Post-Op

       Sung to the tune of, “It was fascination. . . .”

     It was constipation, I know.  That’s what made my poor belly grow. . . .

     To put things into perspective, when you are worried about constipation, you are not worried about other things, such as pain or infection.  Constipation has been the result of every surgery I have ever had.  It happened again.

      So far, the post-op has been eat, sleep, visit the terlet.  Some of the challenges:  getting out of bed.  That hurts, Babbitt.  I have to pick my leg up and  hold it up as I roll over and sit up.  I have been pushing fluids to try to loosen things up, so I have to get out of bed two or three times at night.

      Getting my support hose on and off.  I still have trouble reaching my toes.  I have to wear the socks for two weeks to help stave off blood clots.  The socks run from my toes to my crotch.   After eight to ten hours, they have worn out their welcome.

     Negotiating the shower.  The caution besides blood clots is falling—Don’t fall!  I feel most vulnerable in the shower, wet feet, wet deck.  So far, so good, however.  The wound is covered with a plastic bandage that has a water-tight seal.  I protect it as well as I can.

      I have a nearly constant companion—an ice bag.  I carry it wherever I go.  When I am sitting, it rests between the waste band and the top of my trouser leg.  In bed, it leans over against my thigh or sits on top of my thigh.  It feels good and so far, I have no swelling to speak of.

      I have a check up two weeks after surgery.  At that point, I can stop wearing the hose and the doctor is supposed to remove the bandage.

      When I went in for my pre-op with the doctor, I saw all these guys in pajama bottoms cruising along the hallway with their walkers, proud as they could be.  I said, “That’s the first time in my life I ever envied a guy in pajama bottoms using a walker.”  My turn is coming.

      Independence.  I have independence wandering about the house.  I don’t do so well when it comes to cooking.  I can’t carry much and handle the walker, too.  The bread machine is out of the question.

      I moved things I thought of, such as shaver and toothbrush, favorite bathroom magazine (to an upstairs bathroom), walker (to the garage where I could get a hold of it when I returned from the hospital).  But I forgot some of life’s essentials.

      Like my beer supply.  I am cut off.  The cold ones are in the garage refrigerator (2 steps down), the not-so-cold ones in the basement (12 steps down). My carrying capacity is much diminished.  I am totally dependent on help to indulge that habit.  Dependence.

           I was able to step out (and down 2 steps) to get the newspaper the last couple of mornings, and today, I kerchunk-clunked with the walker all the way to the mail box and back.  I am progressing. 

     Now I look for ways to keep boredom away as the healing progresses.

         My new hip, an X-ray taken while I was still unconscious in the OR.  I think I will set the bells clanging when I step through a metal detector from here on out. 

    

Pre-Op

       There I am with a Q-Tip on progesterone stuck up my nose.

      Around me, other folks sit in cars waiting their turn.  Walking among the cars, moon-walkers in spacesuits wield the overgrown Q-Tips.  Once the Q-Tip has been withdrawn from its 20-second journey up both nostrils, it is placed in a sealable bag and the moonwalker carries it back to the building housing the lab.

     Still other workers in civilian dress, carrying clipboards and wearing masks, interview drivers waiting in line through the open window.  When the interview is completed, the clipboard bearer pins a sticky note on the windshield.

     Soon, yet another worker brings out a label and checks with the driver with a sticky note on his windshield to be sure the information is correct. If the label passes inspection, it is place under the windshield wiper.

     The drivers who have had their fix of coke, or whatever is on the Q-Tips, moves on and the line of cars inches forward.  The patient drivers have waited in line for over an hour when they reach this point.  What could be on those Q-Tips to entice folks to sit in line for over an hour in order to get it?

       Had I drawn this picture a year ago, I would be credited with a piece of science fiction.  Today, ho hum, it’s daily reality.   Anyone headed for the OR has to take a COVID test before being admitted to the hospital.

       My journey to the hour-long line began in January when I could only reach my right foot to dry my toes after a shower, or to tie the laces on the shoe of my right foot, with difficulty.  I had pain in right hip and knee, too.  My personal physician, who serves as a traffic cop directing me to this specialist and that specialist, sent me first for an X-ray and then to a sports doctor.

    The sports specialist's verdict: arthritis.   He gave me four alternatives:  exercise, physical therapy, steroid injections, or hip replacement surgery.  He said, ultimately, hip replacement was THE answer.  I tried the first two alternatives with mixed results. I really didn’t care for the third option.

  Answering my request, the sports doctor recommended a surgeon to me.  It took two or three weeks to get in to see the surgeon.  After consulting with him, I was placed in another waiting line, this time waiting for the doctor and the hospital’s availability.

     About two weeks ago, I went in for my pre-op meeting, where I took an EKG and a blood test.  I also  received a packet of information delineating many do’s and don’ts. The hospital would call me sometime next week, which proved to be Monday, one week ahead of the surgery date.

     Much of what I heard from the hospital repeated what I heard at the pre-op meeting, but I also had to schedule a date to get my COVID test.  Go between 9 and 10 a.m. I was instructed.  That time is reserved for pre-op patients.

      I had already scheduled the final meeting before surgery with the physical therapist at 8:15 on that date, so once I was done with the PT, I headed immediately to the lab thinking to get there right at 9.  Actually, I was early, arriving at 8:55.

       Only to find a string of cars waiting in line.  I pulled up behind the last car which was sitting in an intersection.  After I had sat there for about five minutes, three or four more cars pulled in behind me.  A guy came walking along and asked me to park on the adjacent street at a right angle with the string of cars.  He had the other cars behind me follow, so we had a string of cars heading north, and a string of cars heading west, all waiting in line for the COVID test.

       Yet another man went down the line checking with every driver to be sure that we all were in the correct line.  Nine to ten was supposedly reserved for patients with instructions from their doctor to do the test before being admitted to a hospital or clinic for some procedure, including surgery.  A car or two pulled out of the line and went away.  Oh, wrong line!

     I turned the corner and moved up.  After about twenty minutes, I advanced far enough to see a sign along the curb that said, “About an hour wait from this point.”  It was fairly accurate, too.  In about an hour, I had reached the point where the traffic was divided into two lanes. 

     A masked clipboard bearer approached me and took all my information, including picture ID, and insurance cards I had at the ready according to my hospital instructions.  I inched forward another car length or two.  A masked young lady came with a printed label which together we inspected to be sure I was the right person and the information was all correct.  She placed the label under the windshield wiper and I inched forward some more.

     Then it was my turn.  A moon walker approached and took the label from under the wiper blade.  I rolled down the window and removed my mask.  The rather petite lady occupying the space costume asked me to replace the mask, just over my mouth, as I might cough during the swab.           

     After the mask was in place, I looked up as instructed, and in went the swab.  She twirled it as she verbally counted to ten.  She removed the swab and told me that when I was ready, we would do the other nostril.  I was ready, and into the other nostril went the swab, and the verbal ten count was repeated.

      The swab went into a plastic bag and was sealed.  The lady wished me good day and headed for the lab with my swab.  I rolled up the window and departed.  In the distance. I could see the line of cars waiting.

     (I now am in a position to understand why the granddaughter, who had to take a swab test twice last March, first at the urgent care place and then again at the emergency room where they sent her, balked at going to the ER a second time.  "My nose is clean.  I don't have any boogers," she cried.  Yes, I understand. Unfortunately, her tests were flu tests.  They did not have a COVID test yet at that time.)

     Later, the lab report on my health online account stated that my swab was taken at 10:08 a.m.  I had been there an hour and fifteen minutes.  Not too bad, considering the number of tests they had taken in that time.  My test was negative.

      I slightly violated the instructions to self-quarantine after the COVID test by going to Lowe’s for some screws to complete a fence repair my neighbor and I had started last week.  Otherwise, I have been a good boy.

     On Friday, the hospital called to say surgery was still scheduled for Monday, but that could change if there was a surge of COVID patients admitted to the hospital over the weekend.  The lady said she would call me on Sunday to tell me for sure if the surgery was cancelled or still on.

     It’s Sunday, and I await the call.

     “It’s a strange, strange world we live in Master Jack.”

     

 

Another Letter to the Editor

       Two articles in the Friday October 30^th paper (Reporter Herald) both make the same point:  we are a ways away from replacing fossil fuels with clean solar, wind, and hydro energy.

       The editorial from The Dallas Morning News takes a look at the future of transportation and electricity generation and opines that natural gas will still be a major player in the energy industry come 2050.

    According to the frontpage article by John Fryar, the Platte River Power Authority has come to the same conclusion, at least for 2030.  Skeptics have warned for years that solar and wind energy cannot cover all the power needs of the nation.  There are times when the sun doesn’t shine and the wind doesn’t blow.

     The hang up for clean energy is an efficient battery that can store excess power to use in no-wind and no-sun situations.  Some attempts to store excess energy include using the excess  electricity to pump water uphill and letting the water flow downhill to turn a generator when the power is needed.  Another uses excess power to turn an air compressor which becomes an air-powered motor used to turn a generator when the process is reversed.

     Denmark, the world leader in wind energy, is now experimenting with using excess power to extract nitrogen from the atmosphere.  The nitrogen, in the form of ammonia, fertilizes crops in the fields.  The plants produce oxygen, which helps to offset the CO2 produced by natural gas used to produce power when “clean” sources cannot meet demand.

       American farmers have used ammonia for decades to fertilize crops, but that ammonia is a product of petroleum.  Denmark’s “green” ammonia eliminates the use of petroleum and the CO2 associated with its production.

      Production of “green” ammonia is nearing economic feasibility.  In conjunction with the production of ammonia, Denmark researchers are working on a practical method of using excess power to produce hydrogen and oxygen from water.  The hydrogen can be used to replace fossil fuels for power generation or transportation, and using hydrogen as a fuel doesn’t produce CO2.

     Until such processes prove themselves practical, economical, and efficient, natural gas will have to fill the power gaps.  The road to 100% clean energy may not follow the map we have charted.  There may be detours and dead ends.

       The greenies will have to console themselves with the fact that burning natural gas is much cleaner than burning coal, and that the CO2 produced by using natural gas can be offset by other methods of producing oxygen. 

      Meanwhile, more power to those striving to find a clean, efficient, light-weight battery that will make electrical transportation practical.

         

       

 

Where There’s Smoke . . .

      It looked like this on Labor Day weekend.

      That’s the sun, not the moon.  Underfoot, it looked like this.

     Ash whirled into piles like swirling leaves or drifting skiff of powder snow.  Then the rain and the snow really did come.

      Maybe it would be over!  But, no.  Things flared up again and took a big jump this past week.

 

      The story isn’t over.  Two hundred thousand acres are now on fire or already burned.  A big snow would help, but even when the fire is finally extinguished, there will be repercussions, not just for those poor souls who have lost property, but for all of us who have had a steady diet of smoke to inhale.

     2020 rages on.

       Robert Burns gets the final word, as he addresses a mouse whose “house” has been destroyed by Burns’ plow:

“The present only toucheth thee:

 But och! I backward cast my e'e,

 On prospects drear!

 An' forward, tho' I canna see,

 I guess an' fear!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                         

Cellar Door Project

       The cellar door project began maybe in 2018?  Mice in the basement always brings the problem to top priority.  (https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/7358692302968743913/1273023153080464776

     I had made repairs to the door before and had staved off the tide of unwanted furry rodents.  Replacing the old siding opened gaps over the cellar door.  They boys took off two layers of siding, the vinyl, then the old wood siding that went on when the house was built.  They put back one layer of siding.  There was a gap.

     Mice, like water, always find the way.  Water has to follow the laws of gravity.  Not mice.  They can crawl, jump, survive falls.  If there is a way in, they find it.

         I had made some repairs to the door.  I beefed up the rotted lower end in the spring of 2019.

      One day last spring (2020), the grandchildren and I were in the basement looking for something, ball bats and gloves? One of them pointed out a dead mouse in a trap.  It was time.

     I knew the door had to be rebuilt.  I had bought treated lumber to replace the framework probably two years ago.  It lay in the garage in a stack low enough that an automobile could drive over it and not snag it.  I had the frame planned out.  It was just a matter of getting to the job.

     What to use for the door?  I have been contemplating that for a couple of years.  My preferred method would have been to cover the four-foot opening with a chunk of boiler plate or other metal thick enough to bear two or three hundred pounds and skip the wooden door.

      The metal was available at a steep price and the shipping more than doubled that.  I settled for a 4 X8 sheet of plywood.  (The photographer forgot to snap a shot of the door without the covering.)

    Then the problem was, what to cover the raw plywood with.  I followed several leads trying to track down some sheet metal that was over four feet wide.  I thought I had found it a roofing company.  We even ordered it. 

     Two days later, the salesman who placed the order called and said he could get nothing wider than four feet.  Well, actually 46 inches, he said.  That won’t work.  The door itself is four feet wide.  Add 2X4 frame on either side of the door and four feet is over  six inches short.  He cancelled the order for me.

       Ultimately, I  fell back on my roofing experience.  Two sheets of roofing metal would easily cover the doorway, with a big overlap to discourage any moisture entering.  That is what I did.

     We have been mouse-free for a couple of months.  The new plywood got a little wet in the Labor Day storm with the old sheet metal covering it.  Mother Nature hasn’t blessed us with the chance to test the moisture resistance of the new roof covering the new plywood.  I guess she figures if I could put things off for a couple of years, why can’t she? 

Drilling Wheat

       Riff raff.  Trash.  No, not another political add.

      This trash is debris left over from the 2019 wheat crop--stubble, straw.

 

     It was a dry year, but we did have a half an inch of rain plus the snow that came with the cold on Labor Day weekend.  We had a similar Lavor Day snow and cold front in 1959. 

      The storekeeper in Genoa kept a farm in Washington County a good twenty miles north.  He had a new tractor hitched to drills, still trying to plant wheat (Labor Day was considered late planting in those days when everyone planted in August).  Marvin trekked out in heavy wet snow to drain the water out of his new tractor lest it freeze and crack the block.

     One of the wettest years in memory, ’59 and ’60, followed that early snow.  It seemed it snowed every Friday of football season.  I don’t think we have to worry about that this year.

     But the 2020 Labor Day storm did provide enough moisture to get wheat up, maybe.  The problem was that with the dry summer, I didn’t have to “work” the wheat ground much, only twice by September.  That’s good for the fuel bill, but not so good as far as preparing a good seed bed.

     I could have drilled into the twice-worked ground, except for the trash on top of the ground.  There weren’t any serious weed problems—wild purslane which will finish dying with the next hard freeze, and a few sprigs of volunteer wheat.

      I took the drills for a dry run to see if there was a chance of getting through the trash.  In a hundred yards, I plugged up three or four times. “Plugged up”—the drill acts like a hay rake, the straw catches in the drill shanks and forces the drill shovels out the ground.   Scratch that idea.

     Eventually, I broke out the oneway disk.  It turns the soil over, which buries some of the trash.  The downside is, it turns up damp soil, moisture, which dries out. 

     I drilled the third week of September.  All the signs were right.  The moon was in the waxing stage, good for above ground and cereal crops.  It had cooled off a lot.  And the neighbors all around me were planting.

       I plugged up a few times, but nothing to worry about.  A three-tined hayfork soon removed the straw.  The important thing is to stop and clean out the straw before dirt starts building up in front to the straw.

     I finished planting on September 25.  Some wheat is trying to come to life.

     It is hard to see any wheat in all the trash.  Will it make it?  It’s not up to me now.  I have cast the dice.  Nothing to do now but sit back and try not to worry about things I can’t control.  So goes farming.

     Sure could use a good rain.

2020 Blight Continues

      “And the beat goes on.”  I apologize.  It’s human nature to focus on the negative, and ignore the positive. 

     Something positive must have happened in 2020.  The negative jumps out and kidnaps the attention.

      Valentine cards inviting folks to celebrate our 50^th wedding anniversary on March 21 went out.  Plans rolled along.  About March 14, the great Covid-19 shutdown began.  March 21 was our first casualty.  Cancellation notices went out.

      From July of 2019 to July of 2020, we had about 3 inches of moisture from snow skiffs and scattered showers. The dearth not only affected crops. It has been a struggle to keep trees alive.  I lost nearly a dozen, including four about 10 years old. 

 

    

  I have hauled water to the surviving trees on a weekly basis.  Usually, I would have planted replacements, but not this year.  It would be a horrible year to try to start a tree.

     A good year for millers.

 

        I don’t think the hedge enjoyed 2020, but I can’t exactly blame that on 2020.  It could have been worse.  I could have had a forest fire at the farm, instead of in the Rockies.

             Ash from forest fires deposited on the sidewalk by the breeze.

     The relief from heat, smoke, and drought came as a mixed blessing.  It rained, yay! And snowed, and temperatures plunged.  My poor garden!  I was “out of town” on Tuesday, the day it got below freezing.

 I covered it on Wednesday to protect what was left from promised freezing temperatures.  I’m not sure I saved anything.

 

 

      We will have some tomatoes, a pumpkin or two, and maybe a cantaloupe!

 

    2020 is only three quarters done,  We still have the fall season, Thanksgiving and Christmas to deal with, not to mention a national election.

     Hibernation, anyone?