Rumble… Rumble… Roar… Crash… is accompanied by noticeable shaking of the house.
Hubby appears in the bathroom door, “Did you hear that noise? I wonder what that was?”
It is dark outside, so it is hard to see anything. Hubby dons his shoes and disappears out into the blackness. I am wondering if there has been an explosion or fire at one of the neighbors. He soon comes back in to report that it is much simpler than that. The temperature has been above freezing for the last few days and there has been a huge snow slide off of our new steel roof on the back side of the house.
The next morning, I am awakened around 6 a.m. to the same deafening noise again. My heart is pounding at breakneck speed as it attempts to prepare me to flee this terrifying event. Sleep has also fled away. As I peer out into the filtering light of day, there is a huge pile of snow on the deck and on the ground behind the house but nothing serious seems to be wrong – just another snow slide. Then I notice a strange sight. Small pieces of grated metal stick out of the snow at various angles. I soon identify them as the leaf guard sections that we had installed last fall on our eves during the installation of the roof. Well that lasted all of two months.
We have had eves on the house for most of the 23 years we have lived here. As the trees have matured around the house, plugged eves has become more of a problem. Last year, some well-developed trees sprouted high in the sky. The eves on the back side of the house are about 30 feet above the ground so cleaning them is a bit of a challenge. Standing on a ladder on the deck and shoving a garden hose down the length of the eves seemed to provide the most efficient means of cleaning. But there is always a hang up at the downspout. Of course, we had heard of leaf guards and decided that maybe this would be the perfect solutions to our problem. And why not have them installed while having a new roof put on. Problem solved, right?
Our winter came early this year. By early November, zero temperatures and a five-inch snow fall had arrived. A few weeks later, we had a weekend where it alternated between rain and snow for several days. It was just warm enough to produce rain intermingled with the snow. I noticed while looking out our large back window that the snow was melting into the eves just enough to freeze at night intertwined with the grating on the leaf guards. Then one day, I notice that the eve had stretched outward so that it was no longer U shaped but more of an L. Finally, the snow load must have provided enough pressure that it came crashing down, tearing off most of the entrapped leaf guards. I pick up the pieces and slam them on the stone walk to loosen all the ice pieces. With sadness, I dropped them into a garbage bag. I would say this experiment was a failure.
“I hope they didn’t cost very much,” remarks Hubby.
I don’t know and I don’t think I want to know. In the spring, I think the next project is to take the eves off completely and let the water run.
“Major snowstorm coming in for the holiday week with 5-9” of snow possible from Tuesday afternoon through Wednesday followed by 35-45 mile per hour winds,” emphasizes the meteorologist during the Monday evening weather forecast. I groan. I must work two days this week and one of them is to be Wednesday. I am not looking forward to trying to traverse a blizzard whipped road to meet my work obligation. I just hope that Thanksgiving is nice as I am looking forward to having our daughter and her husband join us for the holiday. They have a four-hour drive from Ames, Iowa.
Tuesday dawns with a dark curtain hanging low over the land. However, the temperature is mild, rising into the forties and the wind is calm. This depressing atmosphere pervades throughout the day, but no raindrops or snowflakes fall from the pregnant clouds. Only a few snowflakes have fallen by the time the earth circles into the darker darkness of night. Maybe the weatherman will be wrong.
“I’m going to go take my shower,” I inform my husband around 9:15 Tuesday evening. Soon I am basking in the warm pleasant water of the shower, scrubbing the suds of the soap bar into all the cracks and crevices. Without warning, I am thrown into complete darkness. Great! Just great! Maybe it will come back on again.
“You are going to run out of water if you keep letting it run,” comes a voice from the doorway.
“Well, yeah! But I am not going to stand here with soap all over me.” I turn off the water and stumble out of the shower groping for a towel in the blackness.
“I didn’t think it was that bad outside that the power should go out.” I comment to my husband, “Could you start the generator for a while?”
“I’m going as soon as I can find a flashlight,” his voice recedes into the murky hole of the stairwell.
Soon there is a roar from the garage and a flood of bright light from the kitchen indicates we are generating limited electricity. At least, the water pump will run and I can finish my shower. But now what do we do? It’s too early to go to bed. A few extension cords are pulled from the drawer and strung so we can view the weather on TV. Still, the power has not been restored.
“Should we leave the generator run and go to bed,” questions my hubby. “I really don’t like to leave the generator run while we are sleeping.”
“Let’s just turn it off. It’s not that cold out and we can snuggle together in bed.”
But I am reminded as we settle into bed that my bed warmer needs electricity, our Sleep Number bed is hard too. It can’t adjust without power, and Hubby’s CPAP mask doesn’t operate on air either. Ughhhh… I lay there listening to the snores beside me with eyes wide open. There is not going to be any sleep for me tonight. I have just started to doze off when I am startled awake by the overhead bedroom light glaring in our face. The power is back on.
The next day, we learn that the power outage was the result of a local crop farmer who was headed home from last minute corn harvesting. The steep hill a mile from our house had become layered with fresh ice and snow causing his large John Deere combine to slide off the road and snap a power pole in two.
I am feeling exhausted when I climb out of bed the next morning from the events of the previous night. About 8” of new snow greets me when I peek out the front door. To top off the situation, the wind is howling. Hubby heads out to clear the driveway. The biggest problem for plowing is that the ground is not yet frozen, and the snow is wet and heavy. This results in rolls and rolls of driveway gravel ending up in the ditch- a distressing result to me this early in the season.
For the last three weeks, I have been driving a new 2019 Subaru Crosstrek as a loaner car while mine is in the shop. I can see myself smashing this one in a winter storm before I am able to return it. But it is a Subaru and it is an all-wheel drive so what could possibly go wrong. I leave a ½ hour early in order to be able to drive carefully. The roadway is plowed but patches of drifts have developed where the snow has been driven by the westerly wind across the road. I find myself following a van whose driver thinks 30 miles per hour is an exceedingly high speed. Every few minutes, she (I am presuming it is a she) finds herself “flying” down the road at 32 or 33 mph and the brake lights come on. Over and over, this happens. I take a deep breath and bite my lip. I might actually make it to work. Thank goodness, I left early. It seems a little icy to try and pass especially with a car I do not know well so I patiently follow. I soon park safely in the parking ramp. I have promised my hubby that I will text him when I get to work to let him know I have arrived safely. I type the text in the car and hit “send.” “No service,” pops up along with a question, “Do you want to send when service is restored?” I hit the “yes” button and head into the hospital. I check my sent messages a couple of times to make sure my text went. Satisfied, I turn off my phone.
Not only is this a snowy wintery day, it is the day before Thanksgiving, and we are busy in surgery. I find myself running an hour overtime and it is 8 p.m. before I am ready to head for home. I turn the phone back on and see I have a frantic message from the morning from my hubby, “I haven’t heard from you. Are you OK? Are you in the ditch? Should I come look for you?” Now I am flustered. Did my text not ever get to him? I quickly dial his number.
“I just got your text from this morning,” he informs me. “I have been worrying all day that something happened to you.”
“I’m sorry. I sent you a text. I guess you can figure that if no one from work has called looking for me, that all is well,” is the only response I have for him.
I am frustrated that my well-laid intentions did not work out and Hubby has been anxious all day. There is not much I can do about it now, but I guess I have learned not to trust text messaging.
It is no longer snowing as I head for home and the state road heading north seems clear. It isn’t until I turn onto a county east-west road, that I see the first pickup in the ditch. As I scan the road about another mile ahead, numerous red brake lights shine back at me. A glaze on the blacktop reflects back from where the snow has been skittering across the road all day. There is an obvious problem ahead as well. Sure enough, another pickup is in the ditch. I crawl around the disaster to avoid the same fate myself. I come up behind a car that is crawling along with hazard lights flashing. Seriously! That’s annoying to have intermittent orange bouncing off my retinas. I think I can tell we need to go slow.
By 9 p.m., I am safely in the garage, only to be confronted by another problem. The internet is not working. I can only guess the dish is snow and ice covered. That problem will have to wait until morning.
After a good night’s sleep in a warm, snuggly, electrically-operating-properly bed, we decide to solve our outdoor issues while waiting for the young folks to show up for Thanksgiving. The satellite dish is covered with snow, so a ladder and a broom are obtained to wipe off the offending material. A coating of ice remains after the snow is removed. The connection is trying to work now but ever so slowly. It is brainstorming time. How do we get the ice off the dish? Hubby produces a tree trimming pole and I dig through the drawer for a hair dryer. Electrical tape them together and we have a useful tool for thawing ice high up on the side of the house. Ten minutes of hair drying, and we have an internet connection.
Our daughter and son-in-law along with two large dogs soon sweep in with a flurry and we have a Thanksgiving feast together. Well timed by the Lord above, it is the only day of the week with quiet weather and a smooth-running day. Our bellies are laden with turkey, stuffing, squash, and pumpkin pie and our hearts are gladdened with family fellowship.
Friday morning after climbing out of bed, I turn on the water at the sink in the bathroom. Hmmm? Nothing is coming out of the faucet.
I return to the bedroom to my sleeping husband. “I think we have a water problem.”
He sleepily crawls out of bed and dresses. “It has been almost 25 years. One of these times, we are going to end up pulling the pump.”
I sure hope it is not the pump. Pulling it now would be a huge headache. Our yard already has a four-foot drift in it and getting a well truck backed up to the garden would take some doing. Well, I can’t wash up, but I can comb my hair and get dressed while Hubby disappears to the basement with his electrical meter to do some checking and diagnosing. A few minutes go by before the bathroom is thrown into darkness. A resetting of the breaker has caused a bang as the breaker kicks out again. “There is a dead short,” is the response I get when I go to check on progress. Soon he is kneeling in the snow in the garden by the well attempting to make a final determination of the problem. “I think it is the underground and that I can fix. I just hope I am right,” he concludes.
A trip to town is next to get a roll of wire which we string across the yard to the house. A hole is drilled in the garage/house wall to gain access to the basement and then my resident electrician re-wires the well. A flip of the breaker results in rising water pressure and a stream from the faucet. Hurrah! So why has the underground decided to go bad now after twenty-three years? We can only speculate. This fall, we added a porch to the front of the house. One of the posts was extremely close to the buried well wire. The builders did not think they hit it but maybe, they nicked it and now it has burned off or maybe, the concrete poured into the hole for the foundation has shifted enough to put tension on a previous splice. We will be waiting until spring now to run another permanent underground wire.
But we do have electricity and water again just in time for the next winter weather system to move through dropping rain, freezing rain, and snow over the next three days – days that I thankfully do not have to venture out to work. We are more than ready for the bright sunshine that appears on the Monday morning that next week. It heralds the beginning of December and the start of the Christmas season.
“Eight to ten inches of snow for southeastern Minnesota,” predicts the weather lady on the Saturday evening news, “followed by 45-50 mile per hour winds. There is a blizzard warning from 6 p.m. Saturday evening until 6 p.m. Sunday evening.”
groan. Not again! We have already
received almost 40 inches of snow in the month of February. It is piled high
along the sides of our driveway. More snow is the last thing we need. But like
all Minnesotans we take the prediction with a grain of salt and hope for the
Mother Nature has started to shake clusters of fat fluffy snowflakes past our security camera before we crawl into our warm bed. The storm has begun. Church has already been cancelled for tomorrow so it remains to be seen what the landscape will look like in the morning. I awaken several times during the night. The wind howls around the corners of the house. At least we don’t have to go anywhere being it is a Sunday.
peak outside in the early dawn of morning. The sky is blue, and the sun shines brightly.
Judging by the stacked pile of white peaked on the deck railing, it looks like
we might have gotten around seven to eight inches. The trees are whipping back
and forth but otherwise, it is a winter wonderland out the bay window in the
back of the house. It is a different scene from the front door. The wind drives
sheets of white across what was once our lawn and hurdles them down the drive.
Our snow fence and garden fence have disappeared beneath the ocean of blinding
brightness. Only the tops of posts with specks of orange webbing peak out. So much for the snow fence effectiveness.
The stone bench by the apple tree is no longer visible while the apple tree trunk
has gotten significantly shorter.
ventures outdoors to steal a few pictures and I follow him in a few minutes. Just how bad is this situation anyway? I
step into his footprints as I trudge after him seeking to avoid making new
tracks in the mid-thigh drifts. I am soon out of breath with this balancing
act. Our whole driveway is covered to this depth. Neither of us go far in this labor-intensive
march and turn back towards the house. The wind blasts us in the face and hubby
disappears into the snow. “Help me up?” is the request thrown my way as I look
back to see if he is coming.
you really can’t get up, I am not strong enough to pull you out.” I worry out loud.
This could be a life-threatening situation if one fell out here alone. The tracks
we have made only a few moments before are almost filled back in already. I
extend my hand and he is soon back on his feet. Together, we return to our warm
have a plow truck, but an overwhelming feeling of hopelessness engulfs me.
There is no way that we will be able to push these kinds of drifts. I make
several calls to different neighbors looking for someone who has a large
tractor snowblower or a tractor and bucket. Everyone is in the same predicament
and not willing to venture out in this weather. There is not much we can do in
this wind anyway. We both finally make the decision to wait until Monday
morning when the wind has died down to tackle this impossible project. I am
supposed to work at 9 a.m. but maybe I can negotiate a later time.
same white landscape with even deeper drifts greets us in the morning. Now the
drifts are solid and unmovable. Thankfully, the wind has retreated, and the air
is still in the almost zero-degree weather.
going to see what I can do,” Hubby announces. My stomach is tight, and I am
tense. I know how this will end – being stuck. I watch the movement of the
truck on the security cameras. Back and forth. Back and forth. I am constantly
watching for a lack of movement. He needs to drag the snow backwards with the
plow in small amounts and deposit it out of the way. He does this over and over
because it is too hard and too deep to plow forward. I am just putting my boots
on to go out and check on the progress when I hear the garage door slam. Uh Oh! That is a bad sign. Hubby has
come to retrieve the shovel. I stomp heavily in his footsteps to the stranded truck.
you stuck?” I ask the obvious. The front wheels have dropped over the edge of
the driveway in his effort to push the massive pile back from the edge. The
plow is buried in the snow drift. Soon we have the wedged snow dug out from
under the plow and the truck frame. But the attempt to back up only results in
two deeper holes for the front tires and the back tires spin. The chains
usually work wonderfully for traction but now are digging only deeper holes.
done for!” pronounces Hubby. We stand and stare at our hopeless situation. But
my ever-creative husband has an idea. He gathers all the tow rope that we own
and ties the truck off to the other truck in the shed. Then he attaches his
come-along. Neither of us are optimistic that this is going to work but we have
nothing to lose. While he is doing that, I struggle back through the snow for a
½ full pail of sand and salt for the back wheels.
in the truck,” he directs, “and put it in reverse while I ratchet.”
out the clutch and apply the gas until the wheels begin to spin. Then I stop. We
do this a couple of times while Hubby tightens the rope with the come-along.
Finally, he says, “That is all I can pull it. I think we are done. Try it one
out the clutch and step on the gas – this time like I really mean business.
Amazingly, the truck rises up out of the hole. I am almost shocked by our
success. The extra tension and the pulling downward on the rear bumper were the
ticket to triumph. My husband is a genius.
retreat to the warmth of the house while I wait for the next call for help.
Another hour goes by before I hear the house door bang again. “I need your assistance.”
In this last hour, Hubby has been able to clear out by the house garage. This
leaves us with the access to his 4-wheel drive work truck, a significant
improvement from our previous predicament. I drive the plow truck while he
pulls with the other truck. Soon, I have been dragged backwards out of the
snowbank and planted firmly on the drive again.
I glance at my watch. 10:00. If I am going to arrive at work by noon which was my re-negotiated start time for today, I will need to leave in an hour. The drive is only ½ cleared after three hours of plowing. My decision is made. I need to let go of my guilt and life-long instilled drive to always meet my obligations. I will make my first road call ever. I am already stressed to the max over this situation and the sheriff’s department is saying many roads are still closed with huge drifts in places.
One more episode of needing to be dragged backward out of the snowdrift on the side of the drive occurs in the next hour before Hubby announces, “I’m through. I can get out. I need to go on a service call though. One of my customer’s barns collapsed. You can try to widen the path a little if you want while I am gone.”
I have no desire to get stuck while he is gone, and I have no one to pull me out. However, I have this bright idea that I can go to town with the snowplow and fill the truck with gas. The roads are snow covered so the chains won’t be so hard on the blacktop and it will give me a chance to see what the roads are like. I switch over to 4-wheel high gear and off we go. The chains do make for significantly more chattering of the tires, so I drive slowly. Several spots in the road are one-lane only but otherwise, the road is in fair condition. One mile out of town, I notice that the “Coolant Low” light is on followed by the “Engine-Overheated” light. Great! Just great! I am frustrated as to why the truck should be overheating. We have plowed all morning without a problem. I pull over, turn the key off, and pull the hood lever. I do have extra coolant with me. I know that one is not supposed to open the radiator lid when the engine is hot, but I think that I can turn the cap just enough to let off some of that pressure slowly. I stand back and slowly turn the cap, allowing the scalding coolant to sizzle gradually around the cap. But the boiling liquid has other intentions. Like a volcano, the cap shoots into the air following by the trapped geyser like those found at Yellowstone National Park. I stand there in horror and watch the spouting liquid cover the plow, the engine and the front of my coat. It does not stop until most of the coolant has been spewed into the air.
“Can I help you? Do you need a ride?” the voice is that of a gentleman who has stopped.
“I’m good,” I say, “it just overheated, and I wanted to add more anti-freeze.” I am not about to admit that I am a total idiot for taking off the cap while hot but I’m sure it is obvious from the state of my truck. The engine is steaming, and the plow is covered in orange-yellowish liquid. He wishes me well and drives away. I am left to dump what remaining anti-freeze I have with me into the holding tank. It does not begin to fill it. If I can only make it to town, I can buy more. Now to find the missing cap. I look under the truck and all through the engine compartment. No cap! “Lord, help me,” I breathe. This is an utterly ridiculous pickle. I turn around and look up the road. There it lays on the shoulder of the road six feet in front of the plow. “Thank you.”
The temperature gauge has dropped back into the safe range when I restart the truck. If I can just make it this last 1 ½ miles to the gas station. No sooner have I started out again than the temperature begins its climb and the “Coolant Low” light comes on. I barely make the city limit before the “Engine Overheated” begins flashing again too. Frickit! This is not going at all like I planned. There is nothing to do but stop and walk to the gas station to buy coolant. Walking down the icy street because the sidewalks aren’t cleared makes me feel totally conspicuous. The middle of the street is piled high with the remnants of the storm making me an even more likely target for unwary motorists. Soon I am able to buy more coolant and stroll back to the truck. This does allow me to reach the gas station where I buy another container of coolant to empty into the bottomless hole. A full tank of gas and a full container of coolant later, I am ready to begin my journey home. The temperature stays in the acceptable range. Thank you, Lord. But as I make the last turn into the drive, that pesky “Coolant Low” light comes on again. Ugh!
The drive is passable, the truck is gassed, and blizzard 2019 is over. I am so done with this storm. And we are left with memories of a lifetime.
Beep! Beep! Beep! I roll over and hit the alarm for the third time. It is Friday morning and my day off. I am looking forward to a day of home activities. In the darkness of early morning, I slide out of bed and throw the covers back over the bed. As I pull open the bedroom door, I am hit by a sudden overwhelming curtain of silence followed by wooziness. That was weird. As I take that first step down the hall, my right leg wobbles and I reach out for the wall. My right arm also seems somewhat uncoordinated and I need to think about where I place them as I traverse the morning route to the bathroom in the dark. I shake my head several times trying to clear the cobwebs from my brain. It is not unusual for me to experience vertigo at times, but it usually passes in thirty seconds or so. This does not want to go away. I peer at my face in the mirror. All facial movements seem symmetrical. I console myself that it is probably not a stroke. I conclude that this must be an escalation of my normal vestibular (ear) problem. Afterall, I have been sick for most of the last week with the common cold. Maybe it has moved to my ears.
“Are you OK?”
It is the voice of my husband.
“No, I am
not OK.” I stand there trying to clear my head. “I would go downstairs to the
bathroom, but I don’t think I can make it that far.”
He offers me
the commode as a seat, and I plunk down on it. I sense the watering in my mouth
that precedes an upchuck. Oh dear!
“Do you need
to throw up?” he asks.
coming. I don’t know what is wrong, but I think we need to go somewhere. I
don’t know where to go at the clinic so maybe we should just go to the ER. Can
you help me get dressed and then you should go plow first?”
been a day of receiving three to four inches of snow followed by high winds and
significantly subzero windchills. As I had driven home from work at the
hospital at 7 p.m. the prior evening, I struggled to see the road in places. I
would find myself on the wrong side of the road, disoriented, and with the need
to get myself back where I belonged. As I finally drove up the drive, the
wind-driven snow hit me smack in the front. The drifts were piling up in the
yard and in the driveway. I didn’t know if we could get out without plowing.
I sit and
contemplate my situation as Hubby makes his way downstairs and out the door.
Because of the weather and the prediction of below zero temperatures, as well
as an injured right arm from a fall on the ice on Wednesday, he has already
decided to take the day off from work. If one has to be sick, I guess the
timing could not be better. Hubby is home and neither of us are trying to get
attempting to throw up, the ever determined me decides to comb my hair. I have
to look respectable. I plant my feet wide apart for stabilization at the sink
and with a little thought into directing my arm, I am able to accomplish this
task. Now to get downstairs. I grasp the rail as I put one foot ahead of the
other. As long as I think about what my right foot is doing and grasp the rail
to stabilize the spinning room, I do quite well. I collapse in the recliner in
the living room. Uh Oh! Almost immediately, I can feel that premonition in my
mouth. I am going to throw up again. There is no way I am going to make it to
the bathroom. What am I going to do?
I don’t really want to throw up on the carpet. I drop to the floor and crawl the
six feet on my hands and knees to the laminated flooring just in time to heave
over and over. Exhausted, I crawl back to the chair.
appears at the kitchen door. “I can’t get the plow truck to start but I think
we can get out without plowing.”
go then.” I grab my basin.
glisten with frost covered needles and branches. The sun shines brightly. It is
flanked by the colored pillars of sundogs. The car thermometer displays 12
degrees below zero. On any other morning, this would be a beautiful scene to
absorb and photograph. It is still a beautiful scene but not really enjoyable
with one’s head in a barf bucket.
A lady with
a wheelchair is waiting for us just outside the emergency room. I could not be
more thankful as I don’t think I can walk anywhere at this point. We are
whisked into a room and soon introduced to a medical student. I was expecting
hours of waiting to be seen but when one is really in trouble, the most
efficient means of obtaining medical care is the emergency room. I suppose it
was that telling them that my right arm and leg didn’t work right. That
triggers a different response than just throwing up or some such thing.
your partner?” asks the nurse who takes my vital signs.
the guy I picked up in the ditch along the way,” I intone.
lost her humor.”
Soon, I am performing all kinds of neurological tests. “Squeeze both hands. Follow my finger with your eyes. Pick up your left leg. Pick up your right leg. Push down on the gas pedal. Pull back towards your nose.” I perform most of these with ease. I only stumble on two of them. “Touch your nose, then my finger with your right hand as fast as you can.” My finger has a hard time hitting my nose and it takes complete concentration to hit the doc’s finger. “Slide your right heel up and down your left shin.” To this command, I find my heel weaving down the shin bone. I just can’t make it go straight.
you might have vestibular neuritis (a viral infection that affects the nerve of
the ear) but because of difficulty with those two tests, we are going to send
you for a CT scan.”
I grab my
trusty barf basin and off we go. By this point, I am throwing up every fifteen
to thirty minutes. If I keep my eyes open, the world has some semblance of
stability. If I shut my eyes, the world goes around and around. When I sit up
to transfer to the CT table, I sway back and forth like a branch in the wind.
“I think we should just slide you over,” is the conclusion of the CT techs.
I make it
back to the ER just in time to throw up again. I have given up waiting for them
to bring me the promised medicine for nausea. I hit the nurse call button. “Can
I have some nausea medicine?”
think there is anything ordered,” states the nurse who responds. Really? There
have been two different doctors who have promised this. I am ready to collapse
into a sobbing heap as I just keep heaving and heaving. I have lost track of
the number of times now. Soon she is back with the treasured medication.
student squeezes her body though the slightly open door, “The CT shows a small
cerebellar stroke, so we are going to put through a neurological consult.”
Shock would be my reaction. Why would I have a stroke? I don’t have high blood pressure. I don’t have diabetes. I am not particularly overweight. I have never had a blood clot. I do not have atrial fibrillation. I am only sixty-one years old, exercise regularly, and I take a full aspirin every day. All I can think of is my father who had a major stroke at eighty-two years of age from which he never recovered. He could not write or talk or communicate for the next seven years before he died. I would rather die than be like that.
Within a few minutes, the neurology resident appears, and we go through the same battery of neurology tests again. “I am going to send you for an MRI to evaluate the arteries in your head and then we are going to admit you to the hospital.”
By this time, I no longer care. I just want relief from the nausea. I want to sleep but every time I close my eyes, the world spins and renews my discomfort. By the time escort comes to take me to the MRI scan, I have received some Compazine for the nausea, but I still do not trust myself. The nauseous feeling lies just below the surface.
“What am I going to do if I have to throw up in the MRI scanner?” I clutch my emesis basin close to myself as if it were my security blanket as we set off again for another test. No one seems particularly concerned but me. I try to calm my rising panic as they strap me onto the MRI table and snap the head piece into place. I am somewhat claustrophobic anyway. So I talk to myself. Just take deep breaths and close your eyes. Then you can’t see how tight the tunnel is. I clutch my call ball and shut my eyes. At least the world has stopped spinning. The air blowing into the tunnel is cold and I shiver. By this point, all I want to do is sleep anyway so I doze off and on and soon the test is done. I am so glad the medicine is working.
I sway back and forth as I sit up after being transferred from the cart to my hospital bed. I close my eyes and go to sleep. This whole situation is beyond comprehension. My hubby settles down in the chair next to my bed. His face is lined with worry.
My assigned nurse comes by to introduce herself. She holds up the ridiculous yellow band that says, “Fall Risk.” They put them on everyone who admits to having a fall in the last year. Everyone in Minnesota in the winter is a fall risk and I have always told my colleagues if they ever put one of those things on me, I would cut it off. I stare at it and sigh. I guess I really am a fall risk. I soon discover when I try to sit up on the edge of the bed that a loud obnoxious noise also emits from the bed!
Sleep seems to be the only thing I am capable of doing without supervision. Before long, I am awakened again. A transport cart is parked by my bed. “You are going for a CT scan with contrast.” How many scans can I possibly go for? I just had a CT and an MRI and now we are going to do another CT – this time with contrast! So off we go again. I try to keep my eyes open to prevent the dizzying spinning.
Later that afternoon, the neurology resident comes by the room. “None of the scans show any evidence of vertebral artery tears, plague in the arteries, or a bleed. Since we do not find anything in your head, we need to look at your heart. I am scheduling a TEE (transesophageal echo) for tomorrow.” Gads! How many tests can they come up with? By this time, I am starting to feel significantly better and am returning to my normal personality. I ask to visit the bathroom and am trilled that I can ambulate fairly well. I still cannot pass a roadside DWI test but with the compensation of a wide-stance gait and a tightly clutched gait belt by the nurse, I can walk. Bored with being in bed, I sit up in the chair for a couple hours. I attempt to find and write down a few phone numbers for calling my supervisors, but my hand produces mostly an illegible scrawl. I can text if I take my time. After notifications to some family members of my state of affairs, I crawl into bed and sleep some more.
Steam rises from the chimneys of the city outside my window on Saturday morning. My immediate view is that of the hospital chapel, its door surrounded by frost. My life feels a little bit like it is surrounded by frost too. I was not planning to be here today. I have life to live.
Not being inclined to be an invalid, I situate myself in the chair. I just need to be careful about not doing any spins or dance moves. Reassured that I am fine and won’t do anything stupid, the nurses have turned off the bed alarm and I have reverted to being the patient+. This means I maneuver my own IV pole, my bedside table, and IV pump the best that I can. The lab gal comes to draw my blood and I ask her to use my left arm because the right antecubital area is all black and blue. “But someone has to come and turn off the IV,” she declares.
“No problem. I’ll take care of that.” And I do.
Soon there is a knock on the door and a lady from occupational therapy enters. “How are you doing? My job is to evaluate you from an occupational standpoint and determine if you need therapy. Can we go for a walk?”
I sign heavily. I am fine but I am happy to go for a walk in the hall. She slips on the dreaded gait belt and off we go. The IV pole provides all the stability that I need. I am convinced that if I stumbled or started falling, this lady would not be able to help me. She seems more unsteady and feebler than me. My being as good as I am, I reflect, has nothing to do with my own abilities but to the grace of God and his goodness in allowing me full return of my faculties. This facade of independence, competence, and strength that we all present to the world is just that, a façade that can be crashed at any moment.
I have not eaten any breakfast as I am not to eat in preparation for the planned TEE.
Imagine my surprise when the escort shows up with the transport cart around ten am. “I am here to take you to your MRI with contrast.”
“My MRI??” I question incredulously. “I thought I was going to have a TEE today?”
“The directions say we are going to an MRI,” repeats the escort gentleman.
I just love the communication around here. No one talks to me. They just change plans out of the blue. I guess we are going to an MRI. I think I will have met my medical deductible with two CTs and two MRIs. This time I am more prepared and feel physically better. I open my eyes in the MRI scanner and look around the best that I can while being in a head vise. Above me is a mirror that reflects the head frame back at me. It gives the illusion of more space than there really is. I can’t actually see the bore that surrounds me. That’s interesting. I wonder if they can see me from the control room.
Back in my room, I get up to the bathroom. My legs and my upper arms are covered with red spots intermingled with white splotches and they are starting to itch. Great! I must be allergic to the MRI contrast used. The MRI tech told me that no one is allergic to the MRI contrast. There is always a first. The only time I have ever seen this on me before was after several mosquito bites in the same area and that rash lasted for weeks. The only thing that was helpful was to grit my teeth and not scratch.
The resident comes by later in the afternoon to inform me that this MRI did not show anything abnormal either. “I thought I was to have a TEE today. How come we went for MRI instead?”
“We can’t do the TEE on the weekend unless it is an emergency, so we have to wait until Monday. We wanted to definitively confirm that nothing is going on in your head anyway, so we decided to do the MRI instead.” I am beginning to wonder if there is anything at all in my head. Maybe they are just trying to find a brain.
I sigh. I am already bored and feeling over tested. I have so many things I could do at home. “Can I go home today then?”
She gazes at me and smiles. “You do look quite well. I guess we could let you go home and come back for the other tests we want to do as an outpatient. I will order a 48-hour Holter monitor for you and once you have the device on, you can go home. We will order the TEE for Monday as an outpatient.”
“Versed and Fentanyl medications do not work for me so I would really like one of my colleagues to use propofol for me.”
“Just tell them when you get there,” she brushes my request off.
“That isn’t going to work,” I impress upon her, “If you do not order it as anesthesia, no one is going to honor my request. I know how this works around here.” I can tell by her face that she has no intention of following my request.
Taking a shower is the next item on the agenda if I am going to have stickies all over me for 48 hours. With meticulous care and deliberate moves, I gather all the supplies necessary and bask in the warm shower. I am still somewhat like a waving reed but if I take my time I can compensate for any remaining deficiencies. This could have been so much worse. How does one wake up one morning and five minutes later, the world has been turned upside down? It hits me that we are not prepared for something to happen to me. I have always planned that my hubby would go before me. After all, his parents died in their early seventies and mine were both 89 at their time of death. The urgency of remedying this situation floods over me.
Once my shower is done, the Holter Monitor tech comes to hook me up. The last order of business is to read the discharge instructions. I notice that they changed my cholesterol medication without telling me and that the resident has marked sedation instead of anesthesia on the TEE order. She comes back to see me one more time at my request and I point out to her that there is a box to check anesthesia. “Alright, I will see what I can do,” she finally concedes.
How am I going to know when the TEE is planned for on Monday is my question? The resident has given me the phone number for the floor at the clinic where they do these, but I do not have a time. I am told that they will probably call me to let me know but no one really knows.
Monday morning, I anxiously wait by the phone. I check the on-line portal for patients. It tells me that there is a TEE scheduled for “undetermined time.” That is helpful! Finally, after hearing nothing by 8:30 a.m., I make a phone call to the clinic. “You are scheduled at 2:30pm in the cath lab at the hospital,” she tells me, “We don’t usually do them there for outpatients.”
She transfers my call to the cath lab. They clarify that I am on their list, but the nurse then hesitates, “Are you on an anticoagulant now?”
“Nooo… not more than aspirin and Plavix. And I got three heparin shots in the hospital.”
“That’s all gone by now. So that’s not enough. You have to be fully anti-coagulated before we can do this. I need to make a phone call to the doctor and then I will call you back.”
I do not know what to say. I am confused. This seems rather excessive. But then, I don’t do TEEs every day, so I have to assume he knows what he is talking about. I wish they had thought of this on Saturday. Maybe I should just have stayed in the hospital.
Finally, around 10 a.m., he calls me back. “My mistake,” he says, “We should be good. I thought you were having a cardioversion. We don’t need full anti-coagulation for just the transesophageal echo.”
The light bulb goes on in my head. Now I know what has happened. I have totally messed up the system and confused everyone. In order to meet my request for anesthesia-controlled sedation instead of nurse sedation, they needed to schedule my procedure in a place where anesthesia is available. And in doing so, the nurse there assumed that I was having the procedure commonly done there. It always amazes me how confused the system can get by changing just one aspect of the standard practice.
But I am delighted to find that one of my colleagues, a Certified Registered Nurse Anesthetist, is there to administer that special drug, propofol, that I handle so adeptly every day. I drift off into a blissful sleep to wake up feeling comfortable and secure at the completion of the procedure. Finally, I am able to reap a benefit of my career.
In spite of all these tests, no clots, or artery tears, or cholesterol plagues are ever found to explain why this happened to me. It leaves me wondering. Is there another time bomb waiting to go off some day? Only time will tell. And I think I like being on the provider side much better than on the patient side.
I am hit in the face by a blast of cold air as I step out of the elevator and into the fifth level of the parking ramp. The weatherman has predicted temperatures of -15 to -20 degrees for this evening with 30 mile per hour winds. I am hoping to make it home from work without a problem. My 2016 Subaru Forester protests as I turn the key but pops right off. The dashboard thermometer shines out a chilly -14. Every part of my trusty chariot creaks and cracks with stiffness but soon we are rolling homeward. The air is saturated with tiny particles of blowing snow making for a hazy backdrop for the street lights.
As I approach the stop sign at the
top of the hill behind the hospital, I step on the brake as is considered
appropriate to do at a stop sign. The brake pedal is stiff and refuses to be
depressed. The car keeps creeping forward. Oh no! I press harder on the pedal as
a sense of helplessness washes over me. I then let up and press again. This
time the brake pedal responds. What was
that all about? I ask myself. A memory from this past Sunday comes back to
me. My hubby was driving on the way to church. As he braked for a stop sign, he
had declared that the brakes didn’t work.
“Well, I haven’t had any problem
with them,” I had declared brushing off his concerns. He must have been
mistaken, I had thought. Now, I understood what had happened to him.
I pump the brakes a few times. They seem to be working again. This is not a night that I want to be stranded beside the road requiring walking but then moving forward is not the problem, it is only the stopping. At least, there are not many people on the road, so I make the decision to continue my journey towards home. The wind driven snow hurtles across the road making for whiteout conditions in spots. This makes travel slow and tedious. The brakes seem to now be working properly. Soon I am making a left turn onto main street in Elgin and then a right to stop at the post office. Well, maybe, I will stop at the post office as it is happening again. I apply the brakes. They are stiff and do not respond. Is this just because it is so cold outside? I have no idea but this is getting scary. I need my car tomorrow, but I am going to have to call the garage. I can’t drive like this. It is a lot like playing Russian roulette, never being sure which stop will become the deadly one.
We are greeted the next morning by
frost coating the windows and creeping around the edges of the doors of the
house. The little snowman on the wall is bundled up and declares that it is -28
degrees. Hugh beautiful sun dogs grace the sky. I have no desire to leave the house,
but I have a tax appointment at 10 a.m. and I need to drop my car off at the
garage afterward. My hubby has decided to not even try to go to work so he can
at least pick me up.
That little Subaru groans as it does
a slow turn of the engine but then sputters to life. She always starts. I test
the brakes gingerly a few times as I drive away but all seems well. My trip to
town for the completion of taxes is without incident and I continue on from
there to the repair shop in our little town that sports our address. As I roll
up to the garage, it happens again. My foot firmly stomped on the brake is
having no effect. Horrified, I have visions of crashing through the closed
garage door right into the service bay. Hello.
I’m here. Now wouldn’t that be embarrassing. Thankfully, my anticipation of
the possibility of such an event has caused me to come in slower than I
normally would, and we roll to a stop just shy of the door.
“Just drive it in,” instructs the
repairman, “and we will check it out quick.”
We turn off the car while he tears
off the engine cover and peers at the various contraptions under there. He then
steps around and drops into the car. A turn of the key producing a cranking of
the engine, but it refuses to start. After several tries, the battery has given
up and a turn of the key produces only a clicking sound. OK, we are going from bad
to worse. I wasn’t having any problem starting it.
“All I did was take the cover off the engine,” he insists.
“Your hubby is here,” adds his
Yes, it is time for me to walk away.
There is not going to be a car for me to drive by tomorrow.
“Should we drive to the shop while
we are out and moving and try to start your other pickup, so I have a vehicle
to drive to work tomorrow?” I question Hubby.
“It hasn’t been run for a week,” he
counters, “but now is probably better than at 5 o’clock this evening.
My hubby’s shop is not heated and
the cold seeps into our clothes and bites our fingers and toes. The truck does
not think it should have to wake up today in the cold either. It makes a gallant
effort at cranking sluggishly five or six times and then it is done. Jumping it
is not an option due to its forward position in the shop parking bay. The
charger and the portable LP heater are at home, five miles away but there is
nothing to do but go get them. At least we have one vehicle that has not been
defeated by the bone chilling cold.
Soon we have the heater pouring its
warmth into the truck engine and the charger putting new life back into the
battery. We hole up in the running work truck while we wait. Thirty minutes
later, hubby decides to give it a try again. Vrrrmm!! What a delightful sound.
“Hurrah!” I shout. My hubby who
doesn’t realize I have followed him back into the shop half collapses to the
floor in fright. Oh dear! “I didn’t mean to scare you,” I laugh. “I was just so
happy it started.”
“Hello, this is Gary from the garage.
Your car is ready.” Begins the phone call at 5 p.m. “I couldn’t find anything
wrong except the battery is weak.”
“Really! How is it possible that the
brakes don’t work because the battery is bad?”
“I couldn’t find anything else and
so many things are electronic these days, the ABS system could be being
affected because of it.”
As I drive home from the shop, the thermometer
on the car still reads -18 degrees. Who would have guessed that a stressed and
weak battery from the cold could cause the car brakes to fail? Could we just turn
the heat up now, please?
“Can we get together and do something, just the two of us, while you are home from college?” I plead of my daughter. She is in her first year of studying veterinary medicine at Iowa State University in Ames, Iowa and I don’t get to talk to her much, let alone see her.
“You can go with me to Ames on New Year’s Day to pay my lot rent if you would like,” she replies.
“I would love that.” I am excited about spending a day with my daughter. She and her husband have purchased a trailer in a mobile home park that lies just behind the vet school. She lives there during the school year and then she comes home to Minnesota during breaks from school to spend time with her husband.
We drive the 150 miles on a crisp sunny winter day. The temperature hovers around ten degrees. The cold has moved in after a week that began with 50-degree temperatures and ended with a cold front ushered in by rain and high winds. Glare ice on the road of the trailer park greets us as we make the last turn and park by the trailer. Questions of what we will find inside swirl through our minds. Daughter has only been gone two weeks, but her furnace has this habit of going out when the wind blows. We gingerly pick our way up the ice-covered steps and press the storm door handle button. It is covered with ice and does not respond to Daughter’s touch. Great, the door is froze shut. Even a couple of fist poundings does not loosen it. Do we have any de-icer in the car? No, we don’t. Time for a well-aimed kick. This causes it to let loose enough to spring open.
Freezing cold air greets us inside. Not good! The furnace is out. A few steps to the kitchen sink and a quick test of the faucet. Both faucets offer total resistance and will not turn. Oh dear! Not only has the furnace gone out but the water is also frozen. A quick check of the bathroom reveals that the sink there puts out a small trickle, the commode flushes, and the shower runs. So maybe, the situation is not as dire as it seems. The first order of business is to relight the furnace which Daughter has become quite adept at doing. Soon, it is pumping warm air back into the rooms.
“We are going to town to buy you some backup heaters,” is my decision that I share with Daughter. I am hoping that the freezing occurred just over this last night when it turned really cold and that it is not so complete that the pipes have cracked.
Soon, we have two electric space heaters cranking out their heat along with the furnace.
“Just let the water run if it is running at all,” is the advice of my hubby, “and it usually thaws out by itself.”
“The instructions with the space heater say ‘don’t leave unattended’,” I inform Hubby by phone, “and the whole reason we bought them was to leave them unattended. What should we do?”
“They are probably OK to leave if they have a high-limit shut off on them,” is his thought, “but you should probably shut off the water and open the faucets when you leave.”
“I don’t really want to crawl under the trailer looking for the water shut-off,” Daughter storms. “I have no idea where it is.” And it is cold and miserable.
Oh, the joys of owning a trailer. “I will help you.” Together, we venture outdoors to remove some of the skirting to allow Daughter to slither under the dark dank claustrophobic causing space. “I don’t see anything,” She finally informs me. Alright, give up on that idea.
As we relax and wait for the water to thaw, a light bulb goes on in Daughter’s memory. “When I was living with the other girls, their trailer water shut-off was in the closet.” This calls for a trip to the bedroom and a removal of the panel covering the water heater in the closet. Sure enough, there it is. Inside and accessible from the warmth of the bedroom.
A couple of hours later, we really need to head for home if we are to get home in a timely manner. The kitchen sink has thawed to the point that one can turn the faucets on and off and a slow trickle of water is emerging. We are making progress. We turn off the water, leave the faucets open, and leave the space heaters set at 60 degrees. Hopefully, when she comes back in another two weeks everything will be thawed out and back to normal without any issues.
“Safe in Ames. Trying to thaw the trailer,” reads the text two weeks later on her return to Ames, “Nothing has thawed. Kitchen has pencil width. The bathroom has drips.”
Not good! This doesn’t make any sense. The temperatures have been above freezing for most of the two weeks since our trip there and the heaters kept the trailer warm even though the furnace had gone out again. “Dad wants to know if you want us to come down tomorrow and check things over.”
It is a beautiful mid-January day when we pull up at the trailer in Ames. The eves are dripping water as the latest snow melts under the warmth of the sun. A hand turn of the kitchen faucet yields only a small trickle, not even a stream as big as what was running when we left it on New Year’s Day. And now the bathroom faucet has no flow either. How perplexing!
Hubby begins a thorough investigation. The water is definitely on. He crawls under the trailer and looks around. The pipes seem well protected in the floor. There is no water dripping or worse yet, flowing. He removes the panel behind the washer and dryer but can’t see anything. None of this adds up. The water should have thawed out long ago. “You are going to have to call a plumber tomorrow as I can’t find anything wrong,” is the verdict to Daughter.
Unwilling to give up and in desperation, Hubby begins to tear the kitchen faucet apart. Surprise of surprises, brown water pours out! He quickly screws off the little aerator that covers the opening on this and most faucets. It is packed with brown sediment. A bee line to the bathroom reveals the same brown sediment obstructing the faucet there. How silly! This whole time we have had it stuck in our heads that the water is still frozen, not even considering this simple solution to what seemed to be a continuing problem but is actually a different problem. The freezing and thawing have apparently stirred up a bunch of sediment in the pipes and deposited it in the aerators. A plumber would have been laughing all the way home with a tidy sum in his pocket from such a call.
I am reminded of how much of life is often like this. We are so focused on our preconceived ideas about various things that we can’t see the truth because we are stuck in one way of thinking.
At least our journey is not in vain. We get to enjoy the day with our daughter, and she gets to start her new semester with several problems in her trailer resolved. No pipes have burst, and all is well.
As my husband and I lay in the darkness of our bedroom, just as we are drifting off to sleep, I hear this scratching noise like when our white cat, Snowflake, uses her paws on a door to open it. Scritch, scratch, thump, bang seem to be coming from the bathroom or so I think. Often Snowflake will sneak into the bathroom closet by opening the folding door. She does this by placing her little paw in the opening underneath the door and pulling until it squeaks open just a crack. Her owners then give doors such as this one all over the house that compulsory push to close them again. Once Snowflake is done snoozing away in the soft blankets and towels, she must find her way out. It keeps her entertained. The thought occurs to me that I should get up and let her out but I am nicely snuggled down in my bed so I sink into my world of dreams. Around 11:30 p.m., I hear my hubby get up to go to the bathroom. I can still hear the scritch, scratching noise so when he comes back, I sleepily mumble, “Did you let the cat out of the closet?”
“She is not in the closet,” he replies. “Both cats are laying with the dog in the hall.”
OK, so what is that persistent scratching noise that I hear? And where is it coming from?
My 6’4” hubby reaches up and bangs on the ceiling. Instant silence follows. Apparently, we have some kind of visitors making their home in our crawl space above the ceiling. Mice? Rats? Raccoons? Squirrels? And what do we do about it? There is no entrance from inside the house to the crawl space in order to set a trap. Hubby crawls back in bed and we settle back down to sleep. Only a few minutes go by and the scurrying, scratching noise begins again. Ugh… How are we supposed to sleep like this?
Over the course of the next few weeks, there are nights when we hear no noises and nights when the frantic scurrying awakens us. We discuss many times what to do. Our house roof is very steep, 30 feet in the air, and covered with snow so neither one of us wants to go on the roof to see if one of the attic vents is allowing access to our happy housemate.
“We have a live trap boxed up in the basement from when we caught that squirrel running around in our first house,” I inform Hubby after he decides he will go buy a live trap and cut a hole in the bathroom closet wall. Soon our trap is baited with peanut butter and set just outside the new hole our closet wall sports. Hopefully, the cat doesn’t find this hole or she will be gone into oblivion.
Several weeks go by. There are some nights during which the scurrying persists and many nights when there are no sounds. The trap sits empty, always at the ready to receive the offender who seems not the least bit enticed by what we are offering. We have given up hope of ever catching anything and don’t know what our next step should be.
One morning, as I am sitting on the commode, I hear this commotion in the bathroom closet (scratching, scurrying, banging). What is that noise? Finally, it dawns on me. I pull open the closet door and peer into the depths. Two shining eyes and bared teeth glare back at me. Hello, my not-so-innocent little friend. We have just caught a squirrel. Now the question is, what do I do with him? Our son-in-law had suggested that we make squirrel soup if we ever caught the critter. But to my soft-hearted Hubby, that is just not an option. So, I load my very unhappy catch into the car and drive him 7 miles down by the river and watch him scamper off into the woods there.
The very next evening, Hubby hears the very same crashing going on in the closet. Squirrel #2 in custody. Has the first squirrel already made his way back? Or is this his mate? Now, it is hubby’s turn to drive 7 miles, this time in the dark, and to release our catch. Another decision is made. On the next Saturday, the bucket truck comes home and all the branches on the tree next to the house that must be totally tempting for squirrels to use as a bridge to the house roof come off and go into a heap. Hopefully, this is the last visit from the busy bodies. I guess we shall see as the trap remains at the ready.
“A major ice storm is moving across the Midwest,” the weather forecaster pronounces during the Sunday evening weather report.
I groan inwardly and outwardly. “Not again. I hope it stays south of us. Maybe they will be wrong this time,” I lament to my husband before we head for bed. Just in case he is not wrong, I gather a small bag of personal toiletries and clothes to take along to work in case I get stuck in town tomorrow.
The waning moon still lights the western sky as I cruise down the driveway headed for work in the morning. Hope that the weatherman is wrong springs up again. I shudder to think about if he is right. Our driveway will be a perfectly prepared skating rink with the winter snow pack and ice already currently on it.
“How is the weather outdoors,” I inquire of OR staff as they come in for later shifts.
“Not bad,” is the response, “It’s just raining some.”
By the time I am relieved early at 6:30 p.m., I make the decision to drive home. No one seems too worried and my employer has not called a “weather emergency” so any hotel room would not be paid for. Huge steady drops of rain pound the pavement as I drive out of the parking ramp. This is not what is supposed to happen in January. I glance at my car’s outdoor thermometer. “34 degrees,” it declares – just above the freezing mark. As I creep out of town, frozen slush on the payment hails me. Any touch of the brakes rewards me with a flashing “dynamics control system activated” light on the dashboard and a sliding of tires on the pavement. This is going to be a two-hands-on-the-wheel 30 mile per hour drive.
I press “2” on my phone to call my hubby and alert him that I am coming home.
“No, you’re not,” he says, “I slid down the hill sideways on the gravel road and then got stuck in the driveway.”
“Well, I am on my way, so I will see what is like when I get there and decide what to do,” I inform him.
This will be interesting. I toss different scenarios around in my head. Should I park in the field drive and try to walk home? Should I go to the neighbors and ask for a 4-wheeler ride home? Or maybe I can slide down the hill on the gravel road and at least, park in the driveway. But I need to go to work tomorrow again so that doesn’t seem like a wise choice.
The Subaru high beams reflect off the shiny sparkling surface as I park at the top of the hill and gingerly step out of the car. Cold water cascades from the sky. I slide my shoe around on the smoothness testing its potential to send my feet in different directions. Hanging on to the car for stability, I slip back in and decide to park it right there by the side of the road under the stop sign. I pray that no one hits it and that it will still be there in the morning. I turn the ignition off and pull the key. I am thrown into pitch black darkness as I sit and try to gather up my courage to set out on foot. I don’t even have any boots.
It looks like there is some grass sticking out of the ice along the side of the road. I will make that my path down the hill. Water soon trickles down my glasses and drips off my nose as I carefully set one foot ahead of the other as I feel for the side of the snow pack in the blackness. Breaking a leg out here alone seems like an outcome I should attempt to avoid. Once I have safely reached the beginning of the driveway, I transition to stomping through the two-foot-high snowbank along the drive as I trudge uphill, puffing away towards that warm glow of home. This is a nice ¼ mile walk in the sunshine but a daunting trek in these conditions. Just as I open the garage door, my feet attempt to escape from under me. Just what I need to do – fall down at the last moment. In the bright sweet light of home, I hang my drenched coat and set my shoes by the heat register. Time for a sleep in my warm toasty bed. At least, no plow truck is needed for this kind of precipitation.
I start out early on my walk to the car in the morning. The rain has stopped and a light coating of snow covers the ice. I walk down the middle of the drive as if the previous evening was only a dream.
Today is our last day in Israel. It is chilly and only partly sunny. Our first stop today is at an archaeological dig site to shift through debris from the temple mount. The temple is occupied by the Muslims and apparently, they decided to expand their mosque without contacting the antiquities authority as required. Truckloads of artifacts and debris were hauled away in the night and dumped on the Mount of Olives.
Lecture with Directions
Sifting through buckets of stones is not really my cup of tea but we are here so participate we do. We are assigned to a sieve kind of thing in groups of four. Son-in-law, Daughter, Hubby, and I are a group. We are to dump a bucket of the debris on our wire sieve, wash it with a garden hose and then sort through it. Things that we find that are old metal, pottery, mosaic, glass, bone, or unusual stones are to be picked out and put into a muffin tin. The whole mess looks like regular old stones to me and what little interest I had is soon gone. Hubby sticks with it.
Picking up pretty stones is more his thing. Other groups have some success with finding valuable items. Our picking is mostly a failure.
We board the buses again about 10:30 to make our way to the Holocaust Museum in Jerusalem. It is a somber experience as we remember the many lives lost through the cruelty of the Germans. The sad reality is that world leaders are now trying to tell people that it never happened. I cannot understand this phenomenon – how educated people can deny this tragedy. It is also unfathomable to me how men can be so depraved and heartless on one hand and on the other, there were those who risked their own lives and futures to save as many Jews as possible. What I am most shocked by is that Christians in the early centuries after Christ returned to heaven (200-400AD), considered the Jews subhuman and persecuted them for not accepting Christ as the Messiah. We eat our noon meal at the Holocaust Museum then relax for some time standing in the sun until everyone is ready to go.
Our last stop of the day is in the garden which contains one of the places believed to possibly be the burial site of Jesus. Our tour guide is a Swedish gentleman who talks to us about the garden and about Jesus sacrifice for us on the cross. As he is explaining about the Hill of the Scull
where Jesus was crucified, a booming loud speaker blares out the Muslim call to prayer. It is so loud we cannot talk above it and need to wait for the call to be over. Often, we are told, the Muslims call their people to prayer more than the 5 times required by their law just to interfere with the Christian activities such as this. Trying to protest or stop this kind of behavior would result in WW III so the behavior is quietly tolerated.
We make our way to the garden tomb and each one of us gets a chance to take a look into the empty tomb. Then we gather together on some benches to sing hymns and worship. Pastor Mark brings us a short message and then communion is shared together. The communion cups are made of olive wood and we can keep them as a remembrance. The wind has started to pick up and it is quite chilly as we sit there. It is 4 pm by the time we wrap up the service and head back to the bus and the hotel.
Several people, including Daughter and son-in-law, want to get off at the Jaffa Gate to do some last minute shopping so the bus makes a drop off stop there. The rest of us go back to the hotel to rest until the 6:30 drop off time for taking our suitcases to the bus. Then it is time for the last supper. A gourmet meal it is.
Bus 2 Group Photo
We board the buses at 8:30 pm for our trip to the airport where we say Good-bye to our bus driver, Shalom, and our guide, Eli. Our excursion through the airport turns out to be a stressful challenge. We are first told to get our boarding passes at the many kiosks designed for such purposes. Brother, his wife, Hubby, and I are successful at doing so. However, by that time, we realize that all the other 100 some have been told to just get into line and we are left at the end of the line. Son-in-law and Daughter have left us in the dust. They are far ahead at the front of the line. I keep thinking having our boarding passes and luggage already checked should allow us to bypass some of this line but it does not seem so. My stomach muscles are getting tighter and tighter as this line progresses with the speed of a turtle. I keep looking at my watch and thinking that we are going to end up missing the plane. As we are all standing in line, we find out that El Al Airlines have overbooked the flight by at least 15 – 20 people and they are asking members of our group to stay. Apparently, the pilots have also been on strike since Sunday which we knew nothing about. Just last evening, all flights were canceled.
The clock has ticked away an hour and a half before we finally reach the first security point where they compare our passport with our face and ask numerous questions. This one we zip through. Then we are told to get into the line for checking our bags in.
“Can we check our bags in somewhere faster?” I ask “since we already have luggage tags.”
Of course the answer is, “No, you need to get in that line.” As the man points to the line that snakes around 3 rows of slowly crawling snails. I am starting to feel somewhat panicked as we wait again for 30 minutes. Finally, we head for the next stop which is the physical security checkpoint where we need to go through the metal detector. We are allowed to keep our shoes on which makes this line move at incredible speed. As we leave the metal detector, I look around for the signs pointing to the D concourse. I see nothing like that. Confusedly, I lead my pack of four around in circles. Finally, I decide to ask. The TSA agent I ask is visibly irritated by this ignorant idiot, “You have to go through passport verification first,” she snaps. I have no idea what that means but head towards a line marked “foreign passports.” Another official looking lady waves toward some strange machines on the wall,” You can use those automatic ones over there.”
OK, I have no idea what to do with those things but I wander over and read the directions which say, “Put passport under scanner.” Amazingly, it likes my approach and prints me a little ticket. Feeling confident that we are now on our way, I tuck everything away and we are funneled through 1 small opening towards the boarding area. No wonder I could not see it before. We have not gone more than 20 feet and we come to more machines that indicate we need to scan our pink card to get through. “Pink card? I don’t have a pink card.” Then I realize this must mean the little slip of paper we just got. It has a faint ting of pink across the top. Finally, we reach the boarding area. Are there any more hoops to jump through I wonder? We have about a ½ hour wait before boarding the plane. They make an announcement that any liquids we have bought cannot be brought on the plane and that they will be going through our carry-on bags looking for liquids. You can’t be serious! Again? This line moves quickly as the search is not terribly thorough. The last straw awaits me on the plane. We realize Hubby and I do not have exit seats as I paid for and we are stuffed into the middle of the plane with someone between us. I make myself at home in the middle seat regardless. It makes no sense for someone to want to sit between us. When that person finally arrives, she is fine with our arrangement as it will put her husband just across the aisle from her. In all the confusion of the Airline’s overbooking and moving people around, we are left to stuff ourselves in the regular seats for 12 hours and the money I paid extra for exit seats has been swallowed up in the mess.
Other than being unable to breathe or move properly for 12 hours, all goes well with our flight. We land in Newark, NJ 45 minutes late but safe and sound back in the US. Our connecting flight to Minneapolis is uneventful. We break through the heavy clouds into light rain. By the time we retrieve our bags, it has started to snow heavily. Welcome to winter in Minnesota.
This time the hare beat the tortoise as we get home before my brother and his wife who drove home from the Newark airport.
What does one write on a zero temperature January day? I hear the wind howling around the corners of the house. At least it is cozy and warm in my chair, especially since I am leaning on a nice warm heating pad.
The last few days have been a struggle. On Saturday, as I scurried about my usual life’s activities, I bent over to move a piece of clothing from one wash pile to another. I felt a separation in my lower back followed by a stabbing pain. Oh, no! Now is not the time to have my back go out. I have an appointment with my daughter to go wedding dress shopping in the afternoon and my hubby and I will be leaving for Florida on Wednesday. But backs do not ask what our plans are before giving up on us. And so for three days, I have been wearing a back brace and walking bent over like an old lady. Every step is a painful struggle.
Today, I knew I needed to get some things done as we are leaving tomorrow. But how am I going to do that. My back is stiff and painful, though less so. I still cannot pick anything up off the floor. How am I going to plow the drive, sand the drive, and shovel the sidewalk? I am overwhelmed just by the thought. But at 9 a.m. as the thermometer still displays -6 degrees F, I ever so slowly pull on my boots and bundle up. As I trundle through the cutting wind to the unattached garage, I hope that the plow truck will start. I don’t even have the strength to push the garage door up. This is just dandy. The truck stares at me open mouthed. The open hood reveals the battery charger in place. Maybe, there is hope. I turn the key, but only a half a turn of the engine breaks the stillness followed by a click. Well, there is nothing to do but to trundle back to the attached garage for the car and some jumper cables. I want to sit in the truck and cry. On a good day, jumping the truck would not be my first plan of the day but with the cold, cutting wind, and aching back, this is the last thing I want to do.
I am soon parked facing the truck and with fumbling gloved up fingers, have the jumper cables attached. A turn of the key and my ears are rewarded with the welcome sound of a rumbling truck engine. Goal one completed. Back to the garage with the car and I am ready to plow. Now to get the plowing done without getting stuck or stalling the truck. I am convinced that if I stall it, it will not restart without another jump. As proof of this, each time that I try to raise the plow, it empties the battery of power and all the warning lights on the dashboard say “hello.” Twenty minutes later, I decide to call it “good enough” before I have pushed my luck to far. As I am backing into the garage, the inevitable happens. I stall it. A click is the only response I receive from turning the key. I sigh. I almost made it. Ten more feet and it would have been back in its designated place. So off to the house I go again for the car and jumper cables. One more jump and the truck is parked. Goal two completed.
Now, I just have to sand the hill and the drive will be good again for a few days anyway. I don’t think my back will allow me to lift the heavy buckets of sand and salt that I have stored in the garage for this task but I am determined to get this task done too. But as I eye the 5 gallon bucket and the distance between the ground and the car trunk, I know that I can’t lift it in my current shape. Suddenly, it hits me. I can be resourceful. I will take 1/2 of the sand out of the full bucket and put it in an empty one. Then I can lift them. I am proud of myself for thinking of this. As I back down the drive with my precious cargo, I meet the Grainger truck slowly backing down after a failed attempt to make it up our hill. At least, he didn’t put himself in the ditch. Soon the drive is sanded and ready for the next attempt by unsuspecting visitors.
And that plow truck has made ANOTHER trip to the repairman to determine what ails it. Maybe by spring we will have a functional plow truck.