Jaime gently removed the back inside wall of the freezer and set it aside. He chipped off chunks of ice to expose the metal rod that normally heats up to keep ice from accumulating where it doesn't belong. However, he said there could be an issue with the gizmo that tells the defroster when to defrost. Maybe it was funky, maybe not. He said he would order some parts, just in case. Meanwhile, feel free to put your food back inside.
I did not remove my food from the ice chest and put it back inside. I’m not a fool. Good thing, because despite his ministrations, the freezer still cannot make ice and the main part of the fridge is still not cold enough to keep yogurt safe. Nothing has been repaired. The fan runs almost constantly but Darth Vader the Defroster is still AWOL.
I did not remove my food from the ice chest and put it back inside. I’m not a fool. Good thing, because despite his ministrations, the freezer still cannot make ice and the main part of the fridge is still not cold enough to keep yogurt safe. Nothing has been repaired. The fan runs almost constantly but Darth Vader the Defroster is still AWOL.
I’ve been camping without a properly functioning fridge for ten days. The only thing I keep in the box are raisins and nuts. Although, today I mentally kicked myself—I don't have a thermometer, but I’m guessing the freezer is probably the perfect temperature for keeping my yogurt safe. I wish I had thought of that before all these trips to Safeway for bags of ice. Oh well. This is how I learn my way, by going in circles.
It has been a going-in-circles kind of week. On Monday, I met a new dentist, chosen from a short list of locals in the Medicare provider network. This dentist was unlike any dental professional I’ve ever met. I use the term professional very loosely. I’ll call her Stumpy. After Stumpy's exam and cleaning, I have a profound appreciation for the professional dental practice I left behind in Portland.
On Tuesday, I motored to the desert hinterlands for my second visit to the lab and contributed a little more blood for a follow-up exam. Then to round out the day, I got my COVID-19 booster shot. Wednesday was more or less a black hole of aching-bones misery, punctuated by the fruitless visit from the maintenance guys. Thursday I started to feel a little better, except for a late-day migraine. Friday I found out my blood is no good, tornadoes tore up the Midwest, and Mike Nesmith died. It’s been a rough week.
I spent Friday and Saturday grieving. Once I started grieving, I tried to glean as much value as I could from my investment in the production of tears and snot-nosed congestion. That is, I packed everything I could think of into my grief bucket—the death of my cat, the pandemic, my mother’s death, my stupid car, my stupid blood, scary weather, mean people, the demise of the second-to-the-last Monkee, the little dudes in my kitchen, the fridge, the melting ice in my ice chest, my sagging butt, and the whiskers growing out of my nose.
Trivia, perhaps, but big or small, it’s all evidence that things are changing. Circumstances have changed, are still changing, and I myself have changed. For someone desperate to manage and control circumstances so she doesn't have to be afraid, change is cause for grieving.
So what should I do? I will tell you what I would like to do. I’d like to go to bed for the winter, hibernate in the Bat Cave until things settle down, inside and out. However, I know that is neither realistic nor possible. So I’m meeting life head on. Next week I am going for my pneumonia shot. Why not? I’m on a needle-jab jag. Then, I plan to start a new drug for osteoporosis—oh boy, that is bound to be fun. And third, I’m going to make an appointment to meet a hematologist. I predict I am anemic, and the cure will likely involve eating great slabs of beef liver daily.
It has been a going-in-circles kind of week. On Monday, I met a new dentist, chosen from a short list of locals in the Medicare provider network. This dentist was unlike any dental professional I’ve ever met. I use the term professional very loosely. I’ll call her Stumpy. After Stumpy's exam and cleaning, I have a profound appreciation for the professional dental practice I left behind in Portland.
On Tuesday, I motored to the desert hinterlands for my second visit to the lab and contributed a little more blood for a follow-up exam. Then to round out the day, I got my COVID-19 booster shot. Wednesday was more or less a black hole of aching-bones misery, punctuated by the fruitless visit from the maintenance guys. Thursday I started to feel a little better, except for a late-day migraine. Friday I found out my blood is no good, tornadoes tore up the Midwest, and Mike Nesmith died. It’s been a rough week.
I spent Friday and Saturday grieving. Once I started grieving, I tried to glean as much value as I could from my investment in the production of tears and snot-nosed congestion. That is, I packed everything I could think of into my grief bucket—the death of my cat, the pandemic, my mother’s death, my stupid car, my stupid blood, scary weather, mean people, the demise of the second-to-the-last Monkee, the little dudes in my kitchen, the fridge, the melting ice in my ice chest, my sagging butt, and the whiskers growing out of my nose.
Trivia, perhaps, but big or small, it’s all evidence that things are changing. Circumstances have changed, are still changing, and I myself have changed. For someone desperate to manage and control circumstances so she doesn't have to be afraid, change is cause for grieving.
So what should I do? I will tell you what I would like to do. I’d like to go to bed for the winter, hibernate in the Bat Cave until things settle down, inside and out. However, I know that is neither realistic nor possible. So I’m meeting life head on. Next week I am going for my pneumonia shot. Why not? I’m on a needle-jab jag. Then, I plan to start a new drug for osteoporosis—oh boy, that is bound to be fun. And third, I’m going to make an appointment to meet a hematologist. I predict I am anemic, and the cure will likely involve eating great slabs of beef liver daily.
Blessings or curses? Who knows? I have more evidence to factor into the mix. The southern Arizona weather is chilly at night but mild during the day, compared to Portland or Albuquerque, anyway, with brilliant sunshine and pure blue skies. This afternoon, I walked to a local cemetery, saw people visiting the graves, and felt gratitude that I was born in this time and place, the perfect age to appreciate the ephemeral under-appreciated phenomenon we knew as The Monkees. My brother sent me photos of his five black and white cats, all brothers, and of his soulful-eyed black puppy who now weighs over forty pounds. My sister, taking on the role as parental stocking-stuffer, sent me a toothbrush.
Right now, it's quiet in Bat Cave. No pounding, no voices, just my own soft music, my playlist of favorite songs. See what I mean about taking my blessings for granted? It's not hard to know when things are going wrong. It takes dedicated mindfulness—and a sneaky optimism—to be aware when things are going right.
