Cone head is back

Jake was better over the weekend, thank you all for your kind wishes and comments. I took the cone off on Saturday, and he was one happy puppy chasing his ball and licking his wound. However, I put the cone back on him Sunday morning because it looked like pus was coming out of his scar. I sterilized some tongs, put some cotton balls in rubbing alcohol, picked them up with the tongs and very gingerly dabbed them on the scar for about one second before he reared his head in pain. It seemed to do the trick though. I kept the cone on him all today but then thought he might be OK to have it off again. After 20 minutes, I inspected the scar. Part of it was red-raw-looking so back on with the cone. I'm too chicken to try the rubbing alcohol again so I am taking him to the vet tomorrow and ordering a BiteNot collar as well. No more fooling around. He may not realize what an infection could do to him but I do.

Yesterday hubby and I spent quite a bit of time working in the garden, weeding, digging, cleaning up. Hubby said to me, "Don't do any heavy lifting or digging. I'll do it for you. Remember your back." Famous last words. As I struggled with digging up a kniphophia that had grown out of control, I felt my back go. I quickly went inside and did a bunch of exercises designed to stretch the lower back, but too late.

Of course, that made it even more difficult for me when I tried to coax Jake to climb up his ramp to get in the car today. I thought I'd take him for a walk somewhere different, but he didn't want to go. Eventually, I got him up, and I do believe he was quite pleased to have a change of scenery. Still, I struggled to get him back in the car again. Somehow, my phone managed to call hubby at work (he's still there; they just keep prolonging his agony by not releasing him) while this struggle was going on. He had quite a laugh listening to me try various methods to get Jake up the ramp. From "C'mon sweetheart" to "Jake! Get up the ramp now!" Imagine if this had happened in a different scenario! Wouldn't be so funny then.

I am trying to look on the bright side as much as possible. In the mornings I find myself waking up with damp eyes. These are tears escaping when I'm at my most vulnerable. I am going next week to my mother's for two weeks. She phoned Saturday night while I was out with my daughter at a dance competition (her team didn't win anything) and seemed a bit distraught. I called her back. Seems no one from Florida, not my brother, my sister, or her four children, can spare the time to go see my mother. So I am going. This will not be easy. I will fly from Manchester to Salt Lake City via Newark, spend the night, then drive five hours. It is a journey I have made every summer for many years now, but this will be the first time I do it on my own. This will not be cheap either. While hubby has a few job possibilities, nothing is definite. My mother sent my sister $1,000 recently to keep in case she or one of her children needed to fly out to my mother in an emergency. I don't know what's happened to the money. Maybe my sister doesn't think this is an emergency.

I'm actually disgusted with my sister. While my mother was hospitalized with atrial fibrillation, her heart rate went as high as 200 at one point. She said she thought she was going to die. My sister told her people don't die of atrial fibrillation. Well, I checked, and yes, they most certainly can die of that. They can also get embolisms from it. Since my mother's been home from the hospital, she's asked every one of my sister's children if they could come out and see her. Nope, not one of them can spare the time. My sister told my mother there are people in this world who are much worse off than her. I can't believe she was so heartless and unsympathetic. Since January my mother has had a biopsy on a lump on her breast, pneumonia, blood found in her stool, and atrial fibrillation. Her doctor took her off the medication she takes for her tremor (age-related, not Parkinson's) so she's shaking a lot. She feels very weak and obviously needs family around her to lift her spirits.

This means I will miss Jake's follow-up appointment with the surgeon. Hubby has not been to the referral center. I will have to show him how to get there before I go. I will have to give him a list of things to do and ask. I will have to get Jake used to the ramp again (I don't want hubby manhandling Jake). The house and people in it will cope while I am gone, but I bet the ironing will be left till I get home (and I hope it is because hubby hasn't a clue how to use a steam iron. Seems his mother still used the Victorian kind you heated on the fire).

I haven't felt this stressed in many years. Sunday morning after I discovered the pus on Jake's scar, I could feel the stress building inside me. The tight chest, the pins and needles feeling in my fingers, the tense muscles. My back went because I was doing heavy lifting, but it also went because that's what it does when I feel stressed. Which makes me even more stressed. I will get through all this. I hope my mother gets better and Jakey gets better and hubby gets another job and no more horrible things happen. But if they do I will have to cope because there's no other choice.

More on Jake

Jake is unusually quiet today. It could be something to do with the two visits to the vet yesterday. The first was necessitated by Jake deciding to dismantle his cone and remove his stitches himself. Since they were due out today anyway, it was no harm done.

He loves the vet, who spoils him rotten with lots of treats. He loves the vet so much he didn't want to go home. No, he wouldn't walk up the ridulously expensive ramp I bought when I learned he had hip dysplasia. No, he wouldn't go near the car, but edged back towards the surgery door and lay down. A man and his daughter came out to help me. The man offered to lift Jake in, but I am a bit wary of Jake with men at the moment. On Monday he bit hubby's hand. He saw a boy playing football during a walk and wanted to join in. Hubby wanted to take him home. I wasn't there, but I believe there was a bit of a standoff, then a bit of a biteoff. When he got home, Jake tried to go for me as I was adjusting his collar. I let him know in no uncertain terms that that was unacceptable behaviour and he could forget about growling at me. He was very contrite after that, as if to say, "I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me."

Anyway, back to yesterday, I managed to lift him into the car (no small feat because I now have rotator cuff impingement syndrome). When we got home, he wouldn't go inside so I took him for a walk (which is what he wanted all along anyway). As usual, he set off at a brisk pace, tail wagging, head bobbing, cone dragging. His friend Meg, another border collie, wasn't hanging over the wall of her garden as she does at times. So we walked over the railway tracks and along the path at the back. Everything was fine and dandy till another dog off the lead came running at Jake. His tail wasn't wagging and I wasn't sure he'd be friendly. Jake is still tender where the surgery was. I tried to steer Jake away but the other dog kept following and sniffing at his wound. I called to the owner to please come get her dog. I wasn't sure if Jake would take offense and go for the other dog or not. And my experience of dogs off leads coming up to dogs on leads isn't good. Anyway, the owner eventually showed up and called her dog away.

We continued till Jake was ready to turn around. He stopped several times to rest. I am used to this now and just wait till he's ready to go again. When we got to the railway tracks, he decided to sit down again. I don't like to stop on railway tracks so I pulled him till he got up to walk again. Back past Meg's, who still wasn't out, then on home. When he got inside, I noticed blood on the floor. A quick check (because he growled) revealed the blood was coming from one of Jake's front paws. I phoned the vet, who suggested coming down again in an hour. So I lifted him back into the car, drove to the vet's, then Jake ate several biscuits while the vet examined his paw. He's scraped one of the pads.

Back home. Jake refused to go inside so we went for another walk. No limping of any sort. Just the usual rest stops on the way home.

But this morning he is unusually subdued. Normally, he'd be walking up to his lead, letting me know it was time for a walk. But he is ensconced on his bed, resting. Perhaps the paw is hurting quite a bit now. I'll let him rest. When he's ready, he'll let me know.

The good news is the cone comes off tomorrow. The vet asked why I didn't get one of the Bitenot collars (as recommended by Laurie). I had looked them up on the internet and didn't think they'd be available over here as all the distributors appear to be in the U.S. But our vet has them, and I will order one for the next hip operation.

I feel like a new, inexperienced mother who calls the doctor every time her baby is off her food. Our vet is a lovely man who doesn't charge me half the time I go in (yesterday's two visits only cost £8). I just hope my baby feels better soon.

It's Been A Long Time

I've been feeling nostalgic of late. It could be because of my mother's ill health. It could also be because I've been watching a TV series called Mad Men, about men who worked in advertising on Madison Avenue in the 60s.

This series -- set in 1960, the year I was born -- amazes and amuses me with its attention to detail. The hair, the clothes, the cars, the kitchens, even the pillowcases on the kids' beds all take me back to my childhood. It highlights the racism, anti-Semitism, and sexism that was rife in those days, and you just know there's going to be a bra burning once the secretaries and housewives take off their girdles.

Barack Obama's beautifully eloquent speech about racism also has made me think about the 60s, or my experience of the 60s.

The Florida I was born into in 1960 was a different place to the Florida of today, or even the Florida of 1970. In 1960 air conditioning was still a luxury. Schools were still segregated. There were still separate drinking fountains for white and black people, separate restrooms, separate entrances to the big department store downtown, separate beaches, separate motels. The only black people I came into close contact with were the maids who worked in my and other people's homes and our mailman.

This is how cocooned I was: I didn't even know about the 1967 race riots in Tampa till I was an adult. Tampa was no stranger to racial and cultural diversity. There was a strong Cuban/Hispanic community that had been there a long time, brought to Florida by the cigar trade. More Cubans moved there in 1959/60 after the Batista regime was overthrown by Fidel Castro.

In my previous post I mentioned neighbors who were Cuban. This was not usual. Though there was a sizeable Cuban/Hispanic population, they tended to live in another part of town. Tampa was a sleepy port town that saw ships come from all over the world to fill up with phosphate and to bring bananas and other goods. Still, it was Southern at its core, with all the good and bad connotations that has. Country clubs excluded blacks as members (though quite happily employed them) and only one allowed Jews. Business and society were run by an old-boy network of Southern "gentlemen," who every year would dress up as pirates for the Gasparilla Day celebrations and parade drunkenly through town. Their daughters would be elected to the various society "courts," their wives would belong to the Garden Club or Women's Club or Junior League. Their sons would join something called Merrymakers.

They were polite and friendly yet somehow aloof to the outsiders who had moved to their town as it grew explosively in the 50s and 60s. They knew their place in the world, and they knew everyone else's as well.

How did all these different cultures rub together then? Well, not too well in some cases. Take our Cuban/Spanish neighbors as an example. From them I learned the hierarchy of the Hispanic world. Those born in Spain were at the top, those born in Cuba further down, how far down depending on the color of their skin. Dark-skinned Cubans were much further down the totem pole than light-skinned Cubans. Jews were below Cubans, and blacks were at the bottom.

Still, racism wasn't just in the South. When we visited my grandparents in Wyoming in the summer, I learned about a different kind of racism -- against Native Americans, or Indians as they were called then. My grandpa, whom I loved dearly, nevertheless had some less than complimentary things to say about members of the local tribe.

The Civil Rights Act, desegregation, Martin Luther King, Lyndon Johnson all changed the Tampa of the 1960s. I remember distinctly the first time I ever saw a mixed-race couple -- in 1970 in downtown Tampa across the street from the movie theater I was about to go into. Yes, I turned and stared. The woman was blonde and wore a poncho, the man had a medium-size Afro. That I remember that much detail all these years later says a lot.

I enjoy Mad Men, though it also makes me cringe. I know what comes later. I know most of those couples will divorce, the men may die of heart attacks brought on by too many cigarettes and too much booze. Blacks and Jews will not only move into their offices, but will be their bosses. The women will discover careers. Their daughters will be the first Super Women to have it all, and their granddaughters will be the first to realize they can't have it all.

The 60s were a great decade for change. The Tampa I visit today is barely recognizable as the one I grew up in. Those society barons have died out and their children displaced by a new influx of powerful residents.

It all looks so easy from here, but it must have been such a great struggle to make people change back then. I don't think that struggle should ever be taken for granted.

This Old House

I've moved a lot in my lifetime. Actually, I moved 16 times between the ages of 15 and 32. Before 15 I lived in the same house. After 32 I've moved twice.

Some of these moves were during college years, to various apartments and dorms with various roommates.

Only a few of these homes or places to lay my head at night stand out in my mind now.

One of course was my childhood home, a ranch-style Florida house built in the 50s on land reclaimed from McKay Bay. It wasn't particularly remarkable architecturally or design wise. But when I was young I loved it. On one side till I was about 7 was a vacant lot where all the neighborhood kids would play baseball. On the other side were our long-time neighbors, a Cuban/Spanish couple and their three children.

In 1965 my parents renovated our three-bedroom home to create a fourth bedroom out of what was the carport. The carport was moved to the back, to keep my dad's boat company. What back yard there had been was obliterated by this decision. Why a couple with three kids would get rid of their back yard is beyond me. But that's my parents for you. Before that, my dad had built a fort for my brother in the back yard. The neighborhood kids liked to come over and jump off the roof. One, a particularly obnoxious piece of work, broke his ankle and my dad had to drive him the half block home.





If I had been born 5 or 10 years earlier, I would have had my pick of playmates in the neighborhood. There were loads of kids my brother's and sister's ages, but only one boy down the street was my age. He'd moved over from Cuba with his three sisters and parents. He was the youngest and the only boy in his family and I hated his guts. I don't think he liked me too much either, particularly after I got him in trouble when I sprayed with the hose a couple driving past in their convertible MG. I ran inside and he got the blame.

My parents' best friends lived across the street from us for a while. They had an adopted son who was the most popular boy in the neighborhood. He died tragically when he fell from a horse. His parents moved to an apartment after that and used to have me stay for weekends. I hoped they'd adopt me but instead they adopted another little girl. A couple with a handicapped child moved in after that. He was a captain in the Air Force and away in Viet Nam a lot. He scared me to bits because he threatened to kill my cat.

At the end of our road was Mrs. B's house. She had a Lassie dog named Duke that she used to take for a walk past our house each evening after supper. She usually was accompanied by Nana, our babysitter, and her poodle. Nana lived across from Mrs. B with her daughter, a divorcee, and her two grandsons. Once one of the grandsons babysat me. I remember running my fingers through his Brylcreemed hair.

Next door to Nana lived Mr. R. and his second wife, their daughter, and their poodle named Pierre, who would never come inside when called. Their daughter also babysat me from time to time. She always had candy in her purse, which she would share with my brother and me. Her hair was naturally frizzy but I remember she used to iron it to straighten it. Mr. R. and his three children (two from the first marriage) all had first names beginning with R.

Behind us lived another divorced mother with four wayward teen-agers. The house and the kids always looked unkempt, and I think that house saw a lot of hard times. Maybe our neighborhood was ahead of the times, but it seemed there were a lot of single moms living there. Another woman down the block also was divorced. All the local dads were tcared to death of her. Although at the time I didn't quite understand why, I knew her purple bedroom had something to do with it.

A retired couple built a house on the vacant lot next door when I was 7. I thought it was the most beautiful house with the most beautiful garden. When they were out, I used to sneak through the hedge just to look at the flowers. I remember pansies of all colors and a brick path but not much else.

My world was a happy and content one till I was 7. The weekly highlights were fried chicken on Sundays and the ice cream man at 6 p.m. during the summer. I'm trying to remember a room or corner that was my favorite in that house, but I don't think I had one. But so much was just familiar. I knew every inch of the lawn and where I could walk barefoot and not get sandspurs stuck in my feet. We had a gravel driveway and I could tell what kind of mood my dad was in by the way he drove in. Slow and steady meant he was feeling mellow. Fast and sharp meant get out of his way. My mother never ever figured this out.

This house saw a family fall apart, drip by drip at first, then a steady trickle, and then a final flood that washed away what remained. I moved out when I was 15 after my mother attempted suicide one time too many. Although I visited at weekends and my sister and her husband and child moved in, my mother couldn't stand the memories. Her sister persuaded her to move to California so she sold the house at a loss and had a garage sale to get rid of more memories. Our neighbors, the Cuban/Spanish couple and their three children, swooped like vultures on the remnants of our family life, buying my dad's pink martini glasses, my parents' linen tablecloths and candle holders that had been wedding presents, and some of my old books and toys. I refused to emerge from the house during this rape of my childhood.

For many, many years, I couldn't bear to go back, but last summer I did. With my husband and two children in the car, I showed them my childhood. The house has changed greatly. Some owners along the way added another story, rendering it unrecognizable.

I was glad.

So many posts to write, so little time.

Meanwhile, here is the ongoing saga with my mother. She was hospitalized a week ago with pneumonia. While she was there, they found blood in her stool. So she'll have to have a colonostomy soon. She went home Saturday, but yesterday morning was taken back in to the emergency room with chest pains. She was admitted to the ICU, where she apparently had a bad night with an up-and-down heart rate. They want to run tests to see if she's had a heart attack or something else.

And I sit here 6,000 miles away, feeling helpless and guilty that my stepfather's daughter is having to look after my mother. While my mother was in the hospital, my stepfather had three falls, including one in the shower. He said he felt an explosion in his head.

This is not something I ever thought about when I moved to this country.

My Baby's Back

The Wound:



The Cone:



Jakey's feeling very sorry for himself because he does NOT like the cone and he doesn't understand why he has to wear it. I've taken him for two walks so far. The vet said only 10 minutes, but he's only lasting 5 before he starts sitting down. I guess it's gently does it. I can already see the difference on his right side.

Every Mother's Nightmare

This is what my lovely daughter looks like today. OK, I have my days too. BUT... OK, she's probably got PMS. BUT...

She nearly had me in tears tonight with a tirade about how I favour her brother over her. I am feeling a bit fragile, gentle readers. My mother is in the hospital, I discovered when I got home from taking Jake to his hospital. She has pneumonia apparently. So I am quite worried about her, as you might expect. Hubby called to say he's lost his debit card and could I check Sainsbury's to see if it's there. So I walked to Sainsbury's (I'd been in the car for hours already). Nope, and if it were it would have been shredded. I'm worried about Jake too. Apparently, he got through the operation OK. I'm waiting for a phone call from the surgeon. And Hubby had a job interview today.

So I need my gorgeous daughter to cut me some slack. She has not. I'd offered to take her shopping on Thursday but she declined. So I decided I'll go to the gym instead for some much-needed stress relief. Well, her plans changed so she expects me to change mine. I'm not changing my plans.

I laughed at her tirade but inside I was thinking "Shut the fuck up before I slap you."

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Now, I must ask all you clever people how you manage to link back to previous posts with one colourful word in your text. Can you tell me how to do it? I'm not all that computer-literate, or blog-literate.