Cataracts

Those who know me pretty well, know that I love rafting. I love the thrill, the terror, and the slow, winding parts. I have several rafting stories, including one where a wave almost carried me away from my raft and down a series of rough rapids by myself. I was sixteen.

Since then, and because I love river rafting, I have thought a lot about the nature of fast running water. The best rivers have many cataracts. According to  my fat dictionary, (Webster's New Twentieth Century Dictionary of the English Language Unabridged, 1956) a cataract is "a great rail of water over a precipice; a cascade upon a great scale."

Rafters face cataracts regularly. These days, most rivers are well mapped, so a rafter knows what's coming, though they may not know how to negotiate it safely. Frequently, I would blissfully enjoy being tossed around in a river, then suddenly a hear a roar in the distance. The river was about to become much more dangerous than I had expected.

Then what do you do?

Call for a helicopter? Go back?

Many rivers – at least those worth rafting – flow through deep canyons where there are no roads, no cell phone reception, and no helicopter landing sites.

The only way through cataracts on a river is through them.

Another definition of cataracts is "in medicine and surgery, an opacity of the lens, or its capsule; a disorder of the eye, by which its pupil, which is usually black and transparent, becomes colored and opaque."

Cataracts – that opacity in our eyes – are a fact of life for the silvering crowd.

This month I had two cataract surgeries: one for the right eye, and a separate one for the left eye.

When I met with the surgeon, I asked what really causes cataracts. He said, "Aging."

"No, but really," I persisted. "Is it caused by high altitude? By less oxygen in the air? By genes?"

"Really," he persisted back, "it's caused by aging."

A quick look at Google shows me the truth. "The median age of a patient undergoing cataract surgery is now 65, … In 2004, the average age was around 73 to 75."

I presume that we are not getting this surgery at a younger age because of our bad behavior as youths, but rather because cataracts are being detected sooner, and people are agreeing to surgery more readily. Right now, the improvements in cataract surgery, like many things in medicine, are increasing phenomenally.

Good vision is vital to independent and healthy lives in our current 2020 times. We drive around complicated and heavy machines at very fast speeds every day. Many of us work at a computer station part of our day, which requires decent vision. Most of us use cell phones now, which use teeny, tiny writing to cram a lot of information onto a teeny, tiny screen.

About half of us in the retirement population will get cataracts, and most will get surgery to correct it. As I mentioned my surgery to friends,  acquaintances, and strangers on the street, I discovered that many had already had the surgery. They told me that colors would suddenly be vibrant again.

What they did not tell me – and I'm sharing today with the rest of you, you lucky saps – is the baby shampoo cleansing of your inner eyelids, the eye drops four times each day, the plastic shield over your eye at bedtime.

This surgery happens to a fragile and vitally necessary part of your body: your eyes!

The preparation and healing processes are intimidating.

Let's start with the baby shampoo.

My directions were to use a clean washcloth, dabbed with baby shampoo, to clean out the upper and lower inside lids of the eye facing surgery. Ouch! Doesn't that make you wince just to think about it? One of my friends, a very wise woman, said, "We spend all our lives trying to keep shampoo out of our eyes, now they want you to do that – on purpose?"

My partner graciously agreed to get the baby shampoo for me during a shopping trip. (He is the shopper in our family, not me. Gender confusion. Another blog post.) He couldn't find it in the shampoo aisle of the grocery store, and finally took the closest shampoo he could find – something for children -- up to the pharmacy. He explained that his wife was having cataract surgery and baby shampoo was, for some reason, required.

The pharmacist tried to explain where to find it, then finally took this silver-haired man across the store to – can you guess? – the baby aisle.

I'm not gonna lie to you. Poking my eye with baby shampoo stung! Sure it's "no tears", but it's not meant for direct application into the eyeball. At least on babies. On us, who are well past being babies, apparently it is.

This is when I started to regret my hasty decision to have this very ordinary surgery. I felt as though I was on a lovely, quiet raft trip – my life – and suddenly I could hear, in the distance, a deep roar. It wasn't the roar of a hundred helicopters coming to remove me from this ordeal, it was the roar of fast water falling over a precipice.

Yikes!

What was I doing?

Then come the eye drops. Suffice to say that the application of 3 eye drops takes me about 20 minutes, four times a day, and each eye has its own 30-day eye-drop chart. It's the type of project that people retire from: close attention to time, close attention to a chart (talk about paperwork!), and close attention to teeny, tiny instructions.

Nothing lasts forever; not cataracts on rivers, and not eye drops after cataract surgery.

Then there were the surgeries.

I'm not gonna lie –again! It was scary for me.

Being in the surgery center was like that first tip into the rough water. You can see what's coming, you may know what to expect, but no matter what, you're committed. Will ye, nill ye, you're going down that river, over that precipice.

As the days clicked by and the date of the second surgery loomed, I tried to think of ways to get off that river. Could I throw a terrible tantrum? Well, sure, but who would be the recipient? My husband? He had faced ignorance and shame in front of the pharmacist to get me that baby shampoo, so he was invested in this project moving forward. Maybe I could claim that I caught the flu. However, a quick glance at my medical chart would show that I had received the flu shot for this year. Maybe I could just stay in bed that day with the covers pulled up over my head. But that darn husband of mine was still present and still invested in my successfully completing this project.

The first surgery was nerve-wracking, the second just plain frightening. I knew what to expect, I knew the boulders lying deep under my raft, and I felt adrift.

Everyone at the surgery center was professional and kind. They even gave me extra anesthesia the second time. Thank goodness!

I'm two weeks past the first surgery, one week past the second. Colors are brighter, but then the whole world is much better looking. I can drive quite easily at night, not fearing that I will miss seeing a pedestrian. I need reading glasses to view teeny, tiny print, but not for watching TV.

I'll probably use reading glasses the rest of my life. Darn it! That's why I got lasik surgery all those years ago, to end my relationship with glasses.

I believe that good vision is a gift, and I'm glad I'm past the worst of the rapids and cataracts of cataract surgery.

Here is the third definition of cataract: "in mechanics, a hydraulic brake which regulates or modifies the action of pumping engines and other machines."

I know all those words, but the meaning … I am cross eyed.

When it's your turn for cataract surgery, I wish you confidence, great vision at the end, and excellent anesthesia.

What We're Coming To

With Martin Luther King Jr Day coming up next week, I wanted to write about a person who took a stand and made a difference.I wanted to write about a Japanese-American woman: Aiko Herzig Yoshinaga.

In her 50s, she began researching the internment camps where she and her family had been incarcerated during World War II.  When she passed away at 93, she had collected over 8,000 documents that filled countless file cabinets and a bathtub in her home. She had become a national expert on the topic, and, through her testimony to Congress, helped passed the 1988 Civil Liberties Act.

I am inspired by Yoshinaga's story because, 1) she started her project in her 50s and kept going (see my blog post Learning After 50, 9/4/19), 2) she was a woman who made a difference, and 3) through her efforts and out-spokeness – even though she was a victim -- she improved the accountability of our democracy.

However, Yoshinaga's story brings me home to the San Luis Valley where I live, and where there were no internment camps.

For many years my family has driven to New Mexico for the airport in Albuquerque, for shopping in Taos and Santa Fe, and to get through that state on our way to California and relatives there. We thought we were on Highway 285, but we always passed a sign that declared we were on the Ralph Carr Memorial Highway.

One day, we realized we had cell phones and, with the touch of a few buttons, we could finally answer that question: Who the heck is Ralph Carr and how did he get a chunk of highway named after him?

Ralph Carr was governor of Colorado  from 1939 to 1943, at the beginning of World War II.

He was Republican, and fought against Roosevelt's New Deal and unions.

However, he faced a crisis, along with all the Western governors, when the U. S. Congress passed legislation requiring all people of Japanese descent to be rounded up and sent away from our coasts to internment camps in the middle of the country.

Mr. Carr objected.

However, (Do you see a lot of howevers coming up around this guy?) he was not objecting, as his fellow Governors, to having Japanese people in his state. He objected to them being rounded up and incarcerated for no good reason. Turns out, he was a rabid anti-racist, maybe one of the first "antifa" in our state government.

Carr said, "An American citizen of Japanese descent has the same rights as any other citizen. ... If you harm them, you must first harm me. I was brought up in small towns where I knew the shame and dishonor of race hatred. I grew to despise it because it threatened [pointing to various audience members] the happiness of you and you and you." [Schrager, Adam. The Principled Politician: The Ralph Carr Story. Fulcrum Publishing; Golden, Colorado; 2008. Chapter 10: "Late March 1942," p. 193. As quoted in Wikipedia.]

Well.

Pretty strong words for a politician to his constituents. Here was a man, from the male majority, speaking up for "others" at risk of his own career.  

He lost the next election to a Democrat who wanted to use the National Guard to keep any Japanese- Americans from entering our state.

You can find a monument to Ralph Carr at the top of Kenosha Pass and others scattered around Denver, including Carr Street, which was near my own childhood home.

For his stand in defending Japanese-Americans during World War II when the Japanese were considered enemies of the U.S., Carr is still being honored in this state.

Now our family is pleased to travel the Ralph Carr Memorial Highway in honor of a principled man. We are pleased that the 1988 Civil Liberties Act resulted in reparations for survivors of the Japanese-American camps and an apology from President Ronald Reagan. 

We are hoping to see another chunk of highway named after Aiko Herzig Yoshinaga.

Through the efforts of Yoshinaga and Carr, this is what we are coming to: a more accountable, more just America.

Chickens in Winter

We are frequently asked how our chickens fare in wintertime. Today, I'll show you.

Last week I talked about the bleak mid-winter. Here is our place covered with snow. In the far left of this photo you'll see a vague outline of a long, brown building. That is the home of our chickens.

Their home is a combination of hen house and shed. For a creature that began its life on planet earth in the jungles of South-east Asia, chickens are extraordinarily adaptable. They now live in high mountain valleys, dry deserts, and the middle of cities. However, they must be cared for at this time of year, and they must be protected from predators year-round.

On the left, is a smaller building, the hen house. Our chickens roost there at night, and return to the nesting boxes to lay their eggs during the day. We had this hen house on our previous property and moved it when we moved. It is perfectly adapted for chickens.

 

 Our hen house has two sources of heat: an oil-filled radiator, and a hanging heat lamp. These keep the temperature at least above freezing during the nights.

On the right, is a long shed that already existed when we moved here. It had probably been a calving barn for the dairy cows who lived here in the 1930-1960s, and also provided shelter for sheep. Remarkably, it is completely encased in wire, making it very secure. Chickens can't leave unless we leave the door open, and predators, such a coyotes, can't get to the chickens – again, unless we leave the door open.

 

The shed, where our chickens spend most of their day, has only solar heat. It also has a small  metal trough in one corner for free-flowing water from our artesian well. This water is about 50 degrees, so it doesn't freeze as long as it runs. Thus, our chickens always have fresh water.

Chickens love to eat seeds, insects, grains, grass, and weeds such as Kosha. The sheds are clearly surrounded by snow right now, so chickens don't have access to their favorite treats. They must be fed every day.

 As you may have noticed, our chickens don't go walking across the snow.

Occasionally, they make an attempt to seek out green pastures, as this white and red chicken did.

These two chickens returned, but they crossed to the door of the shed on old pieces of lumber, balancing like kids crossing a dangerous bridge because they didn't want to step into the snow all around them.

So chickens can survive our winters with help, but they lay fewer eggs. Whether because of the shorter days or the cold, we don't know.

As I said, chickens have managed to spread all across the globe. But … does anyone know if there are chickens in Antarctica?

2020 Coffee Mug

"In the bleak mid-winter/ frosty wind made moan … " goes a popular song written by Christina Rossetti and set to music by Gustav Holst. It has been in my head as an earwig the last few weeks.

Here is mid-winter at my house.

Mid-winter is where we are right now, all we who reside on the northern half of planet Earth. In the U.S., we're just finishing up a time of festivities: Halloween, Thanksgiving, Winter Solstice, Ramadan/Christmas/Hanukah/Kwanzaa, and now New Year's Eve.

It's a time that inspires sitting quietly, clasping hot drinks in chilled hands, and wondering about the the future. I mentioned in last week's post that we have a wood stove in our home which we put into service this time of year. As I write this post, I sit beside it. The fire was started, not with newspapers, but with wrapping paper ripped apart joyfully the day before. Logs crackle and pop like random snare drum strikes, and the fire burns reassuringly with a low sustained bass tone.

I am a planner, so this time of year I decide what to tackle in the coming year. Rather than wait and wonder what will happen, I plan what to improve. It's the whole New Year's Resolutions routine. However, I have discovered that focusing on one improvement throughout the year means my resolution is more likely to be achieved.

And to help remind me of the one promise to myself, I adopt a coffee cup for the year.

Here are some past years' cups:

This is the first mug I ever chose. We had bought some land and were in the process of setting up a trailer there, complete with electricity and running water -- all that modern stuff. I was frustrated by the delays. This picture, with its Victorian house and holly garland on the fence, reassured me every day. We moved to our new home in November of that year.

I chose this mug the year I was going to finish editing my romance novel and get it published. That never happened, but it seemed I had a closer relationship with my husband by the end of that year. Hmm.

This mug was adopted the year I had a very stressful job and I was worried about the health of my heart. I had read that joy keeps hearts healthy, so I found this joyful heart cup to encourage laughter and gratitude in my life. In the autumn, we hired an assistant for me -- and her name was Joy. No kidding!

I love the act of choosing a cup for the year. It's a personal message to myself every day.

This year I have a writing goal I want to accomplish, but I don't know how it would look on  a cup. My goal is that every month I will create the basis of a story: storyboard with index cards, scene outlines, or first draft. Which story I work on and what action doesn't matter, just that I do this work on one of my stories every month. I've already planned for January: the scene outlines for The Fort Detroit Treasure, the third story in my Constitutional Convention Kids Mysteries series. I am curious and excited to see what I work on the other months of 2020.

But right now, how do I translate this plan for the year onto a coffee cup? Maybe a calendar cup? Something about "working drafts", maybe with the picture of a draft horse?

I am open to suggestions!

If you got a mug for your goal this year, what would it be?

Happy Bleak Mid-Winter and happy coffee mug shopping to you all!

Home Fires and Heart Fires

Outside temperature at my house yesterday: -25, warming up to -17.

It's cold here. Mighty cold!

So, as we do every winter when the arctic cold arrives, we started using our wood stove.

Sometimes I surprise people with my adeptness at starting fires and keeping them going. Maybe I look like a city gal. Anyway, what does that say about me, that I am a good fire starter? It says that every winter I work with fire.

I start fires with crunched newspapers, kindling, and matches. My spouse uses newspaper laid out flat, fuel oil, and matches. His fires start more consistently than mine. But I like the idea of kindling: little pieces of wood being used for a bigger purpose.

Once a fire is started, it requires tending.

This is a windy place, so most days, wind creates a strong draft, sucking on the wood in the stove. On these days, the wood burns quickly so new pieces must be added frequently.

Other days, the air outside is still, barely moving. These are more challenging days because there is very little draft for the stove. A fire just doesn't catch. No matter how much kindling or newspaper … no fire. More logs certainly don't help under these circumstances.

If I try to start a fire and put in too many logs, and then try to take a log out, it would probably be smoldering. Translate: dangerous. Where would I put a smoldering log outside the woodstove? It could burn any surface I set it on.

Even on a safe surface, there would be smoke filling up the house, setting off all the fire alarms, requiring that we open the windows. Then neighbors would see smoke billowing out of our house and call the fire department. Then firemen, in full, heavy gear, would drive up in noisy, alarming firetrucks and discover there was just a smoldering log in my house. Then they would put it back in the wood stove. Problem solved.

So best to keep the barely starting fire inside the stove.

Whether there is wind for a draft or not, fires require attention.

As the fire burns throughout the day, it must be fed more wood.

I have learned that most wood stoves do best with three logs burning at a time.

One log, by itself, either burns down quickly without providing much heat, or it doesn't burn at all.

Two logs provide more heat and will burn against each other merrily. Usually, however, they just smolder where they touch. I start my fires with two logs because I want room in the stove for kindling and newspaper. Once a fire is started, I add more logs.

Three logs is, in my experience, the perfect number in a wood stove. They rub against each other, keeping each other burning. They fill the stove without being cramped, which means the stove itself heats up and provides that ambient heat we wood stove lovers love so much.

More than three logs at a time can choke off the draft and the fire.

As you can see, wood stove fires require attention. They do not burn continuously by themselves.

When I am tending the fire in my wood stove, I often reflect on tending to people. Like single logs, people don't do well all by themselves. Literally, their hearts wane. Research is showing us that humans require other humans, regular connections, the face-to-face presence of loved ones.

But of course, get two people together and you risk getting sparks, smoldering looks, disagreements.

When a third person enters the mix, for good or bad reasons, much more happens. Often, fiery exchanges happen. And just as often, deep, heart-felt conversation happens.

These moments are healthy for us. We are herd animals, living most of our existence on this planet in tribes. Connecting with other people, face-to-face, like the logs in my stoves, creates a burn, a fire, a warmth. It warms our hearts.

This time of year can have an arctic effect on some people, chilling their bones and hearts.

If you know someone like this, consider ways to pay attention to them: give them a hand-written note, listen without speaking, seek shared humor, share warm cups of drink -- and chocolates.

Our hearts require tending. They require kindling—little appreciations being used for a greater purpose—drafts of fresh air, ideally outside of buildings, and face-to-face time with other people with with as little time limit as possible.

From my wood stove, my heart stove, to yours this wintry season — warmth and cheer.