first the good news
This morning I'm going to suit myself, use a font with a lower case "g" and lower case "l" that I like, and let my mind wander a bit. If it turns out too long, the good news is that you don't have to read it.
Sixty-two years ago today Linda and I were married in Holy Nativity Episcopal Church, where we and our families had already been members two years, coming over as founders from StAndrews Episcopal Church, where we grew up and started dating. We married soon after I graduated from UnivFlorida. Actually, I pressed Linda into marrying right then because I knew that once I sailed away into Navy life, her mother would resume her campaign to find Linda a nice Alabama boy to marry, Roll Tide, preferably a young doctor from Birmingham or a young lawyer or banker! Which Linda denies, but I was there, watching. Father David Damon officiated our wedding and was a beloved friend before, then, and forever after.
Within ten days of our wedding, I left for USNavy Officer Candidate School in Newport, Rhode Island, and our life adventure began. We have lived in Rhode Island, Georgia, where Malinda was born. Virginia, where I had that first sea duty, a destroyer that I loved and that moved me to decide to transfer from USNR to USN and stay in the Navy. Florida, where Joe was born. Michigan, Japan, WashingtonDC, Rhode Island again, California. Ohio, where Tass was born. WashingtonDC again. Pennsylvania, where I retired and simultaneously had my own business, taught graduate courses as adjunct professor at the University of West Florida for five or six years, and went to theological seminary at Gettysburg, then was ordained Episcopal deacon and priest. Clergy collar round neck, finally back home to Florida and my vow never again to live north of US98 or out of sight and smell of the salt sea.
With the coming of Hurricane Michael, we have lived in two motels in Pensacola, in three motels in Panama City Beach, in two sections of a motel in South Walton County, and now in Panama City Beach. Our own 7H may be habitable sometime in July or August, if not, we are good until.
The two of us are having a private dinner out this evening, a place Linda selects, maybe a restaurant that serves locally caught seafood from the Gulf of Mexico. At any event, for this auspicious occasion, not Golden Corral, but which we both like for lunch now and then because of the chicken livers.
Breakfast today, shared: thick slice of that New Orleans bread, smeared with avocado oil, toasted, and with a puddle of avocado oil to dip the toast strips in. Coffee, water. Handful of pills. I never took a pill until 2010 when I was 75 and had the heart issue, now a passel of pills twice a day. At 75 I promised Linda I'd live to 85, and she's making sure by delivering the pills morning and evening. Now, nine years later, she wants me to promise 90. I make no promises.
++++++++
Yesterday was exhausting. Mentally, emotionally, which resulted in physically. Several weeks ago we went with Malinda, as her neurosurgeon and later her neurologist urged, for a four hour test given by a clinic in Niceville that primarily diagnoses and treats children and young people with brain damage caused by any reason. They also take adults. The test is both oral and written, but mainly oral, questions, answers, discussion. It reveals.
I mean, it really reveals. The doctor opened our session saying, "I hate to be the bearer of bad news". And it was but will be helpful to us from now on. Malinda's brain issues, the May 2018 burst aneurysm, the fact that it bled into her brain for some 26 hours before Ray found her, the resulting blindness in her right eye, the midnight ambulance ride to Sacred Heart Pensacola, the first, emergency, brain surgery to stop the bleeding, the second brain surgery a couple weeks later to tie off that burst aneurysm, the weeks in the ICU, the several months watching and waiting for the the right time for the next step.
The third brain surgery to tie off the second aneurysm, watching her start speech aphasia the night after that, garbled speech, the rushing for emergency brain scan, locating a stroke deep in her brain and resulting damage from that. Unimaginable category 5 Hurricane Michael while we were in the ICU with her, watching on my laptop as HMichael made landfall, realizing with horror, but not yet fully, what that meantfor Bay County, the experience of Malinda having her house unexpectedly destroyed while she was away, and when the neurologist said it was the time when she most needed stability in life. Her escaping from the second motel in Pensacola and our searching for her. The chaos of relocation, three motels in Bay County, two locations for several months at a fourth motel in Walton County. Now permanence at the new house and home in Panama City Beach.
But the results of the four hour test. Her short term memory was destroyed. Adjacent or close in the brain, her ability to learn and know new things was destroyed. The part of the brain involving emotions, and ability to react to situations with joy was badly damaged. Thankfully, her left eye is fine. She can and does read. Doesn't necessarily recall what she's read, but can read and enjoy what she's reading. But she knows all of us, and our relationships, and is generally as kind and pleasant as we've known her for sixty-one years now, albeit totally muted in enthusiasm. Is physically okay and can take care of her own personal needs. Already a reserved person, she is content to stay in her room all the time, needs encouragement to get her to come out for family meals. Can take her own meds, but requires oversight. Cannot live alone ever again, but remembers that living alone is what she likes best and constantly asking why she cannot. Asks the same questions constantly, within minutes. Easily frustrated. Expect mood swings. Expect to see and know a different person. The changes are permanent: do not expect again to see the Malinda we knew for six decades.
Yesterday, fifteen minutes into the seventy minute meeting with the doctor, my urge to rush from the room so nobody would see me breakdown was almost overwhelming. But there were few surprises, nearly everything the test revealed and the doctor analyzed and diagnosed and reported to us, we have been living with since last year, 2018, first May and then October. The bad news, as the doctor put it to us yesterday, is that this is the way it's going to be, the damage is not reversible and will not heal itself, and therapy can help only as hope to keep her where she is and not deteriorating. And/or, the doctor said, group therapy for us: support groups for family members who are helpers and caregivers. I mean, this isn't as one expects, anticipates, plans for one's octogenarian years.
For myself, I can and am disappearing into my new book.
The anniversary is good. My update on Malinda this morning is not a whine by any means, simply an update and so that you know and kindly do not ask me face to face how she is or how she is doing, nor tell me face to face how sorry and sad you are that it's this way. As beloved friend Bill Lloyd answered me when I'd ask him how he was doing and feeling about the deadly glioma, he'd shrug and say "It is what it is." And "Every day is a beautiful day." Let's just go with that.
Hearts and XXXs and OOOs.
Top pic: Waiting at TDB, one of many places of the heart.
T
Sixty-two years ago today Linda and I were married in Holy Nativity Episcopal Church, where we and our families had already been members two years, coming over as founders from StAndrews Episcopal Church, where we grew up and started dating. We married soon after I graduated from UnivFlorida. Actually, I pressed Linda into marrying right then because I knew that once I sailed away into Navy life, her mother would resume her campaign to find Linda a nice Alabama boy to marry, Roll Tide, preferably a young doctor from Birmingham or a young lawyer or banker! Which Linda denies, but I was there, watching. Father David Damon officiated our wedding and was a beloved friend before, then, and forever after.
Within ten days of our wedding, I left for USNavy Officer Candidate School in Newport, Rhode Island, and our life adventure began. We have lived in Rhode Island, Georgia, where Malinda was born. Virginia, where I had that first sea duty, a destroyer that I loved and that moved me to decide to transfer from USNR to USN and stay in the Navy. Florida, where Joe was born. Michigan, Japan, WashingtonDC, Rhode Island again, California. Ohio, where Tass was born. WashingtonDC again. Pennsylvania, where I retired and simultaneously had my own business, taught graduate courses as adjunct professor at the University of West Florida for five or six years, and went to theological seminary at Gettysburg, then was ordained Episcopal deacon and priest. Clergy collar round neck, finally back home to Florida and my vow never again to live north of US98 or out of sight and smell of the salt sea.
With the coming of Hurricane Michael, we have lived in two motels in Pensacola, in three motels in Panama City Beach, in two sections of a motel in South Walton County, and now in Panama City Beach. Our own 7H may be habitable sometime in July or August, if not, we are good until.
The two of us are having a private dinner out this evening, a place Linda selects, maybe a restaurant that serves locally caught seafood from the Gulf of Mexico. At any event, for this auspicious occasion, not Golden Corral, but which we both like for lunch now and then because of the chicken livers.
Breakfast today, shared: thick slice of that New Orleans bread, smeared with avocado oil, toasted, and with a puddle of avocado oil to dip the toast strips in. Coffee, water. Handful of pills. I never took a pill until 2010 when I was 75 and had the heart issue, now a passel of pills twice a day. At 75 I promised Linda I'd live to 85, and she's making sure by delivering the pills morning and evening. Now, nine years later, she wants me to promise 90. I make no promises.
++++++++
Yesterday was exhausting. Mentally, emotionally, which resulted in physically. Several weeks ago we went with Malinda, as her neurosurgeon and later her neurologist urged, for a four hour test given by a clinic in Niceville that primarily diagnoses and treats children and young people with brain damage caused by any reason. They also take adults. The test is both oral and written, but mainly oral, questions, answers, discussion. It reveals.
I mean, it really reveals. The doctor opened our session saying, "I hate to be the bearer of bad news". And it was but will be helpful to us from now on. Malinda's brain issues, the May 2018 burst aneurysm, the fact that it bled into her brain for some 26 hours before Ray found her, the resulting blindness in her right eye, the midnight ambulance ride to Sacred Heart Pensacola, the first, emergency, brain surgery to stop the bleeding, the second brain surgery a couple weeks later to tie off that burst aneurysm, the weeks in the ICU, the several months watching and waiting for the the right time for the next step.
The third brain surgery to tie off the second aneurysm, watching her start speech aphasia the night after that, garbled speech, the rushing for emergency brain scan, locating a stroke deep in her brain and resulting damage from that. Unimaginable category 5 Hurricane Michael while we were in the ICU with her, watching on my laptop as HMichael made landfall, realizing with horror, but not yet fully, what that meantfor Bay County, the experience of Malinda having her house unexpectedly destroyed while she was away, and when the neurologist said it was the time when she most needed stability in life. Her escaping from the second motel in Pensacola and our searching for her. The chaos of relocation, three motels in Bay County, two locations for several months at a fourth motel in Walton County. Now permanence at the new house and home in Panama City Beach.
But the results of the four hour test. Her short term memory was destroyed. Adjacent or close in the brain, her ability to learn and know new things was destroyed. The part of the brain involving emotions, and ability to react to situations with joy was badly damaged. Thankfully, her left eye is fine. She can and does read. Doesn't necessarily recall what she's read, but can read and enjoy what she's reading. But she knows all of us, and our relationships, and is generally as kind and pleasant as we've known her for sixty-one years now, albeit totally muted in enthusiasm. Is physically okay and can take care of her own personal needs. Already a reserved person, she is content to stay in her room all the time, needs encouragement to get her to come out for family meals. Can take her own meds, but requires oversight. Cannot live alone ever again, but remembers that living alone is what she likes best and constantly asking why she cannot. Asks the same questions constantly, within minutes. Easily frustrated. Expect mood swings. Expect to see and know a different person. The changes are permanent: do not expect again to see the Malinda we knew for six decades.
Yesterday, fifteen minutes into the seventy minute meeting with the doctor, my urge to rush from the room so nobody would see me breakdown was almost overwhelming. But there were few surprises, nearly everything the test revealed and the doctor analyzed and diagnosed and reported to us, we have been living with since last year, 2018, first May and then October. The bad news, as the doctor put it to us yesterday, is that this is the way it's going to be, the damage is not reversible and will not heal itself, and therapy can help only as hope to keep her where she is and not deteriorating. And/or, the doctor said, group therapy for us: support groups for family members who are helpers and caregivers. I mean, this isn't as one expects, anticipates, plans for one's octogenarian years.
For myself, I can and am disappearing into my new book.
The anniversary is good. My update on Malinda this morning is not a whine by any means, simply an update and so that you know and kindly do not ask me face to face how she is or how she is doing, nor tell me face to face how sorry and sad you are that it's this way. As beloved friend Bill Lloyd answered me when I'd ask him how he was doing and feeling about the deadly glioma, he'd shrug and say "It is what it is." And "Every day is a beautiful day." Let's just go with that.
Hearts and XXXs and OOOs.
Top pic: Waiting at TDB, one of many places of the heart.
T