Memory

I earned about 1,573 Good Girlfriend points yesterday. Despite a headache that began shortly after I woke, I went out in the blazing sun and mowed the front lawn (so DBF wouldn't have to mow it in the evening after a hard, 12-hour day working on the railroad). Midway through the job, I noticed the weeds in a couple of beds previously mentioned by DBF as needing attention. I plopped right down and pulled those nasty weeds. Then, after completing the mowing, I drove to two nearby stores to buy mulch to refresh the beds.

These tasks would have garnered only about 73 points. The headache added 1,500 points to the balance. The headache that continued through the evening and the night, and that is still with me this morning.

After taking an Excedrin at 6:00 a.m. and retrieving the ice pack from the freezer to apply to the base of my skull, I started thinking about my personal lifetime headache count.

I started having headaches when I was 16. That's about 47 years ago. There has probably not been one week throughout my life when I haven't had at least one headache. Do the math: 47*52*1 is the minimum count: 2,444. Over two thousand headaches. But many weeks, like last week, I had two or three or four days that were marked by a headache. Over two three four thousand days when I wanted to—at the least— put my head on the pillow and make the world go away and—at the most—bang my head against the wall and kill myself.

Think about the people who have hyperthymesia. While it might be cool to remember that on July 13, 1976, I wore that cute little green knit shorts outfit I made, it would not be cool to remember each and every headache. Especially the one in the summer of 1979 that lasted, relentlessly, for three months.

When someone dies of a lingering, painful illness, we tell the bereaved, "She won't be in pain any more." My sons should probably publish a version of that in my obituary: "She won't have any more headaches."

Please tell me that, wherever we're going when we're done here, we won't feel pain. If I thought I would still get headaches after I die, I'd kill myself. Oh, wait—that doesn't work! That's kinda self-fulfilling.

Define: Gallbladder

Quick—can you tell me the function of the gallbladder? I had noooo idea. I pride myself on having been raised by a doctor and a nurse and living a relatively healthy life. But I don't recall ever having had a discussion about gallbladders.

I do get headaches. All sorts of headaches. You name the type of headache and I've probably experienced it at least once. Lately—living in Northeast Ohio where the weather rolls across the Great Lakes and slaps us in the face—I get frequent weather-related headaches. Over the past eight days there were four high/low/whatever systems that blew across. With each one of them, I got a horrible sick headache that made me sick to my stomach and wouldn't go away all day.

When I get a sick headache like that, there are a couple of foods I can eat that make me feel better. Now, this may seem silly, but I'll make a bowl of cheese grits (yes, I'm a Southerner) or nuke a frozen pizza. Those foods sit lightly on my roiling stomach and help me feel better.

Monday I was sick all day. Horrific pain in my head and stomach that had ten-foot waves. I did what I had to do, including a run to the grocery store to get lunch stuff for the Jazzman. While there, I picked up a Red Baron 4-Cheese personal-size frozen pizza. When I got home, I put the groceries away and then nuked my pizza. Heaven! Finally, when coated by cheese grits and then pizza (yeah, okay, and a little b&J's Coffee Heath Bar Crunch on top), my stomach felt like it would be settled enough for me to sleep through the night so I might wake up pain-free in the morning.

And then 12:30 a.m. came and the pain in my chest woke me from a sound sleep and made me start googling "heart attack symptoms women". After lying there worrying for over half an hour, I finally woke up the jazzman and told him we needed to go around the corner to the ER.

As you've probably already figured out from the lead-in, the problem was a very unhappy gallbladder. Very. The word "distended" was used as were the words "surgery" and "remove."

Early next Monday morning I'll undergo a HIDA scan and then have a mid-morning appointment with the surgeon. We'll see what happens next.

You can bet I'm reading everything I can lay my hands on and watching everything I put into my mouth. That kind of pain? I hope never to experience that again.

One Ouch After Another

After visiting my orthopedic surgeon again on January 9, I'm in the brace for three more weeks. During this period, I am to take the brace off three times a day, apply a warm compress to my wrist for a short time, and then attempt to stretch the wrist backwards and forwards. There is but one word for this activity: Ouch!

There is one more newly allowed activity for this time period: Showering! Yesterday I took my first full-body shower in six weeks. It had to be short, rather than long and lingering, as the incision is not yet completely healed. And how strange my arm felt! I attempt every movement with great trepidation. How much pain will be self-inflicted by picking up that washcloth, trimming those toenails, grabbing the end of that towel to dry my back?

But despite the pain–or threat thereof–there is a sense of freedom to having my forearm unsheathed after six weeks of confinement. I allow myself to fantasize that I will be able to do everything exactly as I did before the fall.

And then reality returns. It's going to be a long and painful road back to the operatic accompaniments I was playing all last year. My next gigs are scheduled for the week of March 11. When I am exercising my wrist and feel the pain, I think it will take much longer than one month for me to be able to play again, to be able to earn income again.

And so I repeat my mantra: "It could have been worse."

<Humorous Anecdote On>
I attended the first Cleveland Orchestra Chorus rehearsal of the new year last Monday night. Our director saw me enter the building and came over to greet me. "How did you break your wrist," he asked. "I heard you fell off the piano bench."

That, My Friends, would have been worse!
<Humorous Anecdote Off>

Day by Boring Day

A month ago today I fell. My first thought as I landed on the Stambaugh Auditorium backstage floor was that, hopefully, my wrist/arm/hand was just bruised and I would get myself off the floor and walk to the stage to start the Barber of Seville overture for our 45-minute presentation for the local elementary, middle, and high school children. I had spent the previous two months mastering this very difficult piano transcription. As I lay crumpled on the floor, more than 400 kids were finding their seats.

When I tried to lift my arm off the floor, I looked in horror as my left hand just dangled from the wrist. I knew instantly that I was in big trouble.

My earlier post about the accident gives all the details of that first day.

My fall occurred on Friday, Nov. 30. On Wednesday, Dec. 5 (my older son's birthday), I was Dr. J. J. Stefancin's first appointment of the day.

The nurse showed me the x-ray sent over by Northside Hospital ER. (See photo above) She pointed to the right side of the radius, where the break occurred, and I could see the bulge of pulverized bone. She told me Dr. Stefancin would have to manually compress the bone back into place before casting my wrist. She assured me he would deaden my wrist before applying this pressure. Then I explained to her that I had started playing piano at age 3½ and wanted to be able to continue when the cast was off. She quickly excused herself and I waited for the doctor to appear. (I learned later that she had gone to alert the doctor to my musical abilities. He would quickly determine that compression and casting would not be my answer!)

In a few minutes the nurse returned with the doctor and the intern. Dr. Stefancin looked long and hard at the x-ray, asked me a few questions, then said I would need surgery. He used his pen as a straight line to illustrate what the wrist joint should look like as compared to what my fall had caused mine to look like. Because of how the bone had disintegrated at the break point, a plate would have to be attached to the bone to give me normal function again. His staff quickly got on the phone and scheduled me into the Surgical Hospital at Southwoods. The scheduler snuck one more appointment into Friday afternoon and I was set to go.

I would get a plate similar to the picture to the right. The four screws at the top secure it at the wrist, then several screws down the shank attach it to the radius. Now all that was left for me to do was to attempt to stay calm until Friday, two days away.

The Jazzman arranged to have the day off to take me to the hospital and keep me from freaking out. To say I was impressed with this facility and every member of the staff with whom I interacted is a gross understatement.

The intake nurse, a compassionate man named David, was excellent at calming me. He shared stories with me about his teenaged son who plays trumpet, piano and guitar. Before inserting the IV needle into the back of my right hand, he asked my permission, telling me about the patient he once had who was a massage therapist and begged for the needle to go anywhere but in her hands. The anesthesiologist, Dr. Gemma, came in and, learning I sing with the Cleveland Orchestra Chorus, promised not to put the breathing tube down past my vocal chords. Further, given the risks of nerve damage in an "arm block" or "nerve block" and my desire to have the same abilities I had before my fall, he agreed that general anesthesia was the best solution. Dr. Stefancin came in briefly to reassure me that he had my best interests at heart. And in a few minutes I was being wheeled into surgery. The last thing I saw before sliding into my drug-induced sleep was our dear friend Diane, who is a surgical nurse at Southwoods and had arranged to be assigned to my case. Seeing her face gave me utter peace of mind.

A couple of hours later I was awakened from a very involved dream to see that I was the only patient remaining in recovery. I was freezing and shaking. The nurse brought me a magical blanket into which hot air was circulating—I want one of those! To get over the shakes, the nurses kept reminding me to take deep breaths from the oxygen tube in my nose. And an hour later we were leaving the hospital.

Lots of Vicodin accompanied my next several days. Ten days later, on Dec. 19, I went to Dr. Stefancin's office and saw this lovely and colorful arm.

And now I just wait. I'm in a brace. I alternate between pain, annoyance, and fear. Everyone who has been through a similar injury tells me that—after the pain and toil of physical therapy—I'll be playing my daddy's favorite "Alley Cat" again. And all our friends call and text and email and contact me on Facebook to let me know of their concern.

And my mantra is, "It could have been so much worse!"

All in all, I'm pretty lucky.

Crash! Boom! Ouch! Damn!!!

In a story of "Timing is everything," Friday was a very bad day.

NOTE: This post is typed entirely with my right hand. You can see where this is going, can't you?

One of my jobs is accompanist (collaborative keyboard artist) for Opera Western Reserve's (OWR) Young Artists Program. Along with two-to-four opera singers who are either finishing college or just beginning their musical careers, I go into local elementary, middle, and high schools to present a "Fun With Opera" educational program.

<PROLOGUE>

We give a little history of the genre and teach the kids various elements—voice parts and ranges, languages used, what all goes into staging an opera (singers, orchestra, conductor, set designer, costume designer and seamstresses, lighting designer, etc.). We try to make it as interactive as possible. Each of the artists sings two aria snippets, and the students choose their favorite.

At the end of the program, the artists perform a brief "opera" they've "composed" with the students' input. (We're at a bus stop. Who are we and why are we here? How do we feel about being here?) The suggestions from the kids are frequently hilarious. And sometimes sobering. For example, you're a mom going to school to pick up your sick kid. Or you're out of work and you're on your way to a job interview. Or you're on your way to work in a doctor's office and you hate your job. I hear months from teachers that the kids love our visits and fondly remember these improvised operas.

The other function of the Young Artists Program is to stage an abbreviated version of the opera that will be presented by OWR. We begin several months before the scheduled performance date. I sit down with the production director, David Vosburgh, who determines which arias and recitatives are required to tell the story, and what is merely fluff or repetition the can be omitted. The score is condensed to about 40 minutes. A director is named, roles are assigned, and singers begin learning and memorizing their music. (It's important to note that many of these singers also have different roles in the main stage performance&emdash;double the work! The school performance takes place at 10:00 a.m. on the same day that the full performance will occur at 7:30 p.m.

<THE STORY>

Over two months ago, I received the music for this performance. Simultaneously, I was learning the accompaniment and rehearsing for a cabaret evening of obscure Broadway tunes to be performed by a Cleveland Orchestra Chorus (COC) colleague of mine, and learning the alto part of all the COC Christmas music. The past two months have been absolutely overwhelming for me, and when my alarm rang at 6:00 on Friday morning, I turned it off with a distinct sense of relief. In six hours I would be done with "The Barber of Seville" and—after a celebratory lunch—could just focus on holiday music.

The cast met backstage at Stambaugh Auditorium at 7:45. We quickly ran the finale, then at 8:15 began a full run-thru, noting the points where we'd have to pay special attention during performance. At 9:25 we were told there were hundreds of kids outside who wanted to be let in. We cleared the stage and reassembled backstage to finish talking through any trouble spots, check hair and makeup, and prepare to go on and wow the kids.

I had only been backstage in this hall once before, so had to ask one of the girls directions to the Ladies Room. I walked in, answered Nature's call, washed my hands, and opened the door to step out into the hallway. I didn't remember that I had successfully negotiated a very tall step to get into the restroom, so stepped out as if the hall floor was at the same level as the restroom. I quickly realized there was a problem.

I started doing the "Please Help Me, I'm Fallin'" two-step. I thought I had recovered my balance, but then felt myself falling toward the wall and put out my left hand to catch myself. The next thing I knew I was on the floor. My first thought was a hope my left hand/arm was only bruised so I could play the show. Then I reached over with my right hand and lifted my left arm, only to watch my hand droop. Trouble. I was in real trouble!

I called out to the cast who had no idea what had happened. Somehow they helped me get to my feet. They radioed someone in front of house to come help me. Someone retrieved my phone. Fortunately for me, my daughter-in-law was home a half-mile away and, at my phone call, hopped in the van to get me and take me to Northside hospital a mile away.

Northside ER personnel were wonderful to me, getting me into a room quickly and getting me pain meds. (I had no idea a broken bone could hurt. OMG, the pain!) They even put me right back into the same room where I was on Tuesday for my bronchitis diagnosis. How thoughtful.

Two hours later I was diagnosed and splinted and had instructions for seeing a doctor on Monday. The PA, who had also treated me on Tuesday,

Feeling F*ing Old

I believe I mentioned on more than one recent occasion that my knees are bothering me. I was in pain almost every day we were in Italy during May. At times, knee pain woke me during the night when I shifted positions. But it was erratic.

Some days it was the left knee, some days the right. One or two days were good, with no pain in either knee. But there were days I couldn't walk without pain.

When I returned, I saw the orthopedist, who shot both knees full of cortisone and said he'd see me in about four months when it wore off.

But then I thought I was young again and did some landscaping work in the back yard. Oops. Bad decision. I was trying to chop a root that was in the way of the brick border I was installing on a bed of hostas and day lilies. I chopped and chopped with the shovel, then stupidly hopped on the shovel. When the shovel turned, I turned with it, hearing lots of snaps, crackles and pops as my left foot slammed into the earth and my left knee gave way.

A shot of cortisone evidently cannot counteract stupidity. Last week we spent our annual week at Madison-on-the-Lake, and every step was accompanied by pain. Almost the only time I was without pain was when I was standing in cold Lake Erie, flexing my left knee.

No we're back home. I called the ortho's office this morning, but the secretary has not called me back. I asked to see my doctor ASAP, but we must have different definitions of ASAP.

How much pain am I in? I want to sit and cry. Just cry!

When am I not in pain? When I'm sitting on the couch with an icepack on my knee.

How much am I enjoying being past 60 years of age and all the health challenges that involves? Not so much.

The photo above is from my birthday weekend in 2010, about a month after all this knee nonsense began with a fall and a torn left medial meniscus.

In case you haven't figured it out, aging is not for wimps!!!

Customer Service

When Molly and I arrived yesterday morning, Mother immediately volunteered, "I had the meanest nurse!" We wanted to know what the nurse had done that Mother had perceived as mean.

"She walked in here, said, 'Are you alright?', and left."

We asked her what she had answered. Had she said she was okay? "Yes", she answered.

Okay, so what was she expecting? I guess she was expecting someone to hang around and entertain her. And the lack of meeting that expectation equaled poor customer service.

Yesterday was a very long day. Having originally been told surgery was scheduled for 3:00 and that she would be taken down to the OR suite around 1:30, because of the difficulty of the previous surgery, she slid to 6:00. But she slid about 15 minutes at a time. Visibly anxious, Molly and I had to resort to songs and old stories to keep her mind off the delay.

The meds she was being given caused hallucinations, which included thinking my cousin would remember our greatgrandmother, who died decades before our births, and asking if we had gotten the axe out of the attic of the house she owned three houses ago!

By the time she was ready to go into surgery, the one mean nurse had multiplied—now there had been two mean nurses!

The moral of the story? If you're nice and go a few steps further than required, you'll make a good impression on your client/patient/friend.

Today's pictures? At the top, you can see her death-grip on the PCA pump. She's not letting that thing out of her hand. She says she has no pain so long as she's lying still. The physical therapy techs will be here in a few minutes, and we expect to hear some screaming as they attempt to get her to sit on the edge of the bed.

Picture two is the X-ray showing the fracture.

Picture three is one of the four images showing the hardware she now will carry with her for the rest of her life.

She is alert and awake this morning (although dozing as I write), and her sense of humor is active. We are very lucky—I wasn't sure I would see her today!!

Getting Younger and Younger

I flew to Atlanta last Sunday to drive up to the mountain cottage for our family celebration of Mother's 98th birthday. When I left her on Monday afternoon, I was angrier and more disgusted with her than I've ever been in my entire life.

On Tuesday I screwed up my courage, called her, and told her I was angry. I'm almost sixty-one years old, and that's the very first time I've had the courage to do that. Ever!

What did I say to her? "You're a very smart woman. You're trained as a nurse. You have studied nutrition for years. You're diabetic. And you sit and eat chocolate right before you're having your blood tested." Her reading was 232!

We try to treat her with respect. We do everything in our power to increase her quality of life. My sister-in-law has devoted a great deal of time and energy over the past three years to helping mother.

For what?! For you to sneak candy behind my back?!

I've never felt loved and accepted by her. Honestly? Right now, I don't feel very loving and accepting towards her!

If you want to put yourself into a diabetic whatever; If you want to have a stroke or a heart attack — Go ahead. Just leave us out of it. Do it on your own time. Stop taking advantage of our generosity and our kindness.

I was so happy when the trip was over and I was back in my own home, with my kind and considerate man, near to my loving grandchildren.

I don't ever want to get to be 98 years old and acting like I'm two years old.

The goodness of the trip? Spending some time with my brothers and sister-in-law, and sitting on the porch, knitting, glancing out at this vista.

Or stepping out in the early morning to see this.

Or glancing across at my lot, wondering if it will ever sell or if I'll ever be able to build a vacation house there.

I love going to that mountain cottage, especially when I can go there and not worry about who's sneaking what behind my back.

The Flagging Grandma Checks In

This is report number one from a stressed, exhausted, and frazzled grandma, for whom any of the candles mentioned in the graphic would be a perfect gift. Oh, and a few hours of unscheduled time. That would be a great gift, too.

My son and daughter-in-law left early Saturday morning to fly to New Orleans for her annual photography conference, sponsored by Pictage, the online photo lab that Jaci uses. I tell you what—I wish I had had the knowledge and brilliance to invent something like Pictage. What beautiful work they do, and their presentation is—simply—fabulous!

Anyway, T&J planned this trip before the dates for Ballet Western Reserve's production of "Snow White" was set in stone. Yep, the productions would be the same day T&J were flying south. My Saturday was filled with leotards and tights and costumes and sitting/waiting. And dodging a bunch of laughing, hopping, screaming baby ballerinas.

I attended the afternoon performance. The children did a fine job, but—truthfully?—I prefer trite, overperformed "Nutcracker" to "Snow White". But that's just me. I heard lots of accolades all around me. Everyone else seemed to enjoy it.

Sunday morning we went back to my house, where I worked for an hour, then took the babes with me out to Jas's to help him finish clearing out his apartment. Back at home I fed the babes pizza for lunch, then emptied my car and helped empty Jas's. Then I put the kids in the car and we went to Youngstown Model Railroad Association's open house. Wow, what a setup. If you like trains, at all, you need to go next Saturday or Sunday between 12:00 - 6:00 to see these two layouts. There's an O gauge layout at street level, then an even more elaborate layout in HO gauge downstairs. This was an absolute treat.

Back home, I practiced for a while and tried to interest Boston in turning pages for me. He helped a little, but was much more interested in playing with my metronome. Oh well.

Back to their house, feeding dogs, dealing with homework, watching America's Funniest Videos with Ridley while Boston finished his homework. Grandma was asleep by 9:30.

Woke up at 4:00 this morning, thanks to the time change. Kept trying to fall back asleep until my alarm went off at 6:00, when I snoozed it for another 20 minutes. Got up and dressed and found the babes in the living room eating their breakfast. Poured a bowl of dry cereal and made a cup of tea and went to sit with them.

Then as I was walking back to the kitchen, my besocked feet detected something wet on the floor. I leaned over to run a finger through it to smell for dog urine. As I leaned over, I spilled my tea—and realized that what I had stepped in was previously spilled tea! Stood up to continue into the kitchen and spilled more tea. Walked through the breakfast room and somehow I dropped my empty glass cereal bowl onto the tile floor, shattering it in 937 pieces, which covered the breakfast room and flew east and west into the kitchen and dining room. Took my cup to the sink, then went in search of a broom and dustpan, which were not.to.be.found! I selected a Swiffer Sweeper which I found in the mud room closet. I slowly and carefully pulled all the glass into a little pile, then looked for a dustpan-equivalent. All I could find was a sheet of printer paper, which allowed me with much effort to get the biggest pieces up and into the trashcan. Finally I had all the biggest pieces of glass up—after stabbing my finger with a shard of glass—and went to get the vacuum cleaner to suck up the rest of the glass. The only electrical outlet I could find was too far away from the breakfast room for me to reach the entire room. (I guess I should be glad, in the 83-year-old home, that I didn't have to use a vacuum powered by natural gas! Or a crank!) I finally remembered where the dining room outlet was (a dark outlet on a dark baseboard where old eyes can't see it.) and finished the task.

Okay, morning catastrophe concluded. Now wash dishes and pack lunches, all the while supervising piano practicing from afar. Inspect the children's outfits, take Ridley back upstairs to find a longer shirt so her little midriff isn't on display all day long. Grab my things, put the dogs in the backyard, set the alarm, and hit the road.

Took the kids to school, where the big kid who helped them out of the car—some snotty-nosed power-hungry redhead—laughed at the hat Boston was wearing and said, "You know you can't wear hats in school." He had already thought he'd leave it in his cubby, but the only thing good about this redheaded kid's mouth is I convinced Boston to leave his hat in the car. Geez! Kids should NEVERNEVERNEVER be put into positions of perceived power. It only turns them into ogres!

Last year when Jaci and Ty went to this conference, I took the week off of work. In retrospect, that was a very smart move, even though I got into trouble for it when I got back to work. But that's a whole 'nother horror story!

So here's the deal: if you don't hear from me the rest of the week, you'll know why. Just picture a grandma driving and driving and driving—to piano lessons and dance classes—and preparing meals and supervising homework and practicing and all the things that moms take for granted.

Jas and I were talking about it yesterday: Life was sooooo much simpler in the 50s and 60s!!!!!

P.S. The chronic hives? Vasculitis. Increase the 180mg of Allegra to twice a day. Get a prescription for prednisone. Get bloodwork.

F. That's all I have to say. F. You can fill in the missing letters!

Adding Insult to Itching

Remember my post back in June about the correlation between itching and a new yarn I was using? This problem has never gone away. By my calculations, this problem began on May 25, 2010.

It bothered me horribly in June when the Jazzman took me to Chicago to celebrate my 60th birthday. It continued bothering me in July when we went to the lake for a week. It persisted through three trips (May, July, August) to deal with moving Mother to an assisted living facility and most of her belongings back to my house. It bothered me whether I was knitting or not. It bothered me whether I was wearing cotton or wool, taking multivitamins or not, washing clothes in "free & clear" detergents or detergents filled with chemicals. It bothered me.

I had gone to my regular dermatologist back in early June. Let's just say that was a very unsatisfactory doctor visit. I got no answers. But in defense of the medical establishment, neither did I push for answers. I just lived with it.

In the past month it's gotten worse and worse. I figured it was the ringworm that Angel gave me come back to haunt me. I would wake in the middle of the night and scratch my ankles or knees until they bled.

Finally I got the name of a different dermatologist and went two days ago to get checked out. I just wanted the beautiful, smart young P.A. to give me a pill I could take to get rid of my "ringworm".

She took one look at my arms and legs, then looked at me sadly and said, "This isn't ringworm. This is chronic hives."

What?! Chronic hives?! I've never had hives in my life. In sixty years I've never had hives. And, boy howdy, do I have them now!

She gave me a prescription of antihistamine and a one pound jar of salve to rub into the itching welts. (I asked her if she expected me to bathe in the stuff!) She biopsied one of the welts, and gave me a long, detailed questionnaire to fill out regarding my diet and lifestyle and medications and any practices that might be causing this ridiculous condition.

So far the welts have stayed on my arms and legs. There's been nothing on my torso. Oh wait. Last night there was a 2" welt on my chest. And a big raised welt on the back of my neck, itching to beat the band. Lovely. And this morning I noticed a great big welt on my left butt cheek. Great! Just great!

If it spreads to my face, I may just crawl in a hole and stay there until it subsides.

The only goodness is that it's not catching. I can't give it to the Jazzman or my g'babes. That's the only goodness, so far as I see it.

Okay, it's not cancer. It's not a heart attack. It's not a toomah! (Tumor, for those of you who haven't seen Kindergarten Cop.) But it's annoying as hell, and it itches, and it's UGly.

I know there's nothing you can do. And I know you didn't really want to hear about this. Oh wait—those of you who really didn't want to hear about it quit reading already! But I needed to vent, so thank you for listening.

Now to find the cause. I've stopped all meds. (Except my estrogen. I refuse to give up my estrogen! If that tiny little patch is the cause, I'll just have chronic hives until I die. I ain't goin' back to hot flashes!)

The P.A. suggested stress could be a cause. Hmmm, let's see. On May 6th I started a new job with an enormous pay cut. I worry about finances every single day. (As I know most of you do - we're all on that stress boat together!) This summer I went through a major life change with my mother, had to spend days sorting through and packing all her [crap] and spending even more money to move it all back here. And I turned 60, no small issue. And today I'm taking in a roommate/lover/life partner. (Yes, I will readily assert that not all stress is bad. Some is quite wonderful, thankyouverymuch, but it's still stress.)

I guess the next item on my to-do list is exercise to try to alleviate some of the effects of the stress.

Geeez. Hit me again.