Naming Names

I don't know where the thought came from, but I was ruminating this week on brainstorming sessions with Harry in the before-the-beforetimes. We'd spend an hour or two trying to name a new product line or that year's plush animal to be sold for the company's favorite charity. Each of the writers would have a list, and we'd toss out names to each other to see if anything stuck. It was fun and wonderful working in that creative environment.

Maybe that's what inspired this week's blog.

"What if we combined our names, like 'Brangelina.' What would we come up with?" I asked Mr. Ginley.

Someday, we'll make it back to Sweeties

These are the kinds of discussions we have now, amidst the mayhem that has become our lives.

"Of course, it depends on which form of our names we use. William or Bill, Barbara or Barbie." Possibilities include:

• Willarbie
• Barbilliam
• Bariam
• Willbara
• Barbill (my personal favorite)

Given how much of a team we've become, it only makes sense to give us a name. 

As you can see, it's been a pretty quiet week. There were a few highlights.

Mr. walked 50 feet this week. (Woo hoo!) And, for the first time the other night, he moved the toes on his left foot. Which is clutch to his recovery.

His nurse, Serena, took blood so we didn't have to go have it done at the hospital, and she did a wonderful job. It's no small feat considering someone's small veins. 

We're inching closer to the next kidney stone procedure. Please, dear God, let this be the last one.

In other news, we signed a contract to get the back of the house painted. I think we're going to put off replacing the back door for now. 

Thanks, dear readers, for hanging with us. Know that we love to hear what y'all are up to. 

As always, we live vicariously through others.

Keep those healing thoughts and prayers coming, please! 

Late Night Rambles

 "Chirp."

"What time is it?," Mr. Ginley murmured. 

"20 to 4," I replied.

He hit the light on the clock and took a gander.

"3:40," he gurgled.

"Chirp."

"What was that?," he inquired.

This conversation took place in the wee hours this morning, as I was emptying his pee bottles and covering him back up.

"Chirp."

"It's the smoke alarm," I diagnosed. "I changed out the batteries in one of them when it went kaput last year, but I think it was the upstairs one. This must be the one downstairs."

In the beforetimes, Mr. replaced the batteries on Halloween, but last year, the VERY BAD DAY occurred before the trick or treaters came around.

"Chirp."

"I'll just get the step stool and remove the battery," I said. 

"You should use the ladder, that ceiling is pretty high," Mr. Ginley replied.

But I didn't have it in me to shlep the big ladder up from the basement, so I stood on tiptoes on the step stool and tossed the battery out.

"I'll bring up the ladder later today when I'm fully awake and put in the new battery," I told him.

"Chirp."

Sigh.

I went over to the steps leading upstairs and cocked an ear.

"Chirp." 

Up I went, dragging the step stool with me. Turns out, the culprit was the CO2 detector. I replaced the battery, reversed my steps, and carried the step stool back to its home in the kitchen.

Blessed silence.

Just another night of high jinx at the Casa de Ginley.

This is why I live vicariously through all of you on Facebook. 

P.S. Progress report on Mr. Ginley: He walked 25 feet this week. Watch out, Stroky McStrokerson is on the move!

P.P.S. This week, we celebrated our anniversary: 38 years of marital blisters bliss.

Groundhog Day

When the doctor came out to talk to me after Mr. Ginley's latest kidney stone surgery this week, my heart sank. I could see from the look on his face that this wasn't going to be our last rodeo.

I can smell this memory (Krispy Kreme)

"There were embedded stones," he said. "We cleaned those out, but it weakened the walls of the urethra, and we couldn't go any further up to tackle more without risking injury. Which would mean an 8-hour operation to fix it. We'll be going back in again in 4 weeks."

I felt like Bill Murray in the movie Groundhog Day. Ding. I got you, Babe. 

It fell on me to go to the recovery room and explain to my beloved, who had been so eager to put all of this behind him, that we still had miles to go.

He took it better than I had anticipated. Was he being brave for me? Probably.

We knew the drill. I arranged for the home health nurse to come and remove the catheter in 2 days. He started on a course of antibiotics. (These caused horrible diarrhea, I won't get graphic here, you're welcome.) And he continues to feel the urge to pee every 15 minutes.

Not much joy in Mudville.

The next procedure is scheduled for early June. In the meantime, we'll continue to work on his PT. (OT has ceased for the time being, because his hand hasn't come back yet, and all he can do is keep it limber until it does.) His transferring continues to improve – most days, he's at minimum-assist, for which I'm grateful. And he's doing exercises to strengthen his core and his good leg to keep them in the game.

And so it goes. 

Every day, I remind him of our "one day at a time" mantra.

Although, as Ilene pointed out, some days "one moment at a time" is all one can manage.

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.)