Janet's Blog

I don't feel old. Yet, the signs are there. My hair is gray. I have eight, almost nine, grandchildren. Sometimes I forget people's names, or why I walked into a certain room. I have a few wrinkles here and there, and too many aches and pains. Even so, I don't feel old because I still get around pretty well; I walk three miles or so every day. Sometimes I stop to sit on a convenient bench for a few minutes, just to rest, but then I get up and continue on my way. However, my need for rest must have been concerning to one other walker this summer, because he stopped to ask me if I was okay, just because I was sitting down for a minute. I assured him I was fine, and he continued on his way. And, lest you worry, too, I really was fine. The sad part about getting older is that you stay young on the inside, but nobody can tell any more. In a few weeks, we will be commemorating that fateful day when the World Trade Center was destroyed and the Pentagon was badly damaged when severa...

Fifty Years used to seem like a long time. But now that it's been 50 years since I graduated from Fairbury High School, I can honestly say that 50 years is just a short period of time, only five brief decades. My classmates and I may have aged noticeably on the outside, but inside, we're pretty much the same as we always were--same basic values, work ethic, and philosophies. I hope, though, that we've gained much wisdom from our life experiences, as well as more empathy for others than teenagers usually exhibit.  I was pleased to be able to attend my 50th class reunion recently, and catch up with about 50 of my high school classmates. It was so interesting to hear about their lives and families. And, as one classmate stated, we heard hardly any conversation about health or politics. I know that our political views range from one extreme to the other, and I'm sure that many of us have faced various health challenges over the years, but those things faded to the backgroun...

As I sit here watching the snow fall--again--I am amazed at this year's winter weather. Normally, January is our driest month, but not this year. In fact, it has been reported that this has been the wettest, snowiest January in the Scottsbluff area in all of recorded history. That’s 130 years! The ground has not been totally snow-free since early December. And the streets! Let's just say that the city appears to have already used up most of its snow removal budget for this winter. Out of town trips have been treacherous, requiring much advance planning and weather watching. Roads have often been closed. Even when the highways are passable, black ice and ground blizzards have made travel a challenge this winter. Last week, when I rode with a friend to an appointment in Cheyenne, we were grateful to have picked the best travel day of the week, with only one sketchy stretch of road. Headed home from Cheyenne, through the Wildcat Hills. Here in the Nebraska Panhandle, it seems like...

I was surprised to see that it's been more than a month since my last blog post. There's a reason for that. As you can see from the title of this blog, the reason starts with the letter D. It's a nasty word that co-exists with a few others, like Danger and Divorce and Death. The word is Dementia . No, I don't have dementia, at least not yet, and I never expected anyone in my family would have dementia of any kind, either. We have little family history of anything resembling Alzheimer's, the most well-known form of dementia. But--and it's a big BUT--Mom has been diagnosed with Parkinson's Disease, with accompanying Lewy Body Dementia, and Dad also has a recent unspecified dementia diagnosis. This picture was taken just a couple of years ago, before any of us realized that dementia would come calling. The brunt of their care has fallen to my sister, Laura, and her husband, Kent, simply because they live the closest. Dan and I, who each live 400 miles away, in ...

I was seventeen or eighteen when our traveling ministry group sang at a nursing home in Oklahoma or Minnesota, or some other state on one of our three-week-long journeys. I remember seeing a sign that stated "Today is the First Day of the Rest of Your Life." Another popular sign urged the residents, and perhaps the staff, as well, to "Bloom Where You are Planted." Our Traveling Ministry group, Wheels of Faith . Pictures like this make me grateful for recent, digital photography. I don't know why I hated those signs, and their implied meanings. They make perfect sense now. But then, I probably thought they didn't really apply to me, since I was sure I had my whole life ahead of me. Perhaps it seemed like it was asking too much for nursing home residents to do anything meaningful with the remainder of their lives. Or, maybe, the signs just seemed like clichés, even then, when the sayings were new. Now, I know differently. I've had an active ...

I was just sixteen, the first time I rounded up some friends to sing in the nursing homes in Fairbury. It was summer, so we had some time available. And, I loved the new-found independence that came with having a driver's license and a vehicle to drive. The vehicle was unconventional, to say the least, but the old, yellow, converted mail van/catering van was perfect for hauling several girls and guitars. The only seat was the driver's seat, unless you counted the folding chair that slid toward the back of the van whenever the driver used the brake. For the most part, my passengers sprawled on the cold, metal floor in the back of the van, or perched carefully on one of the raised wheel covers. We usually met in the early afternoon once every week, or so, in my church's parking lot, because Grace Lutheran Church was located just a few blocks from the nursing homes. When our youth leader noticed what we were doing, he decided he wanted to organize us, and open up our minis...

Decades ago, Bill wore a metal splint he called a "finger stall," taped around a jammed finger to protect it from further injury. As far as I was concerned, that was the only kind of finger splint in existence, and jammed or broken fingers were the only fingers that needed to be splinted. I was wrong. Not too long ago, I drove to Cheyenne for a routine appointment with my rheumatologist so he could assess my polymyalgia. Believe it or not, he doesn't really treat osteo-arthritis, even though my arthritic hands bother me at least as much as the polymyalgia, which primarily affects my shoulders and hips. He looked at my hands anyway, and stated that I have "very bad arthritis." So much for a professional diagnosis. A few days later, I met with an orthopedic surgeon, the same one who removed a ganglion cyst from my left hand several years ago. I had been told that she was able to surgically fix a friend's arthritic thumb, so I was hopeful that she could...

I was combing my hair a while back, right after a haircut, when I leaned in closer to the mirror so I could see a little better. I wasn't imagining things; my hair, at least in the front, was much browner than it used to be! My hair has been increasingly silver, with a rather large white streak in the back, for several years now. (I guess I should be glad that silver hair is so popular, right now, that even younger women are purposefully dyeing their hair various shades of silver.) I've never colored my hair, so it has been interesting, although a bit maddening, I'll admit, to watch the progression from my natural dark brown to multi-faceted silver tresses. I never really expected to see that brown hair again. Most women my age have colored their hair for years, so they have to trust their roots to tell them what their natural, undyed color might be. Who would have guessed that graying hair might sometimes return closer to its original color? I've been mulling...

It happened again, at the airport this time. I observed someone who was greeting an older woman, giving her a big hug, and announcing, "You look so good!" I didn't hear the woman's reply, but she appeared to answer graciously. Bill commented later that some of his business acquaintances have been greeting him the same way, which makes him feel just a little uncomfortable. He lost a lot of weight a few years ago, and is clearly in good physical shape from his early morning workouts, but he doesn't necessarily want people telling him he looks good. It has been said that "beauty is only skin deep;" I have found that most mature people prefer to be recognized for who they are, rather than what they look like. There is a time and place for everything, of course. It is certainly okay to compliment someone on their weight loss, if you know they have recently been working hard to achieve that goal. And, if a close friend or relative has just successfully com...

My hands have been giving me fits lately. The insignificant little paper cut on my right index finger has reminded me of its existence all week, whenever I sit down to strum my guitar. The blood blister on my thumb is a silent and (finally) painless reminder of that incident earlier this week, when I tried to catch a wooden salad bowl as it fell out of an upper kitchen cupboard. I was unable to snag the errant bowl, but I managed to deflect it with my thumb, so it will be around to serve salad another day. I thought I was done with cracked fingers for this year, but fickle April's recent wintry weather has caused yet another gaping crack on my right thumb, tender and sometimes bleeding, right next to the fingernail, as usual. Now that it is officially spring here in the Nebraska panhandle, I haven't been as careful to always wear my gloves outside, especially when I step out for just a minute to carry some garbage to the dumpster. By now, I should have learned that it only ta...