Keeping Our Cool

It's been a weird week.

I decided last Sunday that it was time to replace the refrigerator. I'd been smelling coolant(?) in the kitchen, plus it had been dripping water inside the fridge for some time (years?). Rather than wait until it croaked altogether, I decided to do the deed and retire old Betsy.

I was trying to remember when we'd purchased her. We keep a file of stuff we've bought over the years, and sure enough, there was the manual along with the receipt for our Frigidaire. The purchase date? July 4, 2003. From the long-defunct H.H. Gregg. Yep, we got 23 years out of the old girl. It was time.

The new Frigidaire was due to arrive on Tuesday. I thought this was a good date, until a meeting showed up on my work calendar. I crossed my fingers and hoped the delivery would be before or after the meeting. I breathed a shaky sigh of relief when the delivery time was set for 12:30-4:30. The meeting was scheduled to end before noon. I mean, what are the odds that the delivery would be early? 

Well, the odds have never been in my favor, and sure enough, 15 minutes into the meeting I got a call from the delivery driver saying they would be there in 15 minutes. So, I turned off the camera and microphone on my computer and listened in while I shoved the food from our refrigerator and freezer into the coolers I had waiting. Then continued to listen in while I waited for the truck to show up. 

Fortunately, I didn't miss my cue, and was able to participate in the meeting when I needed to, but I was a nervous wreck by the time things wrapped up.

The new model is verrrrry quiet. But the food is cold and the frozen stuff is frozen, so it's all good. I suspect old Betsy hadn't been working efficiently for some time, but then, neither am I these days, so I felt a certain sadness when they wheeled her out and brought her replacement in. And yes, we got another Frigidaire. If it lasts anywhere near as long as old Betsy, I'll be happy.

As per our tradition, Mr. Ginley chose the magnets that now adorn the new model. I haven't named her yet. Naming things was my thing at my last job. Jewelry collections, plush giveaways, parking lot aisles. (Who can forget "Tourmaline Trail"?) So naming our fridge shouldn't be a big deal.

Our next project is getting the gutters cleaned out. I'll be working on contacting a contractor this week.

Meanwhile, last evening, we settled in to watch a bit of television and realized the remote was missing. We spent well over an hour looking for it, Mr. Ginley insisting he'd handed it to me last, me insisting it must be him. I even went to the garbage bin to make sure I didn't accidentally toss it in there. Finally, I admitted defeat, and ordered a new one online.

"Now we'll find I," I predicted.

As I was helping Mr. to bed, my prediction came true. 

You gotta laugh, right? And we did.

All Sorts

It's occurred to me lately that our home of 33 years has become a time capsule. 

Decades of memories in books, papers, pamphlets, and tchotchkes. Mr. Ginley has been hard at work sorting the goodies, relegating some to the trash bin or resale box. Others are going into a bin for Joe. The items that Mr.'s not ready to part with have been re-boxed and will be stored until the next purge.

In the meantime, I'm strolling along with him down Memory Lane. At the end of each day, there's a pile of "Barb's stuff" that I work through. Business cards from previous jobs. Greeting cards from my parents. Family pictures of life events, including the one that was taken for our church directory back in the day. 

Also, there have been several items in the category of "what is this and why did we save it?" There's always that fear that while you have no idea, as soon as you toss it out, you're going to need it.

Ah, well.

It was a quiet week otherwise. I had breakfast with my son and granddaughter at Edgewater, which was fun. And Mr. and I sat out on the porch for a bit, although the days we chose were pretty steamy, so we didn't sit out there for long. But I was able to snap the photo above. 

Do you like the "No Soliciting" sign behind him? We thought it was a nice touch. 

To be clear, Mr. says he's not for sale.

I told him we shouldn't be too hasty. 

The Old Folks at Home

"The doctor didn't sign the script," the lady at the registration desk said. "And we need a fax number to fax the results."

No idea what's on his head. From the beforetimes

So much for drawing blood before Mr. Ginley's ultrasound last Monday. We were trying to combine trips so that I wouldn't have to have the transport service schlep him more than once.

Oh well.

From there, we went to the radiology department. I went in with him and helped him get on and off the bed. (He tweaked his back, and it was sore for a few days, but it's getting better.) We're still waiting for the test results. I told Mr. that they've put him through so many scans over the past months, I'm thinking this is just to establish a baseline, post-kidney stone, going forward.

Later that same day, Dan came to pay a visit and talk about financial planning and wills and such. He and Mr. had a nice discussion about things, and Mr. was a happy camper. We've always liked Dan (we try not to call him "Danny" these days), who went to school and played baseball with our son. 

The rest of the week passed quietly. We're perfecting our technique for getting Mr. into and out of "The Cloud," his uber-comfortable easy chair. More books and papers have been culled, warranting additional trips to Savers, the library, and Half-Price Books.

It's hard to believe we're halfway through August and kids are getting ready to head back to school. Time is such a weird construct these days. Each day that passes without incident elicits a big sigh at bedtime and a speedy drop off to dreamland (where weird things happen that I can't remember the next morning, thankfully).

And, as Sonny and Cher said, "The Beat Goes On."

"Did you know that they have a place for cats to go to school?" Mr. inquired this morning. 

"It's called "Kittie-garden."

And so it goes.

One Man's Treasure

The other evening as I was taking the barbecue chicken off the grill, I paused as the local church's carillon started up. 

It was playing "All Through the Night," a Welsh hymn that always strikes a chord with me. (Pun semi-unintentional.) I listened to the entire rendition before returning to the kitchen. 

That's what we get in this lifetime, right? Moments. If we're lucky, there are long stretches of peace, but life for us these last months has been hardscrabble, with glimpses of light and joy. 

Mr. Ginley has been reaching for those glimpses by going through books and papers he's saved. I cannot tell you how many pounds of paper have hit the recycling bin. But there are gems, too, in correspondence, articles, ephemera, and even old check registers. 

"This says I loaned you $50," Mr. said the other day. "When are you going to pay me back?" 

"Hey, look at this, I gave Lisa money for tickets to a Rush concert."

"Here's the down payment for the place we stayed at when we went to Cape May in 1987."

Then there are other random articles that evoke memories of their own.

Although the garbage can runneth over, there are still plenty of "keepers." One of those is an old yellow raincoat. It was from Mr.'s days working at J.B. Robinson Jewelers. He used it when he was unloading trucks on the dock. When it was relatively new, the printer, Bruce T., borrowed it and unintentionally christened it with black printer's ink. He offered to buy Mr. new one; instead, it remained at the office. When JBR closed up, it came home with Mr. Now, every time he sees it, it brings back only happy memories.

It's been good for Mr. Ginley to sort through all of this stuff. He's enjoyed it, although there's a certain sadness to letting go of so much of it. Still, it's better to do it now when old treasures are cherished and remembered. Who but he would keep an old raincoat?

The good news is, the shredding has been completed. The bad news is, the office looks like the place was hit by a confetti cannon. Fortunately, that's an easy fix. Nothing a little vacuuming can't take care of. I suppose it's also as good an excuse as any to vacuum the rest of the house. 

Better get to it!

P.S. Special thanks to Paul for fixing the front door for us this week. No more loud bang when guests depart. And to Joe for trucking out yet more boxes of books. It was nice to have you over for breakfast, Pooch!

Shredded

"I want to be a useful engine," said Mr. Ginley. 

It was a reference to the Thomas the Tank Engines books we used to read to our son. In the rail yard, it was Thomas' purpose in life to make himself useful.

"Why not shred that box of documents in the office?" I suggested. This served two purposes: disposing of old documents that had been slated for the shredder years ago and removing one more box to return the office to a usable workspace.

Of course, the shredder is not the industrial kind, so it overheats after a round or two of hard labor. Then you have to rest it for an hour or three. 

During that downtime, Mr. started working on the area in and around the desk. He's had quite a time strolling down memory lane. There have been lots of random slips of paper with notes and quotes. Photographs. Office bibs and bobs (paper clips and such). Our son's school papers and baseball rosters. And hundreds of flash drives. (I do not exaggerate here.)

It's wonderful to be opening up the space, but it's also exhausting for Mr. Ginley. By the end of the day, he's physically knackered but also sagging under the weight of revisiting the past and wondering what the future holds. 

And I'm left wondering how long it will be until we stop trailing little slivers of paper all over the house.

Photo attribution: Андрей Москаленко, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons

What's the Buzz(ard)?

 "Somebody on Facebook took a picture of a turkey vulture," I said to Mr. Ginley, handing him my phone.

"That's a buzzard," he replied confidently. "We're from Cleveland. We call them buzzards."

Of course, he was referring to Buzzard Day in Hinckley, Ohio, when they celebrate the return of this ungainly raptor every March 15th. Also, WMMS, Home of the Buzzard.

attribution below

We do seem to be defined by our fowl in this berg. Buzzards aside, Parma, my hometown, has embraced the pink flamingo as its bird of choice, thanks to the mid-century lawn ornaments that once graced its landscaping. (I guess it's better than having a lawn jockey or a chrome ball as your beloved symbol.)

By now, you've surmised things have been slow at the Ginley household, and I'm A-OK with that assessment. 

Yes, I had a birthday this week, thanks for the birthday greetings, the cards (Mr. Ginley and Linda), the flowers (Denise and Lisa), and the birthday cake (Mark). Not to mention breakfast last Sunday with Joe, that was wonderfully normal. 

Oh, yes, and the plumbing work was completed yesterday. Why is it that whenever you have work done, it creates a related chore for you to do? They had to cut a large hole in the back of our closet, which I now need to cover. The question is, do I want to spend another $100+ on an access panel, try to patch it with drywall, or nail a piece of board over it? I mean, no one is going to see it, I just don't like the idea of a gaping hole in the back of my closet. I'm leaning toward option #3.

Meanwhile, we've gotten crickets from the PT team. They did say the meter would run out on home care about mid-July, and it seems that's what's happening. Looks like we're on our own now.

Mr. Ginley is busy sorting and dispensing with books and papers. We're hoping to clean out the office to make it accessible for him. Maybe the kitchen table can go back to being a place where we can eat without shuffling laptops and paperwork. We'll see.

Sorry to be so ho-hum this week. The weather has been lovely the past few days, and my mood should really be better than it is, but here we are. I spent several minutes watching the wild bunny in the backyard nibbling clover this morning. And I see that the bees love the Rose of Sharon bushes. I'd like to be more like them, just going about my business without fretting or fussing.

Wouldn't it be nice?

Photo attribution: Rhododendrites, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

(Trying to) Keep Calm and Carry On

It was a pretty quiet week. 

With Spongebob, at the Westlake Library, in the beforetimes

Mr. Ginley continued to make progress with his PT. The visiting nurse said farewell. And Annie, his physical therapist, promised to work with us on getting him in and out of the car. That's the next big thing, and we can't wait until we can get Mr. out of the house for something other than a doctor visit. Maybe a stop at Swenson's and a talk (if not a walk) in the park.

Yesterday, Joe came over and helped Mr. wrap up some of the files on his computer. He carted away several boxes of books for us, thus giving us a little more room to move about the cabin.

Dennis the plumber came about the cracked pipe in the basement. It's related to the downstairs toilet, so I figured they might as well install a bigger, ADA-compliant crapper since they have to take the current one out anyhow. Dennis also suggested we take the door off the bathroom to give Mr. more room to get in there when he's a little more ambulatory. Joe helped me do that yesterday. 

Like every home project, it grows and grows. The pipe is right next to built-in cabinets in the basement, so they'll need to cut into those. Which means I had to remove all the junk we've shoved in there for the 33 years we've been in the house. Paint cans, hazardous waste, dishware, and random appliances. (I'd forgotten all about the yogurt maker, maybe it's time to try it again. I wonder if I still have the instructions somewhere.)

The work will take place next Wednesday. The quote for the work made my heart stop for a few seconds, but needs must. Nothing comes cheap these days. I think the house is feeling its 100-year-old age.

As for me (if anyone is still reading this), I started exercising again this week, and I'm feeling a little better. The knees still protest when I sit for any length of time, but overall, I'm enjoying a little more flexibility, which they say is clutch for us old folk.

I'm also thinking of requesting a Reiki healing session with the woman who was my instructor several years ago. Our lives have been so cattywampus since The Awful Day, I feel like I need an attunement to help get me back on track.

That's about all the news from here. I hope everyone is enjoying their summer. 

Hopefully, the smoke will clear soon (Oh, Canada), and we'll all be able to breathe better again.

And yes, I meant that figuratively as well as literally. 

Independence Days

"You're not stacking the dishes properly," Mr. Ginley admonished me the other night. "I showed you the most efficient way to do it, but you're not doing it that way."

at the lake, from the beforetimes

Admittedly, I lost it. I've been doing all the chores since that awful day, including washing the dishes every evening. I figure if I'm the one doing the task, I should be able to do it the way I'm comfortable doing it.

I threw down my sponge and said, "Fine, you stack them then."

Which he proceeded to do.

A truce was called, and it was decided that from now on, I'm going to wash and rinse, and Mr. Ginley will stack the dishes. He'll also dry any oversized items.

It occurred to me that this is part of his recovery, working toward his independence. 

His bigger mission this week was to cull through the hundreds of books in the living room. I've lost track of how much reading material is heading off to new homes. Our son is coming over soon to cherrypick any of the ones he wants before they go to either Half Price Books or one of the libraries for their book sale. (If y'all are in the neighborhood and looking for reading material, feel free to stop by.) 

This week marked another milestone, as Mr. has been out of bed and in his wheelchair the most he's ever been in the last several months. In our new routine, he completes his morning constitutional, has breakfast, and hits the wheels at around 11:00. Then he's up until the dishes are done in the evening, usually around 8:00 or so. 

In addition to going through his books, he sits at the kitchen table and reads, watches the World Cup, or dabbles a little on his computer. His eyesight troubles slow him down but don't stop him.

As for his PT, it seems to be winding down. His therapist is encouraging Mark and me to help him transition to his chair (aka "The Cloud"). We did that yesterday, and it went okay. No spills, no thrills. (That's a good thing.)

Today is spa day, which is nice and relaxing. It's also lawn-cutting day, which is not so relaxing, but needs must. Also, I need to check the blackberries. Hopefully, they haven't all ripened and fallen off yet. Alas, it's been so dry, the last one I tasted wasn't very good. 

Our big decision of the day will be whether we want to continue the tradition of Chinese food for dinner or if we want to try something different.

Do you think Dragon Towers will miss us if we defect to another cuisine?

A Quick Update

Not much new to report this week. Mr. Ginley is spending more time in the chair, and less in bed, which is great. He continues to get stronger at transitioning from bed to chair and back, which is also clutch. And he walked back and forth across the room in his one-and-only PT session this week. 

USDAgov, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons*

Meanwhile, the dreaded "check engine" light came on in my car. Nothing that throwing a few hundred bucks at it didn't solve. The trouble was caused by a squirrel or some other rodent chewing the wires under the hood. I put moth balls under the car and have ordered a solar-powered deterrent system that uses high-frequency sound and strobe lights. We'll see how this goes.

The other snafu this week was Mr. Ginley's bed controller, which became temperamental about raising up his head. It worked, then didn't, then did. A tech came out and installed a new controller, so that's taken care of.

I got my teeth cleaned and my hair cut, each performed by a "Sherrie," both of whom are grandmothers-to-be. What are the odds?

That about wraps up our excitement here. Hope y'all have fun plans this weekend.

Confidential to the robo caller with the 216-998-four last digits that change every time: Please stop calling me three times a day. You can't have my money. Shoo. Shoo. 

*Meet Park Land Rancher Ned Wood. He came up when I was looking for images to use and typed in "electric squirrel." I have no idea why, but I was so tickled and he looks like a nice guy, so I thought, "why not?" Happy 4th, Ned!

A Return to Normal-ish

"Maggie started calling me 'Ironside,'" Mr. Ginley reported to me the other day. "But she said she can't take on any assignments because she's not allowed to go out of the house."

I guess you could say things are getting back to "normal" here.

With a monkey friend in the beforetimes

Aside from a high blood pressure issue we're trying to sort out, Mr. Ginley is doing pretty well. He spent 8 hours in his wheelchair yesterday, which is a record for him. And he's trying to do more things for himself to take the burden off me, especially when I'm trying to work. All good stuff.

The kitchen table has become his office. He reads a page or two at a time out of his book and writes himself notes. And I set up his computer so he can access files and such. He still needs help finding things, but the effort is there. 

We're hoping to venture out this weekend, weather permitting, even if it's only to stroll to the corner or sit and relax in the backyard.

Next weekend is a holiday weekend, and I'm looking forward to it. My company generously gave us 2 days off, and I tagged on an extra vacation day to go to the dentist. I'm also getting my hair cut and colored. The last time I had anything done to my 'do was right before the awful day last October. I can't wait to lose the wild woman look.

Special thanks to those of you who visit, call, send cards, follow his progress, and otherwise check in. Your presence in his life has kept his spirits up.

We're grateful to you all!

A Rare Day Out

Aside from trips to hospitals or doctor appointments, for the past seven months, Mr. Ginley has been stuck indoors.

That changed last Saturday, when we ventured out to the neighborhood Hooley.

We were both a little nervous. We hadn't tackled the local terrain. Ours being an old neighborhood with iffy sidewalks, we weren't sure if he was in for a bumpety-bump ride. But we took Mark's advice and stuck to the roadway, at least on our street. Once we got to the corner, it was a matter of navigating a block and a half of commercial sidewalk, which was thankfully smooth sailing.

Once we got to the Hooley, we were able to cruise up the street, past various vendors. There was live entertainment at each end. We headed to the far sound stage, where Cats on Holiday were setting up. 

Mr. Ginley brought his own seat, and I stood behind him, marveling at how surprisingly normal it felt to be out on a beautiful June Saturday afternoon, taking in the sights of a neighborhood shindig, and grooving along to live tunes. The sun was out and the breezes were lovely. And there I was with my honey.

After awhile, Mr. Ginley professed that he was parched and reminded me I promised him lemonade. So we strolled and rolled our way first to the lemonade stand, then secured a bucket of fries and found a place where I could sit, too.

There we partook of our treats while taking in the last few songs from the Cats and observing the crowd passing us by.

The only trouble we had was navigating around the crowd gathered to see the Irish dancers. The way we'd come in was blocked, so we had to "serpentine" our way through the audience to the other side of the street and cross behind the stage to get to a curbless entry to the sidewalk.

It was quite the adventure for us, and we were both exhausted at the end.

But I wouldn't have traded our outing for anything.

A Work in Progress

It was a quiet week, thankfully.

Ancient selfie from the beforetimes

Mr. got 2 PT sessions, took many steps with the upright walker and practiced getting into and out of the Cloud (aka his fancy-schmancy recliner). 

We continued using the massager on his hand and shoulder. 

The stent comes out Monday. We can't wait, although his nurse, Serena, cautions it will take a week or two for his body to adjust to not having a foreign object mucking up the works. Lots of fingers crossed.

And, in an act of defiance, Mr. picked up a book and worked at reading. No, there weren't any miracles, and he's going at it a page a day, but he is reading. It helps that it's a small size book, the type isn't tiny, and the leading (aka, the space between the lines) facilitates his ability to read. At the end of the day, it's about his attitude. He can't control when his brain decides to get on board, but he can make the most of what he's got now and hope the rest comes along for the ride.  

Meanwhile, I want to help him figure out how to engage the reader on the computer and the iPad so they will read to him. Baby steps.

In other news, the painters came back this week and took care of the two issues I had, so that's done. 

Next on the docket is cleaning up what used to be the office and has become a storage area for all of Mr. Ginley's supplies. I'm going to pack up the post-op stuff they gave me in the hopes I'll never need it again. 

The plan is to put in the screens in the office and open things up so I can work downstairs in the afternoon. This involves taking down the heavy drapes and the Capitals flag, and maybe getting a new office chair. (The current one is stuck in a position that suited Mr. Ginley but is too low for me.)

Today, we're hoping to walk up to the Hooley, a yearly neighborhood event. This will be our first outing that doesn't require special transport. Just Mr. Ginley, me, and his wheels. We hope to see some old friends there. It will be good to get Mr. some fresh air and sunshine, and I'll get a good workout pushing him along.

We'll let all y'all know how it goes.

Onward on, as the Blue Streaks say! 

Third Time's a Charm

When the doctor came out of surgery looking all cocky, I knew the kidney stone odyssey was finally over.

"I'll make you pay (attention to me)."

Or...mostly over. Mr. still has a stent in place, and although the doctor said it could come out after a week, due to his schedule, we have to wait almost two weeks for it to be removed.

In the meantime, we got through the last of the antibiotics (to prevent infection), and are counting down the days until the stent is gone, gone, gone.

PT picked up again yesterday, and Mr. did well. More steps plus practice getting seated in the cloud. 

The massager (don't call it a vibrator, please) that Mark gave Stroky McStrokerson is helping to relieve the stiffness in his afflicted hand and shoulder. And he continues to work hard at building up strength in his abs and his fully-functioning leg.

In other news, we had lots of company yesterday. The physical therapist, Mark, Diane and Mr. K., and a bonus visit with Joe and our beautiful granddaughter. It was a busy day, but wonderful to see everyone. Diane added a handle to the kitchen door, so it's easier to open now. (If you know, you know.)

We also got the back of the house and the porch painted this week. Huzzah! Aside from a couple of snafus that will be cleared up soon, it went well. 

Pro Tip: Don't paint triple-track window frames because the homeowner won't be able to put the screen down and get cross-ventilation. 

I'm afraid to say that things should settle down this week. Don't want to jinx ourselves.

I keep telling Mr. Ginley to stop looking for the other shoe to drop, but somehow, it always does. 

Even when he's only wearing one shoe. 

Out of Sight

"I want to get rid of all the books," a frustrated Mr. Ginley said. 

Any

Stroky McStrokerson's Selfie

one who knows my husband understands that this has been the most gut-wrenching consequence of the stroke.

He's a lifelong reader, and his current difficulty in reading is devastating. We have books. A lot of books. But his doctor was very cautious about his ability to zoom through a 500-page tome again. She told him he'd likely come out of this with a significant blind spot in his left eye. 

The awful thing is it's not simply that he can't see properly out of his left eye; it's that his brain doesn't always process what he's seeing correctly. My sister got him a workbook with different exercises to do, and he's struggled at times. 

"I can't find 'Frank Sinatra' in this word search puzzle," he huffed the other night as I made dinner.

I looked at the list and told him Old Blue Eyes wasn't on the list of words he was supposed to find. 

On the other hand, he just got the sport trivia workbook I ordered for him, and he's already done a few pages in that and has done well. 

The brain is a weird and mysterious place. We're hoping it finds a work-around for his vision problems. In the meantime, he helps me with the Spelling Bee anagram I do in the New York Times, and he tackles the Sports Connection puzzle on my phone daily.

Of course, there are audio books. He's burning through those, along with AA batteries. He's also taken to listening to music at night before bedtime, which helps him sleep. At first, it was a little unsettling to hear him crooning in the other room, only because I wasn't sure if he was calling for me. But last night, I recognized a tune by the Moody Blues, so I trundled back off to my own slumbers.

This week, he'll be going in for this third try at kidney stone removal. Hopefully, this trilogy will wrap up that part of the program for good, and we can concentrate on everything else that needs to be fixed. 

Fingers crossed. 

I Wanna Hold Your Hand (Again)

 I was sitting on the edge of Mr. Ginley's bed the other day, holding onto his absent fingers.

At Big Sur, in the beforetimes

"Come on, squeeze my hand," I said quietly.

And he did. 

It was the first time since his stroke almost seven months ago. And it was grand.

He hasn't been able to replicate this bit of magic since then, but that's okay. It all takes time, as we have been reminded again and again.

Meanwhile, our granddaughter turned a year old this week, and she and her Dad paid us a visit. She's such a delight. I found Raffi's "Bananaphone" on YouTube and played it for her. We all grooved to the tune our son and Kevin used to like listening to in the car.

Those were the highlights of the week. No major mishaps to report, thank heavens. 

Y'alls prayers, virtual hugs, and good thoughts and such must be doing wonders.

Thanks to one and all!

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. 

Someday, we visit Sweeties again

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.

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.