the empty court to play by ourselves. No such luck. One of the other games wrapped up, and an older gentleman walked over to the woman and said he'd play. So, we all walked over to the empty court, and made our introductions. The gray-haired woman was Pat, the older gentleman was Van. Pat and Mr. B. took their places on one side, and Van and I went to the other side. Van explained the basics of the game to me, while Pat filled Mr. B. in on the rules over on their side. It's a pretty simple game, kind of a mix between tennis, badminton, and ping pong. Before long, we were immersed in hitting the ball back and forth, practicing volleying before launching into the game.
"Keep your eye on the ball," Van kept reminding me every time I swung and missed. "Just repeat that to yourself." Okay, okay, I thought. I can do that.
After a few minutes of attempted volleying, Pat and Van were chomping at the bit to get started playing, and so we began. They let me serve first, and Van instructed me on the fine art of announcing the score. "You say Zero Zero One," he said. I repeated that, calling it out loudly so Pat and Mr. B. could hear me on their side of the court. And then I served the ball. It took me a couple of tries, but I got the hang of it pretty quickly, and we were off and running... for about two volleys, and then I missed the ball. "Keep your eye on the ball," Van reminded me. "Keep telling yourself that." Yeah, yeah. I know. It's just easier said than done, I thought. I nodded and apologized for missing. Van waved off my apology and smiled. "You're doing fine," he said. "Just keep your eye on the ball."
Van served next. "Zero Zero Two," he said, and sent the ball over the net. Pat smacked it back after letting it bounce, and Van hit it back to her after letting it bounce, and we managed to volley maybe two times before I missed the ball again. "I've got to keep my eye on the ball," I said, shaking my head in dismay, before Van could give me that advice again. It's not that I'm a slow learner, it's just that I get caught up in running to get the ball, and forget to keep my eyes on it.
We sent the ball over to Mr. B. and Pat for them to serve. Pat started. "Zero Zero One," she said, and sent it over to me. I got to it and kept my eyes on that ball and connected. Boy did that feel good. "No good," said Pat and Van at the same time. "You forgot to let it bounce." Sigh. Okay, another to thing to keep in mind -- let the ball bounce when it's first served over, before you hit it back. Pat served again, and this time I let it bounce before connecting with it, and she missed my return. So the serve went to Mr. B. Pat instructed him on the proper calling out of the score before serving. "Say One Zero Two," she said. So he announced the score and served, and Van returned the serve, and after a couple of volleys, Mr. B. missed the ball and it was back on our side to serve.
Just as we were about to serve, someone came up to Van and told him his wife wasn't feeling well, so he had to leave. Luckily, Richard, the guy delivering the news, agreed to take Van's place. Picture Ernest Borgnine in a knee brace. Richard proceeded to coach me on the fine art of where to stand while he served, and where to stand when the other team was serving. It took me quite a while, but I finally figured out the right to place to be. He wasn't quite as patient a teacher as Van, and I was kind of intimidated by him. I could sense his dismay every time I missed the ball and we lost the serve. I think he tired of hearing me say "I'm sorry." I know I got tired of saying it. I needed Van back to remind me to "keep my eye on the ball" so I wouldn't have to say "I'm sorry" so much.
It also took me quite a while to get the hang of announcing the score. Van had told me to say "Zero Zero One," when I was starting to serve, so I figured I was server #1, since the score was 0-0. So I was confused when Richard served and announced himself as server #1. I didn't want to correct him, so I started referring to myself as server #2 every time it was my turn to serve. We played three games with Richard before his knee gave out (at least that's what he claimed -- I think he was tired of hearing me apologize for missing the ball so much). Pat was ready to go hit the ball against the wall and offered to leave the court for Mr. B. and me to play a game of singles. We were about to take her up on that offer when another player walked onto the court, and Pat asked him if he wanted to play. Yep, he sure did. So a very tired Mr. B. and I played another three games with Pat and Ted, the new guy on the scene. Ted was about 20 years younger than Richard, and he and I made a good team against Pat and Mr. B. By then I had gotten the hang of keeping my eye on the ball and managed to volley quite a few times before missing. During the course of playing with Ted, I learned my final bit of important information about pickleball -- I found out I was not always server #1. The use of #1 or #2 refers to whether you are the first person serving or the second when it's our turn to serve. So I guess everyone was sparing me the embarrassment of correcting me when I referred to myself as server #1, even though I was the second server sometimes. It's surprising that Van didn't correct me -- he had no problem reminding me to "keep my eye on the ball."
We look forward to playing again this Saturday, and I guarantee I will remember to "keep my eye on the ball," and pay attention to whether I'm server #1 or #2.
Wednesday, February 1, 2017
An Unwelcome Visitor in Chez Seamore
So,
last night as I was drifting off to sleep, I felt something gently tickling my
face. I ignored it, thinking it was a stray thread from my blanket or pillow.
Ten seconds later, I felt it again. This time I sat up and turned on the light,
adrenaline starting to pump through me as I scoured the sheet and floor for the
source of the tickling. I couldn't see anything, but knew I hadn't imagined it,
so broadened my search. Still in bed, I lifted my pillow and saw something that
looked a lot like the fake ones that my sisters took such delight
in tucking into our luggage our last trip to Siesta Key. It looked like this.
This
guy was the real deal, though, not a fake rubber one, and he moved with the speed of
light. I don't know if roaches have ears, but if they do, this one was probably
deafened by my scream. He scurried as soon as I lifted the pillow, and ran
along the floor underneath our bed, near the head of it. He was big enough that
even Mr. B., who is pretty much legally blind without his contacts, could
see it. I scrambled off the bed and headed down the hallway to grab the can of
insect spray the previous owners kindly left behind for us (it's hornet spray,
but I figured it would work on roaches, too). In the meantime, the roach
completely vanished. We couldn't see him anywhere. Five minutes passed, my
heart beating so loudly that I was afraid the neighbors might wonder if we were
hammering something or beating on drums. Mr. B. suggested throwing in the towel
and going back to bed. AS IF. "No effing way!" I said, looking wildly
around the room for Mr. Roach.
Finally, I screwed up my courage, turned on the
flashlight, crouched down and shined it under the bed. And there he
was, resting quietly, contemplating his next move. I sprayed that hornet spray
at it like a fireman spraying water on a 10 alarm fire. He scrambled to get out
of the line of spray and ran right into Mr. B.'s waiting Kleenex, where he was
squashed like, well, like a bug. Mr. B. is my hero.
About
an hour later the adrenaline finally stopped coursing through my veins and my
heartbeat returned to its normal rhythm. I finally fell asleep, and though I
didn't dream about the bug, I thought about it every time I woke up. And every
time I felt even the slightest itch on my head or face, I jerked. Today we gave
the trailer and our bedding a thorough cleaning (it's a trailer when a
cockroach wanders in; it will take a while for me to think of it as a cottage
again). I didn't see any signs of any other cockroaches, and that was the first
one we've seen here. The neighbors behind us are having some construction work
done that involved digging up their lawn, which is right next to our fence, and
Mr. B.'s theory is that the digging unearthed the cockroach, who might have
landed on the clothes I had hanging on the line yesterday. He thinks maybe it
hitchhiked on the clothes when I brought them in. Since I was the one who
folded them, the thought of a cockroach scrambling through my clothes is enough
to give me the willies, never mind the memory of it crawling on my face last
night. I wonder how long it will take me to fall asleep tonight, AFTER I
check under the bed and under my pillow, and throw back the covers to make sure
nothing is lurking in the bed. I know the memory of that cockroach crawling on
my face will be with me forever.
Anyone want to come for a visit? :D
So Many Changes In So Many Years
You know, I had actually all but forgotten I had created this Blog. Nearly 10 years have gone by since I last posted an entry, and so much has happened in that time. The short version of those events is that over the course of the last 8 years, Mr. B. and I have moved into the Manor, rented out our house to a young couple with two children, and divide our time between the Manor and Chezmus (Chez for short) Seamore, our cottage (aka a trailer) in the Periwinkle Park RV campground on Sanibel Island.
Mommy Dearest is still alive and well, as are nearly all the major players in my life. Mr. B's father passed away unexpectedly this past November, and his mother is still alive, though not very well, living out her days in an assisted living facility in Ohio. She suffers from Alzheimer's, and even on her good days she has no idea who she is or where she is, recognizes no one, and lives in a world where a play doll is a real baby to be cooed over and caressed.
Oh, and I've been retired (well, semi-retired) for nearly a year now. I still take on projects now and then to help pay the bills, but for the most part I'm enjoying a whole new way of life that involves a lot more bike riding than instructional design.
So, since I have a lot more time on my hands, I've decided to start "blogging" again. Why not?
Stay tuned for more news from Periwinkle Park and Chez Seamore.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Raggedy Annie
Although it rained most of the time we were in Kauai (it is, after all, the wettest spot on earth), we managed to get to the beach a couple of times and toward the end of the week it warmed up enough for us to want to swim.
We went to the beach near our condo and took note of the red flags flying, which meant that the ocean conditions were dangerous and not suitable for swimming. For a while we stood and watched the waves crashing to the shore dragging so much sand with them that the water looked more like the muddy Mississippi during a major flood than the calm blue waters of a Hawaiian ocean. But we didn't let the red flags or the pounding surf scare us off. We saw lots of other people swimming so we decided to brave the waters.
We had brought with us a boogie board from the condo and I watched while Mr. B., being the smarter and more cautious of the two of us, rode the waves nearer to the shore, where they were more foam than surf. After a while he relinquished the board to me and went to lie down on his towel and soak up the sun.
I, being more fool hearty than Mr. B., paddled further out. At first I set myself parallel to the waves and they rolled in, lifted me up, and set me back down without fanfare. I could've spent hours floating up and over the waves that way. But after 15 minutes or so I became more daring. I spotted a bigger wave coming and pointed the board toward shore.
It was like sledding down a long hill of water instead of snow, landing in foam instead of ice crystals. I rode the wave in close to the shore, exhilarated by the speed of the ride. When I stood up I realized that I was half nude; the wave had pushed up the top half of my swim suit so it was riding around my neck. Sometimes it's a blessing to be flat-chested; no one gave me a second glance. I laughed as I adjusted my suit, then grabbed the boogie board and headed back to the deeper water.
Again, I bobbed up and down over the waves for a while. Then I saw another big wave coming, this one bigger than the first one I had ridden. I pointed the board toward shore and prepared to ride the wave. As it crested under me I could see the other swimmers far below me. My stomach tensed; I gripped the board and prepared for the ride.
At that point I became less a body made of muscle, skin, and bones and more like a rag doll instead, with limbs flailing under the force of the ocean. I lost hold of the boogie board as the wave crashed down on top of me, sucked me up, and spit me out. It was like being caught in the spin cycle of a washing machine.
I ended up knee deep in water, trying to catch my breath and my bearings. With one hand I grabbed the boogie board surfacing next to me and with the other I yanked my swim suit top back into place. Then I headed to the shore before another wave could knock me over. I dripped my way over to Mr. B. and tossed the boogie board behind him. "I almost broke my neck," I said as I flopped down on the towel.
Mr. B., relaxing on his towel, frowned at me and shook his head. "You should've stayed closer to the shore like me; it's much safer that way," he said.
"I know, it was crazy. I shouldn't have ridden that wave, it was too big," I said as I massaged my neck and imagined the pain I'd be in the next day from the ocean's thrashing.
But as I watched the waves crashing against the shore my memory of the thrashing began to fade and I started to grab the boogie board and head out again. Then I stopped and replayed my last ride in my mind. I pictured a Raggedy Ann doll, limbs lying limp and useless, and realized that unless I wanted to become a permanent rag doll I'd better stick to watching the boogie boarders instead of joining them. I sighed, put down the boogie board, and lay back down on the towel, resigned to the limitations of my body against the power of the ocean.
I think Mr. B.'s intelligence and cautious nature is starting to rub off on me.
We went to the beach near our condo and took note of the red flags flying, which meant that the ocean conditions were dangerous and not suitable for swimming. For a while we stood and watched the waves crashing to the shore dragging so much sand with them that the water looked more like the muddy Mississippi during a major flood than the calm blue waters of a Hawaiian ocean. But we didn't let the red flags or the pounding surf scare us off. We saw lots of other people swimming so we decided to brave the waters.
We had brought with us a boogie board from the condo and I watched while Mr. B., being the smarter and more cautious of the two of us, rode the waves nearer to the shore, where they were more foam than surf. After a while he relinquished the board to me and went to lie down on his towel and soak up the sun.
I, being more fool hearty than Mr. B., paddled further out. At first I set myself parallel to the waves and they rolled in, lifted me up, and set me back down without fanfare. I could've spent hours floating up and over the waves that way. But after 15 minutes or so I became more daring. I spotted a bigger wave coming and pointed the board toward shore.
It was like sledding down a long hill of water instead of snow, landing in foam instead of ice crystals. I rode the wave in close to the shore, exhilarated by the speed of the ride. When I stood up I realized that I was half nude; the wave had pushed up the top half of my swim suit so it was riding around my neck. Sometimes it's a blessing to be flat-chested; no one gave me a second glance. I laughed as I adjusted my suit, then grabbed the boogie board and headed back to the deeper water.
Again, I bobbed up and down over the waves for a while. Then I saw another big wave coming, this one bigger than the first one I had ridden. I pointed the board toward shore and prepared to ride the wave. As it crested under me I could see the other swimmers far below me. My stomach tensed; I gripped the board and prepared for the ride.
At that point I became less a body made of muscle, skin, and bones and more like a rag doll instead, with limbs flailing under the force of the ocean. I lost hold of the boogie board as the wave crashed down on top of me, sucked me up, and spit me out. It was like being caught in the spin cycle of a washing machine.
I ended up knee deep in water, trying to catch my breath and my bearings. With one hand I grabbed the boogie board surfacing next to me and with the other I yanked my swim suit top back into place. Then I headed to the shore before another wave could knock me over. I dripped my way over to Mr. B. and tossed the boogie board behind him. "I almost broke my neck," I said as I flopped down on the towel.
Mr. B., relaxing on his towel, frowned at me and shook his head. "You should've stayed closer to the shore like me; it's much safer that way," he said.
"I know, it was crazy. I shouldn't have ridden that wave, it was too big," I said as I massaged my neck and imagined the pain I'd be in the next day from the ocean's thrashing.
But as I watched the waves crashing against the shore my memory of the thrashing began to fade and I started to grab the boogie board and head out again. Then I stopped and replayed my last ride in my mind. I pictured a Raggedy Ann doll, limbs lying limp and useless, and realized that unless I wanted to become a permanent rag doll I'd better stick to watching the boogie boarders instead of joining them. I sighed, put down the boogie board, and lay back down on the towel, resigned to the limitations of my body against the power of the ocean.
I think Mr. B.'s intelligence and cautious nature is starting to rub off on me.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
The Drip of a Lifetime... or, Lost in Kauai
Mr. B. and I just got back from Hawaii (Kauai) where we celebrated our 10 year anniversary. We both love the sun, so at first we considered going to Arizona where nearly every day is sunny and warm. But then we realized that we had enough frequent flyer miles for both of us to fly round-trip to Hawaii for free. Mr. B. and I discussed the pros and cons of Arizona versus Hawaii. We pictured the Arizona desert underneath the blazing sun. Then we pictured sunny beaches, waves lapping the shores, palm trees swaying in the breeze, and in the end it was no contest - Hawaii won.
"It will be the trip of a lifetime," Mr. B. said, rubbing his chin and pulling on his ear. "I'm not sure I'm ready for the trip of a lifetime; what will we have to look forward to after this trip?"
"There will be other trips, don't worry," I said as I switched on my laptop to begin researching Hawaii.
It didn't take long to choose Kauai to visit based on the things we like to do -- walking, hiking, and swimming. I looked up the weather for this time of year in Kauai and learned that it's an island of "microclimates." According to the websites I found Kauai is a tropical paradise where we could swim, kayak, hike, walk the beach, and bask in the sunshine no matter the time of year. I read that if it's raining on one part of the island, no worries... you just drive to a different part of the island where it will be sunny. So we booked a condo for a reasonable price and packed our suitcases in preparation for our trip of a lifetime.
The winds were gusty when we arrived, but the sun warmed us as we walked across the parking lot to our rental car. We looked from one side of the road to the other, taking in the swaying palm trees and exotic flowers on our drive to the condo. "Ah, this is beautiful," said Mr. B. I nodded my head in agreement as I maneuvered the car down Kauai's one main highway and envisioned the coming days of sunshine and beach time.
The sun set shortly after we got to the condo, so we didn't go to the beach the first day. Instead we unpacked and drove down the road a bit to get some pizza, then headed back to the condo and watched a little t.v. while we planned our activities for the next day.
"If it's sunny, we'll hit the beach, right?" I said. Mr. B. flipped the channel to the weather station and we saw that the prediction was for rain in our area with high wind and high surf advisories.
"Okay," I said, keeping in mind the advice about driving to find the sunshine. "If it's raining here we'll just drive until we find the sun."
That settled we hit the sack. The next day we awoke to the promised rain and wind so we headed up north to try and find the sun. We were rewarded for our trouble, though we had to travel to one of the beaches at the far north end of the island. There we met a local woman selling banana bread and struck up a brief conversation with her regarding the weather.
"I've lived here for 16 years and this is the coldest, windiest, rainiest March I can remember," she said as she pulled her jacket tighter around her to block the gale force wind that threatened to knock over her and her food stand. At least I think that's what she said. It was hard to hear her over the crashing waves.
We drove back to the south side of the island (what was supposed to be the sunny side) into the rain and retired for the day. Mr. B. brought his computer with him so he could keep up with the basketball games online, and he powered up and watched his game while I read a book, soothed by the sound of raindrops on the roof.
Day #3 we awoke to sunshine. But it was only in the upper 60's with very gusty winds that made it too cold for shorts, so I wore my one pair of long pants and a long-sleeved shirt down to the beach. I sat huddled inside my fleece as we watched the boogie boarders brave the high surf. The clouds built up behind us and with little warning they opened up and emptied out what seemed to be an ocean of water.
We raced across the road, stepping around a local resident who happened to be walking by. "It's only water," he said as he shook his head at us and walked on, taking his time making his way down the sidewalk. It's true it was only water, but I don't usually take a shower in my clothes, and this was a downpour that left us drenched within a minute.
When we got back to the condo Mr. B. took out one of the brochures we had picked up at the airport when we arrived. It contained a handy map of the island and he consulted it to decide where we might drive to find the elusive sun. His eyes scanned the map and then he got a panicked look on his face. "Houston, we have a problem," he said, and tapped his finger on the center of the map. I leaned over him to get a better look at the map and gasped as I read the small print. Here is what it said: Mt. Wailaleale... The wettest spot on earth.
I don't know how in all my research about Kauai I overlooked that interesting little fact, but having been there I can vouch for its accuracy. I've never seen that much rain in the span of 10 days in my whole life.
We spent the rest of the vacation driving around the island dodging raindrops in search of sunshine. One day we again found it up north, and another day we found it in the south, but the majority of the time the rain poured down with brief intervals of sun. In addition to overlooking that interesting fact about the wettest spot on earth, what we had failed to understand about the "microclimates" was that while it was true that you could drive to a part of the island where the sun was shining, it might shine for only 10 minutes before being blocked by rain clouds.
Thank goodness Mr. B. brought his computer with him -- not only did he get to watch his basketball games, but we got to watch the show Lost, which we recently became hooked on. I have to admit it was pretty cool watching Lost in Hawaii since it's filmed there (on the island of Oahu, but the scenery looks very similar to what we saw on Kauai). It rained so much that we had plenty of time to watch all of Season 1 -- and that's 22 episodes, folks. Every night I ended up dreaming about Hawaii and it wasn't because of all the sights I was seeing while I was there, it was because I was overdosing on Lost.
We figured out that the sun shined about 20% of the time were there. The rest of the time it was either cloudy or rainy. But it was beautiful, and we might go back for our 20th wedding anniversary. If we do, we'll wrap our swim suits around a couple of umbrellas.
"It will be the trip of a lifetime," Mr. B. said, rubbing his chin and pulling on his ear. "I'm not sure I'm ready for the trip of a lifetime; what will we have to look forward to after this trip?"
"There will be other trips, don't worry," I said as I switched on my laptop to begin researching Hawaii.
It didn't take long to choose Kauai to visit based on the things we like to do -- walking, hiking, and swimming. I looked up the weather for this time of year in Kauai and learned that it's an island of "microclimates." According to the websites I found Kauai is a tropical paradise where we could swim, kayak, hike, walk the beach, and bask in the sunshine no matter the time of year. I read that if it's raining on one part of the island, no worries... you just drive to a different part of the island where it will be sunny. So we booked a condo for a reasonable price and packed our suitcases in preparation for our trip of a lifetime.
The winds were gusty when we arrived, but the sun warmed us as we walked across the parking lot to our rental car. We looked from one side of the road to the other, taking in the swaying palm trees and exotic flowers on our drive to the condo. "Ah, this is beautiful," said Mr. B. I nodded my head in agreement as I maneuvered the car down Kauai's one main highway and envisioned the coming days of sunshine and beach time.
The sun set shortly after we got to the condo, so we didn't go to the beach the first day. Instead we unpacked and drove down the road a bit to get some pizza, then headed back to the condo and watched a little t.v. while we planned our activities for the next day.
"If it's sunny, we'll hit the beach, right?" I said. Mr. B. flipped the channel to the weather station and we saw that the prediction was for rain in our area with high wind and high surf advisories.
"Okay," I said, keeping in mind the advice about driving to find the sunshine. "If it's raining here we'll just drive until we find the sun."
That settled we hit the sack. The next day we awoke to the promised rain and wind so we headed up north to try and find the sun. We were rewarded for our trouble, though we had to travel to one of the beaches at the far north end of the island. There we met a local woman selling banana bread and struck up a brief conversation with her regarding the weather.
"I've lived here for 16 years and this is the coldest, windiest, rainiest March I can remember," she said as she pulled her jacket tighter around her to block the gale force wind that threatened to knock over her and her food stand. At least I think that's what she said. It was hard to hear her over the crashing waves.
We drove back to the south side of the island (what was supposed to be the sunny side) into the rain and retired for the day. Mr. B. brought his computer with him so he could keep up with the basketball games online, and he powered up and watched his game while I read a book, soothed by the sound of raindrops on the roof.
Day #3 we awoke to sunshine. But it was only in the upper 60's with very gusty winds that made it too cold for shorts, so I wore my one pair of long pants and a long-sleeved shirt down to the beach. I sat huddled inside my fleece as we watched the boogie boarders brave the high surf. The clouds built up behind us and with little warning they opened up and emptied out what seemed to be an ocean of water.
We raced across the road, stepping around a local resident who happened to be walking by. "It's only water," he said as he shook his head at us and walked on, taking his time making his way down the sidewalk. It's true it was only water, but I don't usually take a shower in my clothes, and this was a downpour that left us drenched within a minute.
When we got back to the condo Mr. B. took out one of the brochures we had picked up at the airport when we arrived. It contained a handy map of the island and he consulted it to decide where we might drive to find the elusive sun. His eyes scanned the map and then he got a panicked look on his face. "Houston, we have a problem," he said, and tapped his finger on the center of the map. I leaned over him to get a better look at the map and gasped as I read the small print. Here is what it said: Mt. Wailaleale... The wettest spot on earth.
I don't know how in all my research about Kauai I overlooked that interesting little fact, but having been there I can vouch for its accuracy. I've never seen that much rain in the span of 10 days in my whole life.
We spent the rest of the vacation driving around the island dodging raindrops in search of sunshine. One day we again found it up north, and another day we found it in the south, but the majority of the time the rain poured down with brief intervals of sun. In addition to overlooking that interesting fact about the wettest spot on earth, what we had failed to understand about the "microclimates" was that while it was true that you could drive to a part of the island where the sun was shining, it might shine for only 10 minutes before being blocked by rain clouds.
Thank goodness Mr. B. brought his computer with him -- not only did he get to watch his basketball games, but we got to watch the show Lost, which we recently became hooked on. I have to admit it was pretty cool watching Lost in Hawaii since it's filmed there (on the island of Oahu, but the scenery looks very similar to what we saw on Kauai). It rained so much that we had plenty of time to watch all of Season 1 -- and that's 22 episodes, folks. Every night I ended up dreaming about Hawaii and it wasn't because of all the sights I was seeing while I was there, it was because I was overdosing on Lost.
We figured out that the sun shined about 20% of the time were there. The rest of the time it was either cloudy or rainy. But it was beautiful, and we might go back for our 20th wedding anniversary. If we do, we'll wrap our swim suits around a couple of umbrellas.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Just Not Feeling It
This seems to be the week for medicinal blog entries and I have one of my own to add to the mix. I've had a lump under my arm for about a year now; I discovered it when I was putting on my coat one evening and my fingertips pressed into my armpit. Okay, I admit it -- I was scratching. Discretely. Anyway, the lump was small and I wasn't too concerned, but mentioned its existence to the nurse practitioner when I went for my well-woman check-up.
"Lift up your arm and show me where it is," April, the nurse practitioner, said.
I did as she asked and pointed to the general area.
She prodded my armpit, focused on locating the lump. Then she stopped and directed me to prod it myself and let her know when I found the lump. I shifted position and located the lump; it's a shy lump and doesn't want to be found by just anyone, I guess.
"It's under my thumb," I told April, and she slid her fingertips under my thumb, but judging from the look of concentration followed by frustration I could tell she still wasn't feeling it. Then she poked around a little more and nodded her head. "Ah, there it is. I don't think it's anything to worry about, but I'll set up an appointment for you to get an ultrasound of it, just to be safe."
A few days later I went for the ultrasound. The nurse led me to a chilly room lit only by the soft glow of a monitor. "Take off your clothes from the waist up and then lie down, the technician will be here shortly," she said, handing me a sheet to cover myself and gesturing toward the gurney. A few minutes later a girl walked into the room and introduced herself as the technician. I'm sure she was older, but she looked to be about 15 and it wouldn't have surprised me at all if she had broken into the hit song from High School Musical.
She slathered my armpit with the gooey liquid used to help the ultrasound wand slide over the body and at first I was comforted by her professional handling of the wand. She slid it over the surface of my armpit and gazed expectantly at the ultrasound monitor, its screen a series of shadowy peaks and valleys that resembled a charcoal sketch of sand dunes. Around and around she moved the wand, clicking the mouse at various points on the screen, her gaze growing more perplexed with each pass. Then she stopped. "I can't find the lump," she said and handed the wand to me. "Here, you try it." So much for her professional demeanor.
Picture me lying on my right side with my left arm lifted up above my head. I'm a good sport, so I did my best to sweep the wand under my left armpit with my left hand, a feat that even Houdini would've found impossible. Then I switched the wand to my right hand thinking that might work better, but with most of my weight resting on my right side you can imagine the difficulty I had with that attempt as well.
I shook my head and handed the wand back to the technician. She sighed. "Okay, let's try moving you to a different position," she said, and had me half-recline while she swept the wand under my armpit again. The computer monitor glow revealed her relieved expression as she moved the wand and clicked on the monitor; I thought she had found the lump but in retrospect I realize that she must've noticed the timestamp on the monitor screen and realized it was five minutes to quitting time.
She finished up and told me to get dressed and head home, and that I'd find out the results in a few days. Sure enough, three days later I got a call from April, the nurse practitioner. "The ultrasound scan results are negative," she said. "They couldn't see the lump, so there's nothing to worry about." Hmmm. That's easy for her to say, it's not her lump.
Anyway, here I am a year later and I still have the lump. It's a little bigger now, and when I went for my well-woman check at my new doctor's office, I told Lori, the physician's assistant, about the lump.
"Hmmm, let me feel it," she said, and started poking around under my armpit. "Here we go again," I thought, noticing she was having trouble finding it. And just like last year I ended up having to locate it for her. "Yes, I can feel it now," she said. "I don't think it's anything to worry about, but you should get it checked." Then she swung the office door wide open as I sat there nearly nude from the waist up, and beckoned me to follow her. I guess she was in such a hurry that she didn't realize how exposed I was, or she was just so used to seeing people in various stages of undress that it didn't phase her. I nudged the door closed with my foot and hurried to put my clothes back on before any of the other patients out in the waiting room could catch a glimpse of me in my Hanes undershirt. They might not have been able to see the lump under my armpit but they were sure getting an eyeful of the rest of me.
I went to the new imaging place today and guess what? My lump proved too elusive for them, too. I'm making progress, though. This time the technician could feel the lump, though she didn't refer to it as one. "It feels like a cord to me," she said, her sleepy eyes barely open in the morning light. "Maybe a ligament, maybe a muscle, but probably not a lymph gland," she added as she ushered me out the door and on my way.
I should be glad that it's apparently nothing serious, but at the same time I would like to have the mystery of the lump solved. For my next check-up I'll make it easy for them -- I'll draw a bulls-eye around the lump so they'll know exactly where to feel.
"Lift up your arm and show me where it is," April, the nurse practitioner, said.
I did as she asked and pointed to the general area.
She prodded my armpit, focused on locating the lump. Then she stopped and directed me to prod it myself and let her know when I found the lump. I shifted position and located the lump; it's a shy lump and doesn't want to be found by just anyone, I guess.
"It's under my thumb," I told April, and she slid her fingertips under my thumb, but judging from the look of concentration followed by frustration I could tell she still wasn't feeling it. Then she poked around a little more and nodded her head. "Ah, there it is. I don't think it's anything to worry about, but I'll set up an appointment for you to get an ultrasound of it, just to be safe."
A few days later I went for the ultrasound. The nurse led me to a chilly room lit only by the soft glow of a monitor. "Take off your clothes from the waist up and then lie down, the technician will be here shortly," she said, handing me a sheet to cover myself and gesturing toward the gurney. A few minutes later a girl walked into the room and introduced herself as the technician. I'm sure she was older, but she looked to be about 15 and it wouldn't have surprised me at all if she had broken into the hit song from High School Musical.
She slathered my armpit with the gooey liquid used to help the ultrasound wand slide over the body and at first I was comforted by her professional handling of the wand. She slid it over the surface of my armpit and gazed expectantly at the ultrasound monitor, its screen a series of shadowy peaks and valleys that resembled a charcoal sketch of sand dunes. Around and around she moved the wand, clicking the mouse at various points on the screen, her gaze growing more perplexed with each pass. Then she stopped. "I can't find the lump," she said and handed the wand to me. "Here, you try it." So much for her professional demeanor.
Picture me lying on my right side with my left arm lifted up above my head. I'm a good sport, so I did my best to sweep the wand under my left armpit with my left hand, a feat that even Houdini would've found impossible. Then I switched the wand to my right hand thinking that might work better, but with most of my weight resting on my right side you can imagine the difficulty I had with that attempt as well.
I shook my head and handed the wand back to the technician. She sighed. "Okay, let's try moving you to a different position," she said, and had me half-recline while she swept the wand under my armpit again. The computer monitor glow revealed her relieved expression as she moved the wand and clicked on the monitor; I thought she had found the lump but in retrospect I realize that she must've noticed the timestamp on the monitor screen and realized it was five minutes to quitting time.
She finished up and told me to get dressed and head home, and that I'd find out the results in a few days. Sure enough, three days later I got a call from April, the nurse practitioner. "The ultrasound scan results are negative," she said. "They couldn't see the lump, so there's nothing to worry about." Hmmm. That's easy for her to say, it's not her lump.
Anyway, here I am a year later and I still have the lump. It's a little bigger now, and when I went for my well-woman check at my new doctor's office, I told Lori, the physician's assistant, about the lump.
"Hmmm, let me feel it," she said, and started poking around under my armpit. "Here we go again," I thought, noticing she was having trouble finding it. And just like last year I ended up having to locate it for her. "Yes, I can feel it now," she said. "I don't think it's anything to worry about, but you should get it checked." Then she swung the office door wide open as I sat there nearly nude from the waist up, and beckoned me to follow her. I guess she was in such a hurry that she didn't realize how exposed I was, or she was just so used to seeing people in various stages of undress that it didn't phase her. I nudged the door closed with my foot and hurried to put my clothes back on before any of the other patients out in the waiting room could catch a glimpse of me in my Hanes undershirt. They might not have been able to see the lump under my armpit but they were sure getting an eyeful of the rest of me.
I went to the new imaging place today and guess what? My lump proved too elusive for them, too. I'm making progress, though. This time the technician could feel the lump, though she didn't refer to it as one. "It feels like a cord to me," she said, her sleepy eyes barely open in the morning light. "Maybe a ligament, maybe a muscle, but probably not a lymph gland," she added as she ushered me out the door and on my way.
I should be glad that it's apparently nothing serious, but at the same time I would like to have the mystery of the lump solved. For my next check-up I'll make it easy for them -- I'll draw a bulls-eye around the lump so they'll know exactly where to feel.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Young vs. Young at Heart
My mother, also known as "Mommy Dearest" or MD for short, is young at heart. Her body's failures are disconcerting but so far they have not defeated her. Those failures include a stroke that left her partially paralyzed, and a bout with lung cancer that she's beat into remission, but nothing gets her down. She looks on each day as another opportunity to have some fun.
She has been having some new health issues so she went to the doctor to get checked. Mr. B and I went over to the manor that night to play cards with her. We each pulled up a chair and took our spots at the dining room table across from her. Mr. B dealt the cards and I asked her about the doctor visit.
She glanced up from sorting her cards and said "Well, my blood pressure is 160," her tone indicating that the number is cause for some concern.
"Hmmm, that's pretty high, especially since you're on blood pressure medication," I said.
"Yes, it is," she nodded. "And I had to submit a urine sample," she added.
"Why the sample?" I said.
"Because I have to use the bathroom so often. The doctor said he thinks it might be diabetes."
"Well, that's not so surprising considering your mother developed diabetes, right?" I said.
She glanced over at me and wrinkled her forehead. "Well, that's true, but she didn't develop it until she was old," she said, pointing her finger gnarled with arthritis at me as she emphasized the word "old," her tone dismissing any connection between her mother's "old age onset" diabetes and her own possible condition.
I looked at her in confusion.
"Um, yes, that's right," I said... "Let's see, she was in her 70's when she developed diabetes, right?" "And you're 78, so..." My words trailed off as I let their significance sink in.
She looked at me with a puzzled expression and then her face cleared like the sun bursting through the clouds on a rainy day. She leaned back in her chair and started laughing as she realized that she was indeed around the same age as her mother had been when she'd developed diabetes.
My sister, SQ, arrived home a few minutes later to join us in the game of cards and MD couldn't wait to tell her what had just transpired. MD laughed even harder in the re-telling, always one to appreciate a good joke, especially one in which she plays a major part.
It's times like these that I'm filled with gratitude that I have a mother who will never grow old, no matter what her age. She might not be young, but she will always be young at heart.
She has been having some new health issues so she went to the doctor to get checked. Mr. B and I went over to the manor that night to play cards with her. We each pulled up a chair and took our spots at the dining room table across from her. Mr. B dealt the cards and I asked her about the doctor visit.
She glanced up from sorting her cards and said "Well, my blood pressure is 160," her tone indicating that the number is cause for some concern.
"Hmmm, that's pretty high, especially since you're on blood pressure medication," I said.
"Yes, it is," she nodded. "And I had to submit a urine sample," she added.
"Why the sample?" I said.
"Because I have to use the bathroom so often. The doctor said he thinks it might be diabetes."
"Well, that's not so surprising considering your mother developed diabetes, right?" I said.
She glanced over at me and wrinkled her forehead. "Well, that's true, but she didn't develop it until she was old," she said, pointing her finger gnarled with arthritis at me as she emphasized the word "old," her tone dismissing any connection between her mother's "old age onset" diabetes and her own possible condition.
I looked at her in confusion.
"Um, yes, that's right," I said... "Let's see, she was in her 70's when she developed diabetes, right?" "And you're 78, so..." My words trailed off as I let their significance sink in.
She looked at me with a puzzled expression and then her face cleared like the sun bursting through the clouds on a rainy day. She leaned back in her chair and started laughing as she realized that she was indeed around the same age as her mother had been when she'd developed diabetes.
My sister, SQ, arrived home a few minutes later to join us in the game of cards and MD couldn't wait to tell her what had just transpired. MD laughed even harder in the re-telling, always one to appreciate a good joke, especially one in which she plays a major part.
It's times like these that I'm filled with gratitude that I have a mother who will never grow old, no matter what her age. She might not be young, but she will always be young at heart.
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