Month: January 2023

Posted in #Confessions, Aging

Smooth Sailing

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

Recently, because I’m of a certain age, it was time for that dreaded medical test, the colonoscopy.  Everyone fifty and older has a reaction when the word is even spoken, and everyone has their own story surrounding the event and process.  It’s a rite of passage.

“It’s the prep that’s the worst part!”

“Hope you have smooth sailing and that everything comes out ok!”

Oh, the jokes can go on and on and while potty humor does help during this most humbling time, we all know the importance of making sure we are up to date on our tests.  We know it is necessary.

Importance notwithstanding, it is one of the most dreaded, talked about, and joked about medical procedures we older folks have.

Ten years ago, I had the joy of prepping for an upcoming colonoscopy.  I had Boo arrange to get off work so he could take me and bring me home.  I drank all the liquid concoctions, took the pills, and showed up at 7:30 a.m. clean as a whistle, and ready to go. (pardon my pun)

“Good morning!” the cheery desk clerk sang.

“Nancy Malcolm.  I’m here for my colonoscopy.”

“Hi, Ms. Malcolm.  Let me get you checked in.”

Pages began to shuffle and ruffle.  She glanced back up at me, “Did you say, Malcolm?”

“Yes,”  M  A  L  C  O  L  M

The calendar came out.  More shuffling of papers.

Then she grabbed the calendar and said, “I’ll be right back.”  And she was.

“Uh, Ms. Malcolm?  Your appointment is tomorrow.  We have you down tomorrow, the 7th with a 6:30 a.m. check-in.”

I’m pretty sure my heart stopped as I asked, “Are you certain? Oh, my goodness, are you sure?  I had it down for the 6th at 7:30 a.m.”

“No, I’m sure. See?”  And she turned the calendar to show me. “You’re the doctor’s first patient tomorrow.  The 7th with a 6:30 a.m. check-in.”

I felt a flip and gurgle in my stomach, and I thought I would either pass out or take off running to the bathroom, instead, tears welled up and my face got hot.  My lip began to quiver and as it did, a salty tear ran down from the corner of my eye.

“I don’t think I can do this again or go without eating for another day.”  I turned to look at Boo who was all comfy in his chair with a fresh coffee and reading the news on his phone.

“Why don’t you take a seat, and I’ll talk with the nurse.”

“Ok,” I slobbered and dejectedly turned toward the row of chairs near Boo.

I sat down and before he even glanced up from his news, he said, “Ready for action?”

“It’s tomorrow,”  I whispered through my tears.  “I’m on the wrong day.”

His face didn’t move, but his eyes peered up at me in shock, “Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m sure!!” I said a little too loud and as I looked around, I saw people staring at me sideways with pity and horror.  My saga had played out as their worst nightmare, and they were checking their own paperwork and sighing with relief. 

Silently, I sat while Boo debated on whether to question me further or just sit quietly in solidarity.  He patted my knee.

“I’m waiting for the nurse to tell me what to do,” I offered, and he patted me again.

“I’m so hungry,” I said to no one in particular.  “And water.  I need a drink of water.”

I went to the restroom.  Walked around the waiting room.  Tried to read the news over Boo’s shoulder and then just sat and stared into space. Finally, I walked up to the window again.

“Did you find the nurse?” I asked the desk clerk.

“Yes, she’s in the OR.  She’ll come out when she can. We have to wait.”

“Ok,”  I whispered.

 Twenty minutes later, a nurse came out and called me over to the side of the room. As I walked over to the door where she stood, I felt all eyes on me.  The collective waiting room leaned one ear toward us, trying to be nonchalant.

“Ms. Malcolm?”

“Yes.”

“The doctor said he will fit you in this morning, but you’ll have to wait an hour and a half.”

“Yes, yes, Ok.  Thank you.  Thank you.  Thank you.” I said.

She wasn’t smiling, although I wanted to hug her anyway.  “Don’t go anywhere,” she said. “And don’t eat or drink anything.  Not even water.”

“Of course.  I won’t.”  And she turned to leave.

Sure enough, an hour later, she came back to get me.  Most of the gawkers from the waiting room had already been called to their appointments, so I kissed Boo’s cheek and said, “See you soon.” 

“Good luck, Babe,” he said, and I began my walk of shame to the room where I put on my gown and waited for my IV.

“Did they tell you what happened?” I asked the nurse as she finished sticking me with the needle.

“I heard,” she said.  “You got lucky this time.”

“I know,” I said, and they wheeled me off to the OR.

“When do I get the happy juice?” I kept asking, and finally, the doctor said, “We might be able to find you a little bit, even though you’re here on the wrong day,” and then he laughed.  That’s all I remember till later that day.

I was still groggy on the drive home, but that evening as I was more awake, I went to the pantry for a snack.

“Cheetos!  Boo!  How did these Cheetos get here?”

He came into the kitchen and just stared at me.  “Are you serious right now?”

“You know I can’t control myself with Cheetos and now I’m going to have to eat some.  But I’m throwing them out after that.  You shouldn’t tempt me.  You know I forbid Cheetos in the house,”  I said.

“Boo,” he said.  “You threw a fit driving home after your procedure and made me stop at 7-11 for a big bag of Cheetos.  I tried to suggest something else, but you said you deserved them after all you’ve been through today.  You insisted.”

“Really?”

“Super really.”

“Sorry, babe,” I said as I crammed a handful of Cheetos into my mouth.

That was definitely one colonoscopy for the books.  So, this past week when I was scheduled again, ten years later, for my colonoscopy, I had already checked and rechecked my dates and times.

When I met with the doctor three weeks ago, he said, “If all goes well, and you do the prep perfectly so that I get a clear picture, and everything looks good, this could be your last colonoscopy.  You’re almost seventy, so in ten years you’d be eighty.  If this doesn’t kill you it will most likely be something else.  Consider it a perk of getting older.”

And then he went on; “Make sure you follow the prep instructions perfectly.  This morning I had to tell a lady she has to come back next week.  I saw corn.”

“Corn?”

“Corn.  She said she didn’t eat anything and followed the instructions, but I didn’t get a clear look.  I know corn when I see it.  No food and no corn.”

“No corn,”  I promised.  “You can count on me.”

Friends, getting older is not for the faint-hearted.  Literally.  I followed the prep instructions, starved myself for two days, and showed up on the right day at the right time and sure enough, everything went according to plan.  There was absolutely no way I was going to have to come back next week.  No corn for me.   It was all smooth sailing.

Posted in Family, Fathers, Grandmother, Mothers, Relationships

Stained by Ginger Keller Gannaway   

Posted on by gingerkellergannaway

I met my new favorite person in this world two weeks ago – Winslow McClain Gannaway! He weighed eight pounds, ten ounces and made funny faces while he slept. His mother Catherine said he looked just like his dad, Casey, my middle son. I saw Catherine in his chubby cheeks and soulful eyes as well as Casey in his long limbs and perfect nose.

We begin life with people wanting us to resemble our parents. “He has his dad’s big feet” or “his mom’s smile.” And as kids, we imitate our parents – combing our hair like Momma’s, pretending to shave like Dad. We often adopt their interests. Chefs have children who love to cook. The lawyer hopes his/her offspring will one day take over the family practice. A tennis player starts lessons for the kids as soon as they can hold a racket. For eleven years or so many children follow their parents’ lead. 

As a kid I went to church every Sunday and learned to love our family’s traditions – from Good Friday crawfish boils to getting up before dawn for long vacations. Then my teenage brain veered into other directions, and I pushed back. 

I went from loving to dance with my kid feet atop my dad’s size fourteen shoes to hating my size eight feet when I entered eighth grade. Would I, like him, need to drive to Lafayette to find oversized shoes? Would I even find women size twelves for when I became a senior? 

I rebelled, rejected, and criticized my parents. I resented their help and worked hard not to become them. I felt proud of our differences and later believed my own kids would be closer to me than I was to my parents. I gave my kids more choices as I also hovered over their lives.

However, after all my pushing back on my parents’ influences, I realize I am stained with personality traits and habits that are just like theirs. My dad ate breakfast in white v-neck t-shirts and slacks. His undershirts had stains from previous meals, rushed shaving jobs, or paint from work. I remember Momma exclaiming,“Reginald!” at the table when Dad’s sloppy manners created round grease stains that Momma’s aggressive cleaning could not erase. So I judged Dad for his messy eating.

Just yesterday I noticed a circular stain on the right thigh of my favorite jeans. I can’t remember if I spilled the contents of a pork taco or the filling from a blackberry cobbler on that leg. When did I become stained with the flaws of my parent? Like Dad, I’m a messy eater. I also have big feet and hate asking others for directions. I love every kind of fruit and I salt my watermelon. I enjoy gatherings with relatives and friends where good food, strong drinks, and well-told jokes connect us. My siblings and I got his short-fused temper as well as his love of movies. He taught us and his grandkids how to pull our rackets back and to get our first serves in when playing tennis. I embrace Dad’s love of travel and adventure, especially the times that are unplanned and serendipitous.

When I was young relatives said I looked like my dad (which did not make me happy); I’d rather look like my momma with her petite stature and tiny waist. I still do have plenty of Mom connections.  She loved her breakfast food well done. My husband often warns me: “You’re burning your toast!” and I say the obvious, “That’s the way I like it.” Over the years with practice I have learned to make good gumbo and crawfish etouffee, but I still dream of her pork roast with rice and gravy that I cannot copy. I also failed at mastering her portion-control ways; she never weighed over 110 pounds. She stayed a poulette (a small chicken) – dusting, picking-up, putting-away, ironing, cooking, and wiping clean every counter she passed. I did not inherit her need for a spotless kitchen and an organized living room.

I don’t think Momma nor Dad understood my love of reading and writing or my desire to live in a large city. They were small town born and bred, never leaving the south central Louisiana parish they raised their family in. Religion remained a major part of their lives, and they did their best to look the other way when their three grown daughters moved away from the Catholic Church.

I don’t attend weekly mass and I’ve not been in a confessional in more years than I want to confess to, but I often pray to the Virgin Mary and have rosaries in my desk, my car’s glovebox, and by my bedside. 

The saying “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree” fits my food tastes, entertainment tendencies, love of New Orleans and New York City, and interest in major tennis tournaments. I’ve learned to value my parents’ respect for close family ties and shared vacations. However, I have lived longer in Austin, Texas than I lived in Cajun Country. I believe in recycling, breakfast tacos, greenbelt hikes, tattoos, and lots of live music.

I have the Kellers’ obsession with movies and card playing and the LaTours’ love of music and laughter. The stains of my parents’ parents were pressed into their hearts and minds from those before them, so I claim the traits I’ve inherited, and now that Momma and Daddy have died, I do not want those stains to disappear. Like the thrift store robe that once belonged to my sister Kelly, I treasure old things, especially when they have imprints from my past.

I will hopefully leave my marks on my own three sons and their offspring. And one chilly day Winslow McClain Gannaway may ask me to make him some gumbo, and we will watch Cat Ballou together before I tuck him in at night and read him “Clovis Crawfish and His Friends.” 

Posted in Friendship

2023:  The Year of the Un-resolution

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

            I’m getting too old to make New Year’s resolutions.  I can’t take the shame anymore when I don’t do what I announced to the world was so important and life-changing.

            Drop ten pounds; Dry January; Clean house and organize the clutter; Exercise more; Call family every week; and start a yoga practice.  I might as well add inspire world peace and write a New York Times bestseller.

            Lately, I’ve been mesmerized by the people on Tik Tok videos.  My children are chagrined that I have watched these and think they are cute and funny. (mostly ridiculous) 

            There are actually people who have pre-made a delicious no-carb salad and are eating it on the fly while they carpool or run errands.  One lady bragged that if you didn’t have a fork, just take a bite out of the whole cucumber you packed and make a scoop to eat with.  Who packs a pre-made salad for running errands?  We’re all in the Chick Fil A line fighting for nuggets and talking ourselves out of French fries.

            I’ve made resolutions to organize my house and even asked one of my daughters to help.  Not that I was embarrassed, but I did feel ‘some kind of way’ the third time she held up a plastic bag and asked, “Why is this in here?”  or gift bags and totes… “Mother, why are you saving these?  Do you need all of these tote bags?  You should just pick three you like and donate the rest.” 

Really?  Have I taught her nothing??  You never know when you will need the perfect size, shape, and appropriate holiday gift bag or need to schlep something from here to there.  In my book, you can never have too many. 

            Is that reason for a resolution or an intervention?  It’s a close call either way.

            “This year I’m only going to eat whole foods.”  I can’t even say that without laughing.  I’ve professed that one too many years to even count.   Are Sugar-free Hazelnut creamer and Nature Valley Protein bars whole foods?  Of course not!  Therefore, I rarely make it past breakfast the next day.

            “This year I’m going to do sit-ups/crunches every day for 365 days.”  Except when I don’t feel like it or I ate too much the night before or I’m too busy watching Tik Tok videos.  I have to admit, this one gets me every year and every year I start out strong, hoping to make it past that dreaded two-week mark.  Something always gets in my way, like procrastination or apathy. 

            “This year I’m going to write one heart-felt letter to each person I love and appreciate.” Just one letter a week for fifty-two weeks.  My dear friend Ginger inspired me, but as I rounded week five I stopped remembering what I loved and appreciated about certain people and came to a stall.  I was having to force myself to find enough redeeming qualities to complete the letter, and wasn’t that like missing the point?

            Years ago, when Boo and I first got our Fitbits, we made a resolution to walk twenty-one miles a week.  Then Boo got carried away and vowed to walk four miles a day, twenty-eight miles a week or the equivalent of walking to Baltimore, Maryland (1560 miles) in one year.   Because I didn’t want to be outdone, I agreed to his revised resolution, too.  Every day we trekked along, at first happy and positive, until I finally had a meltdown.  I started to feel angry at Boo and dreaded our daily outings, cursing under my breath. 

            “You never talk. You won’t hold my hand and you’re just not sweet when we walk,” I announced.  “I thought this was our thing!”

            Clearly, what we had was a failure to communicate.  I envisioned our walks as time to connect emotionally.  Our special time together getting to know each other on a deeper level.

            Boo envisioned our walks as time to log four miles a day, twenty-eight miles a week. 

            “I’m trying to strengthen our marriage and make connections on a deeper level,” I cried.

            “I’m trying to walk fifteen hundred miles in a year.  That’s as deep as I can get.”

            I finally let go of my walking to connect dream and eventually I went to the gym, and he kept walking.  Yet another of my resolutions that bit the dust.

            One year I vowed to become a weightlifter.  I began a woman’s weightlifting class at the YMCA and went diligently for six months.  I loved it and felt so strong.  I would come home and flex my muscles and bought sleeveless tops to accentuate my biceps.  The problem was my age.  I was the oldest woman in the group.  I tried to keep up as best I could.  I never moaned or complained unless I had to, and I tried to stay positive even though some days it hurt to breathe. I was among young mothers who had recently given birth, and forty-something divorcees trying to get their mojo back.  The comments started to get to me.

            “I wish my mother would exercise like you do.”

            “I hope I look as good as you when I’m your age.”

            “Wow, you’re really doing good for being a grandma.”

            As the class got more difficult, I started to slow down.  Arthritic hands and knees can only do so much.  Eventually, even Jack LaLanne had to tone it down, or did he just up and die?  Either way, I did complete this resolution and although it was not always pretty, I still refer to it as my glory days.

            So, here it is, two weeks into 2023 and I really don’t have a resolution for the new year.   Whatever I do, I know I want to be creative, like maybe making a TikTok video.  If Lisa Rinna can just dance around her house in sweatpants and have billions of followers, surely I can find a geriatric niche that draws in the same size of viewers.  My 2023 resolution could be to post something we older folks would like to see on TikTok or Instagram.  A video about incorporating pre and probiotics into your healthy diet, brewing the perfect cup of Matcha tea, or dancing to the oldies remix.

Even though it’s not January 1, I think there’s still time to make my resolution proclamation.

 I will ‘dance like no one is watching,’ and make my TikTok video.   And I will remember the quintessential words of wisdom and inspiration: ‘today is the first day of the rest of my life.’  I think that’s a good start!

Happy 2023!