My Published Articles for ViewsHound: One Week After Rehabilitation -A Beautiful Spring Day

Friday, April 14, 2017

One Week After Rehabilitation -A Beautiful Spring Day

My Orchids and Indoors Flowers are in Bloom

Last week, Macrine checked out from Manor Care after 20 days of Physical(PT) Occupational(OT) and Speech(ST) therapies. She was anxious to go home and was tired of hospital food, although once or twice a week, I brought her food from Olive Garden and El Tapacio Restaurants. Our 20 days at Manor Care was not bad at all. The nurses and assistants were kind and do their job properly. I would give this nursing skill facility a 3 star out of 5.

One of the things I learned after the rehabilitation of Macrine was to inject her blood thinner medication here at home. I will have to do this for another 2 days. I was anxious the first time, since I have never injected another person, but one of the hospital nurses showed it to me. Of course the technique of injecting a chemical samples into a machine(a gas chromatograph) is not new to me. I had injected more than hundred thousands of samples into the gas chromatograph during my 15 years working in a chemical laboratory doing research work and routine analytical work. Just in case, you do not know what is gas chromatography, here's the definition from Wikipedia: Gas chromatography (GC) is a common type of chromatography used in analytical chemistry for separating and analyzing compounds that can be vaporized without decomposition. Typical uses of GC include testing the purity of a particular substance, or separating the different components of a mixture (the relative amounts of such components can also be determined). In some situations, GC may help in identifying a compound

Yesterday, we have our first home health nurse visit. He happened to be a young Filipino-American. He did an evaluation and told us he will initiate a PT, ST and OT visit since all these are paid by Medicare up to 20 days. On the other hand the assistance of a nursing Aide will come from my own personal fund. I called my BCBS insurance and they confirmed help from nurses aides are indeed not covered by my insurance. I did inquire from an agency recommended by our visiting nurse- the Aide visit will cost me $25 per hour and a minimum of 4 hours per week is suggested. I am planning on doing this so I will have a reprieve from taking care of Macrine. She really need almost a minute by minute attention because of the danger of Falling again. David III and Dodie had installed an 8- screen Monitor so I can see Macrine while I am doing my Computer work and Blogging.

The other day, we received a call from Macrine's first cousin from Canada, just asking how we are doing. During our conversation, we talked about our contemporaries and relatives in our age group as well as younger ones dying. This week Macrine's younger first cousin died in the Philippines and another second cousin from the East Coast just died a week ago. Macrine is depressed knowing that her close relatives are now dying and she thinks it's her turn to die next, so we avoid this conversation as much as possible. But we can not stop death. Death and Taxes are two things you can not avoid. And speaking of taxes, I just mailed mine yesterday and glad it is over for this year. Luckily I did not owe any income tax because we have a large medical and dental bill this year.

While talking to Macrine's first cousin from Canada, she used the phrase "user friendly people". This is the first time I heard of the phrase so I asked for an explanation and example. When she told me of examples of some of our relatives that are user friendly, It was very clear to me what she meant when she said we have relatives and friends that are user friendly. In short there are people of wants you to be their friend only if they can get something from you especially money or influence. I am sure you know of relatives and acquaintances that belong to this user-friendly type of people.

A blessed Good Friday to All!

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Guest Article from Susan Creamer Joy

In The Silence, by Susan Creamer Joy.

Today's guest article is from Susan Creamer Joy. Susan is one of my favorite authors in the ViewsHound community. Susan writes, draws, paints and cobbles together art from found objects making a variety of creations from jewelry to religious shrines. She frequently sports burns on her fingers from her soldering iron, paint on her palms and ink under her fingernails, but her hair is usually combed. When she is not losing time in the creative vortex of her studio, she is likely to be putting her knowledge of metaphysics and esoteric principles including Tarot, numerology, astrology and graphology to good use in consultations. Her children are grown, her husband still works and her four dogs believe she needs serious help. The title of her article is "A Matter Of Love And Death". Thank you Susan.

By the time they reached my bedroom door, I was already sitting up – my stomach ratcheted in the tense grip of an unnamed anxiety; my pillow, unburdened of my drowsy head.

To this day I cannot explain how I heard them coming up those stairs in their bare feet or how I knew that my father struggled to hold his composure as my mother unnaturally clutched at the folds of her dressing gown and followed him through the dark just a little too closely.

As the wooden groan of those old stairs tore into my bones that morning like a hacksaw, all I could see between the predawn shadows was the letter I’d written just hours earlier to my boyfriend, Chris, propped against the lamp on my desk across the room awaiting an envelope.

I had not slept well. It was late November and there had been so many changes since the middle of August when he left for the Air Force in Texas to begin basic training and I began my third new school in as many years.

The conspiracy between fate and the last surge of the Vietnam draft had broken apart the every-waking-minutes of our two-year union with unceremonious indifference. All that night my sleep had been infested by difficult dreams and by the illogical fear that truth and reality were merging into a darkness only a martyr could grasp; and at sixteen, martyrdom seemed reasonable only for the nuns among the poor in Bangladesh

I tried to remind myself that he would be home on leave for Thanksgiving in another few days. It was the only tether to calm I could find, but reviewing the facts offered little relief from my baseless fears.

Chris had been girding his pacifist sensibilities preparing to fight in an unpopular war that had not yet slaughtered its last innocent. I was hovering just over the line of inclusion at an exclusive girl’s school – missing him – and finding myself at odds with these young women and their attachment to propriety and with the prep-school veneer that blinded them to the fact that they were no better than anyone else.

Neither one of us was coping well with the worlds into which we were respectively summoned, and although we both knew that the best hope for any future together depended upon our individual successes apart, it was far from comforting most days.

But in spite of our discomfort, we each did our best; and, of course, there were the letters: Thin, plain-paper sheets with row after row after row of inky blue words penned with the intensity and awkward locutions of a love learned too soon. It had come down to just that little, but without them, I would have had nothing.

Chris was learning to fly. I was learning to drive, and both of us were aching to transport our souls to an earlier time through the hallowed intercourse of memories and dreams. Of course, as with all progress, there was the positive element: We were both clean and drug-free for the first time in years.

Now, without pretense, both healthy cognition and sincere motivation surfaced regularly in my psychology and prompted me to care about myself and to arbitrate against all temptation for a better standing in the world, in school and in my own eyes. I even did my homework.

No longer was I escaping today but, instead, living for my day of escape. Lying still in the dark of my room, I listened to the slow, padded footfall of my parents approaching and looked to the floor and to my history book half hidden beneath the nightstand where I’d tossed it the night before. Even in this early morning dark I could make out the swirls and stars in colored marker and the bubble-formed letters that spelled C H R I S in soft, juvenile curves on the torn book cover I’d fashioned out of a brown paper grocery bag.

I vaguely remembered throwing it there somewhat hastily. I had been doing my homework when a sense of urgency struck and I realized I had not written him as I promised I would and glancing at the clock, I noted it was nine-twenty-three. Why that mattered I had no way of knowing in that strange moment, but within hours, it would be one I would never forget; and although I was becoming drowsy and still needed to finish my work, I felt beyond reason that my letter to him could not wait.

So, I wrote. I would always write. I would always be there. He would always be there.“Suzi."It was my name spoken in the smooth and familiar voice of my mother, although weighted and slow, her head bowed to her chest almost as though she were speaking only to herself.

"Suzi.” She said it again, this time with sharp gravity, like a chisel against stone.

As if on cue, I leaned forward, flanked now by my parents who were sitting on either side of my bed.

I had been waiting for them. I don’t know how. I didn’t know why. The lights in my room remained off, but it seemed that the darkness clung more to them than to me, as though they were holding it there – away from me to give me enough light to see through the next moment. They were crying. My father was crying. My father. “Suzi. We have something very, very bad to tell you." Chris has been in a car accident." And he was killed."

If the world moved forward from that moment, I could not know it. f there were air around me worth breathing, I could not take it in. And if there were another sound beyond the leaden bellow of my own raw grief, I could not hear it.

"Who am I going to talk to? Who am I going to love?” I wailed. Who will love me? In that sodden moment violated by the intrusion of a predawn light that had no business rising, everything I ever believed about happiness, hoped for in life, trusted in or held as my own was annihilated.

After that – there was no after that. After that came months of hollow redundancies that would inform my way of being in the world for years to come. A serial commitment to waking up each morning, remembering he was gone and dedicating the remaining hours to forgetting. To that end I would try anything, drink anything, ingest anything, inject anything. It was a slow and arbitrary suicide by indifference.

Many years later, at 25 years-old and in the midst of a pharmaceutical free-fall leaning dangerously close to terminal, I discovered that I was expecting a child, and after a decade of forgetting, I remembered. I named him Griffin after the legendary winged lion, a symbol of the divine because what he inspired and the miracle that he was, were nothing less. I remembered and I loved again, and I went on to marry and to the gift of two beautiful daughters.

Today my son is struggling not to drown in the same well of drug abuse and apathy that almost swallowed me – his great, divine wings clipped by his own hand; and while it is up to him to restore his place in the sky, I will do my best to help provide an open runway.

In the meantime, I will continue soaring for both of us; bequeathed as I have been, with a determination to fly from a boy whose ragged fate precluded that dream.

Death took one young man from me once upon a dark time. If it has any intention of coming for this one, it will have to go through me. And trust me, it will be in for one hell of a fight.

Note: If you enjoy this article, please let me know.

Friday, April 14, 2017

One Week After Rehabilitation -A Beautiful Spring Day

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