Yarn on the Hoof

Driving to church today -- a route that takes me through a flat, ugly part of town, with lots of dismal strip malls -- I happened to glance to my left and saw, standing at a fence . . . two llamas! I goggled at them for a minute, thinking maybe they were huge, misshapen dogs, but quickly realized my error. I think maybe they'd been sheared recently; one reason they looked so weird is that large swathes of hair were missing.

I wonder if somebody around here is making llama yarn. Although, given the recent heat, they might have needed a shave to cool off, poor things. Anyway, they were grazing in a nice little enclosed meadow which, when I scrutinized the area as closely as I could on my drive-by, included some barn-looking outbuildings. I've never noticed this before. A lot of Reno used to be farm or ranchland, and there are still pockets of grazing land where you least expect them: a herd of cows munching away next to a bottling plant or self-storage place, say.

On my way back from church, I drove by the meadow again to see if I could get a photo of the llamas (llami?), but I didn't see them. I'll keep looking.

I turned the heel on my mother-in-law's first sock today. I'm afraid I may have made it a smidgen too long, and the thing looks huge anyway because it's made from relatively inelastic yarn, but I've learned that socks that look too big often fit fine. I hope to have them finished and mailed off to her by the time I leave for Albuquerque in twelve days.

The socks have created a delay in the scarf-weaving project. However, last night I had an epiphany and realized that instead of using thirty different bobbins for the warp (talk about a headache!), I can use a smaller notched piece of cardboard as a roller for all thirty warp threads at once. If that works, it will greatly simplify things. The moderator of the small-looms group on Ravelry thinks it should work, so that's heartening.

I'm still toiling away on the book, of course. For some reason, my left hip's been killing me for the last two days -- usually my right one's the culprit -- and I think that too much sitting time may be part of the problem, so I'm trying to get up and move around (limping like Quasimodo) at least every half hour. Swimming and using the elliptical has helped somewhat. I've also temporarily traded in my backpack for an extremely tiny pouch purse to lighten my load. I have to lug a fairly heavy backpack around when I go to Albuquerque (which I'm determined to do without checking, and paying for, luggage), so I want all the muscles rested and healed before then. I'll also have a rolling bag, of course, but I can't fit everything in there, and the backpack's the next best thing, as long as I'm walking okay.

Ah, aging. Remember when you bounded out of bed in the morning with no thought as to whether your joints would behave themselves? I'm infinitely happier now than I was in my twenties, but I could still do without the achy-creakies.

Ark

Yesterday we walked around the deck for forty minutes for exercise, ate a calorie-heavy dinner, and listened to the string quartet for three hours. I finished one pair of socks and started another. I also did a tiny bit of writing last night, courtesy of Google Documents (which is really slow via satellite connection!). I hope to repeat that minor miracle today.

This morning we ate a lazy room-service breakfast on our balcony; then I worked out for an hour in the ship's gym (which was jammed) while Gary walked around the deck for seventy-five minutes. We're taking stairs everywhere we go (no small matter, since the passenger part of the ship's ten stories). Anything to burn off some of the extraordinarily yummy food!

We're already blissfully relaxed, although of course all televisions (in our room, in the library where I sit now) broadcast a steady stream of quake news from Japan, broken only by flooding news from New Jersey. It feels a little bit like we're on an ark, a floating island free of disaster.

Yesterday at lunch I sat next to a woman in her eighties who was diagnosed two years ago with stage-four lymphoma. The minute she finished her first brutal round of chemo, she and her husband took off on a cruise. They did five last year and three so far this year, with at least one or two more planned. She told me that they don't have a lot of money: they were both schoolteachers who've been retired for twenty years, but they've gotten very good at finding cruise bargains. (A fellow passenger I told about this commented, "Well, cruises are cheaper than nursing homes, and they sure treat you better.") She and her husband travel six months out of the year. She looks terrific: she swims an hour a day, and attributes her survival so far to the fact that she was in excellent shape before her diagnosis.

"I just wish I could tell people to enjoy every minute they have," she told me. "We all have to do some planning for the future, but really, live each day as if it might be your last, because it could be."

Amen. And I hope I'm as vital as she is when I'm her age, even without cancer!

Zesty Zinnias!

One of the university librarians -- the woman who's in charge of electronic reserves, and who saves my life about ten times a semester -- brought me these flowers today because she missed the party.

Birthday Report

I had a splendid fiftieth birthday, I must say. Upwards of fifty people came to the party yesterday, despite a lot of cancellations because of illness (there seems to be a nasty stomach bug going around, and several friends' kids have come down with strep: welcome to the beginning of school!). We had a lot of great food -- much of it thanks to my brilliant-chef husband -- plenteous beverages, and fabulous music from Charlene. As you can see from the photographs below, we also had near-perfect weather.

Three things made me especially happy. First: Some friends from church brought their grown daughter, who's developmentally disabled. She has a hard time socializing, but she loved the music. When Charlene started playing, her face lit up and her feet started tapping, and then she got up and started dancing. When she saw that no one else was dancing, though, she sat down again. I'm never brave enough to dance in public, but I went up and asked her if she wanted to dance, and she did, so the two of us got up and hopped happily around. A third person -- a friend with much better coordination than either of us -- danced too. We were the only three people who danced, but it made me feel really good to be able to help bring some joy to our friends' daughter, and she taught me something about unselfconscious celebration.

Second: The guests included two church friends I haven't seen for a really long time, who've been estranged from church for one reason or another. It felt healing to see them there and to see them connecting with other people.

Third: One of the abovementioned church friends, as she was leaving, told me, "If you can start studying the fiddle in your late forties, I guess I can start taking voice lessons in my fifties!" She's never had formal voice training, despite singing in choirs for years. Our friend Katharine teaches voice, and my friend from church had talked to her, and it sounds like she'll be starting lessons soon. This makes me happy; perhaps my fiddle project has done the larger world some good even if I'll never -- as is almost certainly true -- be fit to play for any kind of audience.

I'd told people not to bring gifts, but some people brought them anyhow. The cats made out like crazy: birthday-cat Figaro got more catnip, treats, and toy mice than he and the other two beasts will be able to destroy for several years, which is really saying something. Katharine gave us a humongous zucchini from her garden, with a gold ribbon wrapped around it, and a pretty potted plant. (Katharine's determined to turn me into a gardener, even though I've told her that plants die if I look at them.) My friend Judie brought us another kind of squash, the name of which I forget. Our friends Stephanie and Gary, who just got back from Alaska, seem to have bought out the state; they brought me chocolate from Alaska, soap from Alaska, an Alaska mug, an adorable moose earring-and-necklace set, and a set of very unusual buttons made from bits of bone and antler (I'm sure all this stuff was humanely harvested). Stephanie was anxious to know if I could use the buttons in my knitting. I'll certainly try! Now I have extra motivation to make that cardigan Gary's been asking for.

Speaking of knitting, my friend Sheila from the VA, who's a fabulous knitter, made me socks! Ironically, they're the same lace pattern I'm using in a pair I'm making, although Sheila's are much nicer. I can't wait for colder weather so I can wear them.

I also got a ton of really wonderful cards, some of which were amazingly creative. One friend printed photos from this blog to make a card for Figgy. Sweet!

We got at least half a dozen bottles of nice wine, along with homemade cider from Charlene's husband. I drink very little, but Gary will certainly enjoy all this. Someone -- and I wish I could remember who -- brought me a chocolate dessert wine from a Christian vinyard in California. This sounded so intriguing that I just had to try it, so I had a small glass last night. It's profoundly yummy. Since I hardly ever drink, it knocked me right out, but I plan to enjoy small bits of it on evenings when I don't need to do anything but go to sleep.

Our friend Wendy, who'd flown in from Seattle and was staying with us, was incredibly helpful with set-up and clean-up. The whole thing would have been much more stressful if she hadn't been there.

This morning, my actual birthday, Gary gave me a CD of baroque music played on viola. The three of us went out for breakfast, and then we hiked on the mountain across the street (photos below). Gary had mapped out a new route that took us into a beautiful canyon and then up a hillside with striking stands of pine trees (unfortunately, I didn't get photos because my camera was out of room). Today's high winds made walking more difficult than usual, and we were out for two and a half hours -- the most exercise I've gotten since well before my recent knee problems -- so I was pretty exhausted when we got home. Also sore. I took Tylenol (since ibuprofen messes up my stomach) and feel better now, but we'll see how I do tomorrow.

During the hike, my sister called me on my cellphone to wish me happy birthday. We got home to find a package from my friend Ellen, who sent me a sarong from Hawai'i: pink and purple batik in a floral pattern, very pretty indeed. Gary wanted to put it on the wall, but I want to wear it as a shawl, and since it's my present, I win!

We had dinner -- half of Katharine's zucchini in a stir-fry -- and then took Wendy to the airport. It was incredibly generous for her to fly down here for two days just for my party, and it was great to see her. She's a therapist, so we spent a fair amount of time talking about my parents (we might have done that even if she weren't a therapist, but her occupation lent extra gravitas to the conversations).

Although I thought about, and missed, both of my parents today, I think I did a great job planning a birthday celebration that left me more happy than sad. I'm nervous about Christmas, though: the first Christmas without either parent and without my old parish. I'll just barely have started going to another church and probably won't feel fully at home there yet (and I'll miss my old church even if I do). Gary hates Christmas and would rather ignore the entire season, but I love it and want to do something to recognize it. I also really want to be with Gary, though. I'd thought about going to Philly to be with my sister -- and that may still happen -- but Gary's especially allergic to this kind of family holiday, and if I'm going into a sabbatical year on two-thirds salary, spending the money to fly us, or even just me, across the country seems unwise.

I talked to Wendy about all this, and she said that it's important for me to make plans for the holiday, to have something to do that will make me happy. I'd already known that, but talking to her underscored the point. This morning it occurred to me that, weather permitting, I'd really like to drive to San Francisco for Christmas. Gary likes that idea. We could stay in the hotel by the beach we found when Dad was in the VA hospital there: walk by the water, hike in the Presidio, eat good food. If my friend Ellen's in town, we can spend some time with her and the kids. It won't be a churchy Christmas, and it certainly won't be the family Christmas I've missed so much over the last few years, but it will be a new tradition rather than an emptiness, if that makes sense. The ocean always makes me feel better -- partly because it's one of the places where I feel the presence of God most strongly -- and I have a hunch that listening to surf and smelling salt spray will be just what I need, in through there.

Birthday Hike 2

Birthday Hike 1

Tim and Ada Johnson

Charlene Playing at the Party

Party People 3

Party People 2

Party People 1

Birthday Roses from Sharon

World's Most Annoying Day

I had an 8 a.m. doctor's appointment today. This is already bad news, because I'm profoundly not a morning person, although this doc has limited hours, so I have to take what I can get. I woke up on time -- before my alarm, even -- but, staggering around in my six-hours-of-sleep fog, managed to leave the house late anyhow, after giving the cats two breakfasts. The cats didn't mind, but it was still a little embarrassing.

In the car, I realized I'd left my watch at home. No prob. I could get the time from my phone.

Got to the doc's office at 8:15; I'd called to say I was late and to ask if I should reschedule, and they told me to come on in. The receptionist shoved a sheaf of paper at me. I see this doctor every six months for routine monitoring of my eyes; there's a family history of glaucoma, and at one point my pressures were a teensy bit high, so even though my pressures have been splendid for several years now, she wants to see me every six months. I thumbed through the sheaf, signed a few places I had to sign, and then said, "I'm not here for any new problems, so I'm not filling in most of these questionnaires, okay? This is a routine visit."

I passed back the papers. Someone else behind the desk gave me a lecture about how I had to fill in the forms for insurance reasons, but no one gave me the sheaf back. So, with a shrug, I sat down and waited to be called into the exam room. In the meantime, I e-mailed Gary about giving the cats two breakfasts. He e-mailed back to say that I'd also locked Bali in the downstairs closet.

I'd been in the examining room maybe two minutes when someone with a grim expression rushed in, waving the sheaf, and barked, "You have to fill these out, or your insurance won't pay for this visit!" Ooooooooh. It's one of those: one of those "jump through these hoops or we won't pay" games, which has nothing to do with health at all. So I scribbled some stuff on the forms.

The exam went splendidly. My pressures were great. But because I'd been given dilation drops, I couldn't see very well when I left the office, even though I was wearing sunglasses. No problem. I'd go to the gym; on the way, I'd stop at my garage to get the smog check required for my car registration, which expires in a few weeks.

The smog was fine. Results are reported automatically to the DMV, so I e-mailed Gary to ask if he could renew online for me. Before I'd even gotten to the gym, Gary e-mailed back to say that he'd tried, but couldn't, because the DMV website thought my insurance was out of date, even though it isn't.

I went to the gym and worked out on the elliptical for half an hour. At my locker afterwards, I realized that I'd forgotten my toiletry kit. No prob: the gym supplies toiletries, and while they aren't my first choice, they'll certainly do in a pinch.

Getting dressed, I discovered that I'd left at home the guard ring that keeps my wedding and engagement rings securely on my finger. No prob: I'd just be extra careful about making sure they stayed on (and to alleviate any suspense, I didn't lose either today, thank goodness!).

So clearly, I'm having a really bad post-menopausal Senior Moments day. I'm already annoyed and frazzled, not to mention still half-blind (the dilation lasts about ten hours after the ten-second exam) when I get to work and decide to stop in to say hi to a friend. We're chatting about an acquaintance from another state -- an artistic friend from a liberal state; these details are important -- who blew through town a few weeks ago. This woman's quite the fashionista, and my friend says, "Oh, yeah, she loves to do makeovers on people. She had some interesting comments about you. She said, 'Susan should grow her hair out and wear real bras so she won't look like a dyke.'"

I'm pretty sure my jaw dropped. I know I sputtered. The comment was so bizarre, inappropriate, and both personally and politically offensive -- not to mention ignorant and wrongheaded (tell us how you really feel, Susan!) -- that all I could do was squeak out a few entirely inadequate responses. "Why does she care what I look like? Gary likes my short hair! And I wear the bras I can find that fit, dammit!" I'd have said more, but I realized that a male student was standing behind me in the hall, waiting to see my friend and looking mortified. I think he'd overheard the bra comment.

Oh, dear.

Furious, I made my way to my office. In the time it took me to get there, my friend had e-mailed me an apology for her insensitivity in even repeating the acquaintance's comment. I appreciated that, but was still struggling with about seventeen layers of response to the unwanted feedback. I should probably mention here that El Fashionista is quite a bit younger than I am: very professionally successful, but (I'm guessing) of the generation that's been able to take feminism more for granted than my generation could. In any case, I came up with a list of the things I hope I'd have been able to say to her face if she'd delivered the insult to my face, and e-mailed them to my friend (with a note saying, "You probably don't want to send her these, but you have my permission if you want to").

I struggled with whether to blog about this, but I think her comment was one of those canary-in-the-mine indications: something that most people wouldn't say, but that -- if anyone says it -- means that too many others are thinking it. So, for anyone who's ever seen a woman with short hair or funky undergarments and made assumptions about sexual orientation (or even offered unwanted fashion advice!), here's the meat of the e-mail I sent my friend.

1. It is impossible to determine sexual orientation by hairstyle or undergarments. Honest. The only way I “look like a dyke” is if I’m actually having sex, right at that moment, with another woman.

2. Why does it matter if someone who doesn’t understand point #1 mistakes me for a lesbian? Being a lesbian isn’t a horrible thing, and I’m not on the market, so it’s not like I’m misleading potential lovers. My husband knows my sexual orientation, and he’s the one who matters (and for the record, he likes my hair short: so do I).

3. If Woman A is checking out, and making comments about, Woman B’s undergarments, whose sexual orientation might we idly wonder about? Not that it matters, since sexual orientation doesn’t determine personal worth, and somebody else’s sexual orientation isn’t our business anyway, unless we wish to sleep with that person. I’m just sayin’.

4. Yesterday when I got to the gym, I saw a woman blow-drying her long hair. When I left the gym, the same woman was still blow-drying her long hair. I thought, “Geez, I’m really glad I don’t spend time blow-drying my hair or putting on make-up I then have to take off. There are enough timesinks in my life as it is. If I did that stuff too, I’d never get any knitting/writing/practicing done.”

5. Fashion’s fun when it makes people feel better. It’s harmful when it’s used to judge them.

There's more I could have said, like, "Honey, women have fought and even died for the right to wear no bras at all." I didn't say that. I didn't tell the story of the first time I got my hair cut short, when my mother stared at me in distress and wailed, "You look like a man!" and I snapped back, "Not where it counts, I don't." (That ended that conversation.) I didn't talk about how it's nearly impossible, even with my minimal mammary endowments, to find bras that don't a) have torture-device underwires and b) cost $20 apiece, which is why I wear sale sports bras and those nifty stretch camis I found at the dollar store. (I bought one, took it home, determined that it fit, and went back to buy every single one in my size.)

I did say that I'm praying for El Fashionista, who must be very insecure and unhappy to have to make comments like this. El Fashionista is smart, funny, supremely talented, and mostly kind, in addition to always looking fabulous. It makes me very sad to think that underneath all that, she's insecure and unhappy.

I was afraid my friend might be offended by the e-mail, but she wrote back agreeing with me.

Classes went fine, for a wonder, but when I got home, the DMV website still wouldn't accept my insurance info, which means that tomorrow I need to call them and might need to go there in person.

Yuck. Crummy day, yes?

But it's now a holiday weekend, and my birthday weekend. Yay!

Goodies!

Meet Viviana Viola. She's a 16-inch Ji, supposedly new (although her interior label is blank, which is a bit disconcerting). She has beautiful tone and projects wonderfully, which would be better news for those in the immediate vicinity if I were a better player. She's not a rental.

You may recall that I planned to meet Charlene at the music store today to pick out a 15-inch rental. What happened?

Well, they were out of rentals, this being rental season. They'll get more in, but in the meantime, I wanted to test out a viola to see if I'd actually want to play one. Tim, the luthier, said he didn't have any upstairs, but went downstairs to look. He didn't have any downstairs, either. "Do you have any violas I can try?" I asked him. He said he had a 16.

Charlene and I looked at each other and shrugged. We didn't even think I'd be able to hold the thing, but heck, we were there. So Tim handed me the 16, and I could hold it fine. (I have long arms for my size, it turns out.) He handed me a bow. I started playing and swooned. I loved the sound of the instrument. Tim and Charlene, watching me, grinned, and began a lively conversation in incomprehensible musician-speak about what a good instrument this is. Tim gets a lot of Chinese instruments in, but this is the best of its type he's ever seen; the balance and resonance and tone and timbre and yada yada yada are all excellent, and furthermore, yada yada. I wasn't paying very close attention to them, because I was happily sounding out tunes (which I could sound out fine even though this instrument's two inches longer than the one I'm used to).

I stopped playing long enough to ask Tim, "So, um, how much would this one cost?"

"That one's eight hundred dollars."

I probably turned an interesting shade of gray. "Oh. Will the amount I've already paid towards the rental count towards that?"

Alas, no. This instrument isn't a rental. But Tim said he would give me a better set of strings, a shoulder rest, and a new bow.

I chewed my lip. I played the viola. I handed the viola over to Charlene and Tim, who fussed over it and praised it and pointed out that no $800 rental instrument would be half this good. "This is a real instrument," Charlene said firmly, handing it back to me. "And look! It comes with the kind of case you like, with backpack straps!"

I hemmed and hawed. I tried to call Gary, but he wasn't home. I played the viola some more and gazed longingly at it when Tim took it away for a moment. "Let's do this," he said. "I'll put better strings on her, and you can take her home overnight and see what you think."

I perked right up. Charlene, beaming, said, "It's so nice to see you happy!" (She's seen more than her share of unhappy Susan.) "You'll have to name her. Have you started thinking about new baby names?"

Charlene had clearly made up her mind, even if I wasn't quite there yet. Or rather, I was, but I was worried about Gary's reaction. And Gary's reaction, when I reached him on the phone as I drove to the gym, indeed involved a fair amount of sputtering. I was thinking of doing what? What the hey? Couldn't I just wait for them to get the rentals in? "It's expensive," I told him, craftily not naming the amount, "but the tone's gorgeous, and I can already more or less play the thing, and Charlene clearly thinks I should go for it."

After swimming, I went back to the music store to pick up my viola, as I was already thinking of her. (She doesn't smell as good as Felicity Fiddle, but that's the only downside.) When I got her home, Gary was immediately impressed by the tone, but said warily, "And how much does this cost?"

"Eight hundred."

"Oh! When you said 'very expensive,' I was imagining three thousand."

That's what I'd been hoping. "And you know," I said -- and I'd really only just thought of this -- "the purchase cost of the violin is $700. This is only a hundred more."

Viewed that way, the viola seems almost reasonable. Eight hundred's still a heckuva lot of money, especially on top of what I've already shelled out for the violin rental, and extra especially because this will never be more than a hobby for me, but, well, I am getting a small inheritance from my mother. I'd planned to put all of it into the emergency medical fund, but I think playing Viviana will be good for my health. Although she certainly is heavier than Felicity, so I foresee some aching neck and shoulder muscles in my future.

But never fear! Today's mail brought my birthday gifts from my sister: a very generous gift certificate to my favorite yarn store and a gift card for a ninety-minute massage at my health club. Yay!

I also got a lovely card from my friend Sherry, our priest who moved to Tucson. I made her socks before she left, and she plans to take them on an upcoming trip to France with her husband. She and Pete are in the process of buying a townhouse; in the meantime, they've been renting a cottage. Sherry's seen a coyote and a bobcat in their yard. I'm jealous! I've seen coyote around here, but never bobcat. Not, I know, that one wants to see a bobcat at very close range, but they're certainly beautiful animals.

Meanwhile, one of Charlene's bands was playing at a local rock club tonight, so Gary and I decided to go. We walked past someone who called out, "Do you need tickets?" He had too many, and gave us two for free. He also directed us to the entrance, which we were having some trouble finding. To get into this place, you walk down an alleyway, past a large sign listing the rules -- which include no weapons and no gang insignia -- and have a paper bracelet put on your wrist by an extremely large bouncer while someone else takes your ticket. Inside, we blinked our way through a cavernous dimness with very few seats. What seats there were, guarded by more bouncers, cost extra.

Gary and I made our way up to the balcony so we could lean against the railing, and talked about whether we'd ever been to a venue like this. We used to go to folk clubs in New York, but they had lots of seating. A former boyfriend and I spent a summer dancing at disco clubs like Limelight (using free passes scored from local boutiques), which featured the same style of bouncer. Another former boyfriend -- who spent some time working as a bouncer himself, come to think of it -- was a roadie for a rock band. He got me into one of their shows and, later, got me backstage, where the headliner politely offered me cocaine (hey, it was the eighties) which I just as politely declined. That occasion was probably the closest I'd come to any setting like this.

Charlene's band, which is really someone else's band, opened. Everything was turned up to eleven. When we could hear Charlene, we were really happy, but she's the best thing in that band by far, and she didn't have nearly enough to do, and she periodically got drowned out by the other instruments.

After the set, I turned to Gary, who was massaging his ears. "Do you want to stay?" I asked him. He couldn't hear me.

No, he didn't want to stay. His ears hurt already. We agreed, somewhat sadly, that we're Just Too Old For This Kind of Thing. So we left, making our way through a much thicker crowd than had been there when we arrived, and drove home, where I practiced playing Viviana.

She's a beauty. The bow Tim lent me is slightly warped, so she'll sound even better with the good one he's ordered: also, she'll be more comfortable when I get the Kun shoulder rest he's expecting. Right now I'm using a bizarre, very strange looking shoulder rest, provenance unknown, that Tim had lying around the shop: it features a worn velvet pad, ornate iron curlicues, and little rubber feet that keep falling off. It's better than nothing, but a Kun will be far superior. I removed my gelrest chinpad from Felicity and put it on Viviana; the pad doesn't fit the chinrest exactly, but still makes the instrument more comfortable to hold. (Does anyone know if I should worry about getting an exact fit? Does the exact fit serve any purpose other than aesthetic?)

Tomorrow I'll go back to the music store, return Felicity -- may she find a loving home elsewhere! -- and buy Viviana. This is a little scary, but also exciting.

She is kinda huge, I have to say. Gary, who's been collecting viola jokes for quite a long time now, has responded with glee to having a viola around, despite the expense. "You could use her as a baseball bat!" he chortled. "Think how much beer she'll hold!"

"Yes, dear. And in a power outage, she'll burn so much longer than Felicity would."

By the way, if anyone knows anything about Ji, please let me know. I found an instrument maker by that name in California, but Viviana's supposedly Chinese.

Younger Every Year

We've all seen those annual lists of the world according to college freshman. Such lists remind ancient professors that for kids born eighteen years ago, "text" has always been a verb, or whatever.

No matter how carefully we study the lists, though, the incoming students have ways of shocking us. One of my colleagues -- a good deal younger than I am, mind you -- said today, "I made a reference to Madonna, and they'd never heard of her."

Progress Report

All syllabi are now basically done, although I need to do final proofreading and edits and then go to work to photocopy for ninety-eight hours. I know some instructors post e-syllabi, and I have most of my course readings on e-reserve, but I still like paper syllabi so the students have a physical object to consult.

As of last night, fifty-three people are coming to my 50th birthday party on Labor Day. Yay! As I've told some friends, my fear has always been, "What if I gave a birthday party and nobody came?", so this is very heartening. (And I'm expecting more folks from work and church, although inevitably, some who've RSVPed yes won't show.) My friend Wendy from grad school is flying down from Seattle for the party, and my friend Ellen's driving up from San Francisco with her two boys. Ken's wife Carol may even come.

I think Gary's deeply alarmed by the idea of all these people, but they'll be spread out over four hours, and we're going to have balls and frisbees and crayons and bubble-blowing stuff -- all courtesy of the dollar store -- for the kids. Liz suggested that we have the food catered so Gary won't have to cook so much. We may check into that; we'll probably have a mix of home-cooked and store-bought stuff, and some people will bring things. There's always too much food at parties like this, so I'm not worried.

We're paying Charlene to play for two hours, which will be a blast. People can even dance if they want to: our all-dirt-all-the-time backyard should be good for that, if no one minds getting a little dusty. (Gary and I don't dance, but I enjoy watching other people.)

In the meantime, classes start on Monday, when I teach until 5:15. At 6:30, there's a meeting at church to discuss Next Steps, including possible formation of base communities. Yesterday, our temporary rector called me to ask a) if I know where I'm going yet, b) if I want to continue lay preaching, and c) if there's anything he can do to help me in that goal. I'm not sure where I'm going, but the place where I think I'm going is also the place where, I suspect, I have the best shot at being able to preach (I used to guest preach there fairly regularly). So I'm not very worried, but it was very nice of the rector to ask me about it.

I haven't knit in days, but I hope to get back to it when the class prep is finally done.

Finally: Knee good today. Back cranky. Sigh.

Another Day, Another Doctor

Today Gary and I both went to see a new dermatologist. Gary has a mole I've been worried about; our primary-care doc gave Gary a referral to the skin guy, and since he's on our insurance, I made an appointment for myself, too.

Gary's mole is nothing. The dark blotch under my big toenail is probably just a bruise, but the doc said he's a "little worried" about it and wants to look at it again in three months. My sense was that he'd have gone ahead and done a biopsy without the recheck, if taking a biopsy of the skin under a big toenail weren't such an unpleasant procedure. ("Not fun," was how he described it, and when doctors say that, you know the real translation is, "horror and agony.")

Two remarkable things about this doctor visit, though: first, although my appointment was at 9:30 and Gary's was at 10, we pulled out of the parking lot at 10. And the waiting room was mobbed, too. Gary said, "That's the first time in my life a doctor's seen me before my appointment time."

Second, it turns out that our rapidly-vanishing insurance nonetheless has a wellness benefit that allows us one skin-cancer screening per year, so neither of us had to pay anything today. I'll have a co-pay when I go back in three months, but still, it was a very nice surprise.

Yesterday at the orthopedist's office, an older guy in the waiting room was grousing about having to pay for insurance for the first time in his life. He said he can't afford to come to the doctor anymore. I said, "Just be glad you have insurance," which sent him on a rant about people on welfare who get everything for free. (Um. Didn't you just tell us that this is the first time you've paid . . . oh, never mind.) Turns out his wife has been having heart problems, and he sounds worried sick about her, so my inner chaplain managed to win out over the exasperated liberal.

After he'd gone back to see the doctor, a woman sitting a few chairs away, with two small children in tow, shook her head and said, "I hope one day he will appreciate that he has insurance. I lost mine on August 1. I'm terrified."

I asked her if her kids are covered. They aren't. There's no safety net (except, of course, for overburdened ERs which then produce whopping bills for problems that often could have been prevented with much less expensive primary care).

What kind of country doesn't automatically provide healthcare for children?

Aaaargh.

I asked that question of the orthopedist yesterday, and he said, very gently, "Countries that have done that successfully have about one-tenth our population."

Okay: I have no idea how to fix this. I'm glad other people are working on it. I hope somebody can come up with an answer in time to help the mom in the waiting room with her two kids.

Meanwhile, rumors are circulating that beginning next summer, state-employee insurance will be cut to, essentially, disaster coverage: office fees will have to be paid in full, there will be huge deductibles, and so forth. So many rumors are swirling around right now about our terrifying state budget situation that I don't know what to believe, and I've decided not to worry until I know for sure what we're looking at. There will be plenty of time for panic when the time comes, and letting each scenario push my buttons before then will only be dangerous for my health.

Y'know, I could deal with disaster-only coverage if it meant that kids were getting coverage and anybody in disaster mode was covered by some medical entity other than an emergency room. I really could. I'm willing to pay more if it means that other people are getting better care, but that doesn't seem to be the system.

At any rate, Gary and I have agreed that the small amount of money I'm getting from my mother's estate will be put into an emergency medical fund. If we want to do anything fun, like another cruise, we have to be able to swing it out of income. In the event of a real medical emergency, this modest inheritance would evaporate in roughly fifteen seconds, but one does what one can.

On a brighter note, my knee's been doing very well today. I did forty-plus minutes on the elliptical at a fairly brisk pace -- burning 300 calories and covering three miles -- and the knee held up nicely. Yay! (mbj: Thanks for your comment on my last post. Actually, I do have arthritis in my right knee; that was diagnosed many years ago. The orthopedist's reassurance just meant, I think, that the recent acute pain hadn't been caused by anything new and alarming. At any rate, he didn't tell me I didn't have arthritis, and we'd talked about arthritis before the x-rays, so if he hadn't seen any, I'm sure he'd have mentioned it.)

Tomorrow: No doctors! Huzzah!

Health Updates

For the past two days, I've been entirely off meds -- yay! -- and I'm already feeling a little more connected to the world. I hope it holds!

On the less positive side, my knee's been hurting like a sumbitch. Ice packs help, as does frequent movement (in a rocking chair, say), so the joint doesn't stiffen, and I've been swimming or using the elliptical -- recommended for folks with knee problems -- to buoy my mood and to keep working on my weight, which is definitely one of the contributing factors. But the problem's gotten to the point where stairs are a challenge; I have to do one step at a time, since bending the knee with any weight on it becomes very unpleasant very quickly.

Next week I'm in Berkeley; the following week, I'm going to see Katharine's orthopedist. My Berkeley visit will involve a second-story dorm room, in a building I suspect doesn't have elevators, and mandatory walks downtown for both exercise and food. I'll be slow and careful. Annoying, but not the end of the world.

That week, Gary and I are also both going to see a dermatologist. He has a mole on his face that's been worrying me for a while: our doc says it's probably nothing, but best to get it checked out. Best to get both of us checked out, since we live in the sunniest state in the country and I'm truly awful about using sunscreen. I have a black mark under one toenail that's probably a bruise, but I'll feel better when a doctor reassures me that it's not skin cancer.

Ah, middle age! I'm not sure I can count the number of specialists we've collected.

Putting Mom to Bed

Last night Mom woke me up twice. Once she yelped, I think -- my memory's hazy -- and my nephew and I both woke up (we're in rooms next to each other, down a short hall from her room) and called in unison, "Are you all right?" I got up and went to investigate; she'd just gotten back from the bathroom and was cold, so I helped her find slippers and draped a sweater over her shoulders and sat with her for a while (she was sitting on the edge of her bed) before I went back to bed. That was about 3:30, I think. Around 6:00, I heard more yelping and got up. She was still sitting on the edge of her bed. She told me that she'd lain down, but the sweater wasn't mussed, so I was skeptical. She said she was having trouble breathing; when I saw her oxygen tube on the floor, I understood why. I got it in place again and asked if I should call 911, and Mom said tartly, "Oh, good heavens, no: if we did that, they'd be here all the time." I checked her oximeter -- below 90% -- and cranked her concentrator up from 3 liters to 3.5, which helped.

She said she was still cold. I helped her lie down and covered her with blankets, and she relaxed right away. (My sister said later that a lot of her breathing trouble seems to come from fear of not being able to breathe as much as actual difficulty breathing; her O2 levels are always best when she's lying down and relaxed, rather than sitting up and tense). We talked for a while, mostly about my father ("I think about him a lot," Mom said, "but not sadly"), and then I got into bed with her and put my arm over her. My mother's often disliked physical contact, especially when she isn't feeling well, but she held my hand and squeezed it. After a whlie she seemed safely asleep, so I went rather groggily back to my own bed.

My sister woke me up several hours later for a shopping trip we'd planned yesterday; more on that in the next post. We went into Mom's room and she told my sister how I'd "put her to bed" and how much she loved it when I got into bed with her. "I loved it," she said. "Loved it. I cherished it. I wish you could do it every night." Over dinner tonight, she called me her "night-time elf."

I was very moved that she was so happy to have me there, and was so articulate about it. One of my abiding regrets about my father is that I didn't spend a lot of time just sitting with him, not nearly as much as he'd have liked (although, in fairness, I couldn't, because I was running around trying to manage both his life and my own). So putting Mom to bed was a luxury for me as well as for her, and it was also a welcome break for my sister, who's usually the one to respond to all middle-of-the-night calls.

I must say, though, that I'd rather all this hadn't happened in the middle of the night!

Progress and Decline

At this week's fiddle lesson I started learning Oh Those Britches Full of Stitches, here played much more ably by someone who's only had three lessons than I can play it yet. Oh well! This marks my first official foray onto the D string, although I've been playing it in secret almost since the beginning.

Charlene is also trying to teach me the correct bowing technique for "Egan's Polka," which right now is very difficult. I'm used to one bowstroke per note, so playing several notes on one stroke is new and confusing. I'm sure I'll get the hang of it after a few more days of practice, though.

In today's medical news, I went to see my pulmonologist for the sleep-study results from a few weeks ago. Gary and I had talked last night about how, although my mood's fine, I've been really tired lately and have been sleeping a ridiculously long time (like, ten or twelve hours) each night. Exercise makes me sleep more right now, whereas it usually helps me wake up earlier. The last time that happened was before I was diagnosed with my sleep disorder. Six years ago, they called it UARS -- Upper Airway Resistance Syndrome -- which meant that my blood oxygen levels weren't going down, as in true apnea, but that my airway was narrowing enough to tell my brain to wake up.

I only had the second sleep test because my insurance company required it, but after last night's conversation, I wondered if maybe my sleep disorder had gotten worse. And, lo and behold, indeed it has: I now have full-blown -- although mild -- apnea. Off the CPAP, my blood oxygen dipped to 79 percent and my sleep was very disturbed (I didn't actually stop breathing, but my breathing was very shallow). The second they put me on the CPAP, I plunged into REM sleep, which I hadn't reached until then. "You like CPAP," the pulmonologist told me.

Indeed I do. I asked him what would make a sleep disorder get worse, and he pointed out gently that I've gained twenty pounds in those six years. Some of this is due to menopausal metabolism changes and some of it's probably due to my meds (I lost twenty pounds after going off my first round of meds about ten years ago). I'm not technically overweight, but I'm at the border.

Gahhhhh. I'd love to get off the meds, but my shrink thinks that's a really, really bad idea. She thinks I have to be on something the rest of my life. Pfui!

In the meantime, they'll be dialing my CPAP up a notch, from 6 to 7. I'll be curious to see if that makes a difference.

The good news here is that insurance will definitely pay for the sleep study and the CPAP. The bad news is that I have to keep hauling the CPAP around when I travel. I wish they could make one the size of an iPod, but that doesn't seem to have happened yet.