Tag: Knitting

Teeny Tiny Triumphs

On By Andi BrownIn Uncategorized8 Comments

You may have noticed that I find alliteration appealing. Too true!

But the bigger news is I COOKED TWO MEALS yesterday. As in preheated the oven, chopped some broccoli and cauliflower (but bought precut onions – I’m not that ambitious) and made a sweet potato soup (so-so) and a dish with the aforementioned vegetables that included a sauce with cashews (good for dopamine). This one was also not scrumptious but you’re missing the point. I got off my (aching) behind and cooked. And (sound of blaring trumpets please) I also did a bit of knitting. Yay me!

Some friends suggested that, now that I’m over the hump, I will be preparing splendid repasts as if Ina and Julia were expected for dinner. “See, you did it,” they say. “Now that wasn’t so hard was it?” If I merely pushed myself a little bit more, I’d have these apathy and lethargy things licked, they think.

The American Parkinson’s Disease Association defines apathy as not feeling sad or despondent, but simply lacking interest in doing the things that one formerly found fulfilling. I have a rather odd, love/hate relationship to cooking to begin with. One aspect of my culinary life that I particularly hate is shopping. It doesn’t matter if it’s Trader Joe’s, Whole Foods or a middle-of-the-road store like Stop and Shop. So Andi, you’re asking, why don’t you order online and have it delivered? You can guess what’s coming. I hate that (perusing groceries online) even more than going to the actual store.

What prompted the sudden jolt of energy that led me into my kitchen? Truth is, there wasn’t one. I simply tired of takeout. Not to mention the expense. By now, I’ve procured meals from every purveyor in the neighborhood and I actually miss my own cooking, which is pretty, pretty good, recent disappointments notwithstanding.

So, chopping veggies? For the birds. Organizing the herbs and spices? Ditto. Mixing and stirring and assembling ingredients? Not for me. Here’s what I do like about cooking: Imagining how a dish will taste. Finalizing my recipe selections. And, of course, consuming the prepared meal. And after months in which hand rarely gripped knife, with Herculean effort, I shopped and then I cooked, and then I ate. Then I collapsed.

So I won’t be my own personal caterer every day. So what? Our new friend apathy has crashed the party. Should I allow him a perch on the bookshelf, where he stands guard, cackling at my inability to fend him off? (Translation:, I give in and take a nap). Or shall I be the victor, banishing him from my kitchen with the knowledge that he lies in wait to watch me take twice as long as I used to to whip up a few stalks of broccoli that will appear on my plate alongside a shiny brick of salmon.

I remind myself that, when I just can’t seem to find the internal resources to cook, knit, or even work out ( critical in halting disease progression), I refuse to think of it as giving in to sloth. I’m resting and in so doing, I’m taking care of myself. I’m competing with no one for nothing. It’s just me and my kitchen tools or, on a really good day, my treasured knitting needles and nubby yarns, satisfying my creative urges on my own terms. I refuse to self-flagellate for napping when I need to, instead of forcing myself to get to work on that afghan or fix a fine dinner.

So if a well-intentioned friend tells you to just push yourself a little harder and you’ll be doing all the things you used to enjoy, just smile mysteriously and say “ Oh. I am.”

Recommendation

Yay, a new show that fits the bill, mood- and content-wise. It’s Fleishmann is in Trouble, from the book (read. enjoyed) by Taffy Brodesser-Akner, the brilliant, witty, insightful New York Times writer. If you like a good divorce/mid-life crisis show, check it out on Hulu.

I hate my lamp

On By Andi BrownIn Uncategorized6 Comments

I bought the lamp when I first moved into my empty-nester apartment, and thought it the coolest thing.  To turn it on, you swiped your hand over a red dot on the top of its stem, and voila!  It lit up.  It was also in possession of a USB port, so, with its final destination my night table, adjacent to the bed where I’d be reading and watching TV, I’d be able to effortlessly charge my phone all night long.  The lamp was the final touch in the creation of my haven.

I chose it for its brilliance. I like a lot of light when I read. But a funny thing happened on the way from the neurologist. I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease, and everything changed, including my relationship with my lamp. The light that illuminated my calm sanctuary had become a prison searchlight, like you’d see in The Shawshank Redemption or The Great Escape.

My light may have always been harsh, but I hadn’t been bothered by its unsparing, intense glare. But now, post-Parkinson’s, as soon as I entered the room and flicked the switch, I became instantly depressed. Nothing like this had ever happened before. The light illuminated the entire room with its unforgiving rays. My boudoir had taken on the gloomy aspect of a crime scene.

Other changes were afoot. Activities that had once captivated me were now on the back burner…or in some instances, not even on the stove. Knitting, my passion, came not to interest me in the least, whereas at one point, I’d been eagerly daydreaming about attending The Edinburgh Yarn Festival, a knitter’s nirvana. In fact, “knitter” was a key part of my identity. If I’m not a skilled fiber-crafter, than who am I?

Other pleasures were now in retreat. Retired, my need for a professional wardrobe was no more. I gave most of my work clothes to my daughter (who I must say looks adorable in them), but I probably won’t be replacing them because I have zero interest in shopping. Another new and not entirely welcome tendency. Not even a nice new pair of earrings? Nope. How about a pretty summer sundress? Who cares?

I was an avid cook pre-Parkinson’s, eagerly combing through the New York Times Cooking section for dishes that sounded flavorful and nutritious. Now, I hate to admit it but my freezer is filled with Trader Joe’s Indian dinners, and packages of vegetable Gyozas. The missing ingredient in these lost pastimes is energy.

On the other hand, I experienced a rather odd desire the other day. Returning from a visit to a friend in Atlanta, I saw a middle-aged woman reach down to the baggage carousel to collect her luggage. On her arm swung a pristine Louis Vuitton purse. The kind I’d been dreaming about…never! At no time have I been shy about expressing my disdain for clothing and accessories that advertise their creator’s moniker. Logo attire, not for me, ever. Yet in that moment I. Wanted.That. Bag.

Did it symbolize financial security, with the stock market currently tanking? Would it be a special treat after two years during which precious few extravagances made their way into my life? The first word that popped into my head when I saw the bag was not “beautiful.” Nor was it “elegant.” No, the first term that came to mind to describe the purse was “sturdy.”

Perhaps I was drawn to a durable object because I myself am less sturdy than usual. Fortunately, in the very early stages of Parkinson’s, I remain pretty robust, able to take long walks, even though the legs feel a bit wobbly at times.

One thing is certain: I’m not purchasing a Louis Vuitton bag. That’s not who I am, or who I want to be. Plus, I can think of a thousand things I’d rather spend the money on. But maybe I can locate an equally durable, logo-free, fashionable purse that won’t break the bank, and yeah, might provide me with a little bit of a shopping buzz. Maybe I could use that teensy bit of excitement more than I’ve admitted.

Change is an inevitable part of life, but illness can hasten the process, and necessitate choices. Maybe I’ll return to my beloved hobby, but in a different fashion – simpler projects, fewer sweaters, more shawls and scarves perhaps? Or I may no longer knit at all. Who knows? I’m open to the changes because of course I have no choice. It’s a strange situation to be in, and will require patience and open-mindedness. I hope I’m up for the challenge.

Meanwhile, I notice the lighting store around the corner is having a sale.  I think I’ll head over there for a lamp replacement.

Today’s recommendations

If you like nice clothes but you’re on a budget, check out The Real Real.  The garments and accessories are pre-owned but honestly, they’re in mint condition.  And you might have a bit of fun shopping around on the site.

Several years ago, I stumbled upon a little gem of a book called Man at the Helm by Nina Stibbe. It’s about two little girls who decide their family, which includes a younger brother and eccentric mother, needs the titular helmsman in order to be accepted in their snobby village. I’m reading it again for my book group, and I’ve gotta say, “Oh, those Brits! They really know how to make you laugh.” And I did, out loud and frequently, during both readings.

Let the Great World Spin by Colum McCann is one of my favorite books ever. Exquisitely written, the book captures and connects the lives of disparate people during a specific New York moment. It’s heartbreakingly beautiful.

Why? Why? Why?

On By Andi BrownIn chronic illness, health25 Comments

For me, the most shocking aspect of becoming ill is that…it wasn’t supposed to happen! My father lived to be 96 and my mother 90. My dad had experienced several health issues during his long life (tiny stroke at 60, a mild heart attack a few years later, non-fatal case of prostate cancer) and my mom had hardly any health problems till the very end. I’d won the genetic lottery, right? I was destined to be trekking around the world in my eighties and if I thought about aging at all, which I didn’t much, I figured I’d be felled by some cancer at ninety. Whoever runs this show had other plans for me.

If I ever get those cats I’ve been considering, I think I’ll name them “Twitch” and “Tremor.” The twitch is pretty much exactly what you’d expect: an involuntary movement, my leg taking orders from no one but itself with a kick or bend of the ankle. Oddly, it recalls the sensation of my daughter squirming around in my belly. The difference: this hurts. That didn’t.

My Parkinson’s also expresses himself (his pronouns are he/him) every night around 7:00 p.m. with an intense and very unpleasant ache that usually starts around my ankles, and moves up my body, settling in on his final resting place for the night in my hips and my butt. It matters not if I’ve exercised a lot that day or not; I feel as if I’ve climbed Everest every night. I found some relief to counter this annoyance…and you’ll have to wait till my next post to see what it is.

I turned seventy in February, 2021, at which time I’d experienced some symptoms but didn’t yet know what was in store for me.  I was expecting to retire around 72, but when I was informed of my condition, and experiencing increasingly disturbing symptoms, I decided to move it up a bit.  My last day of work was January 18, 2022.

I was ambivalent about this significant life change.  Initially, as I pondered my permanent exit from the workforce, I was convinced I needed a solid plan in place, so that when I awoke that first Monday of my unemployed life, I’d know that I would be at, say, a class on Tuesday, and a volunteer commitment on Thursday.

But with fatigue from medication cramping my style (working at home allowed me to indulge in naps in the afternoon with no one the wiser), I acknowledged that a full lineup of activities might not be the best idea, with the help, nay insistence, of friends who thought I was nuts and strongly encouraged me to go “plan-free.”

Do you remember the famous Twilight Zone episode, in which avid reader Burgess Meredith survives some sort of apocalypse? Alone, he stumbles into the local library, whose books are miraculously intact. He has enough canned food to last a lifetime, surrounded by his precious volumes. The future looks pretty bright…until his glasses fall, shattering their lenses along with his dreams. All those books, and he can’t read a one.

Maybe I should try for a spot as a TV critic.  Yeah, I spend a lot of time doing THAT.

I’m the vision-impaired protagonist in that scenario, with the library my retirement, and the shattered glass my shattered retirement hopes. I thought retirement would afford me ample opportunity to do all the things I’d lacked enough time for while employed–more knitting, cooking, writing – favorite hobbies that have waned in recent months due to apathy and fatigue. It’s not that I want to knit. I want to want to knit, but I lack motivation and energy, which is probably related to both the disease and the medication. These conditions may change once my dosage is at optimal levels.

Immune Boosting Ginger Nectar Here’s my cure for the blues and/or illness. I always make this when I have a cold or the flu. It can’t cure Covid, or really anything else, but it may very well help you feel better.

Peel a large hunk of fresh ginger and cut into a couple of big chunks. Put into a pot and pour a couple of cups of water over it, then squeeze in the juice from a lemon. Add some honey and a little bit of cayenne pepper. I sometimes add a few shakes of cinnamon (or a whole stick) for taste and because it’s good for the immune system. Let the whole thing simmer for around 10 minutes. Then get out your favorite mug and allow the potion to soothe your aching bones. At night, I sometimes add a little bourbon, which is very nice.

Do you have a favorite feelgood potion, activity, distraction from your PD?  DO SHARE!

Till next time!

Andi