Four days and giving up

Here I thought I had everything under control. When the spectre of Bill was "sometime next week," I had plenty of time to swamp out the ol' homestead and whip things into shape. Now Bill's plan is to drive here Tuesday, and I am overwhelmed by the detritus overflowing every horizontal space in the house.

There's knitting spread out on the coffee table, gardening seeds scattered on the bar top, tools covering the dining table, canned goods stacked on the kitchen island, files and "to-be-filed" papers piled on the desks, eBay inventory heaped on the guest bed, library books cluttering the sleeping bed, toiletries taking over the bathroom counter, all manner of kitchen stuff littering the countertops, and dust bunnies EVERYWHERE. There are also the drysophila--tiny fruit flies--swooping around, as there are ripening tomatoes in a bowl in the kitchen. Typical for summer, but annoying.

I am a terrible housekeeper.

What have I been doing all summer? I've read many books, watched plenty of Netflix movies, puttered around my container garden, exercised daily, cooked sporadically, walked and played with the dog, and generally slothed around. It shows.

Crunch time. I have to keep in mind that Bill is also a clutter-slob. When he comes home, there will be a finite time that the house will stay "clean," and then his stuff will start taking over as well. His seabag will lie on the living room floor for about a week before I ask him to move it. His socks will litter the bedroom floor, I will be tripping over his boots and shoes, and his late-night snacks will leave dirty dishes all over the house.

So, I'm not really feeling that guilty about the house. Bill will be more appalled that the weeds have once again taken over the yard, because I haven't been out there weed-whacking daily. The vines are twining through the porch railings and the barbeque, the deck needs painting (again!) and I haven't done a thing about any of it. Oh well.

I'll clear off the clutter, take out the trash and vacuum the floors. I'll clean the kitchen and bathroom. I'll change the sheets and chill the beer. I'm not going to make myself crazy at this point.

If he asks, I'll remind him that I went to Illinois and dealt with his dad's legal and medical issues. I represented him at the family reunion. I paid the bills. I refinanced the house. I researched and bought a car. I lost 17 pounds. I visited a sick friend in Pennsylvania. I sold a lot of stuff on eBay. I picked and froze beans and blackberries.

After 27 years, he'll recognize the rationalization immediately. Hopefully, he'll just be so glad to be home, it won't matter.

Tired Sea-Dog Makes Landfall

Bill arrived safely in St. Louis last night. He sounded understandably exhausted, especially after being sandwiched in the middle of the back row, between two moms and five pre-school children on the last flight from Denver--he says it's always a bad situation when the kids outnumber the grown-ups! But he's stateside at last, and I expect I will be seeing him around the middle of next week.

Today he is hoping to meet up with his dad at the VA hospital, and have a chance to talk to the doctors who are directing his care. On Monday, Dad will have a CT scan, and a decision will be made as to whether chemo will or will not continue.

Bill is also going to discuss whether his father is well enough to travel to Austria to look up his "cousins." Bill's grandfather immigrated to the U.S. as a child in the early 1900s, but no one knew where he came from until Bill found the region and the geneology records on the internet a few years ago. His dad's desire is to go to Austria before he dies, and Bill is going to try and make that happen. Their tentative plan is to fly to Munich, Germany, then rent a car and drive to the southeastern corner of Austria, and meet as many Pliemitschers as they can (the spelling was changed upon entry through Ellis Island). Bill's dad didn't know much about his own history until very recently, as his immigrant father died when Bud was only 9 years old.

While I'm not thrilled about Bill leaving again soon, I think this trip is a great idea for both of them, if Bud is well enough to travel. It has certainly given Bud something to look forward to, while he has been battling his cancer.

On the home front, the container garden is winding down. The last of the tomatoes are being gnawed on, the bean plants have been completely consumed by critters, and the corn patch similarly descimated--some large chewing machine has knocked down most of the stalks and nibbled on the barely-formed ears. Oh well. It was a dubious experiment from the beginning. I am getting accustomed to having my hopes of fresh home-grown produce dashed by the hungry hordes of the forest. I guess I'm just going to have to move up the food chain and eat the creatures who ate my garden.

And just like that, he's on his way...

Bill is in Japan! Signed off the ship, no doubt drinking beer and playing Bingo at the Navy base right now, and boarding several flights in the morning to get him to St. Louis on Wednesday night. The plan is that he will get a room near the airport, then meet his dad at the hospital on Thursday afternoon.

The International Date Line is messing with me again. Right now, it is early Tuesday morning here; Tuesday night where he is. Tonight (here) he will be starting his travel, where it will be Wednesday morning for him. While he is flying, the clock will be spinning backwards (or standing still, or something similarly Einsteinian). He will travel on his various flights for about 24 hours, and end up in St. Louis on Wednesday night, about 12 hours from when he started.

I am the travel coordinator. So far, I've booked a hotel, and looked up St. Louis bus schedules to get him from his airport digs to the VA hospital with a minimum of walking with his monstrous seabag.

Now I guess I really do have to start cleaning up around here...

Bad Blogger, Bad!

I have been very lazy this week. After getting the good news from Dr. DaSilva, I kind of slothed-out and forgot about everything, including writing on the blog. There just wasn't much to say, between the inevitable housework cleaning, eBay auctions, and my beloved afternoon naps.

But now it's Monday, the start of a new week. I'm still in limbo, waiting for word from Bill as to when he might be relieved of his duties and headed back to the states. Sometimes it seems as though I've spent half my life waiting for this man!

The sloth is part of the waiting process. Until I get the word that he's actually coming home, what is the point of cleaning up my solitary living mess? Once that word comes, I will spend two or three days in a whirlwind of decluttering frenzy, the activity keeping my mind occupied while I do my giddiness mental dance. It's very much like nesting behavior, before labor starts.

But until then, I procrastinate.

Another Clean Bill of Health

Once again, Dr. DaSilva finds no evidence of anything but a healthy Pam. Whew!

It's hard to describe the nervousness of this constant vigilance against recurrence. I dread these three-month appointments, a deep anxiety thrumming in my brain on the drive over, and an over-reactive relief when he finds nothing untoward.

He talked about wanting to switch me to an aromatase inhibitor after two years on tamoxifen. I will have to do some research. I know that the combination of the two in studies has shown a slight increase in survival rates over tamoxifen alone, but the side effects include more significant bone loss (some of which I already have), and bone pain. It all comes down to risks versus benefits. I told him I would like to see what my bone density exam says about my osteopenia in March before making a decision on switching. He agreed.

And that was that. Now I have three more months to forget about my oncologist, and the fact that I have one.

Up Early

I am almost over my intense ire about yesterday's pears. Mostly. When I drove home yesterday at sunset, a doe and her fawn were standing in my driveway, looking all innocent with their big eyes and big ears. "Wasn't us!" they seemed to be saying. Sure. Like I believe that. Humph.

I didn't sleep well last night, as the intense night sweats are back with a vengence. I awake every hour, soaked to the skin and feeling that I might just prove that human spontaneous combustion exists. My only consolation is that the heat proves that my body is starved for estrogen, meaning the anti-cancer tamoxifen is working, depriving any errant cells the fuel they need to grow again. That's good news, right? Pass the ice pack.

No news from the other side of the world about my hard-working husband. About this time in the process, when he's due home but isn't making any progress towards getting home, I start to wonder if he really exists at all. Maybe I'm a character in one of those movies where what you think is real is actually a figment of the character's imagination, where the plot twist at the end is when you discover that the character is crazy, delusional or dead. (I'm thinking A Beautiful Mind, or The Sixth Sense). Maybe I just think I'm married to this guy who is gone for long stretches of time, but actually he's just a well-scripted manifestation of my own insanity.

Okay, it's a stretch. But there's always a sense of unreality when he's been gone for four long months, there's nervousness in the anticipation of his coming home, and eventually, there is the relief that he's just as I remembered when he finally does show up. He is my constant, my North Star. I just start to get a little lost when he's not around.

Requiem for my Pears

You remember that pear tree, loaded with all those beautiful red pears? They are no longer available for human consumption. It appears that a herd of ravenous ruminants have decimated my pear crop this year. Not a single pear remains, NOT ONE! And the apples are gone too. The darn critters didn't bother to pluck the fruit from the stems, they just nipped the branches right off--they are EATING MY TREE.

Now I know why men hunt. It is not sport, it is not meat, it is revenge.

The only way to get my pears now is to eat a venison steak. Not exactly what I had in mind, but I'm just mad enough now to saddle up, put on some camouflage and go blast me a big, fat buck. I'll take a photo of my pears with me and stick it under his little black nose, just so he draws his last breath knowing why he had to die.

And don't tell me to just order pears from Harry & David. It's not the same thing at all.

The Best Vanity Plate EVER!

While the dog hair threatens to inundate the house, while the freezer continues to bulge in disorganized chaos, while the kitchen floor makes funny sticky-suctioning sounds whenever I walk across it, I am cruising the internet for humorous license plate slogans.

The winner, as far as I am concerned, is this comment on Pink Ribbons and/or Breast Cancer in general:

I, like my friend M, used to avoid looking at Pink Ribbons at all costs. "If you look, you'll get it!" was our motto. But even though we both averted our eyes to the point of OCD, we both still got it. So this plate is entirely appropriate, I think. Sums it up in 5 letters. If you're tired of thinking positively, being cheerful, and moving on as if nothing happened, this plate is for you!

Just another busy day

Rainy days make me contemplative. I'd rather curl up at home and ponder instead of running errands in Kingsport, but today is booked--I'll have to muse while I'm driving. And maybe the rain will cool things off instead of steaming us to death in the sauna-like ambiance we've had lately. Thank heavens for air conditioning is all I have to say!

Bill called last night from the ship--it looks like he won't be home immediately as we had hoped. But now, everyone in the universe knows he needs to get home and will make that happen as soon as it is logistically feasible. His dad is hanging on as best he can.

Echo continues to sneeze and wheeze and shed. The vet may need to put her on steroids to control the allergic response, which scares me--it compromises her immune system and makes her vulnerable to infection. With drugs, it's always a trade-off--risks versus benefits. She's an old dog. Even though we don't know how old, we've had her for 10 years this month, and she was probably around two when we got her.

My neck is a mess this morning. I'm hoping Mr. Acupuncture can loosen things up a little. I'm also hoping to catch Dr. Anderson, when I go by the hospital to pick up my Rx for Boniva--she's on call in Labor & Delivery today, but if it's quiet, I may get a chance to visit with her and drool over some of her recent baby pix.

And then there's the temptation of Five Guys Burgers & Fries. When I'm in Kingsport, I imagine I can smell their burgers wafting in the air, wherever I happen to be. It's also right across the street from Hobby Lobby and the temptation of yarn. I have more than enough yarn to last me the rest of my life and I shouldn't want to spend my entire daily caloric allotment on a Five Guys burger with all the trimmings, but I feel the siren pull of both.

Will today end up being an exercise in self-control...or self-indulgence?

Echo Update

The vet seems to think Echo is suffering from seasonal allergies. The wheezing is actually a "backwards sneezing," rather than an attempt to oxygenate her lungs.

All I know is that the 20-mile ride in the car to the animal hospital perked her up to the point where it was difficult to justify my judgment that Echo was significantly lethargic. It's like when you call the repairman, and the machine refuses to do what it's been doing that made you call the repairman.

Echo was relieved that I wasn't leaving her to be boarded again, and got all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed when it was time to go. If this is all it takes to snap her out of her dead-dog behavior, next time I'll just drive around town and forgo the expense of taking her to the vet.

If it's not one thing, it's another...

Echo is feeling poorly, so we're off to the vet this morning. She's sneezing and wheezing, as if she had a chest cold--but dogs don't get colds, so I don't know what's going on. Time for the experts to step in.

Echo will of course be completely un-thrilled to go back to the scene of her recent incarceration.

In other news, it's taken two days of phone tag, but I've finally succeeded with the American Red Cross message to the Navy and Bill's employer. I expect to hear that he's coming home soon. Or at least, flying to Illinois to be with his dad, and then coming home to me.

So off to the vet we go...

Five pounds and 1000 miles later...

After all the drama of cars last week, it is pretty quiet here on the mountain.

All the plants were hanging dejectedly over the railing, whispering death rattles of "Water Me!" when I arrived home. I complied. One particularly nice Brandywine tomato was ripe, but I decided I was too tired for harvesting, and left it until the morning. In the night, some critter ate half of it. There must be some proverb to address this situation, some didactic lesson about sloth perhaps?

There was laundry, of course. And much unloading of the car. With factory tours of Snyder's Pretzels and Utz Potato Chips, visits to the farm market at the Big Round Barn (which uncannily resembled my house), and my purchases at Ron's Barrels, there was an astonishing amount of stuff to lug up the stairs.

I went out to pick beans and found that fully half of my bean patch had been nipped to the ground by another (or perhaps the same?) critter. Even so, I got a half-bucket of beans to process for the freezer.

And then there's the American Red Cross debacle. Bill asked me in an email to contact them to send a message to the ship that he needs to get home to his dad. I got all the information when I was in Pennsylvania, and when I got home, I started the process of an "Emergency Military Message."

I ran into problems immediately. Bill's dad couldn't tell me the names and contact numbers for his doctors (to verify his illness). It was 4 pm on a Friday, and no one was answering the phone at the VA hospital in St. Louis. When I finally got the hospital's social worker on the line, he wouldn't give me any information because of HIPPA privacy regulations.

Is there anything more annoying about today's medical climate than HIPPA laws? I think not. Privacy is a good thing, but when it gets in the way of common sense, I get cranky.

Cousin Alice saved the day by getting out her file on Dad, and giving me the information I needed to share with the Red Cross. By this time though, all those contacts were gone for the weekend. And, without a signed release from Bill's dad, they probably wouldn't talk to the ARC anyway. Sigh.

Alice typed up a release for Dad to give all his people on Monday, when he goes for his chemo. Hopefully, the ARC will get through and people will start talking to each other tomorrow. And then, the ARC will send a message to Bill's ship via the Pentagon, requesting his presence at home. Even though Bill is due off and his company has his replacement ready to go, this will hopefully spur some activity on board towards shore and Bill's timely relief. We don't want them to go off on a lengthy mission at this point, and forget about changing out the crew.

Echo continues to recover from her ordeal in Dog Jail, spending most of her time sleeping on the couch. I think she's almost forgiven me.

Despite the massive pigging-out of travel and extravagant dinners with friends, I only gained five pounds back. And now it's time to go downstairs and do something about that sin of gluttony.

Headed Home

After a wonderful, whirlwind three days with Anita and Gary, their children Amy and Steven and fiances Mike and Sandy, the new 5 month old baby Ava, and the Italian Greyhound Joey, it was time to get back on the road. A new slough of houseguests were coming in, and Echo is probably having abandonment issues right about now. It was time to go.

On my way out of town, I stopped at "Ron's Barrels" and picked up another two blue plastic barrels for rain cisterns. Last year, the barrels had been emptied of tomato paste, making the drive to Ohio smell like pizza. This year, a milder scent of tea accompanied my drive south.

I spent last night in familiar Charlottesville, VA, site of all of my breast cancer follies of 2007-2008. It was great to visit with Mark and Jo in a purely social context. We had a delightful al fresco dining experience on a rooftop restaurant -- Mark had salad and short ribs with braised baby vegetables, Jo had crispy shrimp and seaweed salad and lasagne, and I was virtuous with a Caesar salad and half order of fresh fettucini, heirloom tomatoes, summer squash and spinach. We shared a bottle of Prosecco (Italian bubbly) and much laughter.

The little blue car is now stuffed with stuff, so I will probably have to go home, and then go back in the red car for Echo. It's just as well. She was very nervous in the unfamiliar vehicle on the way out on Monday. It will be better to pick her up in her favorite traveling vehicle for the ride home.

There will be much scolding for leaving her, I'm sure.

The new car performed better than expected--very smooth, very comfortable and 34.4 mpg on the break-in cruise, even going 70+ with the A/C on. I'm convinced I made the right choice with the Hyundai, it's a great little car.

Shakedown Cruise Tomorrow

I'm getting ready to go to Gettysburg, PA tomorrow to visit an old friend. I hadn't anticipated taking a new car on the trip, but life is funny that way--always new surprises and always a new adventure.

Today is laundry, plant maintenance, cleaning out the fridge, taking out the garbage, and throwing clothes in a bag.

I've been reading the owner's manual on my new blue baby, in preparation for the first big trip. The book is mostly taken up with big yellow WARNING! boxes and big grey CAUTION! boxes full of dire predictions on what will happen if you do this...or don't do that. I can only assume that every one of these boxes is the result of a lawsuit somewhere. At the beginning of the book, it explains that yellow means you could hurt yourself and/or die; grey means you could damage the vehicle.

Here's my favorite (yellow) so far:

WARNING! Use a coin or flat blade driver when you remove the roof carrier cover. If you use your fingernail, it may damage your fingernail!

Well, duh! Do we really need to be told this? Does it mean that without this timely warning, I could sue for a broken fingernail?

Oh, please. The Safety Nazis have taken over the universe. Now I have to be protected from a broken nail. If I'm this stupid, should I really be driving a car? Give me a break.

Score!

On Thursday, I visited three car dealerships and test drove more vehicles. Being the Queen of Dithering, I still couldn't make up my mind. I was leaning toward the Pontiac Vibe, but though the automatic was nice, the 1.8L engine had a lot more get-up-and-go with the manual transmission.

But the manual was a bare-bones, crank window, lock with a key model, though it was my budgeted price ($12,546) with the CARS rebate. What to do?

Thursday night, I read that the CARS money was all gone, over-subscribed actually, and the government website stated that the program, slated to run from July-Nov, would end at midnight on Friday.

I tossed and turned all night, waking up repeatedly, thinking about cars. Not a restful slumber, by any measure. I woke up yesterday with a new idea. The Hyundai Elantra Touring "Wagon" (actually a hatchback with delusions of grandeur) was a better value! Most of the features I wanted--a little pricey at $20,600--but maybe I could get them to come down on the price.

I did my research again on Edmonds.com and called the Hyundai salesman with my price offer, a little more than $8000 off the sticker. After a long silence on the phone, the salesman snapped, "That's not going to happen. Besides, we stopped taking Clunkers last night because the money is all gone!"

"Okay," I replied cheerfully, "call me if they put more money into the program." I went down to the basement to work out. During my exercise, the phone rang twice, and I ignored it. After my shower, I looked at my messages. The salesman had called back.

"I talked to my manager (Here we go with the dance, I thought), and he says that because we have a relationship (What? We have a relationship?) , he says he'll take your Clunker today only."

"At my price?" I asked.

"Well...come on in with your van and we'll work something out," he hedged.

I told him I'd try to get over there in the afternoon, but casually mentioned that I might not be able to make it. After hanging up with him, I thought about it long and hard. Then I hopped into the Focus and went to the bank, and had them make me a cashier's check for exactly the price I had decided was fair to me.

My thinking was that if I had the check in hand, I could wave it under their noses and let them smell the sale. It would also prevent me from getting into a situation where I might be tempted to pay more. If they didn't take it, I could then go to the Pontiac dealer and purchase the manual transmission Vibe for the same price easily.

I waited until 3 pm. Let 'em sweat a little. It had been raining hard and the driveway was slippery, so I put on my hiking boots (truly a dorky fashion statement with my capri pants and T-shirt, floppy sun hat and smelling of insect repellent) and hiked down to the van with all my paperwork.

"Lucy" started right up with a roar, and I began the trek to the far west end of Morristown, about 45 miles away. After about 10 miles of plastic window covering (the windows had been busted out by a vandal back in November) flapping enough to make me fear for my hearing, I pulled over and ripped it all off. I continued on, wind whipping through the van and tangling my hair, adding to my disreputable appearance.

Just past Bean Station, I called the salesman on my cell and told him I was 20 minutes away. Two miles later, just after I turned onto 25E, I started to smell something really bad. A burning-engine smell. A check of the gauges said everything was normal--maybe it was just exhaust from the truck ahead of me?

No, in another mile I decided it was definitely Lucy. I started to shake a little, worrying about making it to the dealership. Should I just go to the Pontiac dealer? It was closer, and the CARS rebate required that the vehicle arrive under its own power--it couldn't be towed in. I just kept driving, praying, worrying, shaking. At the last minute, I took the turnoff that would take me to the Hyundai dealer as originally planned.

I tried to talk myself down as I made my way through Morristown. I've driven a lot of marginal cars in my life, I had been in similar situations with a dying vehicle before, what was the worst that could happen? The car would die, some Good Samaritan would help me push it to the side of the road, I'd call a tow truck and have it taken to the junkyard, and I'd find a way home. Still, I couldn't slow down my heartbeat and I was breathing deep and slow, trying to stop my annoying trembling.

By the time I made it to A.J. Hwy, smoke was wafting out from under the hood. Other cars were honking at me and pointing and generally trying to alert me that "something is wrong with your car, ma'am!" No kidding. I was on a mission. I had a goal. I was either going to make it...or not. I started making plans of what I would grab as I exited the car, just in case I saw actual flames.

About 2 miles from the dealership, something started banging loudly under the hood. I kept going. As I made the last turn into the driveway, I heard an enormous KER-POW! and the engine died. I slapped it into neutral and coasted down to the showroom door. Made it! Their problem now! (She never ran again--my guess is that she threw a rod at the end).

Honestly, I can't make up stuff this good.

It took me about 8 cups of water from the cooler to calm down (I was shaking so badly, I dropped the first one on the floor). All the staff did a double-take at my wild, windblown hair and klutzy boots below white socks and bare calves.

Roger (the salesman I supposedly had a "relationship" with) and I sat down and went over the numbers. First, the hardball "no way." Then the pleading "we have to make a little profit, just to pay the light bill." Then the disparaging of my research--"you know that Edmonds doesn't update their data and they aren't in the car business." Then the requisite visits to the sales manager, with plenty of time for me to go get still another cup of water. I stayed cheerful and matter-of-fact. I agreed with him that we were all in business to make a profit.

Then I brought out my research sheets and asked him to go over everything with me, line by line. I showed him where he was making $995 profit, hidden in the dealer prep, and added into the retail of all the options. I mentioned the extra manufacturer-to-dealer incentives that weren't shown, but that I knew his dealership was getting. I brought out my cashier's check, the title to the van, my two years of registration and insurance records and said "this is my offer, you can make this happen if you want the sale."

He actually had the gall to say "Your car is dead, how are you going to get home?" I told him that I would call a cab and showed him that I had brought a Morristown phone book with me, just in case.

"What's this you have written down?" he asked.

"Oh, that's not for you, that's just a five-year depreciation schedule and that one there is the 5-year amortized cost of ownership, for my own information."

His eyes finally changed. "You really do your research, don't you?" I had just crossed over from manipulable-female-rube to savvy-buyer-to-be-reckoned-with. I knew he was beat. He took my papers with him on his final trip to the sales manager. He came back and shook my hand.

And here is my new ride:

On the drive home, I called son Alex and told him that Lucy had gone to a better place. She handled her final illness with class, getting me where I needed to go and not croaking until the last possible moment. She will become new sheet metal, and be turned into a new car, or a refrigerator or something. R.I.P. Lucy. Hello Blue-Baby.