Category: Relationships

Home again, home again

When Dale first went into the Skilled Nursing Facility after fracturing his pelvis, the Physical Therapists suggested Skechers slip-ins, since tying his shoes might be difficult for several weeks to several months.

Of course, he scoffed. He’s fine with the shoes he has. Yes he is! A few days later, I talked to him again about the Skechers, and he flatly said no way. We shall not speculate on his reasons, but OK, maybe we will speculate he thinks they are for old farts who can’t bend over and tie their shoes.

The day before he was discharged, I went to visit the PT room, where he was doing his exercises and charming the ladies. The PT said, “Donna, Dale is doing great, and he wants a pair of Skechers.”

“Really?” I said. “Does he now?” Both of the PTs were laughing, so I guess they know. Dale, newly designated old fart, is now the proud owner of a nice pair of Skechers. One of the nurses said to get a half size larger, and she was right.

The trip home went great. He got in and out of the car with ease. He likes the bed! He can get up and down on his own and use the walker to get to the bathroom or the living room, but he’s at high risk for a fall right now, so we monitor his movements. His sister, Coris, is here helping, and I am so grateful. I’m worn out.

The whole set-up I spent so much time on is working out beautifully. Coris gave me a 10 out of 10 in preparation. She’s a retired nurse, so I graciously accepted her accolades. A nurse came to do the pre-assessment for what he will need in the way of physical therapy, home health care, etc. Coris spoke nurse talk to her, and that helped immeasurably. I could easily have unleashed on the poor nurse, and I didn’t. Coris sent me off to make a copy of Dale’s meds, and that was one slick move.

Tomorrow a physical therapist and an occupational therapist are supposed to call and set up an arrival time for his first visit. Once we know how that works, then I will make other plans that include fun time for me.

We did have to modify my award-winning set-up just a tad. The bathroom is small, but we learned the hard way it does not easily accommodate me, Dale, a walker and an open shower door. We were doing a practice run for a shower, and we had to slide around like one of those puzzles with all the squares to get out.

Once we were liberated, a neighbor came to remove the bathroom door, and that gave us much more room to navigate the space.

The shower has grab bars, but Dale was not confident at this point. As it happens, Medicare provided a commode, which has a bowl, but you can take the bowl off and set the whole thing over the toilet. It raises the seat and has arms for stability. I bought a shower seat that swivels so Dale could sit down and swivel to the direction of the water without actually moving.

The only problem is his butt. The fracture is on the left, but it turns out the most significant pain is on the right. He saw the doctor right before he was discharged, and that pain on the right is a hematoma, and not a small one. It’s significant tissue damage, and the doc said it will just take time to feel better and heal. Coris calls it hamburger butt, because that tissue is so chewed up by trauma. Dale calls it hamburger helper.

Sitting in general is a problem, and he’s not yet ready to try the shower stool because it doesn’t have arms. We moved the commode in there because he can sit on that and use his arms to prop himself up a bit and take some of the pressure off.

There’s also a small step up into the shower, and he wasn’t ready to try that. We figure the PT and the OT will help us devise a good shower scheme, but Dale was pretty funky and needed to be hosed off ASAP.

Here’s what we did. I stripped down to my underwear and got in the back of the shower. Coris placed the commode inside the shower. We left the shower door open. Dale got onto the commode and left his feet hanging outside the shower. Coris stripped down to a t-shirt and undies and lined the bathroom floor with towels. Then we got to work. She saved his private parts for me, and she took care of his legs and feet.

It was messy, but it worked, and Dale was a happy camper. I feel certain he will quickly upgrade to the swivel seat and eventually standing with the grab bars. But we worked with what we had. It was actually hilarious and should have been televised.

We don’t want him moving around at night because of the fall risk. He and I agreed to keep our phones by the bed and his instructions are to call me if he needs anything. Sure enough, he’s called me every effing night, but they were legitimate things, and I think we’re working through that. I never had kids, but I kind of feel like a new mom waiting until I can sleep through the night.

Dale is doing better every day. He’s reducing his heavy duty pain meds and supplementing with Advil, per the doctor’s instructions. Once we have a schedule, I want to hire a mini-me to watch over him while I go out and play golf or otherwise goof off. I’m a better caregiver than anyone expected, including me, but I don’t like it.

There, I said it.

What a journey. I so appreciate everyone’s good wishes. Thank you! Long-lost friends, casual acquaintances, golf buddies, family and blog followers have all reached out to help us during this time, and it makes you realize a good life means you take care of each other when you can.

Dinner tonight is a Maine-thing his sister is making for Dale. She baked beans and bread yesterday, and they were delicious, but today they make sandwiches of cold beans and butter on untoasted bread. I am going with Plan B. Not sure what that is at this point, but I can’t quite take bean sandwiches.

Adventures in medical care

The hospital was actually pretty nice. My husband had a private room, there was a couch where I could sit and they served Peet’s coffee. I guess the Medicare drill is after three nights, you will most likely be moved to a Skilled Nursing Facility (pronounced sniff) if you aren’t able to go home yet.

When I told my sister-in-law, who is a retired nurse, that he was moving to a SNF, she cried.

They gave me a list, and I had about an hour to decide. I looked to see which ones were closest to our house. I Googled reviews. We got our first choice, which got glowing reviews, high medical ratings, etc. Several commenters even said the food was excellent.

I’m told they are all pretty much the same. It’s not that I made a poor choice, it’s just that, you know, it’s not the Ritz. My first reaction was something between Cuckoo’s Nest and Girl, Interrupted.

The place is packed, and they gave him a bed in a room so tiny you couldn’t even access the bathroom (shared by four people) without moving stuff around. He was in the back, by the window, but you practically had to crawl over his roommate to get to Dale.

After the shock wore off and physical therapy arrived, we began to feel better. I started schmoozing (I was in PR, after all) and the next day got him moved to a much better room with a worse roommate. Dale said it was a worthy trade.

I won’t go into the details regarding the roommate, but aside from being old and sick, he’s mean to the staff, screams about this, that and the other thing and does not have complete control of his bowels. He makes a big production when he has an “accident.” Dale thinks he does it on purpose to get attention.

As I said, it’s not really a very pleasant place to be, but it’s clean and the staff is very kind and attentive and seem to be good at what they do. We both feel like he’s in good hands. The goal is to get him to the point where he can get up on his own, get to the bathroom, etc. Then he can come home. It will most likely be three weeks, the doctor suggested.

The food is pretty awful, but then you know what food snobs we are. The meals are healthy, and there’s good variety. Dale picks at it. He’s on a normal diet, so I’m allowed to bring food, which is a pain in the ass, but he needs more than what he is willing to eat off the tray. Oh, and daily coffee service from Donna’s instead of Peet’s.

He’s in good spirits and understands it’s a long journey. All I can say is if you visit one of these facilities, you will do whatever you can to keep from ending up there. Part of the place is long-term care, and that is just heart-breaking. Some of these poor souls sit in their wheelchairs out in the hallway, snoozing or muttering to themselves. A few scream now and then.

I’m doing OK, except I wish he’d just eat the damned food. But I get it. My new best friend is ChatGPT. I had never used it before, but I love it! I’m asking about beds for downstairs when he comes home, other medical equipment, how to deal with family members … it’s incredible!

While I don’t know what my chat friend’s gender is, I’m saying it’s a her. She gave me some advice about sibling matters, and out of habit, I wrote back to thank her and let her know which path I choose. She approved of my choices and applauded my emotional intelligence.

I was texting my young friend who’s more familar with all this stuff, and I said, “I think she’s sucking up to me.” My friend said, yes, but here’s some language to put in your preferences to let her know you don’t want that.

Although I did it, I sort of liked the sucking up. I promised myself I would not upload my photo and ask my chat buddy how old I looked. Or if my bob made me look like a Republican.

Facts aren’t what they used to be

So, here we are on the dark side of the information age, where you read something, you find yourself nodding in agreement and then you find out it’s AI. Lying and fakery has become the norm. Truth is almost always disguised. Facts aren’t what they used to be.

What’s real? What’s not?

While I feel good about challenging lies when I’m on solid ground, most of the time it feels like everything I know is built on a foundation of quicksand.

The good news is I’ve become much more comfortable saying I don’t know. And perhaps I will be among the first to tell you this is good relationship advice. You don’t always have to be correct. My husband and I seem to do better when we just accept we’re both clueless.

Before I realized I know nothing, he would say something obviously delusional. I would correct him, and then we’d start arguing until I went upstairs to get on the Internet and prove I’m right. Then he would start questioning my sources, like Wikipedia doesn’t count, and I would find myself defending some troll who saw Elvis last night.

Then it’s all about the art of surrendering. Backing out of a firm stance. Agreeing we were both wrong. It was a misunderstanding. None of it matters, anyway. That seems to be working.

Social situations are more challenging. What with my filter broken, I can’t stay silent when people spew absolute nonsense. I might not know all the facts, but in terms of a moral compass, I know right from wrong, so let’s start there.

These are trying times, and it can be hard to know when to be quiet or when to speak up, but I think most of us figure it out eventually. One thing I’ve learned for sure is friends and acquaintances can still enjoy fulfilling lives without hearing what I think about everything.

I suppose it’s about moderation and self-awareness. Speak up when it counts, muzzle yourself when it doesn’t. My group does a pretty good job managing all that. We eat a little, drink a little, talk about what we’re going to eat next, share pictures of our animals and coo.

It’s not bad. Not bad at all.

And on that note, I leave you with Number 48.

No cons, no clowns, no kings

We went to a local No Kings rally last weekend. Dale thought we only needed one sign between us, and I agreed. But then we couldn’t agree on the sign. This is standard operating procedure for us. Sometimes it’s hard to believe we’ve been married 46 years.

It was a struggle to get there, but we finally went with, “No cons, no clowns, no kings.” And for a couple of hours we felt good about the future. Now, well, not so much.  

There are so many things to be mad about. War. Obviously, that’s not good. But some of the small things bother me just as much. Wiping out history because the regime doesn’t like admitting it happened? 

New signs at national parks and historic sites include QR codes, urging visitors to report any signs or information “that are negative about either past or living Americans or that fail to emphasize the beauty, grandeur and abundance of landscapes.”

I know you get this news from other sources, and I suspect you are sick of hearing about it from me. I made the mistake of looking at my blog statistics, and they have gone down a little each year since COVID. More so since Trump 2.0.

It’s true I’m not as cheerful as I used to be, but I write about retired life and getting older and stuff I’m experiencing, and what’s happening in our country is part of the package. Plus, I think it’s important to speak up while we still can. So, statistics be damned.

JKW. Just Keep Writing.

We are anxiously awaiting the arrival of fresh tomatoes. There are several farmers markets near us, and yesterday we went to one of the larger ones in hopes of a sneak preview. Our favorite tomato vendor didn’t have any yet, but there were was one stand featuring a few tomatoes, so we took a chance.

I was craving a big messy bison burger with lettuce, tomatoes, pickles, onions, mayonnaise and mustard. No ketchup ever. It was as advertised – big and messy – and the tomato was OK. I call them iceberg tomatoes. The real ones aren’t here yet.

We learned about a place where you pick your own corn, and they even have a corn hotline so you don’t have to drive out there until you’re sure. I rather love that. They are only open Tuesdays and Saturdays. I called the hotline, and it said corn was ready, so I believe we will be making the trek this week.

I don’t know whether it’s turning 70 in a couple of months or politics or something else, but I’ve been reflecting on the past and wondering about some of the choices I made. Some of it wasn’t necessarily a choice but rather who I was at that time in life and now wishing I’d been different.

Having been raised by wolves, it took me a long time to figure out how to navigate work and life. I had a great career, but it could have been better if I hadn’t been such a mess inside.

Also, I’ve never been the most sociable person on the planet, and to some extent I blame that on the wolves, but it’s on me, too. I should have tried harder to make and keep friends.

While I’ve accepted wear and tear on the body as part of aging, I still resent it. What was I doing when my body was in peak form? Oh, that’s right, working my ass of at a 24/7 job so I could make enough money and retire before I totally crap out.

Actually, my body is feeling pretty darn good, especially my knees, and I’ve been daydreaming about long-distance walking trip. But geez, will they hold up? I’m continuing to do my exercises and slowly adding mileage, so I guess we’ll see. I don’t want to book anything until I’m reasonably certain I can do it.

As for other choices, the big one is my life partner. No lie, Dale and I do get on each other’s nerves, but after all these years we’re getting better at agreeing to disagree, and I don’t doubt my choice there. We’re both outspoken, independent and non-traditional, and he has never tried to clip my wings.

No cons, no clowns, no kings.

It seems to me I compromise more than he does on the small things in daily life, but we’ve been together so long it’s starting to seem like some of those things were my idea in the first place.

Like no ketchup on a burger. Whose rule was that?

Passenger seat drivers

Everyone said just wait until retirement, when you’ll be spending all your time together driving each other nuts. There’s some truth to the prophecy, but we’ve been working our way through it and doing quite nicely. The driving part is where we get into trouble.

Much of our marital success can be attributed to spending time away from each other. Our love of food and cooking puts us in the kitchen a lot but not usually together. I do most of the housework, so there’s a fun solo activity for me. Dale tends to the yard, barely, but I’m still giving him points for keeping me out of it. I play golf and am sucked down that shame spiral two to three days a week.

All that aside, we are emotionally attached at the core and cannot imagine the day when one of us has to go it alone. But the truth is, we actually don’t need much togetherness. Maybe it’s the secret to our 40-year marriage. We each have our own interests, sometimes they align, and if they don’t, we meet up for happy hour in the living room and swap stories.

But then there are the together days. A trip to the market, the library or a local winery. Road trips. This is where driving issues emerge, and I’m the first one to admit I’m a huge part of the problem. It’s not that I’m a better driver, it’s that I’m a terrible passenger seat driver.

Why would you park in that spot when there’s a better one over there?

Slow down! It’s not a race.

Are you sure you parked inside the lines?

Watch out – there’s a car in the next lane!

Something’s going on up ahead – you’d better slow down.

Oh, don’t turn left here. Go up to the next light, where there’s an arrow.

I can drive if you want to just drink your coffee and relax.

In all fairness to me, his sister confidentially shared she was riding with him, he was going kind of fast down the hill outside our neighborhood, and he cried out, “Wheeee!” all the way to the bottom.

I do trust Dale’s driving. It’s mostly my neurosis at play, but wheeee goes against all I stand for when it comes to interacting with a motorized vehicle. Still, I have worked hard to zip it, and Dale agrees I am much better. Now, if I start to say something, I catch myself and stop. Unless, of course, it’s a speak up or die kind of thing.

This morning’s paper had a column on driving with one finger on the wheel – one of Dale’s signature moves. I use one finger, too, but it’s the middle one, pointed straight up.

I hate being a harpy, but then I believe every bridge, every overpass, every onramp, is an invitation to death. I marked up the article when I was done with that section and left it there. Came upstairs and sat down at my computer, when I heard this big laugh. I said, “What’s so funny?” He said, “Oh, the subtle message. Thanks.”

You’re welcome! That’s retirement, I thought, just trying to live through it.

Fitbit couples therapy

Is there a point in life when you can no longer stand being told what to do? Is resisting authority and relishing freedom a byproduct of retirement or aging? I mention this because it turns out my husband, Dale, does not appreciate my handy lifestyle tips. Personally, I’m more annoyed with Fitbit, which is much too bossy for my taste.

Neither one of us likes to be criticized. Who does? However, I do have more time on my hands these days, and I can’t help but notice things. But it was not until I broke up with my Fitbit that I noticed something about handy lifestyle tips and marriage.

Who needs couples therapy when you have a Fitbit?

The break-up went down like this. I took it off – the Fitbit – I’m like screw you, Fitbit. You don’t own me. You don’t appreciate how busy I am, and you give me weird tan lines. I’ll walk bare-wristed. I’ll walk when I choose. I’m a free agent. Got that? I don’t need your fake incentives and dire warnings.

  • You walked the length of your intestine!
  • Your Flex battery level is low! Are you OK?
  • Goal not met. You suck.
  • Your Flex battery level is low again. Use it or lose it!

But then … oh, wait, what’s that over there? I won the Nile badge with 4,132 lifetime miles? Well, thank you, thank you very much. Why, yes, I am pretty amazing. What if I had worn it everyday like you advised? What badge would I earn then? #becauseiwantthefuckingbadge.

Despite my fiery electrocutions about freedom and resistance, it appears I am programmed for an incentive-based life. Tell me there’s a prize involved, and I’m your girl. Maybe it works with husbands, too?

My first thought was to create a system of rewards for Dale. The Artist badge for successfully parking inside the lines. The Counterintelligence badge for wiping down the granite. The Blue Lagoon badge for cleaning the toilets.

The problem isn’t that he doesn’t already do these things. The problem is I feel compelled to suggest he do these things on a regular basis and in a timelier fashion – just as I would! But yes, I see it, I’m starting to sound like the Fitbit. Pretty soon I will buzz when he loads the dishwasher. Keep it up! You’re in range and on point!

As for incentives, I’m pretty sure a simple thanks, I love you, will suffice.

I’m going to work harder at keeping my mouth shut, especially when he’s driving and in the wrong turn lane. That gets ugly fast. We’ll call it the Zip It badge, because a good marriage is a lot like Twitter – one day you wake up and realize not everything needs to be said.

Meanwhile, I’m back to being bossed around by the Fitbit. The Earth badge is only 7,992 miles, and I learned in Fitbit couples therapy we all like a little positive reinforcement now and again.

Bacon of the Month Club

During the first couple of months after I retired, my husband and I were driving each other nuts, what with me wanting him to eat healthier and live longer and then his raging indifference to my loving intentions. So, I thought, fine, you want to die, let’s get this show on the road, and I gave him “Bacon of the Month Club” for Christmas.

He would receive a monthly shipment of bacon for three months courtesy of Zingerman’s. I would have done the whole year, but that seemed too obvious.

I like bacon, but most of the time, I’m like, no thanks, I’ve already had cancer. Until delicious specialty pork products started arriving at the door, I wasn’t even tempted. But now there was pressure.

The first shipment was a pound of Nueske’s applewood smoked bacon from Wisconsin. The package included a keepsake binder with articles about bacon and the people who make it, “A Pocket Book of Bacon” and a pig magnet for the refrigerator.

Nueske’s was by far the best of the three we sampled. The article in the binder described it as the Platonic ideal of bacon, the one against which all other bacons are measured. And it’s true. I’m not good at describing the positive qualities of bacon after so many years of pig-shaming, other than to say Dale cooked it to perfection, and it was crispy, smoky and succulent.

At first I would only eat one piece, and I said we can never have this more than once a week. Then I said, oh, two pieces won’t kill me, but never, never more than once a week. And then I said, oh, what difference does it make if we eat it twice a week? We’re all going to die anyway.

In hindsight, I can see bacon helped us bond through a challenging transition in our lives. Whatever was going on – me in bed at night, worrying about what happens if the North Koreans bomb us and ruin my retirement and him worrying about me being awake worrying about North Korea.

But then it’s morning, the sun is glorious, the birds are chirping and wait, what is that other sound? Could it be the siren call of bacon?

One morning I took a picture of two simple slices of bacon on a plate and posted it on my Instagram account. I don’t get tons of Instagram traffic, but bacon is my most popular post to date. I look at the number every couple of weeks, and I report to Dale that bacon, of all my posts, is still in the lead. He laughs every time. The picture of me bald after chemotherapy is a heart-tugging second, but it’s not bacon.

We’re adjusting to our new lifestyle. I gave up pestering him about what he eats. Besides, he kind of came around on his own. Our membership in Bacon of the Month Club had expired, and one day he said, you know, that was fun, but we shouldn’t eat so much bacon.

I let him think it was his idea – a trick I learned at work.

A new opportunity to annoy your partner

Consider me the canary in the coal mine, dutifully sharing dispatches from the dark recesses of retirement so you can learn from my best practices and perhaps a mistake or two.

As for mistakes, it appears I’ve been annoying my husband.

A friend suggested it might happen with all this new-found togetherness. I said don’t be silly, we won’t be spending that much time together, because I will be playing golf. However, moving to a new home, performing my duties as House Elf, writing and a lack of cooperation on the weather’s part means I have not played as much golf as I had planned.

Instead, we’ve been holed up in the house passing notes to each other through the cat. The fundamental problem is he needs to be more like me, and I need to be more like him.

I’m a driver – sometimes known as a Type A. I like to keep things organized, and I like to get things done. Dale, on the other hand, is a wee bit sloppy and pleasantly laid back. I have, in a moment of weakness, called him lazy. He said lazy is such a harsh word. He likes to think of himself as differently motivated.

Normally we balance each other out, but it seems I’ve been using my bonus retirement hours to try and make him more like me. Well, why not? With my astute powers of observation, I’ve identified key shortcomings, and who doesn’t love a good list?

It was a healthy discussion.

  • He admitted to being lazy. I admitted to being possessed controlling.
  • I agreed not to criticize his driving. He agreed to park inside the lines.
  • He said he’d try and get more done. I said I was aroused by a guy with a few chores under his belt.
  • I conceded Vietnamese and Thai fish sauce are both tasty, but whoever is cooking gets to pick.
  • He is not required to eat oatmeal if he doesn’t care whether he lives or dies.

We renewed our vow that we can’t afford to NOT love each other. In a deeply romantic moment, I believe I said, “Dance with the one who brung ya.”

Love morphs over 40 years, but it does not fly out the door in a matter of months. Retirement changes the dynamics, and we’ve learned it’s important to keep the lines of communication open now more than ever. We each owned up to our part in this drama, and I believe our ability to duke it out rationally is one reason we’ve lasted this long. That, and being soul mates.

If I had to do it over, I might suggest one retire in the spring, so one could have a long, warm period of adjustment. As for your trusty reporter, the weather is improving, and I have every confidence it will improve fast enough to get me out of the house before you find me strapped to a lie detector screaming, “Yes! It’s true! Almond milk is not real milk!”