Author Archives: kzmclain

Saint of the Day

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Now that the mystery of my knee pain has been solved and I know that chopping off my right leg is not in my near future, I can move on to other news in my health world. Because you see, when you reach the age of 65, physical ailments drive your life.

A few weeks ago, I had what I’m certain was a bowel obstruction. For reasons that wouldn’t nearly satisfy my (or any) doctor, I didn’t go to the hospital while suffering the stomach pain. I meant to. I planned to, in fact. Bill knew that I was having stomach pain, but I told him to try to get a few hours of sleep before we head to the ER. We went to bed around 10:15; he slept while I watched the time pass on my digital clock. My plan was to let him sleep as long as I could. So at 12:15, I thought, “I will give him another hour.” At 1:15, I did the same. And so on. Finally, around 4, my issue resolved itself and I felt fine. Par for the course; it comes quickly and resolves just as quickly.

Anyway, as the hours ticked away, I googled patron saint of bowel issues. While I had been praying like mad to God, I didn’t figure it would do any harm to ask the patron saint to weigh in as well. To my surprise and delight, the patron saint of bowel issues is St. Bonaventure.

Why the surprise and delight, you might ask? Because St. Bonaventure Church is where I was baptized, made my first communion and confession, was confirmed, and went to Mass every Sunday for the first 18 years of my life. What’s more, I attended St. Bon’s grade school from Kindergarten to 6th grade.

The next day, I went online and ordered a St. Bonaventure medal…..

…..and I wear it every day. It reminds me throughout the day to say, St. Bonaventure, pray for me.

So then I began wondering who was the patron saint of knee issues. I googled it, and learned that the patron saint of knee pain is St. Roch. St. Roch, like St. Bonaventure, was a Franciscan priest. Let’s give it up to Franciscan saints. My early spirituality was shaped by Franciscan priests. (As an aside, St. Roch is also the patron saint of dogs. I don’t know if there is a connection. Perhaps a lot of knee injuries come from people tripping over their dog’s leash.)

Anyway, I considered (and still am considering) buying a St. Roch medal to wear on the same chain as my St. Bonaventure medal. However, I began to think about all of my ailments, all of which have patron saints. St. Alphonsus Ligouri: arthritis; St. Servatius: ankle pain; St. Lucy: cataracts; St. Theresa of Avila: headaches; St. Gemma Galgoni: back pain. The list goes on.

It finally occurred to me that if I start wearing medals for all of my ailments, my load would be so heavy, I would be in danger of a posture resembling a right angle. There used to be a man who would walk around our Denver neighborhood completely bent over. I always assumed he had a back deformity or severe arthritis. Maybe he was just wearing a lot of medals.

St. Anthony (patron saint of lost items) has always been my go-to. Well, Anthony, move over. There’s a new kid in town.

Patience is a Virtue

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Last Thursday, I left you all on the edge of your seats awaiting with baited breath to find out the results of my MRI, which was scheduled to be done tomorrow. As I indicated, the prospects of what could be wrong with my knee was weighing heavily on me, the glass being half empty and all.

On Friday, sometime around 10, I got a phone call from SimonMed, the imaging place that was going to do my MRI. If you can get here by 11, we can get you in for a 11:15 appointment to do the MRI today. Hallelujah! I had no sooner hung up when my phone rang again. It was my orthopedic doctor’s office. We can give you the results of your MRI at a 1 o’clock appointment today, they said. Hallelujah, once again! All of that meant that I wasn’t going to have to spend the weekend worrying about my health prospects.

I grabbed Bill by the shirt sleeve and dragged him to the car to head to SimonMed. The office that could do the MRI was located a half hour from my house. I probably drove by six or seven other SimonMeds to get to the one that could fit me in at 11, but never mind that. A weekend of no stewing about my health.

I have had many kinds of tests and procedures in my life, but I have never had an MRI. The PA in the doctor’s office had assured me that I wasn’t going to be completely enclosed, that, in fact, my head would be sticking out. That was good news as closed spaces and I don’t get along very well.

Soon I was in the imaging room with my leg situated such that it couldn’t possibly move even if I tried. The woman who got me situated was uncharacteristically unpleasant. I say uncharacteristically because my experience with the many, many, many CT scans I have undergone to diagnose my bowel obstructions have all been positive. Well, as positive as you can be when you are being stuck into a cylinder in which you will be shot with massive amounts of radiation. But the technicians have always been kind. This woman was not kind. She was crabby. I did manage to get her to growl out a 15 minutes in response to my question about how long it would take.

And so the procedure began. There was no clock to check how much time was passing. So I decided to say a rosary. No beads, of course, but I can count to 10. I chose to say a rosary because it would distract me from the incredible noise that the radio waves make (ear plugs they give you barely make a dent); it also would help me keep track of time because it takes me almost exactly 10 minutes to say a rosary. Believe me, I have said plenty in my life and I know this to be true.

After I finished the rosary, I still had five or so minutes to kill. My mind drifted to all of the episodes of House I had watched in my lifetime. It was always while Dr. House’s patients were having the MRI that all hell broke loose. Blood gushing from their ears. Eyeballs exploding. Seizures, always seizures.

Just in time to prevent a complete panic attack, the surly technician came in to free my leg, and sent me rushing off to the orthopedic doctor’s office to learn the results.

The MRI showed that I have no life-threatening ailment with my knee. I have an inflammation in the calf muscle that goes up to my knee and separates into two around the knee cap. A muscle strain, treated by just exactly what I’ve been doing: ice and heat, compression, ibuprofen, and patience.

And so, I simply need to be patient. It will be, my friends, a work in progress, and patience isn’t my strong suit, I’m afraid.

 

Friday Book Whimsy: My Dear Hamilton

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Probably inspired by the wildly popular musical Hamilton, the novel My Dear Hamilton by Stephanie Dray and Laura Kamoie tells the story of controversial United States statesman and founding father Alexander Hamilton through the eyes of his wife Eliza Schuyler Hamilton.

I love to learn history via novels. It is always so much more real to me, and therefore I remember everything so much more easily. It is always necessary to keep the fact that it is a novel in mind so that you don’t assume that every teeny tiny part of the story is true. Eliza Schuyler, for example, simply couldn’t have been as perfect as the story lets on.

Eliza Schuyler was defined by the men in her life. She is the daughter of a strong general who fought in the Revolutionary War. From him she learned to be a patriot, to think for herself, and to do what it takes to help fight for the nation’s independence.

She marries handsome Alexander Hamilton, and then spends the rest of her marriage as his soundboard and his helpmate. Well, except for the times when he was having affairs.

The authors might have spent a bit too much time talking about Alexander Hamilton for a novel that purports to tell the story of Eliza Schuyler Hamilton. Still, I learned a lot about the early days of the nation’s history, about the creation of the Federalist Papers, and Hamilton’s role.

The pivotal story of Hamilton’s life, of course, is the duel  against Aaron Burr, a duel that he unfortunately lost. The truth about whether or not he wanted to duel, and whether or not he fired a shot remains to be seen. Even in this novel, while he told his wife he didn’t fire a shot, she doubts the truth of his statement.

It’s a good story, if a bit long. Quite a bit too long, in fact. I found myself doing a lot of skimming as the story went on and on. Still, it was a fascinating time in our nation’s history, and seeing the story from a woman’s view is a welcome change of pace.

Here is a link to the book.

Thursday Thoughts: Happy Valentines Day

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Sweethearts Day
Nana’s Whimsies wants to take this opportunity to wish everybody a wonderful Valentine’s Day. This is the extent that I went to with my celebrating, thanks to the handiwork of my sister-in-law Sami…..

Having a Good Time
If you are a faithful reader, you know that I have been struggling with pain behind my knee since December. You know because I have been whining nonstop about it. I have had numerous doctors’ visits. One doctor told me it was a Baker’s cyst; another said a meniscus tear; still another said it was neither of those, but didn’t really offer any alternative diagnoses and suggested using ibuprofen faithfully for a week. I went back earlier this week, because the knee still hurts. So they are sending me for a diagnostic MRI which will answer the looming question: What the hell is the matter with my knee? I am scheduled on Tuesday around noon. Say a prayer for me. In my own inimitable style, I am expecting the worst!

The Coyote’s After You
Every morning about the same time, a roadrunner runs past the two windows on the fence down the side of our house. It then makes a right turn, and runs down fence in the back of our yard. He rarely misses a morning. The bird always makes me laugh. My not-so-stellar photographic proof…..

I was telling my brother the story about my roadrunner’s visit, and he told me about a friend of his who grew up elsewhere but moved to this area a while back. Apparently he was somewhere with someone, and that someone said, “Look! There’s a roadrunner behind you.” The man turned around to see the roadrunner. He admitted to my brother that he full-out expected to see a six-foot purple bird instead of the two-foot bird that stood there. Because CARTOON! Perhaps he was also looking for Wile E. Coyote…..

Oh, So Cute
Facebook users know that many mornings when you open up your Facebook page, you are greeted with a photo from one year ago that very day, or two years ago, or three or four or five. The other day I was greeted with a photo of Kaiya and Mylee from seven years ago at my house playing with (shock) Play Doh. My shock was seeing how little they were…..

Kiss and hug on your kids and grandkids when they’re young, because they grow up before you know it!

Du, Du Liegst Mir im Herzen
Bill and I invited Bec to dine with us at the German restaurant, and she was happy to join us. We had delicious food, as usual (Bec and Bill each had Jager Schniztel while I went with bratwurst). And, as usual, the accordian player provided background music. It never fails to make us nostalgic, recalling both Gramps and Dad playing the accordion when they would wake up from their afternoon naps. Du, du liegst mir im herzen, indeed.

Ciao.

 

Wild, Wild Horses

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Childhood living is easy to do.
The things you wanted I bought them for you.
Graceless lady you know who I am.
You know I can’t let you slide through my hands.
Wild horses couldn’t drag me away.
Wild, wild horses couldn’t drag me away. – Rolling Stones

Our grandson Cole perfectly depicts the way I felt yesterday afternoon…..

Nobody can express themselves quite like a 4-year-old, am I wrong? He was mad about getting his hair cut. As for my pouty mood, I was mad because once again, Bill and I were unable to spot a single wild horse. I would post a photo of the way I looked yesterday afternoon, but it wouldn’t be nearly as comical.

There are wild horses that gallop free as the wind in an area of the Tonto National Forest some 20 miles north of the front door of our AZ home. People flock to see these beautiful wild creatures. Purportedly, this year — because of the cool and wet winter we are experiencing in the Sonoran Desert area — these horses are plentiful, well-fed, and easy to spot from the side of the road.

Unless you’re Bill and me. Because despite the fact that most people who travel to see the horses are nearly tripping on them as they gallop by while the visitors stand on the side of the road, we only hear crickets chirping. Seriously. No horses. Only smiling picnickers as they toss their empty paper plates into the trash, reminiscing cheerfully about the herd of horses that galloped by a mere 25 minutes ago.

I wouldn’t be so dismayed except for the fact that it isn’t the first time Bill and I have tried to see the wild horses. About a year ago, Bill and I set out to find the horses that everyone-but we see. This is as close as we got that time…..

Yesterday we didn’t even get that close. We never even saw the horse poop!

We have friends who see the horses every time they drive up north on a horse-finding expedition. They send me photos…..

It’s true. A stallion, a mare, and two colts. I kid you not. Yesterday these four rascals must have gone to Grandma Wild Horse’s house because they were nowhere to be found on a lovely AZ winter’s day by we two horse-seekers.

Oh, and this one…..

“Well, hi there Guys!” they appear to be saying. “Would you like to get a bit closer so that you can rub our snouts and maybe feed us apples?”

Alas, we failed this day, but I’m not giving up. Bill and I will lick our wounds and then try once again. Maybe this time we will bring along a few critical essentials. Like our lucky horses-spotting friends.

Painting the Town Red

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For this past Christmas, Allen and Emma gave Bill and me a wonderful gift of two tickets to see The Jersey Boys at the Phoenix Theater Company in downtown Phoenix. The gift was wonderful for a couple of reasons: First, neither Bill nor I had ever seen the play. (Yes, we are those last two people who hadn’t attended a single showing of this wonderful musical gem.) Second, it motivated us to pull up our big girl and boy panties and shorts and venture out of our safe surroundings into downtown Phoenix, a mecca of fun that we have barely dipped a toe into (God bless mixed metaphors!).

The performance was Tuesday, so a week ago yesterday, I began perusing dining spots for us that were near the theater. Since I don’t know downtown very well (well, not at all), I couldn’t begin to guess what kind of area it was and what sorts of eating places were offered in walking distance from the theater (since we planned to take Lyft or Uber).

I searched and searched, and what kept showing up was a restaurant called Durant’s Steakhouse, about a half mile north of the theater. It was advertised as an old-school steak house. I do love me an old-school steakhouse. It particularly touted its desserts and its martinis. Well, something for everyone, or at least something for Bill and me. So I made reservations, and only worried a teeny-tiny bit about the fact that I couldn’t find anything online that showed prices.

That evening, our Lyft driver dropped us off at the valet stand by the door, and drove off. We peeked inside and noticed it was the door to the kitchen. So we waitetd for the valet to return, and asked him how we entered the restaurant.

“Right through this door,” he said with a smile.

Sure enough, in order to get to the restaurant, you had to walk through the kitchen. Now, while that might be a bit baffling to some, I LOVED IT! There is almost nothing I like better than to see a busy restaurant kitchen at work. I love it so much, in fact, that one time when I made reservations for our board of directors to eat at a fancy restaurant in Washington, D.C., I made the choice reservation to eat at the table located right in the kitchen. I don’t know what the board members thought, but Bec (my guest) and I were happy campers of the highest order.

Anyway, Bill and I checked in and were taken to our table. The room, my friends, was large and red. Red, red, red, red. Red damask wall covering, red leather booths. Gleaming chandeliers and sparkling glasses and dishes and flatware. It was lovely to behold, if very red. So red, in fact, that it was impossible to take a photo that didn’t make Bill look, well, red…..

The waiters wore old-school black with long white aprons, and notably, all were in their late 40s or older. We asked our server how long she had worked at Durants, and she said she was one of the newer employees with a tenure of only 16 years.

Durants, according to our server, opened its doors in 1950, and it was mobsters who requested the rear entrance. They didn’t want their enemies to see them come and go. No one looked like a mobster the night we dined.

We started with a little relish plate like you should if a restaurant calls itself Old School. And we finished with a piece of chocolate cake, because how can you call it a dinner out if it doesn’t end in chocolate?

The menu was expensive, no question. The fact that entrees came with soup or salad and a potato made it less painful, and the fact that the place was so much fun, and the food was so delicious, made it a night to remember. This helped…..

And see? Even the martini looks redish.

Nobody’s Perfect

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When our eldest granddaughter Addie — who is now only a bit over a month shy of 16 (and how on earth did THAT happen?) — was 5 years old or so, I was picking her up from school to take her to her piano lesson. I picked her up every Thursday, and she always emerged with a smile on her face. But one day, I could see immediately when she walked out the door that something was amiss. The second she spotted me, she burst into tears.

I got a red light, she told me, sobbing. In her hand she clutched a red piece of paper.

I knew what that meant. Her teacher handed out “lights” at the end of the day: green if you had been good, yellow if there were problems but they had been addressed, and red, well, you know. Addie was not used to getting anything but green lights.

For the life of me, I can’t recall why she got a red light. But I quickly comforted her, telling her that we all had days that were more difficult than others and that tomorrow would be a much better day. (I, of course, was thinking: that teacher is a complete monster and Addie was undoubtedly FRAMED by a jealous 5-year-old juvenile delinquent.)

The truth is, even if Addie was guilty of some sort of 5-year-old version of naughtiness, I loved her with all my heart, as I do all of my grandkids. None is perfect, and I love them all despite any flaws. Most grandparents (and parents) feel exactly the same.

Knowing this reality, why is it then so hard to understand that God loves us — his own children — even when we turn our backs on what we KNOW is good and neglect to follow the two simple laws Jesus himself gave us: love God and love one another like we love ourselves.

It is good to remind ourselves that when it was time for Jesus to select his apostles — those men who became his closest friends and who would carry on his teaching after he left — he didn’t pick men who were important muckety-mucks in the Jewish community or who were wealthy sports figures who wore fancy Gucci running robes and expensive Michael Jordan running sandals.

Nope, he selected a frankly rag-tag group of men who were so poor that they mended their fishing nets instead of buying new nets. They were tax collectors and fishermen and I’m pretty sure John never even had a job before he met Jesus. Just sayin’.

And heaven knows they weren’t perfect. They sinned again and again. They doubted and they questioned and they didn’t even begin to understand what Jesus was telling them until long after he had died and risen.

Jesus loves those kinds of people. Instead of ignoring them, he made them fishers of men. And he preached what his Father taught: He loves us even when we aren’t perfect.

Though I still believe Addie was innocent. Look at that 5-year-old face…..

This post linked to the GRAND Social

Friday Book Whimsy: Watching You

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Before sitting down to write this review, I tried to think how to describe Watching You, the newest novel from author Lisa Jewell. I finally decided it’s like eating some kind of complex meal in which the flavors combine to create something wonderful and oh-so-satisfying.

Tom Fitzwilliams is a handsome and charismatic educator who has traveled from school to school, “fixing” them. He is successful, the husband of a beautiful young wife and the father of a gifted — if voyeuristic — young son.

But there is something a bit off about Fitzwilliams, starting with an interaction 10 years earlier with a mother who attacked him, shouting that viva was her life, her everything. Who or what is viva?

The novel includes a variety of characters, including recently-married Joey, who moves to the neighborhood to live with her brother, but is immediately obsessed with their neighbor Tom. There is Tom’s son Freddie, who sits in the window and watches everything that goes on in the neighborhood, and knows there is something a bit off about his father. Nicola, Tom’s adoring wife; Bess and Jenna, two high school students, one of whom is infatuated with the teacher, the other of whom distrusts him from the get-go.

The author doles out the information piece by piece, little by little. The reader knows from the beginning that a murder has taken place. What we don’t learn until the end is just who was murdered, and why. And, of course, the name of the murderer.

I loved this novel from beginning to end. I read it in a day-and-a-half, and was satisfied with how the novel wrapped up.

Great read!

Here is a link to the book.