Column: Lessons from The Horrible Hernia Horror Show

At the end of October in 2021, I went into the hospital for a routine hiatal hernia repair. I expected to stay overnight. But there was a “complication,” and I ended up on the Critical Care Unit for a week—without food or drink.

Now, every year, as Halloween and Election Day and the anniversary of my mother’s birth (November 4th) roll around, I get the heebie-jeebies. A burst of post-traumatic stress.

It was a difficult experience.  I’m still processing it.

But this year, I have been thinking of my experience in a new way. It was hard enough to hear that a friend needed major surgery. But when she told me it was scheduled for Halloween, I shuddered inwardly as I remembered being in bed, hooked up to five tubes while being tended to by a nurse in a T-shirt with a jack-o’-lantern motif.

I shared my mental image with my friend in a lighthearted way, but I hoped I had more to offer her in the way of support. Like what? The experience did give me an insight into what it takes to endure a difficult situation. I’ve learned how to look on the bright side of my problems. I’ve learned quite a bit—and am still learning—about myself along the way.

I was still groggy from the anesthesia when I heard the grim news. A tableau of foggy faces in front of me. My first thought was, “I’m trapped!”

It was my worst fear. When I was growing up, there were still a few polio outbreaks. I’d been vaccinated, but I still had a horror of the worst possible outcome of the disease—to have to live in an iron lung. To be paralyzed would be the worst thing that could happen to me.

My abhorrence of confinement led to a dislike of zoos, though I loved animals. I hated seeing dogs chained outside.

Now here I was—stuck. My first thought, when lucid, was: “How can I unhook myself from these tubes and get out of here?”

Right. My esophagus had been nicked in the procedure. I had to make it through the week while it healed. Then I would swallow a substance while being x-rayed to make sure the break was all sealed up.

I refused to think of what would happen if I failed the test.

There was no escape. I had to lie there with horrible thoughts racing through my head. 

I am still in awe—because my entrapment phobia is so intense—that I was able to make it through the week with only a couple of minor meltdowns. But I learned that I just had to deal with the situation. I had no other option. I read my books, napped and looked forward to my husband, Paul’s, visits. Pandemic restrictions were still in place so I couldn’t see anyone else. But I could text and talk on the phone.

It’s not easy to look on the bright side when you can’t eat or drink. I have realized since this experience that I actually think about eating and drinking most of the time.

But there was no food forthcoming while I was in the hospital. I couldn’t even have a sip of water. Where was the bright side? I was alive.

This took me weeks to realize. I was initially angry about my predicament. I didn’t ask “why me?” Why not me, is my philosophy. No, I was just upset with the universe. I had prepared myself for surgery, for a period of recovery that would include a modified diet.

I wasn’t ready to fast for seven days!

But, eventually, I saw how lucky I was that the doctors noticed the nick immediately, and fixed it on the spot. If they hadn’t, the resulting complications could have been a lot worse.

I recently discovered that I could read a play-by-play of my surgery—the “Horrible Hernia Horror Show,” as I call it—on my patient portal app. It was disturbing to read, but the report reinforced my feeling that I was fortunate; that I should be grateful.

Perhaps even more interesting were the notes of the chaplain who, along with a priest, visited me. “She at first was struggling being at the hospital and CCU…” But I was now demonstrating a positive attitude and was accepting “that she needs the rest and care that CCU can offer. Patient demonstrates a strong faith that is clearly a comfort to her.”

I had come a long way in four days.

The Horrible Hernia Horror Show was the first time I’d spent any time in a hospital. I’d had minor surgeries before, such as a carpal tunnel release and a bunionectomy. But this was the big time. I had plenty of time to think about the fragility of life (not to mention my esophagus) that week. I am always chastising myself to “go with the universe” and stop trying to control life. Here was my opportunity.

I made it through and I’m a stronger person for it. As for my friend—she called me from her hospital bed to tell me she was out of surgery and doing well. But we had to cut the conversation short because her dinner was arriving. Dinner!

I can’t tell you how happy that news made me.

 I welcome email at lizzie621@icloud.com

Column: A scary diagnosis, a very red nose and a happy ending

When I was diagnosed with Lyme disease in August, I felt like a trap door was opening beneath me. I was falling into a pit—until the PA’s cheerful voice brought me back to reality.

“You’re going to be fine,” she chirped.

Whew.

My journey to Express Care had started a week and a half earlier. I’d gone out on the deck to close the table umbrella because it was supposed to rain. When I came back in, I felt something on my leg. A bug? I couldn’t see anything, but brushed off the area.

Soon, however, the site, just above my right knee, began to swell up. I went to check the floor mat near the door to the deck to see if I had inadvertently killed a bee or a wasp. There was nothing there. Nothing buzzing around the house, either.

I iced the area and applied hydrocortisone—the bite hurt and it was itchy. I was slightly concerned, as I have a history of anaphylactic reactions, Then again, I’d once been bitten by a spider and survived. 

The redness and swelling soon subsided to the size of a large mosquito bite. It didn’t go away, though, and I eyed it suspiciously each morning.

Then one night I kept waking up, feeling like my leg was intensely itchy. I told myself I was imagining things. Finally, at 3:30 a.m., I took a look.

Yowza. The bite site had swollen to two inches in diameter. It looked like a giant hive. On went the hydrocortisone, and I resolved to seek help as soon as possible.

By the time I got to the clinic, the bite had calmed down. But it was still red—and in a clearly circular formation. The PA only had to take one look at it to recognize the Lyme disease’s classic “bullseye” rash.

“I never saw a tick,” I said.

“Most people who get Lyme disease don’t,” she said.

Huh. I’d like to think I know ticks  I have a long history with the beasties. As kids, my sister and I would sit on the patio of our parents’ house in southeastern Massachusetts and pull them off our dog, Skippy. We’d smash them with rocks. Good times. I’ve owned dogs all my life and have been a fearless remover of ticks from them.

And humans too, when necessary. I don’t remember ever finding ticks on myself during childhood, but nowadays they’re rampant. Just a couple of weeks before I was bitten, my husband, Paul, sat down in his recliner and leaned back. “Tick!” I exclaimed when he stretched his bare leg. It was stuck. I got out the tweezers.

But I understand some ticks are the size of poppy seeds. I had to admit that, without my glasses, one of those could have easily escaped my notice.

So, lesson learned. I am normally vigilant about checking for ticks after walking in the woods or high grass, but obviously danger was lurking in my backyard. Of course, I was relieved to hear that, with a course of antibiotics, I wouldn’t have any lasting effects from the disease because it was caught early. Diagnosis and treatment have improved since Lyme disease was first recognized in 1975. Many of those who got it then suffered serious, long-lasting effects.

But even as recently as last year, a friend ended up in the hospital with Lyme. He’s fine now, but it was a scary situation for him.

The clinic PA put me on antibiotics for 10 days. No big deal, except I couldn’t eat anything with calcium for two hours before or after each dose. Also, I had to be careful in the sun and be sure to wear protective lotion. 

The latter was not a problem—I thought—because I normally take precautions. I burn easily. I was more concerned about taking antibiotics in general, as I have some digestive system issues and they are known to make things worse.

My first problem, though, was timing the pills to avoid dairy. I got up at 5 a.m. so I could eat my cereal and have a cup of coffee before 6. Then I could take one pill at 8 a.m. and one at 8 p.m. Unfortunately, delaying a second cup of coffee until 10 a.m. made me grumpy. I tried oat milk creamer, but the taste made me even grumpier.

I had barely—and grumpily—settled into this routine when I went to see my primary care provider. She affirmed that I shouldn’t suffer any long-term consequences. But she wanted me on the antibiotics for three weeks.

Oh, joy. Another week and a half of trying to avoid the sun in August. I was managing to avoid any digestive issues, but I was plagued by a red nose. I wore lotion (SPF 50!) and a floppy hat when outside, but I still looked like Rudolph.

I so wanted a beach day, but I didn’t dare.

Despite my angst, I knew I had a lot to be grateful for. In one second, a creature the size of a poppy seed could have changed my life. But here I am, drinking coffee with cream, with a normal-looking nose. Life is good.

 I welcome email at lizzie621@icloud.com

Column: Does it matter if voters -- or candidates -- have children?

My husband, Paul, and I stopped on our walk recently to watch a team of workers taking down some tree branches. A woman operated a small crane to pick up the cut wood and place it in a truck.

Paul observed, “That must be a tough job, working with all those men.”

I couldn’t resist the chance to be snarky. “Probably. But the real question is, does she have children?”

Yes, the debate that started with vice-presidential candidate J.D. Vance’s disparaging remarks about “childless cat ladies” has put me on edge. Big time—because I’m disturbed by both sides.

The right brought it up, to be sure. But the left’s response has been—too often—that Vice President Kamala Harris is a stepmother.

Please. No. This is the correct answer: A candidate’s parental status should not be an issue in any campaign.

I know it’s hard for my fellow liberals to stick to the same line on, well, anything. But in this case, I wish we could all agree that biology is not destiny. For nearly half a century, women have been able to choose whether they have children or not. Our motherhood status is only one facet of our being. 

I don’t have children and I do have three cats. Those are two facts about me. Do with them what you will. I assure you, they are only part of my story.

Of course I am interested in knowing facts about candidates. How old are they? Where did they grow up? What sort of education have they had, and what did they do before entering politics?

Do they have a family? Pets? Perhaps my most important question is whether they read books, and if so, what genres?

But when I finally decide who to vote for, I just care about the candidate’s policies. I want leaders who support the protection of the environment. That is my number one issue. They should also champion working people and small business owners. My candidates believe in free speech and women’s access to reproductive health care.

I want stronger protections for schoolchildren, which probably means some, not unreasonable, limits on gun ownership.

One issue I don’t think much about is the southern border. If we had problems with Canada, some 150 miles up the road, I’d be all over it. I am grateful that is a highly unlikely scenario. What is important to me are leaders who recognize that we have problems on the southern border that need to be addressed, but at the same time support legal immigration. I will vote for candidates who respect immigrants who have come here lawfully and who have compassion for those who have fled their home countries and are seeking asylum.

I try to be realistic about what elected officials can do, even the president. I don’t see that any one person is going to bring my grocery bill down, or fill my oil tank more cheaply. I vote for candidates who have good intentions; who, from my point of view, have their hearts in the right place. Then I hope they will just do their jobs.

A good president, in my opinion, speaks thoughtfully, supports our allies throughout the world and tries to keep us out of conflict. I want a president who champions the best of America, and who has high hopes for the future.

Will my candidates govern well? Whether they are married, have children or make weekly phone calls to their 95-year-old mothers is only mildly interesting to me.

A happy family portrait featuring two parents, two children and a labradoodle can’t hurt a candidate. But what does it really tell us? Families are complex. Parenthood does not equal sainthood. There are many wonderful parents doing the hard work of raising children. But people aren’t necessarily wonderful just because they are parents.

Vance’s remarks were divisive. They tried to pit mothers against “childless cat ladies.” Women who fit the description, including Taylor Swift, have reacted with mocking humor. (And decisive action, as Swift endorsed Kamala Harris.) I did post a “cat for Kamala” meme on my Facebook page and it did bring me a chuckle.

But I can’t help but see the serious side of Vance’s remarks. I grew up in the 1970s, and learned that women should be able to do what they want with their lives. In junior high school, our miniskirts had to fall to our knees. A couple of years later, we protested and earned the right to wear pants, including jeans, to school. It was a huge victory, both practically and symbolically.

Today, women can choose both motherhood and careers, or stay at home with their children. They can opt to have a child or adopt a child and remain single. They may decide not to have children at all. They may take in a relative’s children and raise them, or marry a partner who already has kids and become a stepmom. Maybe they decide to live their lives on their own, but have rich relationships with nieces, nephews and young neighbors.

Maybe they adopt a few cats.

I know these women. You do too. They are the embodiment of our democratic ideals, that hard-fought-for right to the pursuit of happiness. 

The vice president likes to say, “We’re not going back.” I’m with her—even though I’m really more of a dog person.

 I welcome email at lizzie621@icloud.com

Column: $10,000 dorm makeovers? Not back in 1974!

When I read a New York Times story about students paying $10,000 for professional dorm room makeovers, I was immediately transported to my first day at Providence College, 50 years ago this month.

My idea of chic back then was the light blue sheet set with a “Peanuts” motif that I had stashed in my luggage.

Now, my roommates and I certainly could have used the services of a professional decorator. Our room was a bare cell. But $10,000? That’s about double the amount my parents were paying for my tuition, room and board.

In 1974, no middle-class parent would have shelled out a dime for a professional decorator for their kids. My mother had sewn the curtains for the bedroom I shared with my sister. My only other dorm room “decorator item” was a throw pillow. I’d done a crewel embroidery piece with a pattern of flowers, which my crafty mother then used as a cover for one of her beat-up old living room pillows.

Heck, before I started earning my own money, I was lucky to get a professional haircut once a year.

The Times article gave me a chuckle, especially as I reflected on that freshman dorm room.

For starters, there were three girls in a room meant for two boys. (PC had just gone coed two years before. We were now showing up in droves, hence the overcrowding.) 

There was a sink in the corner, and believe me, it wasn’t the “Ruvati 19-inch Murano Glass Art Vessel Seashell Decorative Pattern Bathroom Sink” currently going for $599 at The Home Depot.

It was white. There were pipes.

One of my new roommates signed up to play hockey, so a pile of equipment and uniforms soon rose by the sink.

We placed one bed along the edges of two desks to give ourselves more room. This was the extent of our “makeover.”

I disliked this room intensely, but everybody in the dorm was in the same situation. I made friends with a number of girls in our building, but not in the other female dorm, McVinney. That was a good thing, because I’d just have been jealous when I hung out with them. McVinney was a new high-rise. Aquinas Hall (our place) was a gothic monstrosity built before my uncle was a student there in the 1940s.

Remarkably, and I’m sure because I was only 18 and a lot more flexible than I am today, I managed to become good friends with one of my roommates and shared digs with her for two more years.

I was enjoying my first semester when, as winter approached, I got sick with a terrible flu. I had to quit my work-study job, which I had liked a lot. As I recovered, and scrambled to make up lost work, I started having doubts about whether I wanted to stay in college. 

In retrospect, I wonder if that crowded room (with the hockey equipment), contributed to my qualms. More space definitely would have been helpful, but I do like attractive surroundings, too. Aesthetics was not something I really thought about at that age—my social life was paramount. But as an adult, I’m still having creepy thoughts about those sticks and knee pads. Maybe they affected me subconsciously back then.

I eventually felt better, both physically and emotionally, and got a much larger room the next year. This building was about 10 years old and the rooms were meant for three people. It was airy, with a wide window. I bought a plant to put in front of it and tended it carefully. Most importantly, I had used some of my summer job earnings to buy a portable record player. The turntable folded neatly up into a vinyl case and there was a handle for easy transport. I had music. Life was good.

In my junior year, I finally had a chance to live in my dream location—McVinney Hall. It was new. The rooms had views (we were halfway up the 10 stories). They were made for two and contained two. I could sit at my desk and look out the window and get some work done.

I believe there was wall-to-wall carpeting, but I may be imagining that.

It was a little soulless, I had to admit. Maybe a little too perfect? Still, I had no desire to go back to the room with the bare sink.

Besides, that year I had an item that really made this room home for me. My father had been inspired to build a bookshelf. It was narrow and short, and could fit on top of my desk. On the side he had carved out, vertically: “PC 1978.” My graduation year. Aw, Dad!

It wasn’t fancy. A professional decorator surely wouldn’t have approved. But I cried when I saw it.

The college experience is life-changing. It can be hard at times. The connections to home and family are what see students through the rough patches, not designer linens.

Several Facebook friends posted photos of their children’s dorm rooms as they moved in a few weeks ago. I saw posters and photos and sports memorabilia plastered on walls like it was 1974. There wasn’t a Herman Miller chair to be seen.

I breathed a sigh of relief. These kids are going to be all right.

I welcome email at lizzie621@icloud.com

Column: Seasonal changes in a retiree's world

I just had to take a stroll through Target last month, to look at the back-to-school notebooks, pens and filler paper.

It’s not that I needed to stock up. I have enough paper goods on hand to open up my own stationery store.

My motivation was more metaphysical. Fall is calling. I felt like I needed something new. I felt like I needed to do something to mark the new season.

For 32 years, I went back to school—at the end of August—as a school librarian. I’m beginning my third year of retirement, but old habits die hard.

I always enjoyed the start of the academic year. One of the favorite parts of my job was shutting down library operations in June and then starting them up again two months later. Fresh beginnings are exciting. The “blank slate” holds so much possibility.

In the library, there would be new books to examine and supplies to unpack.

I’d prepare for my first day back with an inventory of personal supplies. Did I need hand sanitizer, Advil, mini-packets of pretzels?

Of course, I would always need a new day book to keep my schedule in.

Now I am unscheduled. My first year off the job, I did have a small version of the Moleskine calendar book that I favored. I hardly used it. My visual reminders, I discovered, are now best placed on a whiteboard on the refrigerator, rather than in an open book on my desk. No longer am I promptly in my office at 7 a.m. Instead, I’m looking at the fridge.

I do still have to-do lists. And appointments, usually medical. I have a Moleskine, too. It’s a journal, and I don’t need a new one until I’ve filled up the current one. I had to remind myself of that while ogling all the journals in pretty colors at Target. It’s a writer’s obsession, but I resolutely did not buy any office supplies that day.

The mundane routines of life don’t disappear during retirement, but time is more flexible. I can stash items or remove them from the storage loft on days that are not sweltering or frigid. A rainy day just means I’ll weed the garden tomorrow.

I can plan my day trips according to the weather, and travel when fares are cheaper and popular destinations less crowded.

I make my grocery store runs when I think there will be fewer shoppers.

Yes, my time is now my own, and I’m grateful. But I still feel the need to transition with the seasons. I try to live a mindful life, and that means paying attention to what’s happening in the world around me.

Before, I had the “back to school,” marker and all that meant (which was a lot) to get me into fall mode. Now, I have to come up with my own subtle changes. I want to treat this week—now that September is officially here—as the start of something new. But what?

I tried, the last three months, to live with Gershwin’s words in mind: “Summertime, when the livin’ is easy.” I always appreciate it when I don’t have to don a heavy coat, boots, scarf and hat before I get out the door, and then clear off the car. Summer is always simpler in that regard.

But I don’t always give myself a break. I have a Puritan streak that causes a nagging inner voice to tell me I should be cleaning a closet, not lying in a hammock.

I had to silence it by asserting that taking the summer off is not just for kids.

What does taking the summer off mean for a retired person, though? Well, I didn’t clean any closets. I managed to avoid all medical appointments except for a dental cleaning. I took a semi-break from fiction writing.

Of course, food preparation, sink cleaning and sweeping had to continue no matter what. But I did especially enjoy those days when I could declare, “It’s too hot to cook. Salad tonight!”

Now, as the days grow cooler, I am ready to tackle the closets, to organize the big box of photos, to cull and organize my home library. I will return to a stricter writing schedule.

I will go to a medical appointment this week. Usually one leads to another, so it’s off to the races for me.

The season for baking has arrived, and meals that involve the oven. I want to make an apple pie, a quiche and shepherd’s pie with turkey and sweet potato. Portuguese kale soup. Maybe I’ll bake some bread.

There will be foliage to be admired and bulbs to be planted. I’ll need to clean up my garden and prepare it for winter. Our order of firewood will arrive soon. My husband, Paul, has already started complaining about raking leaves (we have an abundance of them). I smile. This too, is a yearly ritual.

I was sitting on my front porch when our mail carrier arrived the other day. He said, innocently yet perceptively, “Do you think about going back to school around this time?”

I was launched. He probably was sorry he asked. Oh, well, good thing I’ve decided it’s pie season. I’ll definitely have to save him a slice.

I welcome email at lizzie621@icloud.com