she's just saying...

"Cross my heart, hope to die,"

"stick a needle in my eye..." oh, wait, my eye doc just did that.

In what may be a first in blogging history, I'm writing this sitting in the doctor's chair during breaks while he places sutures in the conjunctiva covering my eyeball.

You all know I love my eye doctor. I obviously have to, since I'm letting him do this, the first time he's attempted it in an office setting, without even any intravenous sedation.

I wasn't expecting this this morning, but this unresolved complication has been keeping him up at night and I really want to put his mind at rest.

Oops, here he comes with the needle again.

More later.

----

Home again. Couple of Vicoden, glass of wine and I'm good as new.

So, Jason admitted that though he's never done this procedure before at his office (without the operating room microscope), he called his buddy who's done it a lot who told him it was no big deal. There may be times when complete disclosure is not always appropriate in a medical setting and this may have been one of them but I was game so we gave it a shot. I channeled my best Buddhist meditative state, stared into the light and put my eye in his hands.

He told me he didn't think he wanted to read my blog tonight but he has nothing to worry about. I'll take his honesty and caring over standard physician arrogance any day. Plus, as I told him, he messes up and his name is mud in our alumni newsletter.

But will it feed the dog and program the TIVO?

We've been cooking a lot of rice around here lately. It fits the four basic Henry food requirements:

• filling
• cheap
• can eat any time of day
• goes well with butter and/or sugar

So I've been looking at rice cookers. They seem sort of unnecessary, like a Mr. Tea maker, but people rave about them and I'm all about more appliances.

If I could afford it, this would be my first choice, based on my motto "Why pay less?"

Zojirushi NS-ZCC10 5-1/2-Cup Neuro Fuzzy Rice Cooker and Warmer

List Price:	$233.00
Price:	$159.99

Multi-menu selections using advanced Neuro Fuzzy logic technology control the temperature for efficient cooking of many different types of rice including white, sushi, mixed, porridge, sweet, semi-brown, brown, rinse-free, and quick cooking.

Because I think it's important to cook with fuzzy logic. That's how I approach everything else, frankly.

Can you count the guilt in this picture?

 

Answer:

1. Going to the evil Starbucks instead of a local coffeehouse.
2. Using the drive-through, pretty lazy and burns too much fuel.
3. Buying a grande 1-pump vanilla caramel macchiato, basically a high calorie milkshake.
4. Not making a latte at home for 1/3 the time and price.

Almost enough guilt to spoil the coffee, but not quite. Cheers!

My eye guy

Everyone, meet my eye doctor, Jason Dimmig. Isn't he cute?

I've seen Jason more than any other adult in the last two weeks. Not kidding. We pretty much have a daily thing. Don't tell his wife.

Looking up. Literally.

Things are getting a little weirder around here. Just got back from my eye doctor, with new instructions: "Don't look down, and I'll see you in two days."

Seems there's a little leak at the top of my eye (ew! ew!) that my lid is keeping together, and when that heals, I can go back to normal activities. In the meantime, I have to focus straight ahead as much as possible.

There are way too many puns and analogies and metaphors to be made here, which I won't. You're welcome.

The primary position I've held for the last week, looking down to read and knit, is out, so now I'll be propping pillows for books and ignoring anything below my nose. I've also maybe been a teeny bit too active and have to dial it down even further. This may now be the right time for pharmaceutical intervention.

At least I was prescient enough to get a pedicure before the operation, so my feet should look nice. I wouldn't know.

 

First day of 5th grade

First day of 5th grade, originally uploaded by Meltrier.

He has worn that down jacket all winter, and all summer too. Boy needs a little beef on his bones.

In which I do nothing, then take a break

I think I'm getting the hang of doing nothing. Really, it's not so bad. And I'm not even on drugs.

What I have been doing:

• Eating
• Wandering around the house poking things with my toe that I can't pick up
• Watching the Red Sox via computer
• Teaching Robin to knit
• Wiping the counters -- I really like clean counters
• Making stuff to eat
• Un-hibernating the tweedy sweater. I had to relearn the pattern, remember where I made the mistake so I could re-create it on the next section, and dive in again. Very gratifying.
• Trying to remember which eye drop I just used
• Doing the daily Sudoku
• Presented a PowerPoint research analysis to the Museum Board from my bed
• Snacking
• Pointing at things for Henry to pick up
• Wandering around the back deck
• Looking for stuff to eat in the fridge

Don't you envy me, just a little bit?

Enforced nothingness

So due to circumstances that are NOT MY FAULT, I'm now on doctor-prescribed bedrest to maintain a stable state of eye.

Last week's surgery to relieve my eye pressure worked a little too well, and my eye now resembles a slowly deflating water balloon. That makes it vulnerable to bursting blood vessels and other gross stuff, so now I'm on hourly drops and the no-stress-no-strain unactivity plan. I feel totally fine, we're still stocked up from the Unitarian casserole brigade and Henry is remarkably self-sufficient, so here I recline.

A confession: I've always envied people on enforced bedrest. It sounded so lovely to this stressed-out and slightly compulsive working mom. A nice stretch of not doing anything and not feeling the least bit guilty about it. I'd be entitled to read, knit, watch movies, get people to bring me stuff, surf the interwebs, etc. But here I am on the first morning of it and I'm antsy and restless, of course. 

One problem is that I'm congenitally incapable of watching TV during daylight hours. (Exception: baseball.) I just can't bring myself to do it. It's just a short step from that to 500 pounds and a crane hauling me out of my bedroom window. So that option (which includes movies) is out. NPR, podcasts and audiobooks are better, but that's because I normally do something useful while listening. However, talking heads do start to drone after awhile. And local radio = no good.

Not that I consider myself energetic, believe me. I don't chomp at the bit to hike/bike/climb/ski stuff like most of my friends (who are all a little tightly wired IMHO). I'm known more for hanging out at home: knitting little morsels, solving sudokus, creating recipes, digging in the garden, fixing endless broken crap, wrangling the pets and haranguing the child. High-energy puttering, my old roommate called it. I even meditate for crying out loud. However, now that I'm parked on the reclining side of the coin only, it chafes.

Clearly I need more practice.

the view from the head of the bed

Drop by drop by drop (by drop by drop)

Spud.

I'm primarily a perennials gardener. I never fall for the "color spot" annuals and don't specialize in roses or lilies or begonias, in spite of my horticultural heritage. I've also never gotten serious about vegetables.

To get good veggie results in Central Oregon you have to dedicate your spring to babying seeds and starts in a greenhouse, setting up walls'o'water, running out to protect crops from frost in August, and  fighting off the birds and bugs. It's a very short season and doesn't seem worth it to me.

However, in the past I have produced some tomatoes, a pumpkin, two eggplants and bushels of parsley and mint, which appear to be my specialty. (I also try and fail every year to grow arugula - it's a mythic struggle.) But today I can raise my head proudly and declare myself a farmer: I have grown a potato.

I don't actually remember planting potatoes, but occasionally when one starts to sprout in the vegetable bin I take it out and stick it in the ground. While harvesting parsley this morning, I pulled up what I thought was a weed and found a small red potato at the other end. 

I can't describe the awe and pride I felt when I held it up. Any suburbanite can grow tomatoes and zucchini, but to produce a potato seems like an authentic farmer-type accomplishment.

I think I'll steam it in a (tiny) pan and eat it with butter and salt and pepper.

Note to Kathi D.: no need to be flaunting your Cali harvest abbondanza - we're talking high desert here!

The local news: "It's all happy endings here!"

What is with the Bend Bulletin and its happy animal news?? 

You may remember last week's lead article on Buster the dog being returned to his owner.

This week there's the lost llama (found healthy after a 14-day search) and a recovering deer (arrow wound, not too surprising in hunting country).

Hey, I'm a true animal lover and these stories warm my cynical little heart, but are they really FRONT PAGE HEADLINE NEWS?

(By the way, Tina's dead deer story, not having a happy ending, was relegated to the bottom right, though still apparently front page stuff.)

Friday frylet: the neighbors

I have such great neighbors. This week they've watched Henry, mowed the lawn, brought over casseroles, and checked in on me daily.

They're definitely looking out for me.  Kinda furry, though.

The last week of summer

This post was written last Sunday.

Henry is 10, going on 16. He's a true night-owl and can sleep in til 11 am easily. So reentry into the school routine makes for a living hell over here.

I decided to wake them (Gavin here still) at 8 am this morning to get them slowly acclimated to an early wake-up and hopefully an earlier bedtime.

"Thanks for ruining my summer!" Henry said as he dragged himself into the bathroom.

Then I made him clean up his room big-time, which was quite painful and included yelling.

"This is the worst summer ever!" he complained as he pulled out filthy, dusty socks from under the bed.

Then I pushed onward, going through his clothes drawers to see what still fit. I made him hold a few things up (no chance of getting him to try them on) as the discard pile grew.

"I hate clothes!" he cried.

Then I showed him that I had sorted all underwear and matched all matchable socks.

"You're the best mom ever!" he said as he flung his arms around me.

I'm really looking forward to the teen years...

More than you wanted to know

The diagnosis:

Glaucoma, with slight but measurable vision loss in the left eye.

The definition:

"Glaucoma refers to a group of diseases that affect the optic nerve... Raised intraocular pressure is a significant risk factor for developing glaucoma. One person may develop nerve damage at a relatively low pressure [that's me], while another person may have high eye pressure for years and yet never develop damage. Untreated glaucoma leads to permanent damage of the optic nerve...which can progress to blindness."

The recommendation:

Reduce the pressure as much as possible. Since laser surgery and multiple medications have not worked well enough, the next step is filtering microsurgery, i.e. trabeculectomy.

The procedure:

During trabeculectomy a piece of tissue in the drainage angle of the eye is removed, creating an opening. The opening is partially covered with a flap of tissue... This new opening allows aqueous humor to drain out of the eye, bypassing the clogged drainage channels of the trabecular meshwork.

The weird diagram:

 

The risks:

Bleeding, infection, swelling, scarring, retinal detachment, a droopy eyelid, double vision, loss of vision or even loss of the eye.

The result:

I'll let you know...

How to prepare for eye surgery

1. Go to Costco.
2. Clean the house.
3. Freeze casseroles.
4. Mow the lawn.
5. Wash the dog.
6. Begin Pinot Grigio detox.
7. Hit the bank, return library books, rent movies.
8. Get a pedicure.
9. Update the iPod.
10. Remove toe ring.
11. Buy pretty panties.
12. Clean the fish tank.
13. Prepare low-vision knitting strategy.

I think I'm ready.

What would be on your list?

Produce and the City

[Note that I used the word "city" in the title of this post. I've been informed that Bend does indeed have an escalator; therefore by my own definition it is a city.]

I love farmers' markets. Who doesn't love farmers' markets?  However, I'm very happy these days that I don't need to go to the Bend Farmers' Market any more. (correct possessive apostrophe of a plural noun there.) There's the small matter of parking, for one thing; getting there on time, waiting in lines, dodging the shiny happy families and so forth. Just saying.

The reason I don't have to go you-know-where is that a farm stand has opened two blocks from the house.

And it's a great farm stand.

Tomatoes that taste like my dad's eaten right there in his garden.

  Big fat and little donut peaches.

 

Local berries, herbs, beans, potatoes, onions, beets, corn delivered daily right from the field. etc. It's thrilling.

And it's really local.

The best part? I can send Henry down with a backpack and a grocery list. I'm telling you, after nine years of doing it all myself, I'm finally reaping some payback. And it's character-building too.

This is Adam from Richard's. Tell him Melissa sent you.

In-de-pen-dance

Giant step yesterday on the 10-year-old front. Henry and his best friend Gavin* biked home from camp by themselves. To those of you without kids: this is a big thing.

Camp gets out at 11:30 am (as usual ignoring working parents' schedules), at which time I'm down at the Museum and don't feel like driving 10 miles back to town to ferry them a half mile home. So after I installed and loaded the new bike carrier, we rehearsed using the bike lock (with eyerolls and sighs) and I left them to find their own way home. They had their helmets, the lock, water bottles, jackets and $20 to get them through a week of junk food at 7-11. Then, of course, they got to stay home without adult supervision til I returned at 5:30.

The first time they stayed alone during the day the house was covered in spilled cereal, sticky ice cream dishes, various unmatched shoes and socks, squirt guns, video game boxes and random plastic legos that hurt like a bitch when you step on them. With the threat of a babysitter looming, they've been working on clean-up and are actually starting to catch on.

I wrestle with bad-mommy guilt over leaving them alone, never mind letting them roam the westside on their bikes. Being in a smaller, safe, family-friendly town helps. But still. I've watched too many "Law and Order" episodes to feel really comfortable. Maybe it's the natural progression toward independence or maybe they'll soon be smoking cigarettes behind the 7-11 (or maybe both). There's no manual for single moms. All we can do is make lists, check in frequently and trust in the goodness of the universe.

*Gavin is staying with us for a few weeks.

I was feeling pretty independent myself, having researched, procured, assembled and mounted the bike carrier on the car. Another episode in the endless series of "Girls Can Do It!"

Bend's Deep Throat

To quote my deer friend, Tina: "You know you live in a small town when a deer dies in your backyard and someone from the paper calls you to talk about it."

Bend likes to think it's a city, and maybe it is, except I don't think you can be a city without having an escalator. Anyway, the bigger this town gets, the smaller it can feel. That's from living here 15 years: over half this town moved here in the last ten years. That makes for an interesting old/nouveau dichotomy. I'm now part of the old guard. Not the OLD old guard, but the middle old guard. But really, this post is about the deer story and the reporter for the local paper.

Don't get me started on the local paper. Please. I work with them, I have a subscription, it's our only choice for daily newsprint. So just don't get me started. Like most small-town (excuse me, small city) papers, they're big on happy news and local court cases, with a Western angle that includes articles on "berserk llama syndrome" and rodeo coverage.

But I do have to say that it's a little weird that they're cruising my blog for news stories.

To the sweet reporter who called me to get the lead on the deceased deer disposal story, I absolutely appreciate your readership. I'm serious. I'll try to make it worth your while by posting reportable tidbits. I came through on the noxious weed story, didn't I? Even provided a pithy quote that was duly published. (I've also provided quite a few "mother of a black child" comments for various stories over the years, but that's another post.)

I just have a little advice: don't touch the chicken-sweater story. You don't need the constant hassle from British battery-hen jumper knitters. Believe me on this one.

Has she no shame, no sense of decency?

The perpetrator of this animal abuse shall not be identified (hint: rhymes with golly gee!) but she knows who she is. 

She claims she's reformed, but her previous behavior belies a pattern: minnie mouse, yankee doodle polo shirts, and who knows what else she hasn't dared to share.

 I'm starting a letter-writing protest campaign.

today's life-affirming photo

OK, OK, enough with the dead animals. Here's a shot of the cutest little porky ever. Look at those feet!