friends – Roadkill Crossing

Please Don’t Hug Me Right Now

Departing Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

I love giving and receiving hugs, especially as I age. The fact that my four siblings and I received little physical affection growing up might play a significant role in my desire to be a hugger in my senior years.

There’s nothing better than giving my grandchildren a hearty hug after an athletic event or concert in which they have participated. And too, I melt when they hug me for simply being their grandfather. That momentary embrace says more than any card or note of appreciation.

The same is true for close friends, especially as we endure the aging process with all its expected and unexpected ailments. When we gather in small groups, whether at church or in our homes, the first question often asked is, “How are you?”

My wife and I are in two different small groups of peers, most of whom have Ohio roots like us. We now live in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley, close to three of our four grandchildren.

When with other seniors, we chat around a meal or a table of snacks and drinks about our health. Sharing and listening become equivalent hugs, emotional squeezes, if you will. As septuagenarians and octogenarians, we all need those affirmations as we deal with our latest ailments.

Our ship, the Zuiderdam, docked at Portland, Maine. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

However, since we returned from a recent cruise, I’ve had to learn to be happy accepting verbal greetings instead. I cracked three ribs in a freak fall near the end of our trip.

All was going well until our ship approached Halifax, Nova Scotia. Before we left, friends cautioned us not to fall. I had every intention of complying.

As I stepped into the shower, and please don’t try to imagine that, my left foot hit the shower mat just as the ship pitched in the opposite direction. I flew through the air like Superman, only not as gracefully.

My arm stopped my flight by hitting the sink, and I crashed to the floor with a loud thud. Excruciating pain shot through my right side. My wife said I made noises she had never heard before from any creature.

After the initial shock, I composed myself and finished getting ready for the day. However, after breakfast, my ribs pained me greatly. We headed to guest services, and I was immediately wheeled to the ship’s medical center.

The friendly and competent medical staff quizzed me, took my vitals, and gave me medication to ease the pain. X-rays showed a cracked rib, but the doctor wanted me to go ashore to the hospital. Doing so would effectively end our vacation, and I didn’t want that to happen.

Painful as it was, a cracked rib wasn’t a life-or-death situation. We enjoyed Halifax as best we could from our veranda. I checked in the next two mornings for additional shots of pain medication, and we were able to fly home on schedule.

But because I had also hit my head in the crazy fall, we went to our local hospital’s emergency room after we arrived home. CT scans showed not issues with my head, though my wife questioned those results. I did, however, have three cracked ribs, not one.

We took it easy the next few days before I felt like venturing out. Friends who didn’t know about my accident greeted us with the usual hugs, but I politely waved them off and explained.

I have developed a new appreciation for the importance of the rib cage to the rest of the body. I measure my moves and watch my steps. I also recognize that three cracked ribs are insignificant when compared to more consequential diagnosis of cancer and other diseases of friends and family.

I’m still healing and greatly looking forward to when I can once again hug and be hugged without pain. Until then, a fist bump will do.

The Portland, Maine waterfront at dusk. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Frustrated by the Medical System? Advocate for Yourself

Our local hospital. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

I got the cruelest call on April Fool’s Day. My doctor’s office informed me that the MRIs I had the previous day indicated an aneurysm on my left carotid artery and some disturbing white spots on my brain.

My head spun with all sorts of possibilities, none of them good. My primary care physician (PCP) referred me to a hospital in another city. I anxiously waited for a call to schedule an appointment at the hospital. It never came.

Instead, my PCP notified me days later that the hospital declined to see me. I needed something they didn’t have: a neuro intervention team. That made me even more concerned.

My PCP then referred me to a teaching hospital in the same city, more than an hour away. She also told me not to do anything strenuous, and to begin to take a baby aspirin.

I started the 81 mg aspirin right away. I also curtailed my nearly daily exercises for my lower back, which had bulged and degenerative discs. And I waited, and waited.

Days passed, and I didn’t hear anything. So, I called the hospital’s neurosurgeon department to ask about the referral. They couldn’t find it.

Of course, I contacted my doctor via the patient portal to indicate that the hospital didn’t have my referral. She faxed another one, this time stamped urgent.

After two weeks had passed with still no communication from the hospital, I called them, but had to leave voicemails, which were not returned. I decided to check for other hospitals that specialized in my condition. I found three in the United States.

Fortunately, one hospital was only three hours away. So, I called the head neurosurgeon’s office, and the receptionist answered the phone on the second ring. She provided me with easy-to-understand instructions on how to send my records to them. I contacted my doctor to provide the hospital’s fax number to forward my records.

There was one catch. I had to deliver the MRI images myself, but not necessarily in person. The hospital had a link where I could upload the images and the written diagnoses.

I contacted our local hospital where I had the MRIs, and they said I could pick them up the next day, which I did.

I placed the disc in the external DVD player since my laptop, like most nowadays, doesn’t have a slot for CDs or DVDs. I tried uploading the images, but the webpage wouldn’t take them.

I called the hospital, and by some good fortune, I was connected with a very understanding and helpful technician who kindly guided me through the process. She said I wasn’t the first patient to have the same issue.

I immediately received emails confirming that the hospital had received my images and documents, which I found reassuring. Finally, I thought to myself, an institution that gets how frustrating technology can be for their senior patients.

However, I waited several more days. I called the neurosurgeon’s office again. The office manager told me the doctors were deciding which one would review my records.

Finally, more than a month later, I received a call from the hospital to set an appointment. The good news was that it would be a remote video session with the neurosurgeon. The bad news was that my wife and I would be traveling on the dates they offered.

However, I settled on one, which happened to be exactly six weeks since my MRIs. It was also our son’s birthday, and the 14th anniversary of my prostate cancer surgery. Taking that appointment meant we had to alter our travel plans slightly. It was a small sacrifice to make if I wanted to see the neurosurgeon.

When the late-afternoon appointment arrived, my wife and daughter-in-law joined me. I relied on them to keep notes and to ask questions, since at 77 years old, my memory wasn’t what it once was.

My wife was of great help to me as we navigated my cancer episode together. She attended every appointment with me and took excellent notes. She helped me at every step of the way from biopsy to surgery to rehab. So, she attended this appointment without hesitation.

The neurosurgeon was excellent. He said I had a pseudo-aneurysm, and the spots on my brain were not unusual for my age. He reassured me that the chance of the pseudo-aneurysm rupturing was near zero. And he listened to and answered all our questions.

However, he did refer me to a stroke neurologist due to the bulge in my carotid. He did so in case I had a blood clot, which would potentially block the carotid at the pseudo-aneurysm’s location. I have a scheduled appointment for that.

I recognize that my experience is anecdotal. I also know that many of my peers have had similar experiences with the medical system.

So, what did I learn through all of this?

I learned to be persistent if doctors’ offices or hospitals don’t follow up with patients as expected. I also learned to be patient. They are busy after all.

Through it all, I tried my best to be kind to everyone I spoke with. Medical personnel work with many patients and other staff members daily. Why add to their frustration by being rude or angry? That wouldn’t help my blood pressure, and probably not theirs either.

I also tried to be as gracious and courteous as possible, even if it was simply putting me on hold on the phone for a few minutes. Gratitude benefits everyone.

Don’t go it alone. Having a spouse, relative, or friend attend a medical appointment with you helps the patient better understand what is being said and what the patient should and should not do. In my case, it also helped catch any information I missed. When diagnoses cause consternation, one can only absorb so much. Designate a person to advocate on your behalf if you are unable to do so yourself.

In all of this, be communicative. That ensures everyone is on the same page and prevents you from getting lost in the system. Too often, medical digital systems don’t talk to one another, so you have to speak up for yourself. But the communications need to be considerate and respectful.

The bottom line is to be proactive for yourself and your health. A positive and respectful approach goes a long way with professionals who too often hear just the opposite.

Finally, I wanted to share my story in the hope that patients who have experienced similar challenges will understand that they are not alone. And for other retirees who may encounter the same roadblocks that I did, I hope they recognize the importance of persistence and self-advocacy in achieving their best medical outcomes.

A blood pressure cuff. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Stations of the Cross: A Good Friday Tradition

For the last 38 years, churches in Harrisonburg, Virginia, have joined together on Good Friday at noon to walk the Stations of the Cross. This is an ecumenical service of public prayer and witness on Christianity’s most solemn day.

It was the perfect afternoon to walk in downtown Harrisonburg. With a bright blue sky overhead and the temperatures in the 70s, more than 150 people chose to walk the 10 stations.

I was most impressed by the cross-generational gathering. Toddlers in strollers, teenagers in shorts, parents, and grandparents walked narrow sidewalks and across city streets to the various stations representing the final hours of Jesus’s life.

Luke 22:39-46. Jesus prays on the Mount of Olives.

Retired pastor Phil Kniss gave safety instructions to the crowd before the service began on the steps of Blessed Sacrament Catholic Church. Members of the Shenandoah Valley Biblical Storytellers dramatically shared appropriate scriptures at each stop. A prayer by local clergy was recited before proceeding to the next station.

Luke 22:47-53. Jesus is betrayed and arrested.

We didn’t have to go far for the second stop. The U.S. Federal Courthouse was just steps away. Note the court official peering out of the window on the right.

The third stop was just a short distance away at the local television station. Besides places of worship, the walk included stops representing the media and local, state, and federal agencies.

Luke 22:63-71. Jesus is mocked and questioned.

The following two stops brought us to the First Presbyterian Church on Court Square. It is literally the city center. We bathed in the warm sunshine of the early afternoon, listening to the scripture presentation and the prayer.

Luke 23:1-5. Jesus stands before Pilate.

The procession moved across the street to the west side of the Rockingham County Courthouse. Doing so allowed the group to gather without blocking any doorways, as the only public entrance is located on the east side.

Luke 23:6-12. Jesus stands before Herod.

We moved from the courthouse to the jail and administrative building across the street. A few onlookers joined the troupe of walkers.

Luke 23:13-25. Jesus is sentenced to death.

From the jail, the group followed the cross to an open area near Blacks Run, a stream that meanders through the town’s center. While the scripture was shared and the prayer said, an American Goldfinch sang high from a nearby cottonwood tree, and a pair of Mallards swam upstream. The church steeple in the background was the next destination.

Luke 23:26-43. Jesus is nailed to the cross.

At the historic Asbury United Methodist Church, we heard the hard words of Jesus being nailed to the cross. The walk became more solemn than it had been when we had started a half hour earlier.

Following the prayer, the participants trekked along South Main St. to City Hall. Fortunately, the street is a one-way, northbound roadway, which allowed excellent visibility for oncoming traffic. The street is also U.S. 11, the old Valley Pike, where Confederate and Union soldiers marched and occasionally fought. The ancient history overshadowed that of the more recent.

The group crossed S. Main St. to the last stop, the lovely courtyard behind St. Stephen’s United Church of Christ.

The inviting backyard garden of St. Patrick’s United Church of Christ hosted the last scripture and prayer of the afternoon’s commemoration. By now, people were tired from the heat and the walk, which totaled a mile round trip. Still, all were attentive to the cherished story. With the final benediction, the people scattered quietly, individually, pondering all that we had seen and heard.

Snow Drops and One Imposter

One of these is not the same as the others. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Our across-the-street neighbors have lovely flower gardens for all who pass by to enjoy. Since their house faces south, the winter sun, when it shines, warms the front yard.

This, in turn, encourages flowers to bloom when the days warm into the 50s and 60s, like they have for the last few days. I went over to photograph the Snow Drops and discovered that a lone Hyacinth had joined dainty white flowers in showing off its lavender beauty.

These harbingers of spring were most welcome.

Merry Christmas & Happy Hanukkah!

From my family to yours, Merry Christmas, and Happy Hanukkah to my Jewish friends.

Blessings all around as you celebrate with family.

Happy Thanksgiving!

The Colorful Week That Was

My wife and I were busy last week. Everywhere we went, we saw color, literally and metaphorically. Color dominated, from flowers to birds to people to landscapes to food to sunsets.

Here are a few samples of the vivid, muted, and impressive hues we encountered as we traveled from Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley to the Piedmont of North Carolina and back.

We met good friends from Ohio for breakfast in Front Royal, Virginia.

We bought apples and fresh cider at a local orchard.

We enjoyed lunch with cousins from California and North Carolina.

Dan Nicholas Park Lake.
Textures and colors.
The Foot Bridge.
A multitude of greens.
A pristine lake.
Reflections.
The last lily bloom.
Muscovy Duck.
A migrating Bay Breasted Warbler.
A Great Blue Heron.

Dan Nicholas Park wasn’t the only place we saw birds. We sat in the shade and chatted while various species of birds visited our hosts’ backyard feeders.

Please click on the photos to enlarge them.

Of course, I had to include a sunset from Cannon Park in Salisbury, North Carolina.

Please click on the photos to enlarge them.

The evening we arrived home in Harrisonburg, Virginia, the aurora borealis brightened the night sky. The following morning, we had the first frost of the season.

On Saturday, we hustled from one event to another. It was Homecoming at Eastern Mennonite University, where our daughter is the athletic director. The highlight for us was the dedication of the new state-of-the-art track. The ceremonies culminated with a ceremonial lap around the track by significant donors, former track members, and current track members. The oldest participant to run was in his 80s. He runs every day.

Please click on the photos to enlarge them.

Sugar Maple leaves are peaking.

That evening, we watched our grandson lead the Rock City Regime as the drum major at a high school band competition.

The colorful week ended with a welcome home by late-blooming clematis.

Summer’s Last View

A lazy Sunday late summer afternoon. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

My wife and I were enjoying a scrumptious brunch with friends of ours. The conversation was as delicious as the fare.

Not having been to this winery before, I was focused on the menu and the venue. Then I noticed the view.

Beyond the old farmhouse with its red brick chimney, the blooming crepe myrtle, and the leaves of the hardwoods waiting to transform into golds, russets, and bronze stood the stoic Massanutten Mountain range. It’s one of the shortest mountain ranges in the world, covering 50 miles from near Front Royal south to Harrisonburg, Virginia, in the Shenandoah Valley.

The scene gave me hope. It was an excellent way to bid summer adieu and envision a fall full of color and coolness.

Reality vs. Fantasy

Sometimes, reality is stranger than fantasy. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

When I happened upon this tender scene, I did a double-take.

My wife and I had joined an entourage from church for a Sunday afternoon of baptisms for three teens in the chilly mountain stream. After the dunkings and the celebratory congratulations shared, I wandered away from the rest of the revelers to see what I could find.

Scores of Pipevine Butterflies and Tiger Swallowtail Butterflies flitted through the woods. They danced carefree from rays of broken sunlight to dense shade, oblivious to the human invaders.

I certainly didn’t expect to find a cat casually nursing three young ones in the forest. And I especially didn’t expect to find a stuffed cat and her young stuffed kittens. But that is exactly what I discovered.

Some children not connected with our group were splashing in the nearby stream. Perhaps one of them thought this wild cherry tree along the banks of the Dry River at the base of Shenandoah Mountain was a lovely and safe haven while romping in the water.

I’ll never know for sure, but this composition of fantasy playthings among nature’s real and evolving habitat was too good not to share.

There’s Great Joy in Decluttering

The cowboy hat. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

My wife and I have been cleaning the house item by item for longer than I can remember. And we’ve been married for 53 years.

She has always been ahead of me in the disposing game. I’m finally beginning to understand the joy of discarding items I have clung to for far too long.

Gone is the brown felt stetson cowboy hat my daughter’s family gave me as a gift years ago when they lived in Texas. It was a striking hat, but I seldom wore it. So, why should I keep it?

To be considerate, I asked my daughter if she cared if I gave the hat away. She just smiled and said, “It’s your hat. You can do whatever you want with it.”

Of course, I knew that, but I wanted to be sensitive to her since she had purchased the thing. I could have donated it to a thrift store, but I didn’t.

Guess where the stetson ended up? Back in my daughter’s household. Her second son, 17, jumped at the chance to own it. He hopes to have a hatter stretch it so it fits him.

Knowing that the hat has a familial home has instilled as much pleasure in me as having received it in the first place. Isn’t that the point of decluttering your life, especially when you’re 76?

Our two-year-old grandson loves to dress up as a firefighter, among other wholesome job roles. I kept my old helmet from my volunteer firefighting days. The black fiberglass headgear, long lacking necessary safety standards, still has my uniform number, 828, emblazoned on it.

When I offered it to his parents for their son, they declined. I wasn’t either surprised or disappointed. The thing has too many places for tender little fingers to get pinched or cut.

So, the same grandson who confiscated the cowboy hat will also own my helmet. I don’t know what he will do with it, but when I hand it over, I’m sure he’ll ask questions about emergencies to which I responded. I have a storehouse of tales to tell him.

My old fire helmet. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Our teenage granddaughter didn’t hesitate when I offered her a t-shirt from a favorite burger place on the island where we wintered in Florida. Our daughter’s family joined us for a few days a couple of times, and the grandkids loved that restaurant, too. Many snowbird memories passed to her in that faded shirt.

When our son and daughter were young, I brought out my old model train set at Christmas and continued that through the toddler years of the grandchildren. Now, our son has it to entertain his son. I don’t have to be there to know and sense the joy of a child and his father connecting one track segment to another until the oval is complete. Just mentally picturing that scene is enough.

A teen I mentor enjoys birding but needed a bird guide. Over the years, I have collected many books on birds, so it was no sacrifice to give this enthusiastic youngster a field guide I cherished so that he could, too.

I have an old black-and-white photo of four of the 28 fourth-grade students from my first year of teaching. I will send it to the one Amish boy in the picture, knowing he would revere it more than me. He will remember and tell his grandchildren when his fourth-grade class created a radio station.

I discover new items daily that equally resurface loving and sad memories. If I don’t need the apparel, souvenirs, or keepsakes, I gladly pass them on to the younger generations for posterity. I’ve already had mine.