“The Road NOT Taken”

Road NOT taken!

           Last weekend we did a quick turn-around trip to our cabin in Leakey, Texas. Because of transportation problems over the last few years, we’ve neglected both the cabin’s exterior and the massive cedar take-over of the acreage. Now that we have our Bronco Sport, heading down the rough road isn’t a problem. David’s selected areas on the property to create trails through the cedars; with going up the hill behind the cabin taking priority as the top of it is our only section where we get cellphone reception.

          The porch, which we built more than thirty years ago, attaches to the metal building and sprung a leak during our long absence. Last November, we noted the water damage, and David decided to bring some GREAT STUFF up on the next visit to seal the leak. In January, he sprayed both from the roof line above and within the porch below. This time, it was obvious that everything dried out. Now we have to figure out how to fix the damage, an extra problem since it’s only the two of us. We brainstormed on ways to remove the rotten parts, reinforce the zone with new wood, and also treat the remainder of the porch’s wood to preserve it. I’ll spend time researching the exterior paints with waterproofing before the next visit. The cabin’s exterior wood needs both repairs and paint. We’ll toil at these tasks for the remainder of this year.

            We’re never ones to shy away from hard work, but since my both of my knees have had slight injuries, I’m extra cautious when we’re at the cabin now since another twisted knee is a major setback I don’t want to deal with. For safety purposes, I wear ankle high, steel toed hiking boots instead of the tennis shoes I’ve worn for years. If  I step down the ramp, my heavy boots adorn my feet. I crawl at a careful pace going up the back hill. I test the inclines of slopes before heading back down. That means a zigzag path with David nearby to offer a hand of assistance.

            On Sunday, we started down one of the dry creek beds. It’s one of my favorite treks. With extreme vigilance, I picked my way along the rocks and gravel. David, eyes forward and moving at his normal pace, left me in the dust! About ten feet in, I called out, “I think this is too difficult for me right now. I’m going back to the road!” Frankly, I didn’t know whether I felt defeated or victorious. One the one hand, I didn’t venture down a road I’ve taken many, many times with ease. Although my knees felt fine, I didn’t want to risk re-injury. The younger, less arthritic Liz wouldn’t have turned back. Even a couple of years ago, I would’ve pushed myself a little harder. The practical, new Liz listened to my body’s whispered, “Maybe not . . .” and heeded the warning. NOT taking the rocky road is a huge victory for my more alert self.

            I suspect my new mantle of prudence will wrap me in security from now on when working at the cabin. I see myself climbing up and down a ladder with paintbrush in hand, and eventually knowing my footing’s sure enough to trek both dry creek beds. It will be done with a slow and steady pace, though.

Actual road I walked!

Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman  

             

“One Step Forward. Two . . .”

 

            Many months have passed since my last musings. I often think, “I need to write about this” or “Maybe I should record THAT”. Yet nothing propels me to my keyboard. The more time passes, the more often I self-censor ideas. “This really isn’t my story” pushes me into stepping away from the commentary swirling around in my brain.

            Before Christmas, we traveled to my sister’s home for an extremely small family gift exchange. My husband and I joined my sister, brother-in-law, and brother for one brief afternoon. As all of us felt well, no one did any COVID-19 testing. Within the first hour of our visit, my brother asked if there were any allergens in the air. His eyes started burning, and he asked for a hot cub of tea to ease his throat that suddenly had a tickle. His symptoms, absent when he joined our gathering, manifested quickly but looked like his typical allergy reaction to something in the air. We spent less than five hours together, with an open window close by, but that’s all it took for me to pick up the virus and eventually pass it on to my own small household. Fortunately, all of us are vaccinated and boosted. After a few days of misery, we all recovered well enough to return to our usual daily routines.

            For me, that meant increasing my walking goals. In June of 2020, I slipped while mopping the floor and slightly twisted my left knee. I gave it little thought as I continued with my daily walks through our neighborhood, until one morning when I took one step too many, heard a pop, and stepped into excruciating pain. RICE for seventy-two hours, plus another seventy-two using heat saved my knee. When my doctor’s PA examined it around day ten, she pronounced it on the road to recovery and gave me exercises to utilize to regain strength and motion. She said my knee definitely had arthritis in it, told me to “be careful” in my rehab and remember that it could happen again.

            Recovery crawled at a slow and steady pace. At first, I couldn’t even walk my entire back yard to water it without giving my knee a break. By the fall, I could walk to the corner of our street and back. I changed doctors and the goal of walking thirty minutes a day became my new focus. January of 2022 found my pace so slow that I’d drive to our park, hit the smooth sidewalks there for an entire hour. By June, I could walk to the park from our house. My pace picked up, too. I began walking different areas of our neighborhood. The hardest route, walking up “Suicide Hill” became my choice for once a week. My knee handled these challenges without a complaint!

            Moving into this January, I fixated on the idea of going up that steep incline for an entire week without shifting to a different direction. On day seven, I felt triumphant! Up the hill in record time, around the block to hit the hill by the elementary school, and then pushing the final stretch to home all in my half-hour goal. Approaching our home, I noticed our neighbor had removed all of the leaves from the front of his house. I dashed inside, grabbed a broom, and cleared the leaves from our front, too, forgetting that the motion that first injured my left knee was the side-to-side sweep of a mop.

            By the afternoon, my entire right leg muscles screamed for a hot soak in the tub followed by a slathering of Bengay Maximum. The next morning my leg didn’t scream, but I decided to spend my thirty minutes spinning on the recumbent bike we purchased just before Christmas. No problems. On Friday morning, with temperatures dipping pretty cold, I decided another round on the bike would keep me at my exercise goal. No problem with my right leg muscles at all.

            We decided to eat lunch out, walk over to the gym to cancel our membership, and run more errands. Heading toward Target, I felt my pace slow down as we entered the store. No pain or discomfort anywhere. I simply couldn’t keep up with my husband and son. Swinging to Hobby Lobby to spend a gift card, my steps slowed even more. Still, nothing hurt. I just shifted into a lower gear as we walked.

            Once home, I headed to our bedroom to put some mail into the drawer and took ONE STEP TOO MANY.

            This time, my right knee popped loudly with pain firing fiercely! Our bed, a couple of steps behind me became unreachable without help. I called out for aid. My husband and son guided me into bed, removed my shoes, and propped up pillows. We began RICE immediately. This time, our quick action means my right knee’s recovering at a faster pace. I’m not going to be heading up “Suicide Hill” anytime soon, but I’m able to move around the house pain free today!  

Shoes waiting for my next walk!

 

 

Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

“On Statin Island”

            About fifteen years ago, my cholesterol levels jumped overnight from normal ranges to extremely high levels. My doctor quipped that she thought I had the highest “scores” of any patient in her practice. Of course, such a dramatic change meant I started taking medication right away.

         

   Lipitor and I became friends. I faithfully took my pill every night and chose this relationship over my love for grapefruit juice. At the six month checkpoint, my test results showed a successful marriage between my system and this tiny pill.

            Our relationship hit troubled waters soon. I changed schools to a campus that required that I not only think quickly on my feet, but that I literally stand for hour after hour. My feet ached all the time. I experimented with different heel heights, discovering that wearing flats crippled my feet by the end of the day. An inch to three inch pitch took care of the problem for a few months.

            Then my legs began to cramp, too. During the nights, I’d awaken in screaming agony as my calf muscled twisted and knotted. In the mornings, I hobbled. It felt like I walked on gravel as I slowly moved from bed to bathroom. After about fifteen minutes, the pain always subsided.

            Within another year, my body aches and pains had shifted from my feet and legs to my entire body. I often felt as though I’d gone to sleep on a high, concrete platform—and that sometime during the night, I’d rolled off this perch and splatted like Wile E. Coyote onto the desert floor. My morning hobbling became an excruciating exercise.

            Naturally, it never occurred to me to mention this pain to my doctor. I kept thinking it would get better and rationalized that the long hours I spent standing caused the soreness.

            One weekend, my sister observed my crawl from bed.

            “How long have you been like this?” concern laced her voice.

            “I don’t know. It started with just my feet, but now even the tip of my fingers hurt,” I admitted.

            “It’s your cholesterol medication. Stop taking it today and call your doctor on Monday.”

            And she was right!

            My doctor pulled me off the medication and within six months, all of my aching and throbbing vanished. But my cholesterol levels skyrocketed again.

            My journey to “Statin Island” began at that point. When we tried a different drug, one of two things would happen. I’d react quickly with severe muscle pain (Crestor flattened me within three doses); or the drug would only lower my levels for the first six months, and then we’d have to adjust the medication to a higher dosage, which always resulted in side effects. My doctor tired non-statin options, but they weren’t strong enough to cut my scores.   

         

   For the last year, I’ve taken Livalo, and followed my usual pattern. For the first six months my lower levels made us optimistic, and I didn’t have any adverse reactions. Then my cholesterol climbed, so we increased the dosage. This time, instead of the pain going to my feet or legs, it seeped into my left hand. The gradual process tricked me into thinking that I needed to discuss the possibility of arthritis with my doctor at my next check-up. Then the discomfort began in my right hand, and grew from ache to agony.

            So, another drug bites the dust!

            I have six months to focus on getting my levels as low as possible through diet and exercise. If I can get below 300, it may open up options for different drugs that aren’t as strong. Ever the optimist, I know that at least this time around, I have no one to take care of but myself. I can spend an hour a day at Gold's Gym. I can eat a lazy breakfast of Irish oatmeal with fruit every morning. I can modify my diet because I have time to cook different recipes and experiment.

            I know that some kind of medication lurks in my future, but I’ll be prepared for my next visit to Statin Island.  

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman