Wearing the Crown

 "I dreamed that England made me King William V."

These were Mr. Ginley's first words this morning.

"You mean, like King Ralph?" I inquired, referring to the 1991 movie starring John Goodman as the mensch who would be king.

"Ya, just like that," he said sleepily, still in the throes of slumber, apparently. "They found out I was the closest blood heir to the throne. But they didn't want you to be in the ceremony. I told them, 'If Barbie can't be there, I won't be there.'"

I was touched. 

"Was there a King William IV in real life?" I wanted to know.

"Ya, he came before Victoria, he was her uncle. Wasn't king for very long, though." [Seven years, almost to the day. Thanks, Britannica.]

"The first thing I did was end the troubles in Ireland," he continued.

"I bet the food was good," I noted, knowing his priorities. And thus sent him back to dreamland, hopefully to enjoy all his favorite delicacies as regent of GB.

Back here in the land of reality, Mr. continues to take more steps as his left leg works valiantly at regaining its former functionality. His hand remains a stranger, but we have hope.

Thursday marks six months since the stroke struck. Also coming up this week is his next procedure, which will hopefully be the final kidney stone blast extravaganza. Once we've gotten through that, we'll continue to work on transferring, so he can get from his wheelchair to the car seat and be free to roam beyond the cabin. 

The dream is to have him sailing through the MetroParks again, side by side with moi, taking in the wonders of nature and experiencing the great outdoors again.

Which, I believe, is a more realistic dream than becoming Bill V.

Fingers crossed. 

I See You

Back in the day when Sears was a shopping mecca in search of a rebranding strategy, they came up with the tagline, "Come see the softer side of Sears."

It was a nice strategy, really. With a heavy focus on power tools and man cave whatnots, they set out to woo apparel shoppers.

These days, I feel as though I'm experiencing the softer side of my husband.

When I look at Strokey McStrokerson, who do I see?

Haberdashery in the Beforetimes

A stroke victim? Someone to be pitied?

Nope. I see my husband, my honey, a man of great determination and courage. With that wry sense of humor and ability to remember historical facts, sports figures, and where we put the extra blade for the lawn mower. 

And yes, the guy who donned an elephant hat in the store that one time.

These days, he's quieter, more introspective, more sensitive to those around him. The temper of the beforetimes has been replaced by gentle remonstrations when I get angry or frustrated. 

In other words, we have the softer side of Mr. Ginley. 

This week, he took eight steps using his bad leg. It was quite the accomplishment, with hope for many more. I promised him a shillelagh when he can walk again.

I can't wait.

Back Dated

When I was in the retail business, I always knew when the holidays were coming up. 

Perpetual Calendar, circa 16th Century

These days, birthdays, anniversaries, and other special events creep up on me. Last weekend, for example, was Easter, and while I started to see chocolate bunnies at the grocery store weeks before, the actual day didn't quite register until I realized I couldn't shop at Heinen's on Sunday because it was closed for the holiday.

I did manage to get to Giant Eagle early that day for my weekly grocery excursion. I even picked up a donut for Mr. Ginley and me.

"I wonder if having a donut for lunch on Easter is kosher," I mused aloud.

Mr.'s response was quick and succinct.

"Jesus would have wanted us to eat a donut for lunch on Easter. He was Jewish, he wouldn't eat ham."

So that resolved that moral dilemma, and we got through the day without any more theological discussions.

However, the topic of Mr.'s birthday came up. His natal day was last Tuesday, and while I hadn't completely forgotten, it wasn't top of mind, largely because I had to arrange for his MRA on Wednesday, and that had taken top billing for the week.

"What are we having for my birthday dinner?" he inquired. 

I went through my list of meals for the week and selected the Cheesy Sloppy Joe Casserole. Just about anything with hamburger in it is a safe bet.

"Do I like that?" he asked, as he always does when I throw out the name of a dish. 

"Yes," I assured him. He looked dubious but accepted my answer.

"Okay. As long as I get butterscotch brownies." Which he did, although I baked them the day after, because I was off work for the MRA.

He was kind enough to wait for his treat.

As for the MRA, we won't know the results until next month when we have a virtual visit with his neurologist. However, we do find the phrase "no concentric vessel wall enhancement suggestive of vasculitis" to be reassuring. (Thank you, Google.)

I suppose my "one day at a time" mantra is what's giving me tunnel vision, vis-à-vis what's happening outside of these four walls. 

But right now, that's about the best I can do. So if I'm late with the birthday wishes, I apologize in advance. 

Do they make boxed belated birthday cards? Asking for a friend.

Holding Pattern

Who would have imagined that the phrase "I'm bored" would sound so delicious? 

looking ahead

At this stage of my life, I'm happy to find a constant, a daily routine that is stable. 

Get up, eat breakfast, work for a couple of hours, get Mr. Ginley up, work some more, make lunch, work some more, make dinner, watch an episode of Perry Mason, clean up the dishes, read the advice columns aloud, watch a little Hallmark TV, get us ready for bed, hit the sack.

Weekends are for Saturday Spa Day for Mr. Ginley, grocery shopping, laundry, paying bills, and catching up on errands. 

There are those whose eyes would glaze over at the humdrum nature of our schedule, but I don't mind. 

If I'm not calling for an ambulance, angsting over the color of his bodily fluids, or grabbing a backpack of stuff on my way to the hospital or nursing home, it's a good day.

Someday, we'll be able to roam about the MetroParks again, him and me, admiring the vast blue sky, soaring birds, and warm breezes.

In the meantime, I'm happy to have Mr. Ginley here with me and safe.

Even when he pesters me for chips and chocolate. 

PS: This week, there was a nice break in the routine when our granddaughter stopped by with her Dad. We had a wonderful time. Ernesh enjoyed the visit, too. (He said you can pull his hair anytime.)

Two Steps Forward, Two Steps Back

For those readers who have been following this blog to keep up with Mr. Ginley's progress but prefer the Reader's Digest version, here goes.

Random pic from the beforetimes*

He had his procedure to blast the oversized kidney stone. (One step forward.) The estimated time was one hour. He was under for four hours and is going back at the end of April so they can finish the job. Which means two additional trips to medical facilities. The transport dispatcher is my new BFF. (One step back.)

The pee bag was removed (one step forward). He had a catheter put in that needed to be removed the next day. ("You can remove it," the doctor said. "Hellza no," I said.) Our home health nurse did the deed for us.

Either the presence of the catheter or the stent they put in to drain the kidney stones seem to have messed up his ability to ascertain when he has to urinate. We took a trip to the urologist yesterday for a scan of his bladder to ensure it wasn't retaining fluid. It wasn't. But the problem remains, so the doctor said he'd prescribe something that could help. The side effect is constipation. (One step back.)

So much for what was supposed to be a recovery period. Next week, he starts up with PT again. 

Time to focus on moving forward so we can get some positive steps in.

Confidential to whomever believes God never gives us more than we can handle: I ain't buying it.

Just to end on a positive note, baseball season is back and is providing a nice respite for Mr. Ginley's spirits. 

Also, our new washer and dryer are a joy to behold. One less Sword of Damocles hanging over our heads.

*Who is that masked man?

Getting Pee-vish

It's been another interesting week, which included pre-testing for Mr. Ginley's upcoming procedure, a ride in an NEMT to get there, and a phone call from his neurologist.

Here's lookin' at you, Kid*

First things first. NEMT (Non-Emergency Medical Transportation) is used for folks who need to get to doctor appointments or wherever without leaving their wheelchair. It's not cheap, but it's worth every penny to ensure your loved one gets where they're going without falling, which would result in another trip to the emergency room.

And none of us wants that.

The NEMT guy came to the door and helped Mark and I wheel Mr. down the ramp, then loaded him into the back of the van. I got to sit up front. We were delivered to the front entrance of the facility, where we checked in and waited to be processed.

At the end of the tests and instructions for the big day, Mr. was asked to provide a urine sample.

"Can't they take it out of the nephrostomy bag?" we inquired. Nope. We gave it the old college try in the nearby unisex bathroom, but to no avail. So the technician gave us a bottle and told us to fill it and drop it off at the lab, which I did the following day.

"I got a call from the lab," Mr. Ginley informed me as I walked in the door upon my return. "They said the urine test came back positive. I'm pregnant." 

Then he chuckled his endearing chuckle as I rolled my eyes and smiled. The only thing he's giving birth to is a mess of little kidney stones when they bust up the big one that's giving him so much trouble.

Later that day, I received a call from the neurologist's office telling me the blood thinner he was on was only supposed to be taken for 90 days, and that was likely what caused his bleeding ulcer. Didn't anyone tell us?

Nope. Communication in the medical community in the communication age leaves much to be desired. There's plenty of information in the system, but each doctor has their own specialty, and when things overlap, things are sometimes overlooked.

But that's a soapbox for another day.

Meanwhile, we wait with much anticipation for what Mr. calls the "boom-boom" procedure. 

We're hoping and praying it all goes smoothly so we can return to the "normal" routine that preceded this latest setback.

I gotta go now. The washer crapped out, and I need go shopping online for a new one, and probably a dryer, too.

Stay tuned!

*...in the beforetimes

Yucking it Up

"My 71-year-old husband tells long stories about himself to everyone. Family, friends, even strangers. I'm bored to tears hearing the same stories over and over, and I can see others' eyes glaze over to the point of avoidance."

In the beforetimes

This was the opening of a letter to Dear Abby the other day. This is our nightly ritual, me reading the advice columns from the daily newspaper.

I snuck a peek over the top of my ipad as I read it to Mr. Ginley, and he said, "Nice touch, changing the age to 71, like I wasn't going to recognize your letter."

We both burst out laughing, and he got that twinkle in his eye that keeps me from plummeting into total despair on the bad days.

When we'd wound down a bit, Mr. mused, "Laughter is the best medicine," and I had to agree. Not everyone understands our brand of humor, but that's okay, it works for us.

Reading the advice columns keeps us connected to the outside world. It helps to put our problems into perspective. Some of the letters are petty and silly, others are heartbreaking, and we're thankful we're not in their position.

The world has gotten smaller for the pair of us, but that's okay for now. We'll focus on enjoying the little things and let the big things take care of themselves.