I need to write of God's goodness and faithfulness towards me this past week and a half.
First though, a little background information: I've recently concluded the studies Experiencing God by Henry Blackaby and Becoming More Than a Good Bible Study Girl by Lysa TerKeurst, and from both of these I have gained a new perspective on God and my relationship with him. The Holy Spirit has revealed two of his plans for me. The first is that I've been reserved to be a good wife to a good man (all of which is a whole other story in and of itself). The second is a more immediate plan -- to be less self-centered, and with God's help and grace, I've been trying to do this. Specifically, I've been praying Colossians 3:12 for myself, that I would clothe myself in tenderhearted mercy (compassion), gentleness, kindness, humility and patience.
And now for the preface: since I've moved into my new place, I've been feeling a little blue -- not full on depression, but the outskirts of it. It was only today I realized that these blues are just some silly demons trying to get in the way of God's plan. But my God is bigger and stronger, and he is mighty.
God is mighty, and he is faithful.
She and I haven't actually met yet in person, but I've discovered that my downstairs neighbor is thoughtful and kind. Receiving thoughtfulness and kindess from people I hardly know, I always view as God's kindness to me.
I haven't been feeling social and have not wanted to be around people or meet people I don't know the past several days, but Sunday a couple who sat behind me at church service introduced themselves. I wouldn't count this as a blessing except for the beauty of hindsight -- it might have been God trying to keep me from hiding out in my lovely, little shell for too long.
Another one on the "I haven't been feeling social" list: I have a friend trying to put together a little do, and God made me brave enough to help out by calling a couple people. (Forgive me if I'm stereotyping, but I feel only introverts will truly understand what a big deal this one is.)
I've been attending a women's Bible study with a friend. My friend was unable to attend today because she was needed in childcare. I still went -- dude, I need to get out of the house! As the minutes ticked by, I kind of wanted to be there less and less, which was due to a few factors: I had missed breakfast because I'd stayed in bed too long, so I was hungry, which, for me, equals cranky; I scheduled a much-needed grocery shopping trip for after Bible study, which I wasn't looking forward to; and I was just generally tired and still a bit gloomy. After study, I ended up finagling an invitation to lunch out of these two nice sisters. Well, they invited me, but I feel like I maybe manipulated the situation -- I didn't, I just feel like I did. However it happened, their invitation was an answer to prayers, even one answer I hadn't asked for.
And that answer I hadn't asked for -- God's been giving me that answer a lot today. I'm not writing here what that specific answer is -- what's important is that it's an answer to a request I'd never made. Something God just did. It's an answer I'm uncomfortable accepting. I suppose this is what it means to "clothe yourself in...humility" (Col. 3:12) because I'm having to set aside my pride and allow someone else to be a blessing in my life.
God reveals his plan to the individual (e.g. for me to be less self-centered) and then provides that individual with the gifts, talents, opportunities, etc. to obey him.
"Great is Thy faithfulness, O God, my Father. There is no shadow of turning with Thee. Thou changest not, Thy compassions they fail not; as Thou hast been, Thou forever wilt be."
Showing posts with label Life currently. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Life currently. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 15, 2016
Sunday, October 4, 2015
London trip 2015: Day Four 24 June Part II
The next event on our itinerary was taking afternoon tea at Claridges. Claridges is a fancy hotel with a dining room that serves afternoon tea. One does not "go" to tea, one "takes" tea. In England, London specifically, afternoon tea is served usually between the hours of 2pm - 5:45pm at several places; it's quite difficult to choose. Several big department stores (Harrods, Fortnum & Mason) and hotels (Claridges, The Ritz, Browns) as well as other places serve teas for various prices. Some are themed teas, some are champagne teas...the choices really were a bit overwhelming for me. For most places, I believe, reservations are required; it's best to check on the website of your venue choice or get in contact with the venue.
Heather and I decided on Claridges. Though one doesn't have to dress to the nines for tea at Claridges, nice dress is required -- no jeans please. We went back to our hotel, Durrants, to change from our walking clothes to our "tea outfits." It looked like Claridges was within a ten minute walk from Durrants, so we decided to hoof it. The directions I had copied down were a little hard to follow as it turned out; it was good that we gave ourselves a time cushion.
Tea at Claridges: how does one describe heaven? I've never had a massage -- I'm weird about strange people touching me -- but perhaps the way I felt taking tea at Claridges is how others feel having a full body massage.
The dining room was so gorgeous; I was reminded of the movie Last Holiday when the main character looks at the ceiling of the hotel/resort she's staying at and says it's so beautiful, it almost makes you want to cry. There are a couple of dining rooms actually, and we were given a few choices of where to sit. In the room we chose there was a pianist and violinist playing musak, which was amusing.
Heather and I were presented with menus describing what would be served with the afternoon tea and a list of teas; all we had to decide on was what type of tea we would like. I chose, I think the Claridges blend? Honestly I don't remember.
On the table was milk for the tea and a box containing various sweeteners -- sugar cubes and the little packets of sugar substitutes. A side note to this: I always enjoy when sugar cubes are presented. They remind me of my childhood days at Sue's house; there, as a rare treat, if we were exceptionally good or very brave, we would receive a sugar cube as a reward.
Heather and I were each served tea from our own pot, and Claridges insist on their servers pouring themselves. During tea we were also provided a lesson on the art of properly brewing and serving tea; if you ever make it to Claridges for afternoon tea, just ask.
The first course was a tray of various finger sandwiches. One eats as much as one desires. After devouring the first tray of sandwiches, a second was brought out. Next came scones ('skonz') with clotted cream and jam. The tea jelly served with the scones was so gorgeous, I could have eaten it with a spoon right out of the jar. (Click on the words "tea jelly" to go to a website for the jam.)
I've probably mentioned this before, but a cream tea is one of my favourite things in the entire world: a pot of tea with scones and clotted cream, with or without jelly -- it brings much joy to my soul.
After the scones came the desserts, though both Heather and I found it difficult to stuff down the yummy desserts on top of the filling sandwiches and scones.
This day had been so long already, and it felt to me that Heather and I had been constantly on the go, that I had to force myself to sit back and take some breaths, breath the moment like precious breaths of fresh air after being pulled from a smoke filled room.
For me, I think the best thing about this whole tea at Claridges experience was the service. I felt like we were the most important people in the world. Not once did I get the feeling that everyone -- the servers and hostesses -- was "just doing their job," but that they truly enjoyed what they did and cared about my experience.
Following that heavenly tea, Heather and I took the tube back to Leicester to find St. Martins Theater where The Mousetrap by Agatha Christie has been playing for the past 60 years. Deciding on which show to take was also an overwhelming decision as there are so, so many playing in London. I had somehow narrowed down our choices and gave the list to Heather: some I chose because of the big name actors, some because I thought we'd enjoy the story. Ultimately, we settled on The Mousetrap because we'd visited Agatha Christie's summer home already on this trip. It is a fun play, and the theater was cute. The use of cameras is not allowed in the theater, but Heather was able to get a shot of the close-curtained stage before she was caught. Before seeing, I recommend reading up just a little on the architect Christopher Wren; it's not necessary to understand the events of the play or to figure out the mystery of "who done it", but a few of the jokes might be missed.
We took the tube (most lines are open until midnight, I believe) back to Baker Street and walked back to our hotel talking about tea and the play our morning tour and our excitement for the tour we'd take the next day and finally crawled into our beds for some much needed rest.
Heather and I decided on Claridges. Though one doesn't have to dress to the nines for tea at Claridges, nice dress is required -- no jeans please. We went back to our hotel, Durrants, to change from our walking clothes to our "tea outfits." It looked like Claridges was within a ten minute walk from Durrants, so we decided to hoof it. The directions I had copied down were a little hard to follow as it turned out; it was good that we gave ourselves a time cushion.
Tea at Claridges: how does one describe heaven? I've never had a massage -- I'm weird about strange people touching me -- but perhaps the way I felt taking tea at Claridges is how others feel having a full body massage.
The dining room was so gorgeous; I was reminded of the movie Last Holiday when the main character looks at the ceiling of the hotel/resort she's staying at and says it's so beautiful, it almost makes you want to cry. There are a couple of dining rooms actually, and we were given a few choices of where to sit. In the room we chose there was a pianist and violinist playing musak, which was amusing.
Heather and I were presented with menus describing what would be served with the afternoon tea and a list of teas; all we had to decide on was what type of tea we would like. I chose, I think the Claridges blend? Honestly I don't remember.
On the table was milk for the tea and a box containing various sweeteners -- sugar cubes and the little packets of sugar substitutes. A side note to this: I always enjoy when sugar cubes are presented. They remind me of my childhood days at Sue's house; there, as a rare treat, if we were exceptionally good or very brave, we would receive a sugar cube as a reward.
Heather and I were each served tea from our own pot, and Claridges insist on their servers pouring themselves. During tea we were also provided a lesson on the art of properly brewing and serving tea; if you ever make it to Claridges for afternoon tea, just ask.
The first course was a tray of various finger sandwiches. One eats as much as one desires. After devouring the first tray of sandwiches, a second was brought out. Next came scones ('skonz') with clotted cream and jam. The tea jelly served with the scones was so gorgeous, I could have eaten it with a spoon right out of the jar. (Click on the words "tea jelly" to go to a website for the jam.)
I've probably mentioned this before, but a cream tea is one of my favourite things in the entire world: a pot of tea with scones and clotted cream, with or without jelly -- it brings much joy to my soul.
After the scones came the desserts, though both Heather and I found it difficult to stuff down the yummy desserts on top of the filling sandwiches and scones.
This day had been so long already, and it felt to me that Heather and I had been constantly on the go, that I had to force myself to sit back and take some breaths, breath the moment like precious breaths of fresh air after being pulled from a smoke filled room.
For me, I think the best thing about this whole tea at Claridges experience was the service. I felt like we were the most important people in the world. Not once did I get the feeling that everyone -- the servers and hostesses -- was "just doing their job," but that they truly enjoyed what they did and cared about my experience.
Following that heavenly tea, Heather and I took the tube back to Leicester to find St. Martins Theater where The Mousetrap by Agatha Christie has been playing for the past 60 years. Deciding on which show to take was also an overwhelming decision as there are so, so many playing in London. I had somehow narrowed down our choices and gave the list to Heather: some I chose because of the big name actors, some because I thought we'd enjoy the story. Ultimately, we settled on The Mousetrap because we'd visited Agatha Christie's summer home already on this trip. It is a fun play, and the theater was cute. The use of cameras is not allowed in the theater, but Heather was able to get a shot of the close-curtained stage before she was caught. Before seeing, I recommend reading up just a little on the architect Christopher Wren; it's not necessary to understand the events of the play or to figure out the mystery of "who done it", but a few of the jokes might be missed.
We took the tube (most lines are open until midnight, I believe) back to Baker Street and walked back to our hotel talking about tea and the play our morning tour and our excitement for the tour we'd take the next day and finally crawled into our beds for some much needed rest.
Afternoon Tea at Claridges
London trip 2015: Day Four 24 June Part I
This was a long day, but a wonderful day.
Heather and I decided first to go the Sherlock Holmes Museum (there is a link included there). It's about thirty US dollars for admission; I don't know that it's worth the price, but it was fun. I believe they were in the process of office renovations in the building next door, but admission tickets are purchased in the gift shop. There's a bobbie (policeman) standing outside the door of 221B Baker Street ready for a photo op and to take admission tickets. Because of the size of the "museum," only so many people are allowed in at one time.
The museum is actually something like a townhouse dressed up as an Edwardian flat (English-speak for apartment) as described in the Arthur Conan Doyle stories with mannequins dispersed throughout depicting different characters from the stories.
Kind of bizarre.
There were a few references to the popular BBC show that portrays a modern-day Sherlock starring, of course, Benedict Cumberbatch (now off the market unfortunately) and Martin Freeman. It was a fantastic show until Steven Moffat also took over Doctor Who and got too full of himself or something. Now it's too bogged down in its own cleverness. (But that's just an opinion.)
The townhouse was narrow and womb-like, and at the top of one of the staircases was this sight:
This mannequin represented one of the street urchins Sherlock Holmes employs to gain information. (I forget what he calls this network in the stories.) Thankfully this was at the beginning of a long day, so this creepy horror didn't haunt my dreams.
After our tour through the museum, Heather and I had some time to kill before we met up with the tour group in Leicester ("lest-er") Square, so we decided on a jaunt through Regents Park. In Regents Park, which is very large, is the Queen Mary's Gardens. I don't know if they have different flowers throughout the year, but we discovered rose bed upon rose bed and as it was the end of June, they wer in full, glorious bloom. (I got the impression people tired of the photos I have from the gardens, especially when one person suggested we didn't do anything, so you may view my Facebook page for all the pictures to view as you please, but it was like I'd walked into a room of Heaven.) Regents Park won my heart; I now count it as one of my favourite places in the entire world.
We took the tube to Leicester and were bumming around the Square near the TKTS booth (me trying to find even a hint of shade, Heather seeking out the blazing sunshine, though she wouldn't have called it "blazing" -- she and I have very different views on the weather) looking out for the tour group. We weren't sure if there would be a sign or what when suddenly this deep, rich Scottish voice that caused every hormone in my body to stand to attention said, "Harry Potter walking tour." And there is this gorgeous, beautiful man in a tight-fitted navy blue t-shirt, with short, dark brown wavy hair, who'd walked right out of the pages of a sweeping romance novel. Oh my word, he was "my lady-in-waiting better hold on tight to the key of my chastity belt" handsome. Heather was even lucky enough to be rescued by him at one point -- he literally noticed her in distress, broke through a crowd and came to her rescue, his t-shirt straining to hold its form over his chiseled physique.
Ahem. Where was I? Right. Harry what's his face.
So, the walking tour is put on by a company called Best Tours and for about two and a half hours, you get an on foot tour of London while learning about some of the London locations associated with Harry Potter, both the books and the movie. It begins at a bookshop where one may purchase a first edition signed by the author, J K Rowling -- for only 2,000 GBP (which would be about 3600 US dollars), goes past several places that were used for on location shots (like a place just outside Old Scotland Yard used for several shots outside the Ministry of Magic), a few places used for inspiration (e.g. Clink Street, on which Rowling based Knockturn Alley), the school that Daniel Radcliffe attended for a year or two, and ends at Kings Cross Station a place significant for where Platform 9 3/4 is housed, and...where a significant scene takes place in The Deathly Hollows. The tour was like a pep rally of sorts for Heather and I, a great run up to our tour for the next day at the Harry Potter sets tour! The Harry Potter walking tour through London received great reviews on tripadvisor.com, and it earns every one of those stars. They other London walking tours to choose from; I understand the Jack the Ripper walking tour is also very popular. And if you're fortunate you get Scottish John as your guide.
Heather and I decided first to go the Sherlock Holmes Museum (there is a link included there). It's about thirty US dollars for admission; I don't know that it's worth the price, but it was fun. I believe they were in the process of office renovations in the building next door, but admission tickets are purchased in the gift shop. There's a bobbie (policeman) standing outside the door of 221B Baker Street ready for a photo op and to take admission tickets. Because of the size of the "museum," only so many people are allowed in at one time. 
Kind of bizarre.
There were a few references to the popular BBC show that portrays a modern-day Sherlock starring, of course, Benedict Cumberbatch (now off the market unfortunately) and Martin Freeman. It was a fantastic show until Steven Moffat also took over Doctor Who and got too full of himself or something. Now it's too bogged down in its own cleverness. (But that's just an opinion.)
The townhouse was narrow and womb-like, and at the top of one of the staircases was this sight:
After our tour through the museum, Heather and I had some time to kill before we met up with the tour group in Leicester ("lest-er") Square, so we decided on a jaunt through Regents Park. In Regents Park, which is very large, is the Queen Mary's Gardens. I don't know if they have different flowers throughout the year, but we discovered rose bed upon rose bed and as it was the end of June, they wer in full, glorious bloom. (I got the impression people tired of the photos I have from the gardens, especially when one person suggested we didn't do anything, so you may view my Facebook page for all the pictures to view as you please, but it was like I'd walked into a room of Heaven.) Regents Park won my heart; I now count it as one of my favourite places in the entire world.
We took the tube to Leicester and were bumming around the Square near the TKTS booth (me trying to find even a hint of shade, Heather seeking out the blazing sunshine, though she wouldn't have called it "blazing" -- she and I have very different views on the weather) looking out for the tour group. We weren't sure if there would be a sign or what when suddenly this deep, rich Scottish voice that caused every hormone in my body to stand to attention said, "Harry Potter walking tour." And there is this gorgeous, beautiful man in a tight-fitted navy blue t-shirt, with short, dark brown wavy hair, who'd walked right out of the pages of a sweeping romance novel. Oh my word, he was "my lady-in-waiting better hold on tight to the key of my chastity belt" handsome. Heather was even lucky enough to be rescued by him at one point -- he literally noticed her in distress, broke through a crowd and came to her rescue, his t-shirt straining to hold its form over his chiseled physique.
Ahem. Where was I? Right. Harry what's his face.
So, the walking tour is put on by a company called Best Tours and for about two and a half hours, you get an on foot tour of London while learning about some of the London locations associated with Harry Potter, both the books and the movie. It begins at a bookshop where one may purchase a first edition signed by the author, J K Rowling -- for only 2,000 GBP (which would be about 3600 US dollars), goes past several places that were used for on location shots (like a place just outside Old Scotland Yard used for several shots outside the Ministry of Magic), a few places used for inspiration (e.g. Clink Street, on which Rowling based Knockturn Alley), the school that Daniel Radcliffe attended for a year or two, and ends at Kings Cross Station a place significant for where Platform 9 3/4 is housed, and...where a significant scene takes place in The Deathly Hollows. The tour was like a pep rally of sorts for Heather and I, a great run up to our tour for the next day at the Harry Potter sets tour! The Harry Potter walking tour through London received great reviews on tripadvisor.com, and it earns every one of those stars. They other London walking tours to choose from; I understand the Jack the Ripper walking tour is also very popular. And if you're fortunate you get Scottish John as your guide.
Tuesday, September 15, 2015
London trip 2015: Day Three 23 June
Heather and I said goodbye to the lovely seaside and to quiet small town England life and hello to busy, always on the go London.It is quite the contrast. In Paignton, a quaint place to "pop up for the week-end," there were couples young and old and everywhere in between strolling along, holding hands; loads of families on a mini-break; restaurants that closed their kitchens at 7:00 pm and shops that closed at 6:00. Everything was casual and leisurely. Most people were English.
London, however, is always on the go and full of smartly-dressed people rushing from here to there. Few families are seen out on the streets -- I imagine most of them live further out and get everywhere by car. Walking the streets, it was rare to hear an English accent; I found it to be rather like Disney World. Shops and restaurants held later hours. And everywhere I went I was being shouted at by advertisements.Heather and I had a room at Durrants Hotel. "Our" tube station, our hub if you like, was Baker Street. Durrants Hotel is about half a mile down the road from Baker Street tube station and lies on George Street between Baker Street and Marylebone (pronounced "Mar-lee-bone").
Heather and I decided to explore the area a bit, grab some take-away and maybe enjoy it in the park. We got our take-away (carry out or "to go" for we Americans) and walked up Baker Street. We passed Baker Street station heading for Regents Park and along the way located the Sherlock Holmes Museum, which we would be visiting the next morning.
On my last trip to London, now ten and a half years ago, I'd visited Kensington Park and Hyde Park, both of which are lovely, but I hadn't made it farther north.
Upon my first trip to Regents Park, I fell in love, and now it is one of my favourite places on earth along with Camp Accovac in Clifton Forge, VA and Scotland (the whole country -- if Scotland were a man, I'd marry him).
Regents Park is large: there are ponds with marsh birds, swans and geese, there are the Queen Mary gardens that were full of roses, fountains, there's a university, a restaurant or two, a cricket field -- cricket the game, not the frightening bug -- and the London Zoo.
Heather and I were so enthralled with just the little space where we ate our dinner, we decided Regents Park would be a good place to kill some time the next day between our visit to the museum and our ride to Leicester (pronounced "Lester") Square for our London walking tour.
Oh to have a grand, peaceful park such as this one near where I live.
Enjoying our take-away and watching dog-walkers, joggers and some geese:
(You'll notice both Heather and I are in tank tops. Heather was kind enough to let me borrow hers. The whole week was unexpectedly warmish-hot, except for 30 minutes on Sunday.)
London trip 2015: Day Two 22 June
From the seaside town of Paignton, my travelling friend, Heather, and I rode a steam train, the Greenway Halt, to Greenway House, the summer home of that famous mystery writer Agatha Christie.
The steam train -- looks a bit like the Hogwarts Express, eh?
The steam train itself is not called the "Greenway Halt" but rather the train car.
On the ride to Greenway House, watching the country pass by, I found myself very grateful that Heather was able to make this trip with me. I had originally planned to do this whole trip on my own; I've done that before, but I'm quiet and would not have had much conversation with anyone; I would have been stuck inside my head almost the entire time. It's nice to have someone to talk to once in a while (I'm not particularly chatty with anyone usually) and to go on a trip with someone who enjoys the same things as you.
Here's Heather showing off her Hufflepuff scarf
Unless, of course, you have your own means of transportation, there are a few different ways to arrive at Greenway House: steam train and walk, ferry and ride in a vintage bus or steam train and shuttle bus. The only caution is to make double sure of all time tables; for example, Heather and I were going to go by ferry/vintage bus, but, when planning the trip, I discovered this service is not available on Mondays. For the steam train, I believe you have to book your train ticket online in advance. Tickets for entry into the house and grounds may be purchased onsite. On most days, you may also choose to ride the steam train to Churston station and from there take a shuttle bus to the house or ride the steam train to Greenway Halt and walk through the woods to the house. Heather and I chose the latter.
The website for the steam train warns that the walk from Greenway Halt to the house is 30-minutes; Heather and I decided they overestimate. It only took us about 20 minutes, if that, the first time.
If you like nature, as Heather and I both do, the wooded walk to the house is absolutely lovely, a feast for the eyes. I would say it's an easy walk, but there is a lot of uphill/downhill. There are two gates one must pass through; admittedly we city-gals had a bit of a problem opening one, but there was a kind family, also on their way to Greenway House, that helped us out.
Greenway House was Agatha Christie's summer house and had been used by her family until 2004 - there are family pictures throughout the house. And it was a summer house, so Christie never actually worked (wrote her novels) in the house, nor was it very much considered home: like any other summer house, it was a place for family and friends to gather, relax and enjoy each other's company.
View of the quay (pronounced "key" remember) and the River Dart
lovely, lovely tea things and dishes
The drawing room where they played games. Visitors are to stay on the rugged/carpeted areas as much as possible, and no one is allowed to touch any of the items laying around, not even those who work at the house because the natural oil in human hands would cause everything to deteriorate very quickly. Occasionally one sees a worker carefully dusting the items; they must all wear gloves. There are workers scattered around the house to answer any questions one may have regarding Agatha Christie and the house.
If you're poor, you're a pack rat, but if you're rich, you're a collector.
Dishes! Aren't they lovely?
the kitchen
Agatha Christie had a Sue; she called hers Nursie. This is her portrait.
Agatha Christie's bedroom: a recording of Christie speaking about writing was playing on loop.
family pictures
There are a few gardens to tramp through at Greenway. The first, the Camelia Garden, isn't what I would call a garden so much as a Camelia Walk. Heather and I traversed the footpath and concluded "this is the garden."
There are also two walled gardens, one of which contains a greenhouse and a tent with telescope for stargazing. I found the walled gardens heavenly (no pun intended).
Also at Greenway there is a gift shop, a shop that sells pieces from local artists and plants and a small cafe. (If you're a picky-eater like myself, the cafe doesn't have much to offer, so I can't recommend it one way or the other, though even if you're not a picky-eater, the menu was very limited.)
Heather and I had decided to take the train from Greenway Halt back to Paignton instead of catching the shuttle bus to Churston station. So we made our way back across the wooded-lane to Greenway Halt stop.
For those who have been paying attention -- this was interesting.
We wait and wait at Greenway Halt. A couple had arrived at the stop shortly after us and said they had requested the train to stop. There are some train schedules where the train only stops on request -- there's a button one pushes. That was all fine. I studied the train time table and noticed, the train doesn't run from Greenway Halt to Paignton. I pointed this out to the couple who informed us we'd have to ride the train to Kingswear (the other direction), hang out there for 30 minutes and then catch the train to Paignton. Oh.
Like most Americans, I arrive everywhere by car or by foot. The only public transportation I've had dealings with here are the school bus and the trolley in San Diego; with the former, you have your stop and time and that's it; with the latter you mostly go one way or the other and it stops every so many minutes. I find public transportation schedules hard to understand because they're not something I've had to "figure out."
Heather and I debated the decision: take the train to Kingswear or race back to the house for the 1:10 (or 13:10) shuttle bus. Neither of us really wanted to explore Kingswear for half an hour, so we trekked the wooded-lane for the third time that day. (Honestly, this whole England trip, I got enough exercise -- for me -- for two years. Haha.) We made it back to the house to learn we had to make a dash for it to the estate entrance in order to catch the shuttle. Those lovely people working for the National Trust (the organization that owns and runs the house) were hot on it: Heather and I made it a few paces from the visitor center when a man in a car asked if we were the ones trying to make it to the bus; he drove us down the drive -- we'd never had made it and would have had to hang out for another hour or so -- and had us there just as they were boarding. It turned out they were going to hold the bus for us. Well done National Trust. I'm impressed, and it is NOT an easy thing to impress me. So we rode the bus to Churston Station, all passengers working together to figure out which platform we should be on and how to get there, and then back to Paignton and the lovely seaside.
Monday, June 22, 2015
London trip 2015: Day One 21 June
My friend Heather and I (finally) arrived at London Heathrow via Air Canada.
With all the Canadian celebrities there are, I've never thought much on how how I feel about Canadians -- all seemed a decent lot to me; however, after flying Air Canada, I've a new perspective, and I now lean more toward the opinion that they're cold and unfriendly.
From Heathrow, we rode the Express to Paddington station
and then went on a relaxing train ride through the English countryside to Paignton, Torbay in the southwest. Everyone deserves to take some time from their day to enjoy the English countryside.
We trekked, the wrong way, and then the right way to our lodgings -- the Wulfruna Hotel, a tiny, yet comfortable place run by a lady named Wendy.
The weather was gorgeous -- sunny and warm with a lovely breeze from the harbor, which rests directly across the street from our hotel, though the 'hotel' is really more a bed and breakfast than an actual hotel. Heather described the weather differently from me -- cloudy and cool/cold -- and did not find it so wonderful, though the differences may be found in where we each grew up: me in a valley of Virginia surrounded by the Blue Ridge Mountains, Heather in a quaint beach town of southern California.
Paignton is a darling place; across the harbor lies another of the beach towns this way of England called Torquay (pronounced 'tor-kee'). Many people are about, a healthy mix of locals and visitors. Heather and I ate dinner at a tapas-style place called Olive. For the uneducated, such as I was, tapas is Spanish for 'small meal'; the idea is to order three or four items, which are small samplings, to create a meal. The samplings can be shared amongst everyone at the table. The food at Olive (including the Rockslide Brownie) was delicious, but the service -- I think they forgot we were there most of the time. At one point, waiting an eternity for our check, I almost threw some cash on the table and walked out.
* (This next bit is a bit long and boring, so feel free to skip down to the next asterisk below.) Let me explain the confusion and frustration. In England, when one eats at a pub/bar, you order and pay at the bar, and then someone brings your food to the table; you may either pay as you go or ask the bartender to give you a tab. As an American and someone not used to this, I find it all a little confusing and intimidating. Restaurants operate as restaurants everywhere do -- you're seated, you order, you eat, you receive a check/tab and pay.
Olive (the place we ate at) had two options: eat on the terrace for which you would pay as you go, or eat inside for which we had to wait to be seated. Heather and I were given a table. Everything was going as is normal in a restaurant. The table behind us was given a check, so we assumed, our check would also be brought to us. I ended up going to the servery, as they called it, and paying.*
So our biggest...um, 'adventure' since arriving in England has been the toilet in our ensuite at Wulfruna! Apparently British plumbing is designed for the sole purpose of making spoiled Americans feel like total eejits. We were pushing the handle on the toilet as we would in America, but the toilet, alas, was not flushing. After reading a few articles/blogs on the internet - thank you once again Google -- I finally figured out (for the most part) how to flush our bloody toilet so that we didn't, with much shame and embarrassment, have to ask our proprietor. So today, Monday the 22nd, as I write this, I am thankful for being able to flush a British toilet and for American plumbing.
For those still laughing at the thought of what kind of an idiot can't flush a toilet, Google either "how to flush a toilet in the uk" or "I can't flush the toilet in the uk" -- it is a real issue!
With all the Canadian celebrities there are, I've never thought much on how how I feel about Canadians -- all seemed a decent lot to me; however, after flying Air Canada, I've a new perspective, and I now lean more toward the opinion that they're cold and unfriendly.
From Heathrow, we rode the Express to Paddington station
We trekked, the wrong way, and then the right way to our lodgings -- the Wulfruna Hotel, a tiny, yet comfortable place run by a lady named Wendy.
The weather was gorgeous -- sunny and warm with a lovely breeze from the harbor, which rests directly across the street from our hotel, though the 'hotel' is really more a bed and breakfast than an actual hotel. Heather described the weather differently from me -- cloudy and cool/cold -- and did not find it so wonderful, though the differences may be found in where we each grew up: me in a valley of Virginia surrounded by the Blue Ridge Mountains, Heather in a quaint beach town of southern California.
Paignton is a darling place; across the harbor lies another of the beach towns this way of England called Torquay (pronounced 'tor-kee'). Many people are about, a healthy mix of locals and visitors. Heather and I ate dinner at a tapas-style place called Olive. For the uneducated, such as I was, tapas is Spanish for 'small meal'; the idea is to order three or four items, which are small samplings, to create a meal. The samplings can be shared amongst everyone at the table. The food at Olive (including the Rockslide Brownie) was delicious, but the service -- I think they forgot we were there most of the time. At one point, waiting an eternity for our check, I almost threw some cash on the table and walked out.
* (This next bit is a bit long and boring, so feel free to skip down to the next asterisk below.) Let me explain the confusion and frustration. In England, when one eats at a pub/bar, you order and pay at the bar, and then someone brings your food to the table; you may either pay as you go or ask the bartender to give you a tab. As an American and someone not used to this, I find it all a little confusing and intimidating. Restaurants operate as restaurants everywhere do -- you're seated, you order, you eat, you receive a check/tab and pay.
Olive (the place we ate at) had two options: eat on the terrace for which you would pay as you go, or eat inside for which we had to wait to be seated. Heather and I were given a table. Everything was going as is normal in a restaurant. The table behind us was given a check, so we assumed, our check would also be brought to us. I ended up going to the servery, as they called it, and paying.*
So our biggest...um, 'adventure' since arriving in England has been the toilet in our ensuite at Wulfruna! Apparently British plumbing is designed for the sole purpose of making spoiled Americans feel like total eejits. We were pushing the handle on the toilet as we would in America, but the toilet, alas, was not flushing. After reading a few articles/blogs on the internet - thank you once again Google -- I finally figured out (for the most part) how to flush our bloody toilet so that we didn't, with much shame and embarrassment, have to ask our proprietor. So today, Monday the 22nd, as I write this, I am thankful for being able to flush a British toilet and for American plumbing.
For those still laughing at the thought of what kind of an idiot can't flush a toilet, Google either "how to flush a toilet in the uk" or "I can't flush the toilet in the uk" -- it is a real issue!
Me and my new pal Paddington Bear
Fairy Cove in Paignton
Monday, November 17, 2014
What Once Was Lost
What once was lost, now is found.
It finally happened, only not quite the way I thought it would. I thought I would get a call from the police or a kindly soul: "Is this Stephanie? We have your grandmother here." I was prepared for that. I wasn't prepared for a long, mostly sleepless night. I wasn't prepared to wonder if she was scared. I wasn't prepared to contemplate all the possibilities: Will she stay in the car with the heat on? Will she think to pull over and ask someone for help? Will she/Has she been in an accident? Has she had a stroke or another pulmonary embolism and may not be found until it's too late? Where the hell can she be?
The phrase, "Choose to trust," kept rolling through my head like a mantra. The prayer of "I know you're here with me, and you have your eye on her, and that is enough" was repeated many times. And, as always, Jesus came through.
Last night my grandmother went out about a quarter to eight to eat at the restaurant she frequents. I give her two hours of "You're not aloud to freak out, Stephanie" whenever she does this while I'm home. The two hours passed. Every other time I've worried, it's always been fine -- she went to visit with someone or she stopped somewhere for gas. The third hour passed. I sat in the kitchen, legs crossed with a foot swinging, arms crossed looking at the clock every five minutes distracting myself with a movie on TV. The fourth hour came. It was close to midnight. She never stays out that late, even when she's playing Yahtzee at her one friend's place. So I got in my car and drove by the restaurant. I drove by other restaurants. I drove by the post office. I drove by gas stations, through my uncle and aunt's neighborhood, through the parking lot of her one friend's apartment complex. She was no where. I came back home and called the emergency room -- no one by that name had been through that night. I called my uncle and aunt's. By this time five hours had passed. It was now near 1 AM. Back and forth and waiting by the phone for another hour or so. My uncle called the local sheriff's office. The deputies came by, got a description, advised they had deputies scouring the (very tiny by the way) city.
Around 3 AM I crawled in bed wide awake. The clock in the next room was tick-tick-ticking (me off), so I pulled the battery out. I kept listening for the sound of my grandmother pulling into the garage or the doorbell ringing or someone banging on the front door. I put on a movie and tried to sleep. I got maybe an hour. The sprinklers outside woke me at 5:15 AM. I had decided the night before, no wait, correction, I had decided a couple hours before that I would go into work today. Didn't want to sit around the house doing nothing. Waiting. There was still no word from the police.
Driving to work, a raven flew over my car, and the spark of a little girl heart's dream flashed: oh that I did have the power to speak with birds; I would have them search all the land for my grandmother. But then the Holy Spirit reminded me that he doesn't need birds; he knows right where she is, and again the prayer: "I know you're here with me, and you have your eye on her, and that is enough."
After I'd been at work about half an hour, a call came on my mobile. It was a woman named Susan -- God's answer to my prayer. My grandmother had driven to a gas station. Susan noticed something wasn't quite right and thought maybe this woman needed help pumping gas, so she went to the car and tapped on the window. My grandmother told her, "I don't know where I am." Susan asked if there was someone she could call. "Well, my granddaughter, but she can't come get me; she's at work." "I'm sure she'll come get you," Susan had said to her. By God's grace, my number was in my grandmother's purse.
Susan gave me directions to the gas station, her cell phone number and said she would stay with my grandmother until I came. I told her my grandmother had been missing since last night, and it was a good thing that she called me. She had asked that, whether or not she had been right to call. "Oh no, it's very good you called me. She's been missing since last night." She said she got goosebumps by that.
So I went to pick up my grandmother who remembered going out to eat last night, but the twelve hours after she left the restaurant (according to the receipt she had left about 9 PM) are a mystery. She'd told Susan (who was kind enough to give my grandmother some water even) she had left the house this morning to go on errands and couldn't remember how she got there or where she was. I told my grandmother, "No, you went out to eat, and you didn't come home. We had the police out looking for you." She was baffled. After making sure we were okay Susan left.
My grandmother's legs were shaky from having sat in the car all night. It took a few minutes before she felt strong enough to walk from one car to the other. I drove her home where my aunt met us. She waited for my uncle, and the two of them retrieved my grandmother's car. Then we all went out for lunch.
As I told the police, and my answered prayer Susan, this is the first time something like this has happened. Thankfully, my grandmother is safe. The redeeming part about her memory loss is she won't be traumatized by this. As she doesn't remember what passed in the twelve hours of her leaving the restaurant and driving into the gas station, she won't remember if she was scared or cold or ashamed. We've revoked her driving privileges, took away her keys. She took that well, though she is a little put out she can't drive to see her one friend whenever she wants. But, like with her medicine, that too will blow over.
I am tired. My head aches from tears I refused to shed. But at least she is found. And she is safe. Thank God Almighty for that.
After I'd been at work about half an hour, a call came on my mobile. It was a woman named Susan -- God's answer to my prayer. My grandmother had driven to a gas station. Susan noticed something wasn't quite right and thought maybe this woman needed help pumping gas, so she went to the car and tapped on the window. My grandmother told her, "I don't know where I am." Susan asked if there was someone she could call. "Well, my granddaughter, but she can't come get me; she's at work." "I'm sure she'll come get you," Susan had said to her. By God's grace, my number was in my grandmother's purse.
Susan gave me directions to the gas station, her cell phone number and said she would stay with my grandmother until I came. I told her my grandmother had been missing since last night, and it was a good thing that she called me. She had asked that, whether or not she had been right to call. "Oh no, it's very good you called me. She's been missing since last night." She said she got goosebumps by that.
So I went to pick up my grandmother who remembered going out to eat last night, but the twelve hours after she left the restaurant (according to the receipt she had left about 9 PM) are a mystery. She'd told Susan (who was kind enough to give my grandmother some water even) she had left the house this morning to go on errands and couldn't remember how she got there or where she was. I told my grandmother, "No, you went out to eat, and you didn't come home. We had the police out looking for you." She was baffled. After making sure we were okay Susan left.
My grandmother's legs were shaky from having sat in the car all night. It took a few minutes before she felt strong enough to walk from one car to the other. I drove her home where my aunt met us. She waited for my uncle, and the two of them retrieved my grandmother's car. Then we all went out for lunch.
As I told the police, and my answered prayer Susan, this is the first time something like this has happened. Thankfully, my grandmother is safe. The redeeming part about her memory loss is she won't be traumatized by this. As she doesn't remember what passed in the twelve hours of her leaving the restaurant and driving into the gas station, she won't remember if she was scared or cold or ashamed. We've revoked her driving privileges, took away her keys. She took that well, though she is a little put out she can't drive to see her one friend whenever she wants. But, like with her medicine, that too will blow over.
I am tired. My head aches from tears I refused to shed. But at least she is found. And she is safe. Thank God Almighty for that.
Monday, September 29, 2014
Downward Spiral
She asked me about the dishes again yesterday. "Are you taking dishes to work and not bringing them back?"
"No," I reply. "You have the same amount of dishes, give or take a broken glass, as you did when I moved in here three years ago."
"I know that when I buy dishes...I should have twelve."
Repeat.
A few moments later: "Do you think someone could have a key and is getting in and taking them?"
She actually doesn't get all the way through this sentence before I interject, "No, Nana, no one has a key to the house." Now I'm frustrated because I don't know how many different ways to tell her she's not missing any dishes; I have to practice my self-restraint to tell keep myself from saying to her that she's being paranoid. So I try a different strategy: "Call David & Leslie and see if they have any ideas."
She doesn't. So when David comes by to pick her up for dinner I tell him, "She's concerned," do not say "paranoid" because she is standing right there, "about her dishes again."
Yes, again. This is the third time she's asked me about dishes in the last month or so. (Although in the past year, there were a few scattered times she believed she was missing Tupperware.) I've lived with her three years -- the same amount of dishes exist. Why now is she so...concerned about them now when she never was before?
Dementia -- there really is no logic.
"No," I reply. "You have the same amount of dishes, give or take a broken glass, as you did when I moved in here three years ago."
"I know that when I buy dishes...I should have twelve."
Repeat.
A few moments later: "Do you think someone could have a key and is getting in and taking them?"
She actually doesn't get all the way through this sentence before I interject, "No, Nana, no one has a key to the house." Now I'm frustrated because I don't know how many different ways to tell her she's not missing any dishes; I have to practice my self-restraint to tell keep myself from saying to her that she's being paranoid. So I try a different strategy: "Call David & Leslie and see if they have any ideas."
She doesn't. So when David comes by to pick her up for dinner I tell him, "She's concerned," do not say "paranoid" because she is standing right there, "about her dishes again."
Yes, again. This is the third time she's asked me about dishes in the last month or so. (Although in the past year, there were a few scattered times she believed she was missing Tupperware.) I've lived with her three years -- the same amount of dishes exist. Why now is she so...concerned about them now when she never was before?
Dementia -- there really is no logic.
Monday, September 8, 2014
The Obsession: Part II
Hearing stories from other people whose elderly relatives developed dementia, I gather that weird or unusual obsessions are part of the disease.
I've mentioned "the pills" before. Well, this one is to do with the kitchen.
I've been living here with my grandmother about three and a half years. All serving items (plates, bowls, etc.) have, for the most part remained the same in that time, with the exception of a few new mugs and a few "OK to throw away" containers.
Last week or the week before....
My grandmother: What happened to all the silverware?
Me: What do you mean?
My grandmother: I had [insert number of] forks. Some aren't there.
Me: I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about.
This goes on for a little bit. The self-restraint is hanging by a thread, and I flippantly say, "I guess someone came in and stole them."
My grandmother: They must have because I had [however many] of each and now there are only [less number than however many].
This past weekend....
My grandmother: Are you taking glasses to work and not bringing them home?
[Okay, pause....I can't even begin to describe the absurdity of this statement.....resume]
Me: No. There are the same number of glasses in there as there always are.
My grandmother: No, some are missing. I had...just a minute. [She goes to check to tell me just exactly how many are missing, like she can remember the exact number of each type of glass she has, but gets sidetracked by something else and forgets about the whole thing.]
(I realize that last bit is a little callous, but please permit me a little blazing honesty for a moment. My self-restraint is temporarily broken.)
I checked a few minutes later, not mentioning the conversation, just looking. All the glasses are there.
I don't know if this one counts as obsessional technically, or paranoid. Either way....oy. And since I don't remember to ask in the moment, because I'm too busy being stunned by whatever absurd question has been thrown at me: "Jesus, please allow me your strength in these moments. Amen."
I've mentioned "the pills" before. Well, this one is to do with the kitchen.
I've been living here with my grandmother about three and a half years. All serving items (plates, bowls, etc.) have, for the most part remained the same in that time, with the exception of a few new mugs and a few "OK to throw away" containers.
Last week or the week before....
My grandmother: What happened to all the silverware?
Me: What do you mean?
My grandmother: I had [insert number of] forks. Some aren't there.
Me: I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about.
This goes on for a little bit. The self-restraint is hanging by a thread, and I flippantly say, "I guess someone came in and stole them."
My grandmother: They must have because I had [however many] of each and now there are only [less number than however many].
This past weekend....
My grandmother: Are you taking glasses to work and not bringing them home?
[Okay, pause....I can't even begin to describe the absurdity of this statement.....resume]
Me: No. There are the same number of glasses in there as there always are.
My grandmother: No, some are missing. I had...just a minute. [She goes to check to tell me just exactly how many are missing, like she can remember the exact number of each type of glass she has, but gets sidetracked by something else and forgets about the whole thing.]
(I realize that last bit is a little callous, but please permit me a little blazing honesty for a moment. My self-restraint is temporarily broken.)
I checked a few minutes later, not mentioning the conversation, just looking. All the glasses are there.
I don't know if this one counts as obsessional technically, or paranoid. Either way....oy. And since I don't remember to ask in the moment, because I'm too busy being stunned by whatever absurd question has been thrown at me: "Jesus, please allow me your strength in these moments. Amen."
How Not to Kill Your Grandmother
I've become quite familiar with the emergency room. How old is mine?, you ask -- she'll be 82 this month.
Last November (it was forever ago and it was yesterday) was our first visit. I get home from work to find the house slightly amiss. I walk around cautiously calling for Nana, praying I don't walk into a room and find her on the floor. Her car is still in the garage, but her purse is gone. I assume she's at the neighbor's. What really nags at me is the sight of my work number lying on top of the microwave, like she had the intention of calling me. I call Uncle David and Aunt Leslie to make sure Nana isn't with them (leave a message for both) before going to knit/crochet group. Aunt Leslie calls me back while I'm at group. She had gone to the house after she got my message. She went to the neighbor's but the neighbor said she hadn't seen her. Leslie went across the street to another neighbor's -- they happened to see an ambulance come pick up Nana. So I go home. We discover the hospital Nana'd been taken to. The story finally comes out that she felt short of breath so she called an ambulance. By the time the ambulance had arrived, she knew she had called them, but she couldn't remember why (a recurring theme with these ER visits). It was determined she had a pulmonary embolism. This visit marked the commencement of me being charge of her medicine.
The second visit is a Saturday. I had planned a lovely day at the zoo with a friend and her son (me complaining is another common theme with these ER visits), but Nana said she woke with a pain across her chest. By the time we even leave for the ER, Nana is no longer in pain. We're at the ER -- a long, drawn out process, especially for the complaint of chest pain -- they run their tests. Nothing is wrong, but they admit her overnight for observation. During this visit, I discover that she and her one friend had chili dogs the night before. The woman probably had indigestion. This visit taught me that should Nana ever complain of chest pains in the future, I should ask more questions before jumping in the car. (Please, for your sake and mine, do NOT state anything along the lines of "Better to be safe than sorry." Really not helpful.)
The third visit I wasn't privy to until I came home from work.....thank you, Jesus. She went in, nothing wrong, sent her on her merry way.
Let me interrupt here to say, the thing about these ER visits, there's always the thought of "Is this the One?" There's the worry regarding whether or not this one's very serious, like the first; whether this will be the last one because it's the one she won't come back from. That thought is always there nagging.
And now for the fourth visit: today. I am woken up at 5am. "Stephanie. Get up. I need you to take me to the hospital." I get up; I get dressed. I prepare myself to ask questions regarding what kind of chest pains she's having, is there shortness of breath, etc. -- remember the lesson learned from Visit #2. I walk out into the kitchen. She has a bag all prepared in case they admit her. Before I can ask any questions: "Look at that." She points to her feet. She has a lovely bruise on one toe. "I was lying in bed reading, and it did that." A stubbed toe? I'm thinking. Well, she's on coumadin [blood thinner]. Fine. So we get in the car. I'm so tired, my eyes are watering. I didn't bring a warm sweater or sweatshirt because I clearly didn't learn a lesson about the ER being the same temperature as the Antarctic. So we sit there in the ER. I'm tired, I'm cold, I'm a little angry at myself for not saying, "Let's wait a bit; if it gets worse, I'll take you."
A nurse finally comes in; this is when I discover that Nana did not want to come to the hospital because of a stubbed toe. Oh no. Here in paraphrase is what she told the nurse: "I was reading in bed. My feet and legs felt tingly. I looked down and they're blue." She's showing her legs to everyone like we're all supposed to be impressed by something. By her legs being blue, she meant the veins had shown themselves. Like the veins in her ankles and on her feet -- you know, the veins all old people get for whatever medical/scientific reason old people's veins start showing off on the legs and feet -- were all new to her. Just Saturday she was mentioning how awful they looked, and she doesn't remember it looking like that. It does by the way. All the time.
So, in my words, Nana wanted to go to the hospital because she felt new veins showing. So here's "how not to kill your grandmother" in three easy steps. Actually, there aren't steps, just three words: don't do it.
I am so mad and so tired, I have to turn my head to the side so she doesn't see tears running down. I call my mom, who insists on staying informed on every hospital visit, and have Nana speak with her. Mom wants to speak with me afterwards, but I can't. I have to step out of the "room" (it's a cubby with a curtain) because I can't not full out cry. Because that's what happens when one is sick or really upset about something -- you cry to your mother (or mother figure). And when you don't want to cry, it's just disaster waiting to happen.
The doctor feels her feet and ankles -- good temperature, good arterial pulse, no unnatural discoloration, (she's fine). He has a quick blood check done -- all well there.
By the time we're ready to leave a few hours later, Nana -- even though she's told everyone there without any prompting why she came to the hospital -- asks me, "Why did I come in?" All I can do -- very little self-restraint left at this point -- is look at her and say, "Really, Nana?"
I took her home and went to hang out with a friend, which is often three times the worth of a month of professional therapy. Thank you, Jesus, for Donna.
So the lesson from this fourth visit is like that of the second, and what is that: always ask questions.
Stay tuned for another brief post regarding my grandmother's obsessions.
Last November (it was forever ago and it was yesterday) was our first visit. I get home from work to find the house slightly amiss. I walk around cautiously calling for Nana, praying I don't walk into a room and find her on the floor. Her car is still in the garage, but her purse is gone. I assume she's at the neighbor's. What really nags at me is the sight of my work number lying on top of the microwave, like she had the intention of calling me. I call Uncle David and Aunt Leslie to make sure Nana isn't with them (leave a message for both) before going to knit/crochet group. Aunt Leslie calls me back while I'm at group. She had gone to the house after she got my message. She went to the neighbor's but the neighbor said she hadn't seen her. Leslie went across the street to another neighbor's -- they happened to see an ambulance come pick up Nana. So I go home. We discover the hospital Nana'd been taken to. The story finally comes out that she felt short of breath so she called an ambulance. By the time the ambulance had arrived, she knew she had called them, but she couldn't remember why (a recurring theme with these ER visits). It was determined she had a pulmonary embolism. This visit marked the commencement of me being charge of her medicine.
The second visit is a Saturday. I had planned a lovely day at the zoo with a friend and her son (me complaining is another common theme with these ER visits), but Nana said she woke with a pain across her chest. By the time we even leave for the ER, Nana is no longer in pain. We're at the ER -- a long, drawn out process, especially for the complaint of chest pain -- they run their tests. Nothing is wrong, but they admit her overnight for observation. During this visit, I discover that she and her one friend had chili dogs the night before. The woman probably had indigestion. This visit taught me that should Nana ever complain of chest pains in the future, I should ask more questions before jumping in the car. (Please, for your sake and mine, do NOT state anything along the lines of "Better to be safe than sorry." Really not helpful.)
The third visit I wasn't privy to until I came home from work.....thank you, Jesus. She went in, nothing wrong, sent her on her merry way.
Let me interrupt here to say, the thing about these ER visits, there's always the thought of "Is this the One?" There's the worry regarding whether or not this one's very serious, like the first; whether this will be the last one because it's the one she won't come back from. That thought is always there nagging.
And now for the fourth visit: today. I am woken up at 5am. "Stephanie. Get up. I need you to take me to the hospital." I get up; I get dressed. I prepare myself to ask questions regarding what kind of chest pains she's having, is there shortness of breath, etc. -- remember the lesson learned from Visit #2. I walk out into the kitchen. She has a bag all prepared in case they admit her. Before I can ask any questions: "Look at that." She points to her feet. She has a lovely bruise on one toe. "I was lying in bed reading, and it did that." A stubbed toe? I'm thinking. Well, she's on coumadin [blood thinner]. Fine. So we get in the car. I'm so tired, my eyes are watering. I didn't bring a warm sweater or sweatshirt because I clearly didn't learn a lesson about the ER being the same temperature as the Antarctic. So we sit there in the ER. I'm tired, I'm cold, I'm a little angry at myself for not saying, "Let's wait a bit; if it gets worse, I'll take you."
A nurse finally comes in; this is when I discover that Nana did not want to come to the hospital because of a stubbed toe. Oh no. Here in paraphrase is what she told the nurse: "I was reading in bed. My feet and legs felt tingly. I looked down and they're blue." She's showing her legs to everyone like we're all supposed to be impressed by something. By her legs being blue, she meant the veins had shown themselves. Like the veins in her ankles and on her feet -- you know, the veins all old people get for whatever medical/scientific reason old people's veins start showing off on the legs and feet -- were all new to her. Just Saturday she was mentioning how awful they looked, and she doesn't remember it looking like that. It does by the way. All the time.
So, in my words, Nana wanted to go to the hospital because she felt new veins showing. So here's "how not to kill your grandmother" in three easy steps. Actually, there aren't steps, just three words: don't do it.
I am so mad and so tired, I have to turn my head to the side so she doesn't see tears running down. I call my mom, who insists on staying informed on every hospital visit, and have Nana speak with her. Mom wants to speak with me afterwards, but I can't. I have to step out of the "room" (it's a cubby with a curtain) because I can't not full out cry. Because that's what happens when one is sick or really upset about something -- you cry to your mother (or mother figure). And when you don't want to cry, it's just disaster waiting to happen.
The doctor feels her feet and ankles -- good temperature, good arterial pulse, no unnatural discoloration, (she's fine). He has a quick blood check done -- all well there.
By the time we're ready to leave a few hours later, Nana -- even though she's told everyone there without any prompting why she came to the hospital -- asks me, "Why did I come in?" All I can do -- very little self-restraint left at this point -- is look at her and say, "Really, Nana?"
I took her home and went to hang out with a friend, which is often three times the worth of a month of professional therapy. Thank you, Jesus, for Donna.
So the lesson from this fourth visit is like that of the second, and what is that: always ask questions.
Stay tuned for another brief post regarding my grandmother's obsessions.
Friday, September 5, 2014
The Obsession and Confusion
9/3/14:
Fantastic. Now Nana has an obsession with her pills again.
Friday night -- six days ago -- I went out to dinner with her and David. I mentioned to David that before Nana leaves, while she's on her trip, some of her medicines will run out, so we'll need new prescription orders. Of course, Nana is sitting right there hearing this conversation.
I get home from work yesterday to find she did take her AM medicines, however, on the chart "AM" was circled, and Nana had written "pills not out." Ummm, what? I thought perhaps she had taken her pills, forgot she had taken them and so thought I hadn't put them out.
No, no. Once again, she was talking about the big bottles.
Last night from her one friend's house she called asking about [whatever the situation was in her mind that I could not follow] saying her pills weren't out. She said she'd taken her morning ones. She said she'd gone back to my room to look for her pills (she's referring to the big bottles, which I keep hidden in my room -- OMW). When I told her I didn't know what she was talking about, she couldn't remember, but she knew there was a reason she was asking. She became so mixed up with this one (obsessional) thought, she couldn't focus on my question of allowing me to check her bank account balance online. She said we'd talk when she got home.
Me: "I'll be in bed when you get home."
Nana: "Well, you can wake me up in the morning."
Me: (in my head) As I rush out of the house because, as always, I'm thisclose to running late, and you're half asleep because I just woke you up? Sure thing, Nana.
When I put her daily dose out this morning, there was a note: "Please put all my pill bottles out. You said I'd run out of some. I'll go refill them today."
The reply: "You have plenty of pills."
I debated expanding on that but stuck with simplicity.
It's been hard for her to relinquish control of her medicines. Clearly. I'd love, love, love to tell her the truth -- that she can't be in charge of them because she'd screw it up and no one would have any clue, and she may or may not die because of it. But that truth is one of the things for which I must practice self-restraint. And not telling the truth is HARD for me.
9/5/14:
This morning I find a note from Nana: "Please leave my checkbook out. Thank you."
???????
Her checkbook is in her purse. I take it out to write checks for her; I replace it when I'm done.
So I pulled the checkbook out of her purse and sat it with the message and wrote a reply: "Here ya go. It was in your purse. ?"
I'm starting to get worried about her confusion. Worried that it's getting worse.
Dear Lord, what do I do about this?
Fantastic. Now Nana has an obsession with her pills again.
Friday night -- six days ago -- I went out to dinner with her and David. I mentioned to David that before Nana leaves, while she's on her trip, some of her medicines will run out, so we'll need new prescription orders. Of course, Nana is sitting right there hearing this conversation.
I get home from work yesterday to find she did take her AM medicines, however, on the chart "AM" was circled, and Nana had written "pills not out." Ummm, what? I thought perhaps she had taken her pills, forgot she had taken them and so thought I hadn't put them out.
No, no. Once again, she was talking about the big bottles.
Last night from her one friend's house she called asking about [whatever the situation was in her mind that I could not follow] saying her pills weren't out. She said she'd taken her morning ones. She said she'd gone back to my room to look for her pills (she's referring to the big bottles, which I keep hidden in my room -- OMW). When I told her I didn't know what she was talking about, she couldn't remember, but she knew there was a reason she was asking. She became so mixed up with this one (obsessional) thought, she couldn't focus on my question of allowing me to check her bank account balance online. She said we'd talk when she got home.
Me: "I'll be in bed when you get home."
Nana: "Well, you can wake me up in the morning."
Me: (in my head) As I rush out of the house because, as always, I'm thisclose to running late, and you're half asleep because I just woke you up? Sure thing, Nana.
When I put her daily dose out this morning, there was a note: "Please put all my pill bottles out. You said I'd run out of some. I'll go refill them today."
The reply: "You have plenty of pills."
I debated expanding on that but stuck with simplicity.
It's been hard for her to relinquish control of her medicines. Clearly. I'd love, love, love to tell her the truth -- that she can't be in charge of them because she'd screw it up and no one would have any clue, and she may or may not die because of it. But that truth is one of the things for which I must practice self-restraint. And not telling the truth is HARD for me.
9/5/14:
This morning I find a note from Nana: "Please leave my checkbook out. Thank you."
???????
Her checkbook is in her purse. I take it out to write checks for her; I replace it when I'm done.
So I pulled the checkbook out of her purse and sat it with the message and wrote a reply: "Here ya go. It was in your purse. ?"
I'm starting to get worried about her confusion. Worried that it's getting worse.
Dear Lord, what do I do about this?
Tuesday, August 26, 2014
Procrastination is quite catching
Nana is the best procrastinator I know, which is not a good thing. In one post, I mentioned how it took her three days before she went to pick up a prescription from the pharmacy. My latest quandary is her bills. It's not really the latest; this has been an issue for a while, but since her procrastination has become worse, the bill paying issue has festered. They pile up and pile up. She's old fashioned and likes to pay her bills in person, so some of the local bills (cable, insurance, water, etc), she wants to wait and go to the building and pay them. This would be fine -- if it got done; if she didn't get "sidetracked" in doing so; if she didn't put it off for the next day or until she gets dressed for the day and then doesn't.
I suppose I could look at my "control freak" nature as something of a blessing in this situation, though I struggle with going too far (or maybe not far enough). I don't want to rip Nana's independence from her, but when things like paying bills aren't getting done...where is the line? I have no problem taking control of areas that need it, like her medication for instance, even though it can hamper my own independence at times. (That's the real rub of wanting control, the paradox; being "Miss Independent" in my own life, often hampers my own independence.) I don't mind writing the checks for her, which, lately is what has happened. But it all is a struggle.
As for Nana's procrastination, I wonder at its roots. I wonder whether it is the dementia causing her to put things off and then she forgets or if maybe it is depression. I'm inclined to link it to the dementia since the procrastination has become worse as her mind has become more diminished. There are other "chores" that she puts off as well; I've heard stories of other people with dementia where things didn't get done, washing dishes for example. Just another step on the road.
And darn it if it isn't catching! Normally I pay a bill as soon as I receive it in the mail, but lately, they sit there for a few days...so bad. Of course, Nana's primary care doctor (the one with whom I'm not very impressed) would probably call this normal -- according to his logic, we'll all have Alzheimer's by the time we're 80.
P.S. I want to say that I don't write these posts regarding life currently for sympathy or to get encouragement from others, even though encouragement at any point in life is welcome. I don't need sympathy or a shoulder to cry on; God is more than enough for that. Rather I write them 1) to get it out of my system, to get out of my own head and 2) in the hopes that someone else will read them and know that they're not alone and themselves gain some encouragement.
I suppose I could look at my "control freak" nature as something of a blessing in this situation, though I struggle with going too far (or maybe not far enough). I don't want to rip Nana's independence from her, but when things like paying bills aren't getting done...where is the line? I have no problem taking control of areas that need it, like her medication for instance, even though it can hamper my own independence at times. (That's the real rub of wanting control, the paradox; being "Miss Independent" in my own life, often hampers my own independence.) I don't mind writing the checks for her, which, lately is what has happened. But it all is a struggle.
As for Nana's procrastination, I wonder at its roots. I wonder whether it is the dementia causing her to put things off and then she forgets or if maybe it is depression. I'm inclined to link it to the dementia since the procrastination has become worse as her mind has become more diminished. There are other "chores" that she puts off as well; I've heard stories of other people with dementia where things didn't get done, washing dishes for example. Just another step on the road.
And darn it if it isn't catching! Normally I pay a bill as soon as I receive it in the mail, but lately, they sit there for a few days...so bad. Of course, Nana's primary care doctor (the one with whom I'm not very impressed) would probably call this normal -- according to his logic, we'll all have Alzheimer's by the time we're 80.
P.S. I want to say that I don't write these posts regarding life currently for sympathy or to get encouragement from others, even though encouragement at any point in life is welcome. I don't need sympathy or a shoulder to cry on; God is more than enough for that. Rather I write them 1) to get it out of my system, to get out of my own head and 2) in the hopes that someone else will read them and know that they're not alone and themselves gain some encouragement.
Saturday, August 23, 2014
Revisiting My Childhood -- The Witches
I'm watching again a few movies from my childhood (a surprisingly short list). Grasping at straws, I suppose, trying to keep the fade from moving too fast. Silly, I know.
I watched The Witches tonight. That movie scared the pants off me when I was a kid, and I hadn't watched it since. There were three things from this movie that I've always remembered quite clearly: the look of the Grand High Witch (in all her nasty, gory, glory), the boy's first encounter with a witch and the little girl in the painting.
The Grand High Witch is still horrifying -- absolutely terrifying -- as is the little boy's first encounter with a witch. Yeah, and the little girl who is stolen and placed in a painting to live out her days before fading away...(yup, I went there).
I guess the movie itself is no longer pee my pants scary since I'm no longer a child in danger of having my existence stamped out by a witch. Now that I'm older, there are a few fun things I observed: the Grand High Witch meets a ghastly end by Rowan Atkinson (familiar to most as Mr. Bean); Downton Abbey's Mr. Carson plays the head chef; a little romantic tryst between the hotel manager (Atkinson) and a member of housekeeping -- not something I would have picked up on as a kid; the number of men who played witches (all witches in this story are female) -- that observation was especially fun. Also, ironically, I believe this was my first exposure to Angelica Huston (she played that fearsome Grand High Witch) who, I think, is fabulous.
There are two things I am taking from this viewing of The Witches: 1) I am no longer scared to watch this movie (seriously, I was very nervous, it really was horrifying to me as a kid) and 2) be wary of any large gatherings of women by the English seaside.
Next on the roster: Troop Beverly Hills.
I watched The Witches tonight. That movie scared the pants off me when I was a kid, and I hadn't watched it since. There were three things from this movie that I've always remembered quite clearly: the look of the Grand High Witch (in all her nasty, gory, glory), the boy's first encounter with a witch and the little girl in the painting.
The Grand High Witch is still horrifying -- absolutely terrifying -- as is the little boy's first encounter with a witch. Yeah, and the little girl who is stolen and placed in a painting to live out her days before fading away...(yup, I went there).
I guess the movie itself is no longer pee my pants scary since I'm no longer a child in danger of having my existence stamped out by a witch. Now that I'm older, there are a few fun things I observed: the Grand High Witch meets a ghastly end by Rowan Atkinson (familiar to most as Mr. Bean); Downton Abbey's Mr. Carson plays the head chef; a little romantic tryst between the hotel manager (Atkinson) and a member of housekeeping -- not something I would have picked up on as a kid; the number of men who played witches (all witches in this story are female) -- that observation was especially fun. Also, ironically, I believe this was my first exposure to Angelica Huston (she played that fearsome Grand High Witch) who, I think, is fabulous.
There are two things I am taking from this viewing of The Witches: 1) I am no longer scared to watch this movie (seriously, I was very nervous, it really was horrifying to me as a kid) and 2) be wary of any large gatherings of women by the English seaside.
Next on the roster: Troop Beverly Hills.
A Toast to Self-Restraint
I've decided I need to keep some semblance of a written record of my life at present -- being a writer and all that, it might help. Everything has been O.K., not so bad, but lately I'm starting to feel like Atlas with the world on my shoulders.
I'm a fan of the Property Brothers shows on HGTV (or Harlequin Hottie Heroes, as I like to call them). It's often noted on the show how the little things "add up." That's how I feel: the little things are starting to add up. Under normal circumstances, it's not so bad, but when big things are in the stress cup, all the little things build and build.
Right now in my life I'm something of a caretaker. That is not a little thing. However, this thing takes up a lot of my stress cup. I live with my grandmother who has dementia. When I first moved here three years ago, she just had a bad memory, was a little absent-minded as she's always been. Ever so gradually the bad memory became worse -- gradually as in I could see some change, some decline over a couple months. Then that time span shortened; there were what I called "good days" and there were "bad days." The good days she could make it through her day normally while the bad days she'd get confused and wouldn't be able to remember how things like the tea maker functioned.
Last November Nana went into the hospital with a blood clot, and the battle really began. That was my "It all starts here" moment.
While Nana was in the hospital, it became clear she couldn't be in charge of her daily medicines. For a while we kept the big bottles (this is how I will refer to her prescription bottles) in the kitchen as well as her pill case (daily doses). Because of her growing confusion, this strategy didn't last long. I had to hide the big bottles and case in my room. I pop out her daily pills each day and set it out on the counter for her next to a daily chart to cross off each time she's taken her pills.
Her doctor's visits are handled by my uncle (her son). If he can't go with her, I try to make sure her friend -- her one friend -- can. Any more, Nana hardly remembers if she's even been to the doctor's on any given day.
So what was a gradual memory loss and lack of coherent thought noticeable from month to month has grown to a noticeable change from week to week, occasionally day to day.
My self-restraint is often tested.
When I was on vacation in July, Nana wanted to be left in charge of her medicines, which, of course, I wouldn't allow. She was very put-out by this (a whole story in and of itself). The trial of this week -- I needed more of the 1mg blood thinner. So her primary doctor (of whom I do not have a very high opinion) wrote a prescription which my uncle picked up -- he picked up the RX orders I mean -- on Monday. Tuesday I left a note with the RX order for Nana to pick up the RX from the pharmacy. Both the note and the order were still sitting on the counter when I returned home Tuesday evening. Nana was still in her nightdress playing on the computer. "I was going to pick it up when I got dressed, and then never got dressed," she said. It's "incidents" like these that are hard to forget, to let go of, to not throw back in her face -- "You want to be in charge of your medicines, but you don't show you can handle that." Self-restraint to keep from saying these awful things is sometimes a daily practice.
These things I keep myself from saying, they're not bad in and of themselves. The things I try hard not to say, which are often true -- really it is what the words would do to her that is awful.
So, everyone, lift your drink and say a toast: To Self-Restraint!
I'm a fan of the Property Brothers shows on HGTV (or Harlequin Hottie Heroes, as I like to call them). It's often noted on the show how the little things "add up." That's how I feel: the little things are starting to add up. Under normal circumstances, it's not so bad, but when big things are in the stress cup, all the little things build and build.
Right now in my life I'm something of a caretaker. That is not a little thing. However, this thing takes up a lot of my stress cup. I live with my grandmother who has dementia. When I first moved here three years ago, she just had a bad memory, was a little absent-minded as she's always been. Ever so gradually the bad memory became worse -- gradually as in I could see some change, some decline over a couple months. Then that time span shortened; there were what I called "good days" and there were "bad days." The good days she could make it through her day normally while the bad days she'd get confused and wouldn't be able to remember how things like the tea maker functioned.
Last November Nana went into the hospital with a blood clot, and the battle really began. That was my "It all starts here" moment.
While Nana was in the hospital, it became clear she couldn't be in charge of her daily medicines. For a while we kept the big bottles (this is how I will refer to her prescription bottles) in the kitchen as well as her pill case (daily doses). Because of her growing confusion, this strategy didn't last long. I had to hide the big bottles and case in my room. I pop out her daily pills each day and set it out on the counter for her next to a daily chart to cross off each time she's taken her pills.
Her doctor's visits are handled by my uncle (her son). If he can't go with her, I try to make sure her friend -- her one friend -- can. Any more, Nana hardly remembers if she's even been to the doctor's on any given day.
So what was a gradual memory loss and lack of coherent thought noticeable from month to month has grown to a noticeable change from week to week, occasionally day to day.
My self-restraint is often tested.
When I was on vacation in July, Nana wanted to be left in charge of her medicines, which, of course, I wouldn't allow. She was very put-out by this (a whole story in and of itself). The trial of this week -- I needed more of the 1mg blood thinner. So her primary doctor (of whom I do not have a very high opinion) wrote a prescription which my uncle picked up -- he picked up the RX orders I mean -- on Monday. Tuesday I left a note with the RX order for Nana to pick up the RX from the pharmacy. Both the note and the order were still sitting on the counter when I returned home Tuesday evening. Nana was still in her nightdress playing on the computer. "I was going to pick it up when I got dressed, and then never got dressed," she said. It's "incidents" like these that are hard to forget, to let go of, to not throw back in her face -- "You want to be in charge of your medicines, but you don't show you can handle that." Self-restraint to keep from saying these awful things is sometimes a daily practice.
These things I keep myself from saying, they're not bad in and of themselves. The things I try hard not to say, which are often true -- really it is what the words would do to her that is awful.
So, everyone, lift your drink and say a toast: To Self-Restraint!
Slow Fade
It seems strange how slowly childhood dies. Slowly it fades away. Deaths and changes all around. It all fades away like the color of a rug bleached in the sun over a long period of time.
Nana is no longer "Nana." She's still a person, a human being that matters, important, but my Nana too has faded away. And I'm not quite sure when it happened, when the last little bit left. I wasn't expecting it to happen so soon. Her memory is dying (deteriorating if you'd prefer a word less morbid), yes, but she still remembers who people are, still remembers where she lives and how to get home. But she -- who she was -- is gone from me.
And all I want to do is curl up in Abba's lap and have a good cry about it. I want to go to Nana and Grandpa's old house in Roanoke and sit in a chair, but the house isn't the same anymore. Or go to Sue's house and curl up in a bed and have a good long nap, but it isn't "mine" anymore.
Gone. All gone. Lost.
I cling desperately to every last memory and sensation, but it is gone. And can be no more.
I've thought often lately of Neil Diamond's song "I Am I Said." One line goes: "L.A.'s fine but it ain't home/ New York's home, but it ain't mine no more." Making that line my own, I could say, San Diego's fine, but it ain't home; Virginia's home, but it ain't mine no more.
Like the Duplicitous Forest, my childhood screams but is not heard -- waiting for the Messengers to come and tell the story true, I suppose.
I really must finish that story (cr "Heads or Tails" posts).
Sunday, March 16, 2014
One thing leads to another
I thought my passport was lost to the abyss that is my storage unit in Roanoke. I couldn't find it. This saddened me because it's slightly less of a hassle to renew a passport than applying for a new one. It saddened me mostly because it's my passport - I made it to the UK. Sentimental reasons, you know.
This week I read a Proverbs 31 devotion (http://proverbs31.org/
For several weeks now I've been thinking of dumping some things, but the idea remained a thought. Then I read this devotion and felt I should just do it. As God would have it, some people I knew in college are adopting (read their story here: http://weleftourheartsindrc.blogspot.com/) and to help raise funds are holding a garage sale; they're asking for donated items.
So Friday night before I went to bed, I asked God for the motivation and help to purge some things -- a very hard thing for me to do of my own volition.
I did pretty well. I boxed up (about two boxes) some movies I don't really want, including some boxed TV sets I'll probably never watch again (The OC and Felicity). I'm getting rid of some books I've read that I feel no need to keep. I didn't bother going through the clothes in my closet this time or some of the older boxes in the garage -- gave myself a break there.
I found a few things I'd been looking for too, things I knew were somewhere in the bottom of the those boxes in the garage that I couldn't bring myself to dig through -- my movie ticket "scrapbook" and my study abroad photo album. Finally found my copy of Lady in Waiting -- one of the gals in my Bible study has been waiting for someone to bring her a copy. And I pulled out Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows book to read. Also found the Part One movie version of this, which I thought was lost. Pulled out my old Britain and Ireland travel guide to look through as I'm planning a trip to London next late spring/early summer (anybody care to join me, seriously speaking?).
I felt pretty good about the amount of stuff in the give-away pile. Normally, as I told my Bible study gals, I attempt to purge and am very discouraged by the pitiful pile of "get rid" items. But I did well this time by God's grace. And it didn't take all day like usual either. Well, it kind of did, but only because I stopped for breaks -- you know to eat lunch and all. I watched This is 40, which really made me laugh despite the abundant overuse of the F-word. It also made me appreciate my dad more. Haha.
So, overall, a good purge day. I'm exhausted though. Overslept this morning for 9 AM church service; thought, I'll go to 10:45 service. Finally dragged myself out of bed into the shower. When I got out the clock said 10:47; so I guess going to church today is a bust. I'll do church at home today (i.e. find an online sermon). I decided I'd go to Starbucks for an hour of writing, which has become part of my Sunday routine.
As I was getting ready to go out, I picked up my old Britain and Ireland travel guide to take a look at the London neighborhood I want to explore next year, and there among the pages -- my passport.
This week I read a Proverbs 31 devotion (http://proverbs31.org/
For several weeks now I've been thinking of dumping some things, but the idea remained a thought. Then I read this devotion and felt I should just do it. As God would have it, some people I knew in college are adopting (read their story here: http://weleftourheartsindrc.blogspot.com/) and to help raise funds are holding a garage sale; they're asking for donated items.
So Friday night before I went to bed, I asked God for the motivation and help to purge some things -- a very hard thing for me to do of my own volition.
I did pretty well. I boxed up (about two boxes) some movies I don't really want, including some boxed TV sets I'll probably never watch again (The OC and Felicity). I'm getting rid of some books I've read that I feel no need to keep. I didn't bother going through the clothes in my closet this time or some of the older boxes in the garage -- gave myself a break there.
I found a few things I'd been looking for too, things I knew were somewhere in the bottom of the those boxes in the garage that I couldn't bring myself to dig through -- my movie ticket "scrapbook" and my study abroad photo album. Finally found my copy of Lady in Waiting -- one of the gals in my Bible study has been waiting for someone to bring her a copy. And I pulled out Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows book to read. Also found the Part One movie version of this, which I thought was lost. Pulled out my old Britain and Ireland travel guide to look through as I'm planning a trip to London next late spring/early summer (anybody care to join me, seriously speaking?).
I felt pretty good about the amount of stuff in the give-away pile. Normally, as I told my Bible study gals, I attempt to purge and am very discouraged by the pitiful pile of "get rid" items. But I did well this time by God's grace. And it didn't take all day like usual either. Well, it kind of did, but only because I stopped for breaks -- you know to eat lunch and all. I watched This is 40, which really made me laugh despite the abundant overuse of the F-word. It also made me appreciate my dad more. Haha.
So, overall, a good purge day. I'm exhausted though. Overslept this morning for 9 AM church service; thought, I'll go to 10:45 service. Finally dragged myself out of bed into the shower. When I got out the clock said 10:47; so I guess going to church today is a bust. I'll do church at home today (i.e. find an online sermon). I decided I'd go to Starbucks for an hour of writing, which has become part of my Sunday routine.
As I was getting ready to go out, I picked up my old Britain and Ireland travel guide to take a look at the London neighborhood I want to explore next year, and there among the pages -- my passport.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)