The tests in May showed that even though I felt a little better the disease had progressed.    That turned out to be both good and bad news because it meant that maybe our insurance company would finally approve the use of a new drug called Letairis, which has proven effective for many of the people who’ve tried it.    With Pulmonary Hypertension it;s a game of “pick and choose” until you stumble onto the drug that works right for you.    What is best for one does not necessarily work for another.     We’ve now climbed the ladder from the least intrusive drugs to the more intrusive ones but it’s a ladder that we knew needed to be climbed and we’re grateful to our doctor and our insurance company, P.E.H.P., for making it available to me.  Today as I took my first little $133.00 ($4,000.00 a month) pill, I was very grateful that our co-pay is only $150.00.   

My days of laziness are over and I’m determined to write more often.    I’m hoping that Letairis makes it so that more blood will be pumped through this head of mine and the fog will lift that has held my familiar words captive for the last eight months.    With or without those words I’m going to write, so feel free to send me a list of your useable words if you find mine lack luster and excitement.     Again … Up, Up, and Away …

Lately it seems like some of my biggest thrills are plucking my eyebrows and the random little wiry facial hairs that seem to pop through every now and then. 

This last month I lost my dear friend and sister in law to ALS, Lou Gehrig’s Disease.    It was hard to say goodbye to my laughing buddy.  She was just a young 68 and a year ago was full of her normal vim and vigor.    Over the last seven months she gradually lost the use of her legs, then her upper body … but she faced each new difficult day like a trooper, still smiling and always wanting to make sure everyone was fed and taken care of.  She was an elite lady.   The only bright side is that she is now reunited with my brother who passed away unexpectedly just four years ago.    It is nice to think of them together but it will take a long time for me to quit wanting to pick up the phone and give her a call when there is something funny to laugh together at.

There are a couple of things I have been thinking about to write about … and if it wasn’t so danged late I might even write about one of them tonight but I will have to do it another time.    I just wanted to let you know I’m alive and kicking.    My life is still a good one and I am grateful for it.

Last year I crocheted 40 Christmas stockings.    This summer I made three afghans and one carryall bag.    As I worked on the bag, which happens to be the last thing I finished, I had grand ideas of making up several extras and using them for gifts … but about five days into the project I realized that not everyone would appreciate the merits of a crocheted hand bag.   It would have to be a special order.   Only a person who crochets would know what a gift of love it is when they saw that it was three colors of yarn that involved weaving and tying a whole gob of individual knots for decoration, and at least five different stitches.    Of course, that doesn’t account for the times you pulled it apart and started over, or six or seven rows back.   It’s probably a good thing no one knows that or they would think of having you committed for the time spent on one hand bag.       It seemed to me that it took waaaayyyyy longer than it should have, probably at least 40 hours.   It certainly doesn’t look like it should take that long.    But if you asked my daughter-in-law, who is learning to crochet, she would say it took no time at all.        I love how it turned out, though, and look forward to filling it with current crochet projects that I want to carry with me to work on.   Surely someone will see and admire it that way?

The first afghan I made was for my 18 year old grand daughter, Aubree, who is now off to her first year of college.     I can’t believe she is this old and can’t explain away the time lapse from the day she was born and I got to hold her when she was just minutes old.      Lynn says if I plan to make these for each grandchild I’d better make them in advance since the youngest grandchild is only two.

I have an afghan made for me about forty years ago by my Grandma Babcock.    It’s red, white, and blue and I wish I could add a picture here but it’s home … as are the other afghans I treasure.    One was made by my mother as a gift to my father, and two were made by Lynn’s mother as gifts to Lynn and I.     I pick up those afghans and I think of the love that went into their stitches and like to realize that their hands touched them years ago.    It makes me feel warm and fuzzy … a feeling I hope to pass on to my grandchildren years down the road.   

Chloe, age 10, is the first of the eight invited guests to arrive at Grandma Henke’s Slumber Party and she is enticed by the two unopened packages  sitting on the kitchen table.    These Play-Doh Movie Snacks and Fun Factory were sent to me by Sarah Reynolds who works for a public relations firm.  (I couldn’t do them as soon as they arrived because of Lynn’s knee replacement surgeries.) I bought 7 regular sized cans of Play-Doh to make sure there was plenty to go around for our large group.    Our assignment was to play ourselves silly and then let Sarah know what we think.     Our testers range from ages 2 1/2 to 15 1/2.

I didn’t do any explaining, just told the kids to “go at it”.   I half expected the older girls to spend their time helping the younger ones, but they quickly migrated to one end of the table and set up their own work stations.  

The middle group picked up different pieces from the kits, quickly figured out how to start producing, and then proceeded to help the youngest two who are ages 2 1/2 and 4.    

Steele is the only grandson who lives in Utah but he wasn’t intimidated by the girls and was eager to show Abby how to use the Fun Factory to make different shaped ropes.

Little hands are so precious!   Abby needed help holding the popcorn maker in place but loved cutting it with the plastic knife and separating the popcorn.

Ande, age 2 1/2 pinched her finger making a rope but once the quickest medicine in the world was applied she was happily back to business.

One fudge banana split, complete with cherry served up by Kati, Grace, & Kerra …

One Triple Combo served up by Faith

Two free lancers = one healthy serving of cauli-flower and one special blue dog

I couldn’t have been more surprised than to find that these two Play-Doh sets along with the extra containers I purchased,  kept eight grandchildren with totally different interests and skill levels entertained for an hour and a half.    As you can see, they had a great time using their imaginations and the tools at hand.     The small children, ages 4 and under, needed assistance with the plastic molds.   I think the older ones enjoyed having an excuse to play with it.   It was great to see the imaginations soar.   Little Ande loved the “cutting knife”  (it wasn’t sharp) and probably had the most fun cutting up pretend vegetables and noodles for her “soup”.    I was also pleased that the Play-Doh was easy to clean up.    I will be taking these up to Washington with us in three weeks to let the grandchildren up there have fun with it while we are camped at the beach.   Grandparents, I think you would be happy with this addition to your toy closets!     Did you know Play-Doh has been around since 1956?   I was nine years old the first time I played with it at school.

Do you ever wonder how many of the people who hit on your blog actually take the time to read it?   I mean besides the ones you hear from kind of regularly, and the family members and close friends.     I don’t know if I have enough “draw” to attract all these readers.   Maybe I should add more pictures like these three friends who are talking about my blog.    I don’t give away prizes very often … if ever now that I think about it … unless you count advice.    It’s full of advice and occasionally it is good advice because I actually know what I’m talking about.     Sometimes it is really good advice if I do research or consult Lynn who knows a little about everything and a lot about nothing.     Coming from a business administrative background, I’ve had a lot of years of quality control plans.   State governments who hire non profits to provide services are the Kings of quality control plans.     Actually I might have had my fill of quality control plans, but a part of me can’t help but wish there was a little feedback box at the bottom of each blog or at least a quarterly questionnaire.    I wonder what the questions would be, though? 

From one to ten, ten being the best answer possible, please rate the following questions:

1.   Do you feel reasonably good about stumbling onto this blog?

2.   Are you ever going to come back? 

3.   Would you ever in a million years recommend this to someone else?

4.   Are you going to report it to any agencies that are going to call me names or ask me for statistics?

5.   Do you think the pictures should have anything to do with the posted blog?  

6.   Do you think I give enough advice?     

7.   Are you going to follow my advice?  (If so there is a disclaimer you should sign first.)

8.   Do you wish you could give me some seriously needed advice?

9.   Do you wish you could give me a piece of your mind?

10.  Okay, will you come back if I quit giving advice?

11.  Does your mother know you visit this site?

12.  Please leave at least one original sentence about your favorite place to hang so I will know you are a real person and not a machine.  

12.   Okay, anyone who fills out this questionnaire by June 1st, 2010, will have their name thrown into a mason jar for a free drawing which will be done by an independent and totally awesome grandchild.   

The gift will be:    SOMETHING GOOD!!!    It could actually be SOMETHING REALLY GOOD.    At least to some it would seem really good.    I may even give you a choice between one or two really good things.   The better the feedback the better the prize.   (That should help).     You may tell your friends about this drawing because even if they haven’t ever read my blog they can give feedback because that is what quality assurance is all about … equal opportunity.     Maybe I will even send two prizes if I get enough feedback.   If I only get one person’s feedback there will not be two prizes.    One person can not enter feedback twice and expect to win both times.   That wouldn’t be fair.    My husband and close family members and Mark can enter if their feedback is not sarcastic.     Sarcastic feedback will be disqualified.    I will be the judge of what is sarcastic and what is not sarcastic.    If I think the sarcasm is meant to be funny in a positive way I may allow it.      It will depend how I feel that day.     If I get enough feedback I may do this again some time.

I remember her rocking me and singing me my favorite songs until surely her throat was sore from the effort.    I remember her putting pin curls in my hair at night so I would have pretty hair in the morning.   I remember her making home made bread, tapioca pudding, delicious home made cakes and cookies, and yummy dinners.       I remember mother handing out our Saturday work lists and that we all got busy and did our work early in the day so our home would be clean for Sunday.    I remember mother washing stacks and stacks of clothes every Saturday and hanging them out on the clothesline.      I remember mother taking care of me when I was sick with fevers.   I remember he feeling bad with me when as a teenager I had boyfriend problems.      When she was older (and I was older) she became even more perfect.   

What I don’t remember are the times mother probably hopes I don’t remember … except, of course, the funny times.     Those we all remember!

Sometimes my daughters, who have large families of their own, tell me how guilty they feel because they were short tempered with their children all day.     Kimberly had several hard days in a row once and was so discouraged because she felt like such a horrible mother.   I felt prompted to ask her:

“How do you remember me?”    

“What do you mean,” she asked in return.   

“Do you remember me yelling at you and making you cry, feeling like I didn’t have time for you?” I asked.

“You didn’t yell at us, Mom.   That’s the point.   You played with us and helped us with our school projects, let us cook with you in the kitchen, playing games and we sang and laughed while we did it.     You never treated us like I treated my kids today!” she said almost in tears.

I almost fell off my chair because my jaw dropped so far down when she told me that.     She doesn’t remember the times I yelled at them?       She doesn’t remember me as someone who dreaded making cut out cookies and frosting them because there would be such a mess to clean up afterwards and I would have to listen to five kids scream and laugh and knock things over for more than an hour in the kitchen?   She can’t remember the Saturday nights when I would be in tears because the kids wouldn’t take their baths and the house still wasn’t cleaned and tomorrow was early morning church?       Somebody must have put a spell on her!       I remember so many nights going in to check on my children when they were asleep and shedding a silent tear that I hadn’t spent more time with them, listened more carefully to what they had to say, praised them more, and not used my outside voice trying to get them to clean their rooms.

Just for kicks, I asked my other daughter, Angi, what she remembered and she laughed and said, “Well, there was that time you threw your diet coke on Ryan one splash at a time when you were fed up, but I don’t remember you getting mad at us and yelling a lot.    I remember you as always being there when I needed you.”      I sighed a big sigh of relief at this point.   My kids don’t remember!

I almost hesitate to write about this for fear they will go back in their memories and try to remember!    Don’t do it kids!    Keep thinking good thoughts!

Remember that old “I hope you grow up and have kids that are just like you,” curse mothers have thrown at their children for hundreds of years?     We all know that works!    Maybe there is some magical formula out there that also floats over children as they sleep and settles into their little brains that makes them think their mother’s are perfect.     Either that, or there is something else magical that happens when our children turn into parents that makes them forget.     Whatever it is!    I am grateful for it!

I don’t remember the things my mother didn’t do for me or the times she lost her temper or the times she might not have been there when I went to bed.     I remember that she was perfect.      So daughters and daughters in law and mothers everywhere … quit feeling guilty that you don’t have more hours in the day or that you got grouchy or tired or that your house wasn’t as clean as you wanted it to be or that you fed them peanut butter sandwiches for Sunday dinner.   They aren’t going to remember you for that anyway!     They are going to think you were perfect!    Take it from one who knows!      

Happy Mother’s Day!

On the Internet I found that metal roofs are actually becoming more and more popular for houses.   They are light weight (which is the main reason we are getting one) and are, of course, more fire resistant.   Some of them, it depends on the color and what they are made of, are very good in our climate because they reflect the heat.     (We were disappointed to find that you have to use the white ones to get the entire energy rebate but we were not convinced that was in our best interests in our desert, established  neighbor-hood.)    The other good thing I read was that they are typically faster to install, which should make the cost of installation go down, wouldn’t you say?  

So … yesterday we went out riding to find metal roofs.      And mistake of all mistakes I didn’t take any pictures.   (How could I not take any pictures?)   It turned out to be such a fun day!     There are a lot of beautiful roofs out there; albeit most of the ones we saw were in the nearby mountainous community of Pine Valley, Utah where, of course, there is a higher than average risk of fire.     And … there are a lot of styles and prices.   We have an older home, will be here probably twenty-five years or so if we are lucky … and are on a very tight budget … so we have decided to go with the not so pricey newer styles that you can’t even tell from the road are metal.       These are called vertical panels and they come in living color shades from rusts, yellows, white, red, blue, green and grays.     

I’ve decided this is going to be okay.    I can live with a metal roof (which I will no longer associate with a hot tin roof and neither should you).    Not gonna tell you which color yet but stay tuned for details and pictures as we transition from our tile roof (which appearance wise I have loved but that is the sad previous story) to our new metal roof.

The question I have tonight:    Can our old tiles be broken up to use as decorative fill for the extra driveways and other areas you would normally put gravel?

I have a mother and I am a mother so I know love.

I know what it’s like to wake up in the night frightened by a storm, a loud noise, or a bad dream.    I know what it feels like to scrape the skin off your knees on the rough surface of the road.     I know how it feels to go to the first day of anything new.    I know how sometimes you are just too tired to walk to your own bed.     I know how good it smells to walk into the house when there are cookies in the oven or spaghetti sauce simmering on top of the stove.    I know about broken hearts and feeling left out of a crowd of peers.    I know the excitement of a prom and the need for a beautiful dress.   I know the pain of ear infections and fevers, stomach aches and or sore throats.    I know how homesickness feels when you go to spend the night with a friend or a cousin and realize as you climb into bed that it isn’t your own.       And I know how it feels when Mom kisses the scrapes and tears away,  listens to the details and emotions,  is always there no matter how long it takes or how late into the night you need her.   I know how it feels when somehow Mom finds a way to get that important dress for the prom.

I know what it feels like to have morning sickness … and to hold a sweet new baby with the beautiful smell of birth that lingers with them for such a short while.   I know what it feels like to comfort a frightened child, kiss a bruised elbow, see a tear streaked face when they break a toy or tear their favorite dress.    I know how it feels to walk the floor with a sick child, kneel in prayer on their behalf, clean up a bed full of vomit.    I know how it feels to have little … and big … arms thrown around me and hear the words, "I love you Mom."     I know how it feels when children are disappointed, heart broken, and feel left out.   I know what it feels like when they make poor choices and have to suffer the consequences.   I know how it feels when they feel success in what they are trying to achieve, when they learn new things, and when they have good friends.    I know how it feels to worry when they are out too late or have friends that can’t be trusted.    I know how it feels when suddenly they fall in love and without much more than a wave goodbye they are out the door to start a new phase of their life.   

I know how much love is in a grandma’s heart, how it feels to be adored by little people who don’t see any of your faults, to listen to their concerts and recitals, watch their athletic games, spoil them with little treats and unexpected gifts.    I know how it feels when they tell you they love the smell of your house and want to be with you even with gap of generations.    I know how it feels when they hold your face in two hands and tell you you are beautiful even with the wrinkles.    I know how a grandmother loves.

I have a mother, and I am a mother, and I am a grandmother so I know the best kind of love there is.

Edna Henke – First printed May 2008

Right now he’s sleeping like a baby (sorry Fairbourn’s … not like your baby apparently).    Considering what the man has been through the last twenty four hours, I think he’s entitled!

So what I’m trying to do is decide if I’m going to be needed here tonight.  To be or not to be. I asked Lynn earlier what I should do and he was really wishy washy, sort of like he is when I ask him where we should go out to eat.   Why he’d worry about that I don’t know since it’s obvious I like to eat any where and any time.    However, tonight I’m torn  because even though it appears he won’t need me, I want to be here “in case” he needs me.   He wants me “to be comfortable and where I will do the least amount of worrying”.  The problem is those two things aren’t on the same side of the fence.

Here is a sample of why I worry:   This morning Lynn was absolutely fine and was joshing with me while he sat in the chair at the side of his bed, but the minute I slipped into the bathroom he suddenly needed me quick.    I heard him call so I hurried to wash my hands quick and get out to him.   I couldn’t have been gone 90 seconds.     When I glanced at him from across the room he looked like he was asleep with his head hanging to one side but when I got closer  I saw his eyes were glazed over and vacant, and he wasn’t moving.

“Lynn!” I said in a panic, “Are you okay?”   No response at all.   “LYNN!   ARE YOU OKAY?” I asked loudly as I noted his color was grayish/whitish.   I grabbed his arm, which was ice cold, and yelled out again as I reached for the call button.   I thought he was dead or had suffered a stroke and my heart literally jumped into my throat.    “LYNN!”  I shouted as I shook his arm and an aide came running into the room.    This time he opened his eyes and looked at me in a dazed stupor.    “Oh my gosh, are you okay?” I asked for the fourth or fifth or sixth time.    By then nurses were coming in a rush and they took over.       He started to respond to them when suddenly he was gone again.      His blood pressure was 55/30 and his oxygen level was below 60.    It had gone from a normal blood pressure and oxygen level to that low in just the minute I was in the bathroom.

They lowered the back of his chair and raised his feet and gradually over the next half hour they got his blood pressure and oxygen up to safer levels before they started slowly raising his head again so they could get him stabilized enough to put him in bed.     They explained to me that this type of thing isn’t unusual after major surgery but it’s important to get the levels up quickly.   It felt unusual to me as I sat over on the sofa  trying to get my blood pressure and heart beat back down wiping away tears so Lynn wouldn’t see them and worry about me.

The rest of the day went much better … much, much better.   He did his afternoon physical therapy and ate his meals and cracked his dumb jokes and I have been very grateful for him.  I even laughed at the dumb jokes, some of which were funny.

There was one other highlight of the day, which neither Lynn or I realized was going to be a highlight.  After having an IV pushing liquids into him all day and everyone else pushing liquids at him all day, he practically filled his urinal to the top.   When the nurses came in and saw it. they clapped and cheered.      It turns out the reason for the standing ovation was that they were ready to catheterize him and were really happy they didn’t have to after all he’d been through.   He was rather chagrined by it for a moment until he remembered that when our doggy pee’s where she should pee she gets a treat.

Oh, and there was one more highlight of sorts … for me at least.    It came time to get him dressed for therapy this afternoon and two cute nurses came in to help him.   They said if he preferred, he could have me help him instead.    He chose me!

You can see why I’ve been torn as to whether I should go home or stay, but now it’s no longer a question.   Just reminding myself of all  he’s gone through in the last 24 hours was enough to tip the scale.   I’m staying.  Even though he has received top notch care from everyone involved,  I need to stay here because he hates to bother people and I’m good at it.  Everybody knows that.