Because We Can

    This week Reed got the very good news that his last PSA levels were too low to be detectable. His prostate cancer has responded beautifully to treatment. But so that he does not run out of things to worry about, his blood pressure was up at his last heart appointment and he now has a heart murmur. His EKG was a little off at his stress test, but no more than before he took it, and today's follow up confirmed that they found no problem with his heart. Admittedly, Reed had fallen off the heart healthy diet bandwagon since prostate cancer treatment--more like, jumped off and rolled away from the band wagon--those high numbers were a more powerful incentive than I was to climb back on. As a cook I am happy to accommodate his diet needs, but as a realist with some medical training, I am frustrated. 

    During my years as a volunteer taking blood pressures at Sykes Pharmacy, many of my geriatric clients said that their doctor wanted their BP around 130 over 60. In order to achieve this arbitrary ideal, they had to take multiple medications. While it would be wonderful if our senior systems could be restored to the health levels of our 30's, it is not realistic. Thirty years ago it was understood that blood pressure readings for people over 60 were more likely to be in the 150/90 range. Though physicians realize they cannot restore our metabolism, strength, skin, eyesight, hearing, balance, etc. to 30's levels, they support this standard for blood pressure. Of course no one wants a stroke or heart attack, but realistically, meds or not, odds of that increase with age, just as they do for cancer, diabetes, arthritis, osteoporosis, and dementia.

    I asked the pharmacist why, amid the herd of health problems that rear their head in old age, blood pressure is the one sacred cow. Her answer was, restoring muscle tone, metabolism, etc. was hard, blood pressure was easy--just take another pill. In other words, the reason for altering blood pressure to a higher/lower standard is, because we can. I told her that if my husband had chosen to restore his youthful energy, endurance and sex drive with testosterone, he would have unknowingly spread prostate cancer throughout his body. She agreed hormones can be dangerous. But what about over medicating? 

     At one time, obstetricians thought perhaps many births should be scheduled and induced, not out of medical necessity, but because we can. It turned out to be convenient for them, but harmful for moms and babies. And some male gynecologists thought it would a a huge convenience, if women beyond childbearing had total hysterectomies and took prescription hormones--not for a medical problem, but because we can. However, besides irritating men, women's hormones actually delay onset of osteoporosis, heart disease, and other age related issues. And supplemental hormones can actually increase a woman's odds of getting cancer.

     In years to come, we may discover that fighting high blood pressure and heart rate with mixed martial arts levels of medication does not cause problems, but the hope that our physicians might research side effects and drug interactions before recommending medications was faint to begin with, and died during Covid. Christians should be good stewards of our God given bodies; diet, exercise, and medication play a part in that. But Jesus said none of us by taking thought (human effort) can add to the length of our lives--because we can't.

      

Bye Bye Baggy

    I bought a new ensemble before shoulder replacement, knowing I needed pants that pulled on and easy to use button/zip front shirts. The pants, especially, are not really my style but I figured Costco prices would make buying them less painful. Before that Costco trip I did not own a pair of sweats. Today I am wearing a velour "tracksuit" in plum with a zip front top that includes a hood. A hood. Inside my home. I know this would be someone's ideal comfy active wear because I saw a young woman wearing the same outfit at Harbor Freight a few days ago. But when I wear it, I feel like I should be inactive, on a couch, smoking cigarettes, and watching soaps. My body may be baggy, but my brain is not wired for this. 

    Since the most painful activity I did before shoulder surgery was pulling up and fastening my pants, elastic waistbands may have been a good idea before now, but I dislike them because what goes up tends to come down. And a drawstring seems a flimsy thing to stand between me and accidentally mooning someone. One pair of my sweats, however, decided to defy gravity as, throughout the day, the waistband headed north toward my armpits in a futile search for my waist. That kind of upward mobility is not a comfortable sensation. I prefer my clothes to stay where I put them, especially when I am wearing them.

    Since my shoulder is healing quickly, I can already shimmy into some of my pull on dress pants and the pull over tops I prefer. If I believed the saying clothes make the man, I would never have married Reed, whose preferred style is somewhere between homeless and hobo. But clothes certainly make Connie, and baggy clothes make me feel like a bag lady. I will be very happy when it's time to bid baggy bye bye.

   

     

 

Tears at Christmas

     My writing usually improves if I don't publish it until the next day when I have had time to give it more thought and better wording, but this poem is time sensitive, and I want it to help those already experiencing the bittersweet blessing of Christmas, so I will post this one today. 

 

Tears at Christmas 

 

There were tears at Christmas from the first,

the pain and joy of Jesus' birth,

sorrow for the price he'd pay

for God to take our sins away.

There were tears at Christmas.

 

There are tears at Christmas, for many 

seek the joy we're taught there ought to be.

Sorrow instead, is better known  

in war torn lands and broken homes.

There are tears at Christmas. 

 

There are tears at Christmas, for those who mourn 

 remember joy with their loved one,

sorrow that those days are gone

though they live on, in heaven.

There are tears at Christmas.

 

There are tears at Christmas, and God feels

our pain, yet that is how He heals.

Sorrow on earth must come before 

the joy that heaven will restore,

and no more tears at Christmas.   

 

12/23/25 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Labels and Letting Go

   I've been mulling over this idea as I sent out Christmas cards this week, but didn't have time to write it until I finished the cards.

 

    Labels and Letting Go   

 

Each year I send out Christmas cards,

an old tradition, made less hard

by computer composed letters

and pre-printed address labels. 

 

Change of address for those who've moved,

on label sheets, is easy too.

But for those who moved beyond earth's shore 

these stickers stand for something more.

 

It ought to be a simple task

to throw old labels in the trash,

except they trigger memories

of lost friends still so dear to me.

 

I find myself at end of day

with labels I can't throw away.

Though I know that leaving their names on

won't change the fact that they are gone. 

 

My superstitious Christmas wish

to keep them on my address list 

pretends, by merely doing so,

I do not have to let them go. 

 

12/16/25 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I Dance Alone with Empty Arms

    I haven't told Reed I do this until recently because it sounds so pathetic, but perhaps no more so than talking to Trace at his grave. Though I do not dance and could not waltz at gunpoint, it is my sad, rare and comforting ritual of the Christmas season. The song is one I posted last year, "Christmas Lullaby/

I Will Lead You Home" by Amy Grant--which I'm having trouble linking this year.    https://www.google.com/url?sa=t&source=web&rct=j&opi=89978449&url=https://www.youtube.com/watch%3Fv%3DCAfDgntyWs8&ved=2ahUKEwikpYjJwI6RAxVJADQIHY-iOY4QtwJ6BAgqEAI&usg=AOvVaw26Q4L98s5RHzXo41EW_Cru

I Dance Alone with Empty Arms  

 

Sometimes, when in the house alone

with Christmas season coming on,

I play a certain song about 

a wanderer being led home.

 

The music is three quarter time,

a pulse that resonates with mine.

I raise my arms up and waltz on

as if I'm dancing with my son,

 

though in life, we neither did nor would.

I dance alone with empty arms

remember his hugs, his shoulders strong, 

a refuge to be counted on.

 

But then, perhaps I'll have a chance

for a mother and son wedding dance

at the marriage supper of the Lamb,

our union with the great I AM

 

and all the ones we love so much,

who wait in heaven, safe from harm.

With empty arms I dance alone

until the time he leads me home. 

 

11/24/25 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Parting of the Ways

    I knew it would take a lot to break Reed's grip on airplanes and the airport. Such concerns have been the subroutine playing in the back of his brain for nearly five decades. Yes, he had prostate cancer surgery and radiation, and that may have slowed him down, maybe loosened a couple fingers, but he would have gone back into airplane mode if it were not for another, more malignant factor--his coworker. Let's just call him "Cain." A couple years ago, Reed hired a mechanic he wanted to train to replace him so he could retire. Early on it became apparent they had different priorities. Cain was too busy setting up his own business in the owner's hangar to have time to learn about the jet he was getting paid to maintain. Reed gave up 3/4ths of his salary much earlier than the owner would have asked so Cain's family would have enough to live on to make this transition work. Meanwhile Cain rented one bay of hangar space and proceeded to take over three spaces and two offices. Not content with triple dipping, Cain also expected Reed and another contractor working at the airport to run their bills through his business so he could make more per hour from their time than they did. When neither of them saw the profit of paying for the privilege of working for Cain, he transformed faster than Dr. Jeykll on super serum. Not into a violent, self serving beast, but something worse--a teenager. 

    Most of the time he has worked at the hangar, Cain has behaved toward Reed like a petulant 15 year old with an unwelcome stepdad. Dismissing, arguing with, or doing the opposite of everything Reed told him. I thought the reason Cain greeted and launched all the flights himself was guilt for taking his employer's money to build his own business. That was foolishly optimistic. When a pilot asked Reed why he had not fixed a problem with the jet he had complained of weeks ago, realization dawned. Cain took those shifts to keep Reed from talking to the pilots or passengers. He wanted to control Reed's access to information. Since Cain either did not know enough or did not care enough to correct the problem with the jet, he left it undone. It was more important to him to hoard the information than to fix the jet. Evidently, Cain models his management style after communist dictators, cults, or abusive spouses--cut off communication with outsiders. Since he cannot, like the latter, confine Reed to some cabin in the canyon, his only recourse is to get vindictive. Violations of Cain's nondisclosure policy result in orders, supposedly from the owner, for Reed to get his stuff out of the hangar. So he did.

    Not in the sell me your tools cheap sense Cain hoped for, but since his tools were being used without asking and comsumable supplies were not replenished, he gradually rehomed tools and supplies to a giant container. Since losing access to the tools and parts Cain habitually used, actually punished him more than Reed, Cain decided Reed leaving plates, utensils, etc. in the kitchen was also an act of selfishness on Reed's part. Despite Cain's agreement with the owner that he would leave them alone or contact Reed before getting rid of them, Cain boxed up what he considered unnecessary to give to Salvation Army and didn't tell Reed until he asked about the boxes. When Mrs. Cain threatened to throw away everything else, Reed took the rest. It doesn't matter like it once did, only Cain's customers and few friends feel welcome in the hangar now. 

    The business owner has never met Mr. Hyde and thinks he has two employees with good ideas and poor communication skills. But one of the problems with behaving like a rebellious teenager and being a habitual liar is that there are witnesses. You can't hide Mr. Hyde forever. Now that the sheets are split so to speak, and Reed's final finger is pried from the hangar door, it is time for a parting of the ways. I just pray that the haughty Mr. Hyde is not the one who will be fixing the jet.

     

 

The Maker of Both

     

    We have been on vacation in Oregon, visiting friends, museums and the coast. That gives a lot of inspiration for poetry but little time to write it so here, at last, is a souvenir poem from our trip. 

 

The Maker of Both 

 

Not to be outdone by lesser performances,

the ocean raises its volume at night.

The sound of a womb, no longer remembered,

but still somehow familiar, comforting.

We are being held safe, this time not by our mothers,

but by God, the maker of both the mighty oceans

and the insignificant, but infinitely loved--us.