I haven’t had the energy or the will to cook or do baking, but today I did! I haven’t cooked a few dishes at once since our dinner party on January 29. Yikes!
Nelly got us up nice and early, at 5 am. My body clock switched when she joined our family. I crash into bed by 9:30 pm at the latest and fall right to sleep. It’s pretty amazing; sleep is so underrated.
I started by writing my own recipe and experimenting with soft training treats and doggie crackers using the same dough. This will be a separate post on Monday.
Next, I made my infamous tomato tart for Easter dinner at our friend’s house. Did I mention this is the first time in 33 years I’ve had to cook Easter Dinner?
Then, I made a classic French fluffy asparagus quiche for Easter breakfast tomorrow morning. OMG! I love fluffy quiche.
I made seared scallops for dinner with a white sine and lemon pan sauce, risotto, and sautéed asparagus, the leftovers from the quiche.
It was relaxing having a glass of wine, listening to a dinner party playlist, and slowly and lovingly stirring the risotto. I was taught to always use the same wooden spoon and stir the risotto clockwise.
I’ve been doing that for 25 years, and it always comes out perfect. There are no shortcuts when making risotto, and it’s not something you can rush. This is why risotto is such a popular dish in restaurants.
Dinner was incredible; I realized how much I missed cooking while I was sick. Marty kept saying how good it was. I know he missed my cooking for seven weeks. We threw things together that passed as substance. I was so sick I didn’t give a shit what I ate.
I had all eyes on me while I was prepping at my butcher block kitchen island.
I am feeling better every day. I was pleased with how much I accomplished being home alone with a puppy that is hell on wheels and into everything. Klaus is a good sport and is showing her the ropes.
Look for my post about my three-ingredient doggie treats recipe that is easy to make. I’ll show you how they came out. I am packaging some for my friend’s dogs. I’ll see tomorrow at Easter dinner.
Someone looks very serious and looks like a cat.Those blue eyes are really something.
This puppy has made me one of those doggie moms I never thought I’d be. Never say never, they say. I finally have a little “girl” in my life; my friend Jon says she will be one lucky dog. He’s right. I can’t wait to pick out some clothes for her when she’s full-size. 🤗
Klaus spent the afternoon making deliveries and running errands in Dorset & Manchester, VT with me. I’ve got color in my cheeks again and a smile. I had no issues making the deliveries which I couldn’t do last week.
Although this is Easter weekend, this is not a religious post, or have anything to do with Jesus, Rabbi, or Yeshua what I call Him.
This post is about me, and the rebirth I felt overnight after seeing the pulmonologist on Wednesday afternoon.
The pulmonary office had a cancellation, calling me at 8 am asking if I could be there at 2 pm. Wild horses couldn’t stop me.
I didn’t have time to be nervous days before the appointment. My original appointment was in April 26, which was still 3 weeks away.
I saw an older male pulmonologist which I wasn’t sure about the first 10 seconds. Then he spoke to me in a calm, father-like tone. The first thing he did was going over my complete medical history.
It’s really helpful now that I know my family’s medical history on my mother’s side and bits and pieces of my father’s. (Newcomers, I was adopted and speaking of my biological parents.)
I brought him up to date with the whole pneumonia situation and how I’ve noticed I’ve had breathing issues before I became ill such as climbing 2 flights of stairs and while performing at the 2 gigs at last year.
It all makes sense now. He showed me the three X-rays and cat scan, explaining everything he saw. This scarring happened before I had pneumonia he strongly surmised.
The doctor spent an hour with me, easing my worst thoughts. This wasn’t as bad as I thought.
The pulmonologist suspected the scarring in my lungs was most likely caused by the drug Humira I’ve been injecting for 5 years. He told me not to go back on it.
At the end of my appointment, the doctor prescribed a course of prednisone and a different inhaler to be used mornings & evenings.
Marty purchased me a device to blow into that creates oscillating positive pressure, in your airways and clears away mucus and improves your breathing.
In 6 weeks, I’ll have another cat scan to see if my lungs are improving. If not, I’ll be referred to a specialist at Dartmouth Hitchcock where my gastroenterologist is.
The pulmonologist can’t say for sure if this is only scarring even though that’s what he is thinking. He told me to keep in mind there is a possibility it could be pulmonary fibrosis.
The doctor was very nice made me feel comfortable. He gave me hope and told me not to worry so much. He also told me that I looked good and healthy.
Marty was relieved when I told him about my appointment. He told me, this is the turning point, you’re going to be fine and back to my normal self in no time.
I got a great nights sleep and woke up feeling different. A huge, heavy weight was lifted off my shoulders. I felt alive and had energy. I wasn’t consumed with worry and doubt.
I was so crippled with anxiety and fear it was as if they were holding my body in a straight jacket; that jacket is now removed and I am starting to feel like myself again. It’s amazing what the mind can do.
I realized upon waking, this was a rebirth for me in no uncertain terms. This was the turning point Marty spoke of.
I love Sunday mornings. It’s the one day we truly take off and relax. We also love making Sunday breakfast. The best part of Sunday breakfast is eating it at 9 or 10 am instead of our early weekday gulp-and-grab breakfast before spätzle production.
I loved Sunday mornings when I was growing up. I remember getting breakfast supplies on Saturday afternoons or evenings when we lived in Elizabeth, NJ. We lived there until I was almost ten years old.
Great Grandma in her dining room. The table always had silverware and plates on it since there was always food in the kitchen for guests.
I loved visiting my great-grandma’s house on Saturday nights. My Mema and the rest of my father’s family gathered there. They played music and sat around her long dining room table, smoking and talking. Not my great grandma and Mema, but my parents and my father’s cousins, Aunts, and Uncles.
That’s me telling a story in Great Grandma’s dining room.
I was in my glory when they played Italian music, and my great-uncles would play the spoons. I would dance with my cousins, run around and let great grandma feed us hotdog buttons she had in her housecoat pocket. Don’t be grossed out; her hanky was in the other pocket. Lol.
In Great Grandma’s parlor, I guess on a rainy day.
We would leave when it was dark out. It always felt late, but I loved being out at night. Seeing all the lights in the windows looked cozy and magical. I would look out my backseat window at the street lights lining the streets.
We would drive to a bagel shop and pick up fresh-out-of-the-oven bagels in different flavors; my favorite was egg. My dad would hand me the bag to hold. It was warm in my lap and smelled delicious.
Next, we drove down one of Elizabeth’s main streets and stopped under a bridge at a red light. I would start getting nervous when I realized where we were going.
There was an old man who stood under the bridge. He sold the Sunday papers early. I remember he had one of those coin thingies on his belt.
My dad would roll down the driver’s side window and hand the man a dollar bill. He would give my dad the paper hot off the presses and his change.
I honestly thought this man was a troll. He was little and hunched over. He wore a black sailor’s knit cap and wore black gloves with no fingers. He had a voice like he drank nails, and while I was intrigued, I was afraid of him. I can still see him in my mind’s eye.
On Saturday afternoons, my mother and I would pick up my other grandmother, Nana. My Grandpop was buried at Mount Olive Cemetary in Newark, NJ. It was located next to the Anheuser Bush plant. The plant had a light-up eagle that flew in the sky, or so it appeared.
On our way to the cemetery, we would make two stops; the first was a florist shop to get flowers for Grandpop’s grave. He always had a flag on his grave since he served in World War l.
Me with Nana and Grandpop in Warinanco Park in Elizabeth.
The second stop was Zimmerman’s bakery. It was a wholesale bakery with a door where people could go in and buy freshly baked bread. I can still smell that heavenly scent that filled the air.
After we picked out a colossal rye bread, I loved watching a burly-looking woman dressed in all white with a hairnet put the oval loaf into the slicing machine.
Next, the lady put it in a white waxed paper bag, my mom paid for it, and I carried it out to the car like a baby in my arms. Like the bagels, it was warm and smelled mouth-wateringly delicious.
That big loaf of bread would be divided, giving Nana a few slices, and the rest would be for Sunday breakfast which my dad would make, slathered with lots of butter and dippy eggs.
Holy shit! Until I found this sign, I thought the name of the cemetery was St. Olive, as I wrote. I didn’t change it, I like it as I remember it in my head.
At the cemetery, I would take the metal vase out of the ground at Grandpop’s grave and fill it with water from a nearby water spigot giving the flowers we brought a drink. Nana would sob at his gravesite, and seeing her cry upset me. I would hold her hand and tell her it was ok.
After we left the cemetery, we would all eat slices of Zimmerman’s rye bread. I love the heel and would put it in front of my teeth and pretend they were false teeth like Nana’s. I was in the backseat, so my mother couldn’t see me and yell at me for playing with my food.
In front of Nana & Grandpop’s apartments on Easter in 1968.
On many of those Saturdays, I stayed at Nana’s house. My mother, who used to clean Nan’s apartment since she was blind, decided I was old enough to clean Nana’s apartment while I was there.
This was long before my role as Cinderella began when we moved from Elizabeth to Iselin. I didn’t mind; I would clean and talk to Nana the whole time. One week Nana told me she lost her mother’s ring in the apartment.
While scrubbing her toilet, at 6 or 7 years old, I found her ring on the rim of the toilet bowl when I lifted the seat. I yelled, “Nana! I found your ring!” Nana cried and hugged me.
Nana’s ring that I found. I took it out today, and I am wearing it. It spins around on my finger as it did on hers.
She gave me that ring when I was older, telling me I deserved to have it more than anyone. I never told my mother she gave it to me; she would have taken it away in a fit of rage one day. I keep it locked up in a safe. It is platinum and has tiny little diamond chips in it.
After cleaning, I would lead Nana into the elevator and go downstairs to take her to mass in her building. Afterward, I walked her carefully to the corner store around the block. I was very careful and walked slow. I would tell her when there was a step or crack in the sidewalk.
When I think about it now, that was a little crazy for us to do since Elizabeth was a dangerous place to live even back then. I was responsible for my age, and she trusted me more than anyone she told me.
The corner store had a yucky smell and wood shavings on the floor. I held my breath when we went in there but had to gasp for air and get a big whiff. I knew it was impolite to hold my nose, plus I had to walk Nana through the narrow aisles with her shopping cart she brought from home.
Even though I was only 6 or 7 years old, she would talk me through making dinner for us—simple things like Spam, grilled cheese, tuna, or egg salad sandwiches. I liked standing on a step stool and cooking on her electric stove. I set the table, she washed the dishes, and I would dry.
Anheuser Bush Plant and the eagle that lights up at night.
At bedtime, we would look out her 8th-floor apartment window, wave to the Anheuser eagle, and say, “Good night, Grandpop.” Nana would cry. She missed him so much. I slept on his side of the bed and told her it was ok. We would say the rosary in the dark; I would fall asleep after the first round of Hail Marys.
These are special memories for me and my time with my Nana. Writing about them made me cry since I miss her and our relationship. My mother was jealous of our relationship, so I never told her anything we did.
The same thing went for the games Mema played with me and that she rubbed my back when I was falling asleep. One night I asked my mother if she would rub my back like Mema. Mistake. She yelled at my dad to have a talk with his mother and stop doing that. What a bitch!
This is me with Mema, Pa, my father, and my mother.I wonder why Pa is the only one smiling?
Come to find out, Nana was merely a babysitter to my mother, just like Mema, on Saturday nights. The joke was on her since I loved spending the night at their homes. I kept them company; they treated me with respect, love and made me feel special.
Nana, Mema, and Great Grandma in their older, thinner years. Nana continued wearing her glasses until the end, even though she couldn’t see from them since 1970.
Our boys didn’t get the chance to have any special Saturday night memories like mine, but we always had Sunday breakfast together. We rarely went out for breakfast; I would make something special every Sunday.
I hope Noah and Sam remember some of that now that they are older. If luck is in my favor, I can do the same for my grandchildren someday and let them have a sleepover with us.
This morning I made Marty and me cannoli pancakes that were delicious. I started with chocolate chip pancakes. I used dark chocolate because I didn’t want them to be too sweet. Marty prefers semi-sweet chocolate, but tough shit, I told him. 😜
I made a whipped topping with whipping cream, ricotta cheese, and a touch of sugar. I topped the pancakes with warm maple syrup, ricotta whipped cream, and chopped pistachios.
I am always adding dishes to the menu in my made-up restaurant called, “Six and under.” This would make the menu, but Marty pointed out that people would prefer semi-sweet chocolate chips. You all know me well enough by now to imagine what I replied.
Thanks for going down my breakfast memories path with me. I hope you enjoyed the photos I dug out. Lol. Have a great rest of your Sunday and upcoming week.
We live in a world that is hard for many people to understand. They don’t get the whole they/them pronouns or know what non-binary even means.
While it makes perfect sense to many, it’s harder for some people to understand. Now that I know people who identify as something different, I do my best to use the pronoun of their choice. It was hard to do at; first, I have to admit. It was harder for Marty, so he stopped using pronouns altogether.
Five years ago, I had no idea about any of things either. Marty and I get it now and know many people who identify as such, especially at the farmers market. This post wasn’t meant to be about people; it was supposed to be about bell peppers.
The way I always described bell peppers to my culinary kids at school and adults in my cooking class is now incorrect.
Bell peppers were once easily identified as male and female. Peppers with 2-3 bumps or lobes on the bottom were males, and peppers with four or more were females. Boom.
There is a difference between the two varieties of peppers. Male peppers are more bitter and are better for cooking, while female bell peppers have a sweeter taste and are better for eating raw.
Male and female bell peppers affect the taste and color of the bell peppers. Male or female green peppers are still more bitter than red or yellow varieties. This being said female green peppers are still sweeter than males. Confusing right?
The confusing part for me is bell peppers are no longer identified as male and female. They are gender-neutral, a term we hear or read about every day. I needed to read a bunch of scientistic and farming articles to try to figure out what in fucks name it all meant.
The information I read implies there is no such thing as male and female peppers. Basically, it comes down to seeds, flowers, pollination, and the fruit itself. I am probably not good at science because my right-handed brain just doesn’t understand it. This is perhaps why someone used laymen’s terminology for dumb or creative people like me.
As I mentioned, peppers are a fruit since the peppers contain seeds. That I already knew, by the way, tomatoes are also a fruit. This used to surprise my students. This hasn’t changed. Furthermore, “female” peppers have more seeds than “males” and grow baby peppers.
Fact-checkers are making sure people realize this terminology mistake and have claimed there is no difference in gender. It never used to be a big deal; no one gave two shits about it before. See how this is hard for me to understand?
In closing, what does this all mean? It means people can identify as whatever they want. They should try to be patient and not be offended by people still trying to wrap their heads around it all and try understand it.
Regarding bell peppers, if you want a good cooking pepper, choose ones with 2-3 bumps. If you want a bell pepper to put in salads, on a dip platter, or to snack on, pick ones with four or more bumps. As far as the color goes, that is left up to you and how sweet you like your peppers.
At the end of the day, the gender and color of the peppers doest matter; they are all bell peppers. Period. Just like people. Period. That I wish everyone could understand.
Ok, I didn’t expect this new information about bell peppers after I spoke about them with our friends David and Arthur last week when they came over on taco night.
It was interesting doing the research for this piece. Before I knew it, the writer in me couldn’t help making the connection between bell peppers and people in today’s world.
By the way, while editing this piece, the grammar program I use had a big issue with using the word layman and scolded me because I was insensitive. I guess the politically correct term is a layperson.
I didn’t change it, just like I don’t change the curse words I use on a regular basis. That’s why this blog is about how I live my life.
While I try to be sensitive to people, I am trying the best I can; however, I can’t worry 24/7 about offending people with every word I say or write.
I am already a nut job; doing so would make me even more fucked up. In some cases, I have to do me, and you do you. Thanks for your understanding and support. Support can be beautiful. 😜
I hope you find the information useful and the next time you are at a supermarket or farm stand, you think of me. If you ever need a bell pepper recipe, hit me up. Have a great day!
Our house is usually tidy, especially since we decluttered many things and went for a simple design with clean lines.
Don’t get me wrong, when we were super busy with the business, and I was sick, there was shit everywhere. I was so ill I didn’t care, which is unlike me.
Even when I think my house is a wreck, people who stop by think our house is clean. I guess it’s different perspectives and expectations. Mine are very high since I am a total asshole perfectionist.
The last time I gave the place a top-to-bottom cleaning was at the end of January when we hosted a dinner party for our friends. A week before, I became ill.
Last week, in the production kitchen, I learned I could not be in the kitchen when it’s being disinfected with bleach spray and sanitized.
We tried using a bucket with bleach and water, but that made me cough my head off, and my airway felt raw. I needed to use my emergency inhaler to catch my breath from coughing.
Marty has taken over the production kitchen disinfection and sanitizing; however, on Friday, I returned to the kitchen with a towel over my face to get something, and I coughed until Sunday. This is a serious problem.
I love cleaning and washing whites with bleach. When Noah was small, someone said he was so clean he smelled like bleach. I was proud sick then, but now I think I was a complete whack job.
I shudder thinking he breathed in bleach every day. Up until last week, bleach meant clean to me. How else could I get his onesies, socks, and white shoelaces sparkling clean? Ugh! 😑
Even my favorite orange furniture oil contains fragrance allergens. I will have to pick up old-fashioned lemon oil and use that instead.
After we realized I couldn’t do the final cleaning in the kitchen anymore, I knew I had to change all the chemicals I used to clean our house and laundry. I had to replace everything literally!
Marty went to Hannaford Supermarket and picked up the line of Method cleaning products. I already used some, and they worked fantastically. The shower spray shocked me with how well it cleaned the white shower tiles. I sprayed it on and didn’t rinse it off as the bottle said.
I switched to free and clear laundry pods and ordered new shampoo, conditioner, and detangler for my hair. I already use an all-natural goat’s milk soap I get from my friend Joanne, a fellow vendor at the farmers market. Joanne’s soaps smell great and last 4-6 months.
I don’t have an appointment with my new pulmonologist until April 26th. I don’t know how bad my pulmonary fibrosis is. I am taking it very seriously if I am going to fight this fucker and live a long life.
Tomorrow isn’t promised to anyone, but I am living a little to no chemicals life, eating healthier, even healthier than I am already.
I also started moving more; Nelly was the perfect answer to the moving more part. I can’t wait to go for walks with the dogs when she gets a little bigger.
The title of this blog post is called, Cleaning 2.0 since I have to change the way I clean with different products
Even if you think your home is clean, it’s not a new baby, puppy, or kitten clean. Holy shit, there were more hidden dust bunnies, electrical wires, and all kinds of shit she could chew on, eat, or pull over.
Today, when Klaus and Marty, were out making deliveries in NY. I found an old baby gate and blocked Nelly in our back room. She needs constant supervision, and this was the best place for her.
While I was upstairs cleaning, I suddenly heard a bunch of noises. I went downstairs to check on her; she got tired of playing with her toys and hiding out in her bunker, also known as the loveseat. She knocked over or pulled down everything she could reach. Nosey Nelly!
I decided at that moment It was snuggle time. Nelly laid in the same spot behind my legs where Otto used to when we snuggled. It made me feel good; instead of making me cry because I missed him so much.
I am covered in dog hair after cleaning up all the dust bunnies.
Klausie boy isn’t a snuggler, so I am glad Nelly is. Today, I felt connected to Otto through Nelly; it was a beautiful, peaceful feeling.
I am happy to report I am going back to belly dance tomorrow night while Marty holds down the fort in puppy land. I’ve missed it so much and the lovely women I dance with.
I feel like a new mom with a newborn baby. Lol. Tired, a disheveled mess, and in need of a shower. The only different thing I can have a glass of wine at the end of the night, and I don’t have a baby monitor in my pocket.
Nelly is precisely what Jacob, our breeder said she was. She is playful, but when I want to rest with her, I scoop her up and hold her on my lap, and she falls asleep or sits perfectly still.
When she is in a playful mood, she’s hell on wheels. Klaus didn’t know what to think of her. He has growled occasionally but wears a collar that beeps or vibrates, stopping him in his tracks.
Klaus had fun with her today and didn’t growl even when she went into his toy basket. She tired them both out after Marty got home from the farmers market when Klaus usually wanted Marty to play with him.
He was smiling and wagging his tail. He is still trying to figure her out, but I think he likes her. They will need constant supervision for quite a while, but it’s fun to see her run like crazy, and he follows her.
I read a lot about Frenchies, training them, their daily grooming, and other important information. Frenchies love to be clean and have a hard time, especially girls, cleaning themselves in those hard-to-reach areas.
We start our grooming routine every morning after breakfast and going out. She jumps in my lap as soon as she sees me get out of her grooming basket.
I use an unscented baby wipe and start with her wrinkles. It’s essential to keep them clean, or they will get infected. Klaus refuses to let us go near his wrinkles and has had issues with allergies and infections.
People have pointed out there are special cleaners for her tears. Thank you for the advice, but those are her coloring markings.
Next, I clean her ears and body. I clean her butt, under her tail, and, finally, her itty bitty girlie parts. She loves to be brushed and have her nails clipped. We finish by brushing her teeth. It takes 5 minutes, ten if I do her nails.
I can do anything to her as I did with my Barbies and baby dolls growing up. I played with dolls and Barbies until I was 12; poor kids these days grow up too quickly.
Our boys played with matchbox cars and Play-mobile for a long time. I’m so glad they grew up before social media and Xbox.
Nelly is 80% housebroken; she had an accident because I wasn’t watching her for signs she needed to go out. She gets it, and we are trying to keep a schedule as to when she needs to go out.
She’s been getting up at 3 am to go out, which we do, then immediately return to bed. I’ve been in bed by 8:30-9:00 every night and fall right to sleep—no insomnia issues, which is a dream in itself.
Learning from previous mistakes, Marty didn’t touch or hold Nelly the first day but did up in her room upstairs when Klaus was in bed downstairs.
Klaus listens to Marty and accepts him as the alpha, so he is fine when he picked up Nelly to go outside with them. She loves to play outside with Klausie.
Nelly looks into my eyes, snuggles up to me, and breathes a breath of contentment. She doesn’t know it yet, but I am the one content.
It gets easier every day; Klaus and Nelly will become friends; we can tell that already. He’s much more tolerable than we imagined with a new puppy.
My ESA letter is ready for me to pick up. An ESA is entirely different than a service animal. Federal law allows service animals everywhere; ESAs had many of those rights removed in 2021 due to fraudulent ID cards & phony certifications.
Many people were scammed with sites promising access anywhere or purchased an ESA vest online and put it on their pets, demanding to take them everywhere. People abused it and ruined it for people that needed it.
I plan to carry Nelly’s letter and her small metal to wear on her harness, but if she is denied access to places, I can’t bring her in. The last thing I need is situations to cause me anxiety defeating the point of an ESA in the first place.
Many stores and restaurants are pet friendly, and we shop at them anyway. Most restaurants with outdoor seating allow pets; we will frequent those places when we are out on delivery days.
Nelly is already an ESA for me. Her love fills that empty hole in my heart and makes me laugh. She gives me something to take my mind off my worries, fears, doubts, anxiety, and depression.
Nelly is the perfect dog for me; Jon Katz was right when he talked about his dog Zinnia. They find their way to you if you take the time to find them.
Right after my little Nelly arrived. Look at those blue eyes.
You can never say never; in my case, that saying is 100% true. I got a puppy last night, and her name is Nelly.
It’s been a rough six months for me. In October, I got hit by a dipshit vendor’s tent at the farmers market that wasn’t secured, was airlifted, and hit me in my left side, back, leg, and hip. I was pissed. She or the owner of the business never apologized.
I saw it coming from across the street and ran as fast as possible, but I couldn’t outrun it. I was injured for three months. I didn’t write about it; I try to stay positive on my blog as much as possible.
In November, my sweet boy Otto got sick and died at the beginning of December, leaving me completely heartbroken. That month Sam moved to Essex Jct, VT, to work in the ER department at UVM.
We are very close, and while I was proud and happy for him, I was sad. I knew how much I would miss him and his silly antics.
January ended with good news, Noah and his girlfriend, Aja, moved to Salem, NY, and moved in together.
I was so happy for them that they found each other after both of them patiently waiting to meet that special someone.
February started and ended with me having a severe case of pneumonia. I didn’t share how sick I was, but it was scary for us.
March brought the news of a cat scan results revealing I had pulmonary fibrosis. I read a little about it but was still sick, so I didn’t dig too deep.
Last Friday night, after Marty went to bed, I played the game Dr. Google and discovered that the prognosis for pulmonary fibrosis is 3-5 years to live.
Don’t play Dr. Google; trust me, what you find is never a happy ending, so don’t do it.
I lost my shit. I mean all of it. I went over the deep end. I had a nervous breakdown; I was exhausted from crying and went to bed.
The second I got into bed, I started to cry, lying next to Marty. I was thinking about all the things we still wanted to do. All the things we wanted to see and places to go.
I wouldn’t get to play with grandchildren and would die with a broken heart. My heart was an empty void after Otto died. I realized I hadn’t been happy since the summertime. Marty woke up, and we talked for a long time while I ugly cried.
In the morning, after he went to the farmers market, I called my dance sister, Kathleen, because she knew a lot of medical stuff and knew she would say something smart to calm me down.
Smart she was. She asked me when I was playing Dr. Google in the studies I read, if they were done on men, how old, did they get it from inhaling asbestos or industrial dust.
Did they smoke, or were they fat and out of shape? She continued and asked if I had read a study that included patients who got pulmonary fibrosis from a medication. Um, no.
We talked for a long time, and I realized that that wasn’t my prognosis by that evening. I was referred to a pulmonologist and wouldn’t know anything until I saw her.
I put the cart before the horse big time. I was so scared I wasn’t living my life to the fullest, not doing the things I kept putting off.
I was a horrible emotional mess over everything that had happened since the summertime; this was not just about another chronic disease, even though I struggled with others.
My attachment disorder was out of control again, and I realized how sad I’d been. Even though I have Marty, my sons, and friends, I was in a lonely, dark place again.
I’ve wanted a female French bulldog for a couple of years but knew it wasn’t a good time since we already had hands full with two dogs.
Marty asked me on Saturday when he got home from the farmers market if it was time to get that little Frenchie girl. My response was typical for me. For those who know me, you will be able to imagine this.
I asked, “really?” He said, “yes.”’I started skipping and jumping around the house the best I could with my shortness of breath and singing about getting my little Frenchie puppy. I was so excited I couldn’t believe he had suggested it.
Marty started looking for a breeder while I spoke with my friend Jon Katz and his wife Maria and asked for advice since he knew a few things about dogs. 😂
Jon is an expert on dogs and has written many books on the subject. I listened to his advice and shared it with Marty.
After finding out quickly how many fucking scumbag scammers are out there, our street sense kicked in, and we followed what Jon told us.
It took a lot of searching, but Marty found an AKC-recommended breeder of Frenchies. They were located in Ohio and had an excellent reputation as one of the best.
It happened quickly, we found a puppy, and Marty put down a deposit. Bright and early the following day, the breeder called us, and we chatted for a long time.
We asked questions about them, and he answered everything. I told him what I needed in a dog, and he assured me, speaking to me all about her personality and how she would fulfill my wishes.
Jacob, the breeder, is a very trusting man. You don’t have to pay the balance of the puppy until they are delivered, and you meet them. The second I held her, I knew she was the right puppy for me!
Nelly is playful, intelligent, and laid back. She likes cuddling and being a couch potato, the breeder said. I wanted a low-key snuggle bug, a puppy who loved me as much as I loved her.
Nelly is a literal lifesaver for me. While with her, I feel all my stress, anxiety, worries, and sadness go away.
Cuddle bug.
My primary provider is writing a letter recommending or “prescribing” her as my emotional support animal so she can always be with me.
I’ll have proper documentation and a tag on her as an ESA, an emotional support animal. Under federal law, she can’t be denied entry anywhere I go.
I think I got some good news yesterday, the pulmonologist’s office called to make an appointment for me on April 26.
That’s over a month away, so I can’t be in that bad a shape; I guess Kathleen was right.
Today, I can go up and down the stairs without shortness of breath, even carrying Nelly. Thank goodness my coughing is only occasional now. I heard Marty tell Sam he hasn’t seen me smile this much or happy for a long time. It’s true.💗
As I write this, Nelly has been on my lap the entire time. I started to cry when I wrote about my crack-up on Friday night, and she looked up at me with those blue eyes and melted my heart.
I’m crying again; they are tears of joy and happiness. I feel like George Bailey again; I want to live again.
This year, I made cottage pie instead of the usual roasted corned beef, cabbage & potatoes. I made corned beef several times during the year and wanted to try something else. The something else was delicious!
Cottage pie is the same as Shepherd’s Pie, except it uses ground beef instead of ground lamb. I made the cottage pie without a recipe but found one similar to how I made mine.
The difference is I used a cup of diced fresh carrots and added 1/2 can of creamed corn. I also made a pan gravy to serve with the cottage pie. I love gravy!!!
In addition to the recipe, I added an egg yoke, cheddar cheese, and chives to my mashed potatoes. I whipped mine with a beater until silky smooth, then applied a simple fork pattern on the top of the pie. I love how the design came out after it was baked.
Here is the Cottage Pie recipe link if you want to try making it. It was so perfect on a foggy & rainy night.
I mentioned in earlier blog posts I haven’t had any coffee or cocktails for the last five weeks. Since I am no longer on antibiotics, I made a decaf coffee with Baileys Irish Cream. It tastes so damn good!
One thing that can’t be taken away is that I am Irish and love a good drink. The other thing is I will always tell stories the Irish way, which drives Marty insane.
We give a dozen side stories to get to the point. The side stories are completely necessary; ask my buddy, Martin Sullivan.
When life throws us a curveball, we have choices to make. Which is what my week has been consumed with.
I haven’t felt like writing. I just got a text from one of my friends, Nicky, who wrote, “Julz, no new posts, FUCK. How are you doing?” Lol! I love my friends!
Things went to shit for me mentally starting last Sunday. I felt so overwhelmed I almost had a genuine, real-life George Bailey temper tantrum.
What’s a George Bailey temper tantrum? It’s from the movie It’s a Wonderful Life. Click on the YouTube link above if you would like to see what in the hell I am talking about.
Jimmy Stewart was battling PTSD from World War ll while he was filming It’s a Wonderful Life. It came out while filming these scenes. I am still battling PTSD after decades of abuse from my adopted mother and sometimes feel like losing it as he did.
After my third X-ray, I found out I needed a CAT scan. Then, there was an issue with an antibiotic the doctor prescribed. I would not be approved by insurance. However, I didn’t need it since my pneumonia had cleared up.
Then we had a snowstorm forecast to end all other snowstorm forecasts. Yes, that came from Rudolph. I am sick of winter and staying in for five weeks, and we had tickets with my friend Ann to see Hamilton Tuesday night. We purchased the tickets last March with our theater subscription for the year.
I wanted to go! It was the only thing I’d looked forward to in the last six weeks! This bummed me out; on top of it, I didn’t feel well enough to go to dance class on Wednesday night. What a shitty week for my mentality and creative outlets.
Of course, the weather people were correct this time, and we got 30 inches of heavy wet snow. We lost power for a whole day. It sucked. I was already done being home and winter; without power, I went stir-crazy. I tried going outdoors, but the cold air made me cough too much, and I had problems breathing.
Poor Marty and Ann came up despite the forecast, hoping the weather forecast would be wrong like us. They were out there six times doing snow removal with shovels and our snowblower in less than 18 hours.
Meanwhile, I was on edge, waiting for doctors and central scheduling to call me to schedule the cat scan and to answer some of my questions.
I fucking hate having to rely on logging into patient portals for messages and checking them 100 times a day. Grrhhhh! I also communicated with my gastroenterologist’s office at Dartmouth Hitchcock—more signing in with user names and passwords.
Everything seemed to calm down after receiving my cat scan results. I was 90% sure I knew what I had and was correct; I have pulmonary fibrosis, most likely from the Humira I inject bi-monthly for my ulcerative colitis.
According to The American Lung Association, Pulmonary fibrosis is In technical terms, fibrosis means thickening or scarring of the tissue. In this case, the normally thin, lacy walls of the air sacs in the lungs are no longer thin and lacy, but get thick, stiff and scarred, also called becoming fibrotic. With this scarring, the architecture of the lung makes it stiffer and is less efficient at delivering oxygen into the blood stream. In addition, the stiffness or fibrosis of the tissue makes it more difficult to expand the lungs. It takes more effort to breathe, and this additional demand of energy or work leads to shortness of breath.
Each time I’ve had a cold or bronchitis which eventually led to pneumonia the pulmonary fibrosis made it worse. It makes sense because any time I did get sick in the last four years, I had an awful cough that lasted for three months easily.
Funny enough, the only time I didn’t cough for months was when I had covid. However, they also foundground glass opacities, which they now see in the lungs of people who had covid. Oh great!
According to Wikipedia, Ground-glass opacity (GGO) is a finding seen on chest x-ray (radiograph) or computed tomography (CT)imaging of the lungs. It is typically defined as an area of hazy opacification (x-ray) or increased attenuation (CT) due to air displacement by fluid, airway collapse, fibrosis, or a neoplastic process.[1] When a substance other than air fills an area of the lung it increases that area’s density. On both x-ray and CT, this appears more grey or hazy as opposed to the normally dark-appearing lungs. Although it can sometimes be seen in normal lungs, common pathologic causes include infections, interstitial lung disease, and pulmonary edema.
Pulmonary Fibrosis is something I am going to have to live with. I was referred to a pulmonologist to help manage the disease. Dr. Levy, my gastrointestinal at Dartmouth, will have to find a new medication to keep me on track with my colitis and stay in remission.
How am I feeling now that the pneumonia is finally gone? At times bad. I feel good when sitting quietly or sleeping; I am not coughing much and have no trouble breathing.
When I try to walk up a flight of stairs, I have to stop two or three times because I have difficulty breathing. It stops me dead in my tracks. I have to wait several seconds before I can continue. The same stairs I used to fly up.
I have massive coughing attacks when I get to the top of the stairs. This happens when I walk too fast, walk up our driveway or work too quickly in the production kitchen.
This will most likely go on for a long time until my lungs heal, but the fibrosis or scarring will never go away; it will get worse over time, making my breathing more difficult. This will be a lifestyle change for me.
So I have to admit I was scared before the cat scan. Then when I learned more about the disease and spoke to my doctors, I somehow didn’t feel afraid anymore.
The choice I had to make, as in the title of this blog post, was how to accept this new illness. I started to go down the path of fear, giving myself a prison sentence and grieving my old way of living. I was mad and depressed.
Then, I decided, no, I am not doing that! I am a bad-ass Jersey bitch and will be strong like I’ve always been. I have had to figure out ways to compensate while doing everyday chores and activities with the arthritis pain I have every day.
I also to be strong at the age of 15 when I was diagnosed with Ulcerative Colitis. I had a severe bowel disease that was so embarrassing as a teen, and all the testing I had to go through was terrible. It was the beginning of playing the game, “Where’s the toilet!” I still play that game today.
I am taking this one day at a time and looking at it as another bump in the road. The next step will be to go through lung testing and pulmonary rehab. The pulmonologist will teach me how to manage my new disease.
When I get this managed, I plan to live my best life, continuing to do the things I love, especially teaching & belly dancing. I will still go places and to shows with Marty.
I will work, go to our farmers market, swim, and walk. I will continue to cook and finally be able to work on my Youtube channel. Things may have to be done slower than in the past, but that’s ok.
I’m mentally in a good place with the support of my family, friends, and you guys. I am a strong as fuck woman because I have had to be, to survive the horrible things I’ve endured; this is no different.
The good news was that Hamilton was postponed and not canceled due to the snowstorm. We will see it this Sunday night at 7:30. I hope Ann can return and go to the show with us. I have something to look forward to again.
Just like George Bailey learned from Clarence, his guardian angel, I have learned this week that no matter what is happening or changes, It’s a wonderful life!
Photo credit Stephen Swinburne a children’s book writer and one of the first friends along with his wife Heather, we made when we moved to VT in 1989.
The photo that our friend Steve took of a road in the midst of mud season this year sums up my mood today. I feel worn down like I’ve gone through hell and need improving.
Yesterday, I thought things were finally going in the right direction concerning my pneumonia; I got a call this morning that things are more complicated than they thought. Shit!
One of my providers called this morning and told me the radiologist is concerned that my yesterday’s X-ray shows scarring in both my lungs but worse in the left one. No wonder why I am still coughing until I almost puke.
I am to have a cat scan before Wednesday afternoon to understand better what’s happening. There are no tumors, thank God.
I guess that’s something to be very grateful for.
The question is…is the scarring from pneumonia or from Humira? In some patients, Humira does cause issues with the lungs when taken for a period of time. Fuck!
The Humira pulled me out of a scary colitis flare-up in 2018 and has kept me in remission. Obviously, pneumonia is a thing that needs to be treated since it could become a matter of life or death.
The provider also prescribed the very last antibiotic available to treat this. Insurance needs proof from the providers that all other courses of action were taken without success.
I asked the pharmacist if I could pay out of pocket. The prescription for Xenleta costs $2,000! WTF for ten tablets?
So I am waiting to hear back from the pharmacist if insurance will cover it after they receive the documentation from the providers.
I am also waiting for central scheduling to call to make the cat scan appointment for early next week.
Of course, I updated my gastroenterologist in Dartmouth Hitchcock to keep him in the loop, especially because it concerns the Humira and my inflammatory bowel disease.
