Bow Tie o’ the Day and I are giving y’all a view of the sky out back. It is gray. It is grey. No matter how you spell it, the sky is full of smoke. For the past few days, the mountains to our east have been disappearing right before our eyes. First, we see ’em. And then, we don’t. The smoke moves in, then blows away. Back and forth. And then repeat some more. It’s a slow-motion show through our tall windows, that’s for sure. It’s like watching a snail-paced ocean ebb and flow in the sky. Don’t get me wrong—the wildfires are a tragedy. I am, however, fascinated with how the smoke finds its way to my sky, and how it changes my normal landscape. The natural light falls differently on objects in the house. Behind the smoke, the sunrises and sunsets are vivid with unusual hues. My mountains seem to be playing a game of peek-a-boo with me and Skitter. It’s all very interesting to me, because I am here to see it happen. My advice is simple: While you’re here, notice everything.
I thought it was only fitting to wear my cell design Bow Tie o’ the Day in a post about my DNA results which just came in from ancestry.com. I must say that I was disappointed to learn that ancestry.com no longer offers health testing, which can identify things like a person’s genetic tendency to have blood clots or heart problems. That’s the testing I was originally most interested in. I did the “traits” testing instead.
The DNA findings are mostly what I expected. I am definitely related to my family. Duh! I discovered I share more of my DNA with my brother, Ron, than I share with my sister, BT/Mercedes. The test says I have the sprinter gene, which I didn’t even know existed. Interestingly, I learned from the results that bright light is not likely to make me sneeze. My DNA also indicates that I probably notice a distinctive smell when I pee after eating asparagus. In fact, I do. I thought that happened to everyone, but it doesn’t. There—I learned something.
My DNA says I likely have no problem digesting dairy products, and I have a high sensitivity to sugar—both things I can verify by my experience. According to the test results, I likely have “wet” earwax, unattached earlobes, and three types of iris patterns: furrows, crypts, and rings. Yes, I have all those traits. The DNA did not say that I am the whitest white person on the face of the earth, as I was sure it would. There are, however, two traits I have that defy what my genetic code says is likely to be true for me. First, my genes say I likely have wavy hair, but I really have stubbornly straight hair that always came out straighter after I got a permanent. And second, my genetic code says I am likely to not have a unibrow. Oh, but I do. If it weren’t for my dedicated brow landscaping habits, you would see the wonders of my unibrow. And you would be appropriately askeered. Y’all are so lucky that I routinely wield a fancy pair o’ tweezers.
For my 3rd—and final—ERCP (scope down the throat) of the summer at the University of Utah Hospital, I wore my ever-faithful, ever-amusing Skittles Bow Tie o’ the Day. You’ll note that I also wore my neckties Face Mask o’ the Day for the added good tie vibes I thought might be helpful in my quest to get the proverbial dragons slayed in my Cranky Hanky Panky. But the good doctor, the good bow tie, the good necktie vibes, the good multi-denominational prayers (thanks, y’all) from my family and friends—well, none of it was enough to allow my doc’s gadgets to rip that stone out of my pancreas on his third try. So surgery, it is. Based on past experience with my rocky pancreas, I figured surgery was where I’d end up, right from the start. But sometimes you have to try other things along the way, in the process of getting to the one bigly necessary step you most don’t want to take. Ain’t nobody wanna be sliced open! But, apparently, it is time. Surgery is scheduled for early September at Huntsman. I’m bummed out about it, but I’m also grateful there is a likely solution to my stoopid pancreatic boulder pain.
When it comes to neckwear, you know I can’t get enough. More is more. And I often get an itch to wear both Ties o’ the Day and Bow Ties o’ the Day simultaneously. Fortunately, I have enough “bow tie ties” and “tie bow ties” in my collection to be able to indulge myself in whims such as this.
TIE O’ THE DAY has been up and running for nearly 5 years (plus another two years before the website was established), and in that time very few ties/bow ties have shown up in a post more than once. That excludes holiday pieces, which I think of nostalgically as I repeat them during each passing holiday season. It is true, though, that as I have naturally slowed down my acquisition of new neckwear, I now occasionally repeat a tie or bow tie. I suspect I’m choosing my favorites. Don’t get me wrong—I love all the critters upstairs in The Tie Room, but I freely admit that I do prefer the company of some of them more than others. And all the ties/bow ties probably feel a similar way about me. I know dang well I am not everybody’s cup o’ tea. I doubt there’s anything wrong with that. I know that as I get older, I find I have less and less patience for spending my ever-diminishing amount of life left dealing with folks who are not in my tribe. To belong to my tribe, nobody has to believe or act like me. That would be uninteresting and unenlightening. However, to be in my tribe, a person does have to value thinking and live in empathy—and have a good time while doing so. I’m not making a judgment of anybody’s worth: there’s a tribe for everybody. It’s just that I, personally, don’t want to waste any more of my fleeting time not feeling at home and content with the people I encounter. I’m done with contention and egos and pettiness. I just wanna be.
Disco ball Tie o’ the Day was my choice for an outing we took Saturday to R. C. Willey. For Suzanne’s birthday a few week’s ago, I told her to pick out a rug — any rug she wants — for the living room and that would be my birthday gift to her. She knows I am not a rug person, and I know she is very much a rug person. In fact, rugs might be the bigliest topic on which we are divided. I think I can coexist with rugs more easily than Suzanne can live without them, so I will bend on this matter.
Anyhoo… So, knowing that she would want to haul off to the new R. C. Willey in Layton, I went to their website. I scrolled through their whole selection: 304 different rugs (not including shag rugs). I put three rug possibilities in my virtual “shopping cart” for later reference. I thought each of them would “work” with our flooring. One of them was red and had Suzanne written all over it. If I had gone to pick out a rug for her myself, it’s the one I would have brought home. But, hey, it’s her gift, so it’s hers to choose.
At R. C. Willey, we were each going through every hung rug they had. I finished going through them before Suzanne was done, so I was getting ready to wander off while she made her choice. I went to her to tell her I was off to check out other sections of the store, and she said, “I found this rug I want to show you. It’s red.” “Show me,” I said. Oh, you know where this is heading. I looked at the rug, pulled out my phone with its virtual shopping cart, and said, “See. It’s the first one I picked out for you.” Yes, we know each other that well. It’s true that I could have saved a lot of time by ordering the rug and having it delivered when I first saw it, but saving time is not always the point. Spending time is sometimes the point. That’s how you get to know someone so well in the first place.
BTW I will post a pic of the red rug after it’s delivered in a couple of weeks.
Flip flop Bow Tie o’ the Day hitched a ride with me and Suzanne to the appointment with my Cranky Hanky Panky surgeon at Huntsman today. The radiologist’s report about my CT scan said my pancreatic stone had been crushed and the resulting rubble was making its way out of my body. I was hoping it was true, but there was no explanation for why I felt continued pain, if my problem really was solved. And then, my surgeon showed us my scans. She said, “Hey! The stone’s still there! It wasn’t blown to smithereens at all.” Even I could see the dang stone. The thing is, I don’t think the radiologist was a dope for misreading my scans. What’s left of my re-built pancreas is weird, and I’m sure it’s not easy to figure out. I’m just glad my pancreas doc wanted to look at the scans with us. The fact that she caught the radiologist’s error makes me doubly confident in her as my surgeon.
So, what does this mean? It means that all of the tests and procedures I’ve been having since February have not been able to deal with the pain in my Cranky Hanky Panky which is apparently a calcified-tissue factory. The next step is, unfortunately, surgery. There are a couple of hoops to jump through before surgery’s a 100% go, but as it stands now, I’m scheduled for surgery to extricate my pancreatic stone in early September. My Panky surgeon told us this surgery is done so rarely that there isn’t even an official name for it yet. It will be similar to the Whipple surgery I had three years ago on my pancreas. It will not be as extensive as the Whipple, but it will be more complicated, in the sense that because of my previous surgery, there is less of my Panky for my surgeon to work with, and my Panky now has scar tissue from the last operation.
I am not a happy camper, folks. If only a bow tie could solve my Cranky Hanky Panky pain, but it can’t. So often in life, we are left somewhere with no real choices. Stuff happens, or stuff doesn’t. We are called upon to endure stoopid stuff that, in itself, has no meaning for us. Stoopid stuff is not a judgment. It just is. How we endure it is where the meaning is made, and we get to make it mean whatever we choose. Will we build joy in what happens, or will we wallow and complain? We’re in charge of the meaning of our days. Choose wisely. Hey, I’m a happier camper already.
Bow Tie o’ the Day and drove up to Huntsman Cancer Hospital for what I hope will be our last medical test for a while, and we had a blast. I didn’t have to change any of my clothes for the scan, which meant Bow Tie o’ the Day was with me for the duration of the CT. I was even allowed to wear my hearing aid in the machine. (I still only have one hearing aid. My new one is on order.)
Without having to change in to, and out of, a hospital gown, the appointment went by lickety-split. My test was scheduled for 2:30, and my habit is to always be at least 10 minutes early—which I was. I checked in, took a few TIE O’ THE DAY selfies, sat down, and then I was immediately called to go in for my test. When I walked out of the hospital, I was so shocked at what time it was, that I took a screenshot of my phone’s screen to prove it: 2:35 PM. Quickest. Medical. Appointment/test. Ever. I was done almost before my official appointment was set to begin.
You should have seen my smile widen beneath my face mask as I left the hospital. I mean—it was cool that the appointment flew by so quickly, to be sure. And it was groovy I didn’t have to don a hospital gown or remove Bow Tie o’ the Day for the CT scan. But the bonus aspect of my being done by 2:35 was even bilgier. If I drove just a tad over the speed limit the whole way, I could be home in time to watch most of the Judge Judy hour! You know how I am about Judge Judy o’clock each weekday. From 3 to 4, it’s just me and Judge Judy. When I originally took the 2:30 appointment, I secretly cursed that it meant I would have to miss my daily dose of Judge Judy for the sole purpose of getting my squishy innards scanned. I was not a happy camper, but it was the first appointment I could get, so I took it. The way it played out, I figured I might be able to arrive home soon after Judy o’ clock. I made it home at 3:09. Only missed 9 minutes. Score! It was a magical day, all around. (And yes, Suzanne will back me up on this: I really am that easy to please.)
FYI In case you thought only my legs were fish belly-white, the third photo here is proof of the whiter-than-whiteness that is my head skin. You know that flashlight you have on your fancy phone? I have never had to use mine. In any degree of darkness, my flesh lights my way. I’m so pale I’m a human nightlight. 🔦💡🕯
I’m glad the pandemic panic is slowly winding down. I’m gladdest to know that if the dang thing lingers and powers back up, I can simply slip into my Tyvek suit and pull on my madras shorts—adding a Tie o’ the Day, of course. While being safe, I can still be as stylin’ as ever.
I’m wearing a diamond-point Bow Tie o’ the Day here as we erranded over the weekend. My Face Mask o’ the Day is the closest to my heart, with its own multitude o’ ties. Skitter is branching out with her own bold fashion statements by wearing her orange slices Tie o’ the Day curled and askew at the side of her neck. Skitter is so style-daring. It makes a neckwear mama proud.
I finally have a Cranky Hanky Panky medical procedure update. I have an appointment for a follow-up ERCP (scope-down-the-throat) on June 28 at University of Utah Hospital—to see if the lithotripsy I recently had successfully smashed my pancreatic boulder into bits and sent them on their way out of my body. I’m trying to be optimistic, but the fact that my Panky still stings makes me think the lithotripsy probably didn’t work. I won’t really know until they perform the ERCP.
I’m not complaining, but this current Hanky Panky round of appointments has taken waaaay too long. I’ve been trying to get this Panky problem solved since February. I know it’s because of the hospital backlog created by the pandemic, so I understand. But I can’t wait to get to the finish line on this particular Panky issue—even if that means having another surgery. I just want it finished. I know you’re probably sick of hearing about this seemingly never-ending saga. And I’m sick of writing about it. It just so happens to be what’s going on in my life, so we’re stuck with it as a tblog topic for a little while longer. Sorry.
Here’s an interesting thing to consider, though: My Panky appointment is on June 28. My PANCREATICODUODENECTOMY (I love writing that word) surgery was also on June 28, exactly three years ago, in 2018. You know I love a rich coincidence to think about. Is this date coincidence a sign telling me that I’ll find out at my ERCP appointment on this June 28th that I’m going to need another surgery? Or does it mean my ERCP will be the last procedure I will need this time around, because it will be as bigly a success as my PANCREATICODUODENECTOMY was? I could play this coincidence/meaning/connection game forever. In fact, I drive myself nuts with it. I can find meaning and connection, both literally and figuratively, in anything literal or figurative.
In this photo, my watermelon-y Bow Tie o’ the Day and I are waiting in line at the Dick’s Market pharmacy. Note that the ice cream aisle is directly behind me, which means I can shop for my most important food item while simultaneously waiting in line to pick up my meds.
This is the last photo which shows my left ear’s hearing device. What happened to it is a complete mystery to me, and I have been searching for it since I noticed it missing on Friday afternoon. Since discovering it was not in my ear, I have been unable to focus on anything but finding it. I have looked and looked and looked for it until my looker is sore. I’ve scoured my truck and my car. I have looked in all the potted plants in the house. I have checked the household garbage cans: under the kitchen sink, in the bathrooms, in the loft, in the bedrooms, and in the Tie Room. I even emptied the official bigly recycling and garbage cans, one stinky item at a time, searching for my hearing device. That was an experience I hope I never need to repeat. I had no luck finding my target.
I have swept the floors. Suzanne and I have lifted furniture to pull apart the dust bunnies beneath, in search of my little hearing gadget. I have sorted through our garden gravel near where I park my truck—although I did not rake the gravel like I had to do to find Dad’s lower dentures back in the day, as I wrote about a few weeks ago.
My next step is to check to see if someone might have found it at Dick’s and turned it in to customer service. It’s not just about the cost of replacing my hearing aid, it’s also about solving the mystery of how I lost it in the first place. I’m intrigued, and I will not give up the search. The hunt is personal, now.
As I was finishing up this post, it suddenly dawned on me that my left ear’s hearing aid is the same one the wind blew out of my ear in Farmington a few months ago. I wonder if, once it got a taste of freedom by flying around in that wind, its little gadget soul just could not face a life of captivity in my ear every day for the rest of its life. Somehow, it might have leapt to its escape. Now, that’s something I can understand.
