Shoulda kept my mouth shut

—“Well, we all gotta go sometime,” my contact said.
“What, pray tell, does that have to do with what I just said?” I asked myself.
Mixing post-stroke aphasia with my newfound penchant for conversation can crash in flames.
I had gone into the new Weggers in Henrietta following a dental-appointment. I’d try to purchase my over-priced espresso coffee-beans, which I ran the Canandaigua Weggers out of.
I also needed cauliflower florets, and frozen asparagus spears, so I'd look for them too.
A guy was taking a large “family” bag of broccoli florets out of the freezer-display. Enough to feed a family of five in Bangladesh for a month.
“Yeah; that’s what ya gotta buy,” I said, except my speech was beginning to stumble.
He looked at me for explanation.
“The smaller bags don’t have the bigger florets the larger bags have,” but my speech was getting eratic.
I doubt he understood a word I said, so “we all gotta go sometime.”
Conversation is exhilarating! It contradicts the way I was brought up = “NO ONE WILL TALK TO YOU!”
But I hafta remember my speech often jams.

• “Weggers” is Wegmans, a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester where I often buy groceries. They have stores in both Canandaigua and Henrietta (NY).
• I had a stroke October 26th, 1993 from an undiagnosed heart-defect since repaired. I pretty much recovered. Just tiny detriments; I can pass for never having had a stroke. It slightly compromised my speech = difficulty finding and putting words together.

“Chatting” with Christa

“Hello Robert. Thanks for chatting with me this afternoon. I hope you're doing well and I am happy to assist you.”
(Oh STOP! Just answer my question!)
“There should be an orange link at the top right hand side of the web page that says “checkout” or “basket”.
(Yer double-quotes should be after the period, honey! Tub-thumping CONSERVATIVES LOUDLY excoriated our Mighty Mezz head-honcho for faux pas like that.)
“You can access the basket here: https://www.orvis.com/store/basket.aspx
Are you still with me?
I’m sorry, but I believe that we may have been disconnected as I have not heard from you in some time. If you have any other questions, please feel free to come back into chat or you may e-mail me at cs@orvis.com and I'll be glad to assist you further.”
(Yep. I split. —Meanwhile, can you say “comma?” Yer blathering is desperately in need of commas. You can also trash “that.” [The proofer speaks! Mouthing the advice of my good friend ****** ******, ex of the Mighty Mezz = “Keep it short.”])
Two months ago, Yr Fthfl Srvnt got a new rescue Irish Setter to replace Scarlett, who I put down last Thanksgiving. She made 13.
My new dog’s name is “Killian;” he’s nine, a divorce victim. Like Scarlett I always walk him on-leash. If I didn’t I’d lose him. Sense a deer and zoom!
I also had him chipped. A microchip was inserted in the flesh atop his neck. A chipped dog’s owner can be identified.
I also ordered a personalized collar with my name and cellphone number embroidered on it. That saved Scarlett twice.
Unfortunately that new collar is too big. I ordered “large” when I shoulda ordered “medium.”
Almost two months have passed with Killian wearing Scarlett’s old collar, only because that has my phone-number. I been getting flak from people to get Killian his own collar.
It was so hot I couldn’t mow, so I had time to drill a new hole which would tighten the oversized collar. Still too big; part of the lettering was obscured.
I figgered I’d order a “medium” — I could afford 26 buckaroos. I fired up “Froogle,” in search of personalized dog-collars.
Begin online ordering; what I did months ago to misorder. Where I found Scarlett’s collar, also online, I have no idea. That was 10 years ago.
I measured Scarlett’s collar to get the correct size. The misorder was 4-5 inches too long.
At this point friends tell me to quit being rebellious and stupid. I should drive all over creation, perhaps 100 miles, to accept something I don’t want.
Well, online leads to what I do want, and I’m not leaving my house. And Heaven-forbid I prefer dickering wondrous technology.
Color-choice = blue.
Embroidery-choice = white. I had to peruse three or four sites to get that. Many don’t allow lettering color-choice.
I set up to order. “Place in basket.”
At this point stroke-effects horn in. “Scroll the site dude; there’s a lot more than what’s on yer screen.”
Okay, where’s “view-cart”or “place order?” I don’t even see “continue.” I looked around, stroke compromised as usual. I noticed “chat.” I clicked that.
So began my “chat” with Christa. Yeah I know: born in the wrong century, and we never went to no Moon. And now quotes come before end punctuation, unless yer Limberger railing against the media.
In her favor Christa prompted my ordering a collar for Killian. Which I hope gets critics off my back.

• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired over 12 years ago. Best job I ever had — I was employed there almost 10 years — over 11 if you count my time as a post-stroke unpaid intern. (I had a heart-defect caused stroke October 26th, 1993, from which I recovered fairly well. That defect was repaired.)
• “Limberger” is Rush Limbaugh. I call him that because I think he stinks.

“Feeble” versus “not feeble”

“Here I am again,” I say to lifeguards at the Canandaigua YMCA pool.
“Another feeble attempt to stave off aging.
I know I’m not supposed to say ‘feeble,’ but as long as I stagger in that pool, I feel my attempts are ‘feeble.’”
For perhaps the past six months I have been doing aquatic therapy in the Canandaigua YMCA pool, attempting to improve my balance, which is dreadful.
I had a stroke 24 years ago, and have been unable to balance on one foot since. I also can’t do the closed-eye model-walk with hands out front.
Don’t know as the stroke is why, since I got back to running, bicycle and motorcycle.
I was told bicycle and motorcycle are miraculous, but they both have giant spinning gyroscopes called wheels. Get above 5 mph and they balance themselves.
But things seem to have deteriorated recently. I fell hard on ice a couple years ago, and more-or-less never recovered.
We X-rayed my knees, and determined my left knee was bone-on-bone. I was advised knee-replacement.
At least a year of hobbling passed waiting to replace my knee.
That was finally done two years ago, but balance problems persisted, or even worsened. Occasionally I fell.
Now, perhaps because of aquacise, I no longer fall as much. But I feel that’s paying maximum attention to where I step — avoiding roots, rocks, and pavement edges that could trip me.
I still lose my balance = start toppling over. I can usually catch it. I also usually catch stumbles.
People tell me I walk much better. Maybe so, but I still start toppling, and can’t balance on one foot.
I have been diagnosed with “neuropathy,” wasting away of nerves to my feet. I still feel pain if I stand on something painful. But supposedly neuropathy is why my balance is bad.
Yet I keep hammering at it. Don’t know as I’ll ever be able to model-walk, or stand on one foot.
All I know is I feel fairly confident walking on dreadful footing, e.g. walking my dog at the park, or chasing trains — where rock-ballast awaits.
I can avoid falling, but feel that’s paying attention to footing.

Pants-wearer brought to tears

“Dare I ask?” I rolled down the window of my car as I was leaving nearby Boughton (“BOW-tin;” as in “wow”) Park yesterday after walking my dog.
A mother was loading her minivan with kids, dogs, and a wood-sided Radio Flyer wagon.
The mother had been hauling a child and a dog around the park.
Suppose I’m guessing wrong? Embarrassing as Hell.
“Looks like one of your kids is Down Syndrome,” I said.
“That would be Hope,” she said smiling.
“I had a kid brother with Down Syndrome; born in ’54.
Classiest thing my parents ever did, was to NOT institutionalize him. and that was back in the ‘50s.”
“When they used to put Down Syndrome kids in institutions,” she said.
“They brought him home,” I said, starting to tear up.
“Oh, look at you,” she exclaimed.
Skirts love it.
A pants-wearer brought to tears.
“Yeah, but what you’re also seeing is a slight stroke-effect,” I thought. “It’s called lability; poor emotional control. It’s manifested by increased tendency to laugh or cry, in my case crying.”
It was much worse after my stroke, but I now more-or-less have it under control.
I considered mentioning it, but didn’t because it usually crashes in flames.
Just recently I tried to explain lability to my doggy-daycare ladies, and they were utterly buffaloed.
Weepiness was more appealing.
My guess is most overly labile stroke-survivors end up in nursing-homes — I didn’t — so lability is unknown.
This wasn’t the first time.
Years ago my wife was in a Rochester hospital recovering from a cancerous encounter with death. —She died eventually.
I went to visit, and there she was in bed, legs still ballooned from constricted circulation.
She was extremely depressing to encounter. I started crying.
A young nurse walked in, so I said “I’m sorry.”
“Oh that’s okay,” she cooed. As if to say “Boy-oh-boy, I sure wish my husband cared about me as much as this guy cares about his wife.”
Yeah, I care about my wife — best friend I ever had — but weepiness is also a stroke-effect.
So here I am tearing up about my Down Syndrome brother, who used to look people in the eye and say “I’m retarded; nyuk-nyuk-nyuk!”
I’m very emotional about him, but weepiness is also a stroke-effect.

• I had a stroke October 26th, 1993, from which I pretty much recovered. Just tiny detriments; I can pass for never having had a stroke.
• My wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I miss her immensely. Best friend I ever had, and after my childhood I sure needed one. She actually liked me.

More stroke-addled

“You mean to tell me,” I snapped; “I gotta jump through all these hoops just to get a $60 rebate?”
About two months ago I purchased a complete set of tires from Goodyear. They said I was entitled to a $60 rebate.
Instead of a check, they sent a debit-card containing $60. I blogged it, because it seemed like an attempt to sign me up for a debit-card.
Relatives, among others, weighed in. It was just a card with a $60 balance. I’d use it until empty, then shred it.
So I decided to activate the card.
“Welcome to card-services; please enter your 16-digit card-number.
Now your zip-code.
“NYET! Not what’s associated with your card.”
I was giving them the wrong zip-code.
Referred to an Indonesian service-rep, I repeated my erroneous zip-code.
“Not what’s associated with your card.”
“That zip-code has been on this house since it was built — that was 27 years ago.”
A number of factors are at play here:
—1) My mailing-address is not the town I actually live in. It’s the post-office of the town adjacent. I don’t know the zip-code of the town I live in, only my mailing zip-code.
My town has a tiny post-office, but my mail comes from the adjacent town.
—2) Even though the zip-code on my mail may be incorrect — often it’s the town I actually live in — I get my mail anyway. The post-office apparently disregards an incorrect zip-code.
So, any number of things could have gone wrong.
—The zip-code on my rebate was incorrectly entered, and/or
—The post-office delivered my rebate despite an incorrect zip-code.
Plus I was declaring the wrong zip-code.
“The zip-code you guys have is WRONG!”
“You’ll hafta call Goodyear and have them correct the zip-code.”
Phonecall alert!
It ain’t easy for me to make phonecalls. 24 years ago I had a stroke due to an undiagnosed heart-defect. It has since been repaired, and i recovered fairly well.
One tiny remaining detriment is slight aphasia, manifested in difficulty making phonecalls.
Calling Goodyear would lead to a 1-to-3 hour wrastling-match.
Half the reason I use e-mail is doing that still works. Phonecalls don’t.
“Ya mean I gotta jump through all these hoops for $60? My time is more valuable than that!”
(My card is activated. I later discovered I was rendering the wrong zip-code. Stroke-addled, probably.)

Stroke addled?

“Three hours shot to Hell, but the Arrowhead Mills puffed-corn cereal is ordered from Walmart*.”
So I said to my sister-in-law in FL on her landline voicemail.
I call my sister-in-law “Amazon Lady.” Not the “Amazon-Lady” at the Canandaigua YMCA, musclebound and striding about like Arnold Schwarzenegger — although she’s a nice lady.
My sister-in-law is expert at fiddling the Amazon website, a surfeit of contorted machination.
“Here I am calling you again,” I said. “Last time was also because of Amazon.”
We have deduced I have various problems with Amazon.
It appears I have two accounts, one under an e-mail I still use, and a second under an e-mail I left long ago.
If I hit my Amazon bookmark, and enter the password I normally use, it logs me into my ancient account.
So it’s fairly active. I ordered corn-puffs through it recently.
But my “Subscribe-and-Save” dog-food is via the more recent account.
Subscribe-and-Save is Amazon’s thingy where you sign up for something every month or two, like dog-food or Huggies.
It took an act of Congress to deduce I had two accounts. Like why is there not a Subscribe-and-Save on the ancient account, the only one that logs me in, so I (we) thought it was the only one I had.
My more recent account doesn’t like the password from my ancient account, so won’t log in.
So, what to do?
Set a corrected password for my recent account, set up a new Subscribe-and-Save on that account, than vaporize the ancient account and discontinue the Subscribe-and-Save on that.
Easier said than done!
Resetting a password is usually easy. Request a password reset, and Amazon gives you a code that proves it’s actually you.
Really? Suppose some ne’er-do-well has hacked my e-mail?
Moving ahead, Amazon e-mailed me a code.
It bombed!
Call Amazon Lady.
A while ago I had Amazon Subscribe-and-Saves for puffed-corn cereal and puffed-rice.
Amazon ran out-of-stock for puffed rice — I had to buy it at Lori’s Natural Foods. (That’s their jingle, readers; via YouTube.)
I decided to try online elsewhere. Mighty Walmart* had it.
They also had puffed corn, so cueing our Prez to Amazon: “You’re fired!”
Last February I needed corn-puffs, but Walmart* would no longer log me in. All-of-a-sudden my usual password was invalid.
Switch back to Amazon, but it’s my ancient account because my valid password logs into that.
But I (we = Amazon Lady) don’t see my dog-food Subscribe-and-Save. It’s on the other account.
“I don’t really wanna Subscribe-and-Save the corn-puffs,” I said.
Plus Amazon is always sending me into the ozone. Their site is so packed I can’t crunch it.
This is the bane of a stroke-survivor: encounter Amazon’s 89 bazilyun buttons, and lock up.
“So call Walmart* and reset your password for them.”
Not that simple. Telephone calls for me are difficult. It’s called aphasia, a common stroke-effect.
I hafta serenade each person I call asking for patience during my stony silences while I try to get words out. And if I ask for a repeat.
I’ve found I usually get understanding, but if I don’t ask I often get anger (I have).
So I called Mighty Walmart*.
They e-mailed a reset code.
“Nothing yet. This is what happened before. Lemme look in my junk.
Nothing from Walmart*.”
We tried again and again; at least four more times.
“Nothing from Walmart*,” each time.
Then I happened to notice five “Customer-Service@Walmart” e-mails in my junk.
“Whoa!” I exclaimed. “Here I am looking for ‘Walmart’ instead of ‘Customer-Service@Walmart.’”
SLAM; password reset, corn-puffs ordered from Walmart*; Amazon fix delayed.
“You did good,” I told the girl. “Parrying a 73-year-old stroke-survivor with slight aphasia. Make sure your husband knows.”
Looking back at all this, three hours of precious time lost, I wonder if my long-ago stroke affects my ability to parry stuff like this.
I seem to make better sense of things writing out this blog. Not confronting a screen, or a service-rep counting seconds.

• I had a stroke October 26th, 1993, from which I pretty much recovered. Just tiny detriments; I can pass for never having had a stroke. It slightly compromised my speech. (Difficulty finding and putting words together.)

I still can do it

“72 years old, had a stroke, but I’m still able to do this,” I said to myself through tears.
I had just completed online application for a $40 rebate on anti-flea medication for my dog.
It’s called “Bravecto,” is oral, and It’s made by Merck.
The tears are a stroke-effect. I had a stroke almost 23 years ago, but am left with slight lability: poor emotional control. It can manifest itself as excessive laughing or crying. With me it’s a tendency to cry more readily than normal.
There were the usual hairballs.
—First was indicating where you bought the stuff. A bunch of vet sites were listed, but not Honeoye Falls Veterinary (“hone-eee-OYE;” as in “boy”).
I was ready to check “not listed,” but noticed I was only on the first page of about 10.
There it was on page four.
Like everyone has time to pore through 89 bazilyun veterinarians.
—Next was “product code.”
The site displayed a product code, but it wasn’t the one on my box.
I tried to overwrite, but couldn’t. So I clicked “add product code.”
I did so, but NYET! “Erroneous product code.”
Hey man, it’s right on the box!
Time to call the 800 number.
“Welcome to Merck’s rebate-center. Yada-yada-yada-yada.”
10 minutes so far.
“You gotta use the product code Merck gives you,” I was told.
“So why was I directed to the one on your box?” I asked.
“Won’t work. The one on the site will.”
“Next.” “I hope I don’t hafta call you back.”
—Next was scan and upload my receipt from the veterinarian; or copy and mail. That’s for grannies, I surmised.
So I scanned it onto my desktop.
Now to upload.
And how, pray tell, do I do that, with no visible upload function?
Back to the 800 number; same girl.
“See that ‘Browse your device’?”
To me a “device” is my Smartphone, not my computer.
That’s the usage I’ve heard.
Why don’t they say “computer?”
“Okay, I’ll try it. Hold on.”
—Receipt uploaded: “Now what?”
“You got the ‘thank you’ page.”
“Print that and you’re finished.”
Well yes, indeed, it was the “thank you” page, but it looked like all the others.
The medication cost $100; I get rebated $40.
“Easy as pie,” the vet clerk said. “Just go online, fill out the form, and scan our receipt if ya can.”
At which point I usually say, although it doesn’t apply to me: “What if I don’t have a computer?”
In which case Merck says “TOUGH,” and adds another 40 smackaroos to its Mercedes account.
I can’t imagine my mother-in-law doing this. She still has a rotary phone.

Copy/Paste

Last week a technician from Isaac Heating and Air-Conditioning, my HVAC contractor, came out to fiddle my tankless water-heater.
“HVAC” is heating-ventilation-air-conditioning.
A tankless water-heater is just that. No hot-water holding-tank.
Instead, water gets circulated over a gas flame as it passes through, and heats almost instantaneously, 120 degrees in my case.
A tankless is on demand. Water is not heated then stored in a holding-tank.
Isaac installed the tankless. As originally designed, our house had a tankless water-heater. But it was Swedish, and very hard to get parts.
Beyond that it had a pilot, which blew out on windy days. How many times did I relight that pilot?
We ended up getting a tank-type water-heater, 40 gallons.
That tankless was too much trouble.
I’ve been in this house 26 years. During that time we had two tank-type water-heaters.
That second tank-type was about to fail, and our gas-company was offering a rebate on tankless water-heaters, 250 smackaroos.
So we bit, although that tankless cost a fortune — way more than a tank-type.
Supposedly a tankless saves money. I don’t know if it does. You’re not preheating water and storing it.
It only works when you draw hot water.
And of course, in the shower you don’t run out of hot water after 10 minutes.
My tankless, a Rinnai (Japanese) is about the size of a small microwave, and mounts to an outside cellar wall.
It’s eight years old. It would work a while, then cut out.
It displayed an error-code saying the exhaust vent was blocked.
Whatever: no hot water.
I’d go down-cellar and reset it. Back to hot water.
Isaac technicians had been here a couple times.
Once they decided a flame-sensor was overheating, which didn’t make sense, since it has no connection to a blocked exhaust-vent.
So Isaac came a third time, same technician as previous.
The hot-water demand of my shower is not as heavy as my washing-machine, which would trip the tankless.
The technician got it to trip again, so poked around. He determined the finned coil the water passes through above the flame was corroded, so partially blocked the exhaust-vent.
A thermister is above that coil, and would overheat since exhaust air was partially blocked.
Viola! An explanation that made sense.
The repair was to remove the corrosion from the water-coil. That was done last week, mainly with vinegar.
Back in business, I guess. No recent resets.
The repair cost me about $150; not covered by my annual service contract.
The technician and I started jawing as I cut a check on this computer.
He said he’d e-mail me the service-ticket, and there was a survey i could fill in. “If you don’t wanna do that survey, you can always call Isaac.”
I allowed I had a stroke 22 years ago.
As a result I have slight aphasia, which translates to difficulty making phonecalls.
“I’d rather use the written word,” i said.
“It’s amazing how we improvise around various detriments,” he said.
“Right!” I thought. I’d never thought of that before.
I copy/paste a lot more than the average person, because I’d rather do that than type myself. Because of the stroke I have sloppy keyboarding.
“When I hafta type in my e-mail address, I might get it on the first try,” I said. “Usually I make at least one mistake. I have to look for mistypes.”
“Is that inability to identify keys?” he asked.
“No, just hitting the wrong keys by mistake,” I said.
“And you can be sure I don’t use Microsoft Word®,” I said.
“That punishes stroke-survivors. Hit the wrong key by mistake and your entire document gets zapped.
“Why thank you, Bill!” Start over.
“I have Word on this machine, because it can do tricks my regular word-processor can’t, but I hardly use it.”
“The word-processor I use is Apple’s Pages; it doesn’t punish you for having had a stroke.”
So I have hundreds of Pages files I can copy/paste into Word, for example. Ask Word to make a mailing-label for me, and I do it from a Pages address — which I copy/paste into Word.
At the Messenger newspaper I had similar: a desktop-folder called “Grady’s Junk; Dunna-toucha.” (See Grady explanation top-right.)
“Dunna-toucha” because the Messenger ‘pyooter-guru liked to clean up your computer desktop.
I also did a Senior Calendar at the Messenger; a calendar of events for senior-citizens.
I never threw out the previous calendar. I’d just overwrite last week’s calendar, since a lot was the same, especially headings.
That way I wasn’t typing the entire calendar from scratch, which would have taken four-five times as long with my mistypes.
“It’s amazing what workarounds we develop,” he said.

• My wife and I designed our house, but a contractor built it for us. My wife died almost four years ago.
• The “Messenger” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired over ten years ago. Best job I ever had — I worked there almost 10 years (over 11 if you count my time as a post-stroke unpaid intern [I had a stroke October 26, 1993, from which I recovered fairly well]). (“Canandaigua” [“cannan-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city nearby where I live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” —It’s about 14 miles away.)
• “Grady” was my nickname at the Messenger newspaper. See blurb top right.

Directions

This morning (Monday, March 24, 2008) Linda is working at the West Bloomfield post-office — all day.
So I decided to take our dog Killian for a walk before going to the vaunted Canandaigua YMCA.
I set out about 8:45 a.m.; up to the vaunted Michael Prouty Park and back.
Killian always has a wonderful time, sniffing and snorting and digging all over. We thoroughly checked out a metal drain-grate. Critters were probably living inside. (“I’ll get ‘em!”)
A giant Ford diesel dually pulled into the park as we walked out.
Uh-ohhhhh...... The poor guy is probably lost, and wants to ask me directions. He’s rolling down his passenger window.
Here we go: try to speak normally and not jam up.
“Any idea where a wood-processor is?” he asks.
“No, I don’t know of any wood-processors.” (What’s a wood processor? Do they cut wood? Chop it? Burn it?)
“Is there a town of West Bloomfield?”
“Up at the traffic-light,” I say.
Mr. Git-R-Dun macho man; cowboy hat and Marlboros.
Heavy terbacky smoke pouring outta the rolled-down window.
The dually goes down to the parking lot and turns around — big enough to need a tugboat.
“Rattle-uh; rattle-uh; rattle-uh; rattle-uh.” He accelerates up the street.
Congratulations. Ya pulled it off without muck-up. Passed as normal.

“Linda” is my wife of 40+ years. She works part-time at the West Bloomfield post-office. We live in West Bloomfield, NY.

“Killian” is our dog; a rescue Irish-Setter. We’ve had him about five years.

“Michael Prouty Park” is a small town park in West Bloomfield.

I had a stroke October 26, 1993. It slightly compromised my speech.