The Study

 

I’ve just joined a research study for dementia involving statins. It all began with an ad on Facebook which piqued my interest because I’m old and have known several friends and relatives with the disease. Even my husband had a mild case of dementia before his death in 2012.

The study is funded by NIH and came to me via UF Health in Jacksonville. Since I am a good distance away, I will participate virtually, no need for blood tests, since they are not concerned with lipids, and no need for physical appointments.

I began with a long phone call (40 minutes) at 10 A.M. and an email providing a lengthy consent form. Renae (from Jax) recorded my personal information such as health history, social security and medicare numbers, and puzzling to me two trusted people’s addresses and phone numbers. I provided those of my daughter and granddaughter. I thought about this and decided they were contacts in case I kicked the bucket before my 2nd test. And Renae remained on the phone while I read and signed the consent form. In it I found I could read about the study at preventabletrial.org. She promised to send me a printed copy of the form and told me I would soon receive the statin (or placebo) through the mail plus a check for $75, a surprise to me.

Then, she made a phone appointment for me at 3 P.M. on the same day for my baseline test which occurred right on time. The caller first made sure I was in a quiet space where I would not be disturbed, that I

 had no computer open or paper and pencil handy. For twenty minutes he asked me memory questions such as today’s date, my age, who is the president, vice-president, count backward from 20, subtract 7 starting with 100, word opposites, etc. etc… And then the difficult one for me, remembering a list of words. Of course, there was no pass/fail, but I already know I am no good at that. I found it all very interesting.

At the end, he, too, informed me that my statin (or placebo) would be mailed and to start taking it right away. And in one year I would receive another phone call to take the same test, which apparently is how they will be able to tell if statins have an impact on dementia. The study is for 75-80 year olds with no history of heart disease or dementia. Of course, I can opt out of the study at any time for any reason.

I’ve never been in a research study before so this is all new to me, and I’m sharing this little bit of information, not to endorse it, but because I thought how a virtual study is done might be interesting to others. I feel good about being a part of something that could help others in the future especially those with dementia and their caregivers. And I should say that I asked my primary care doctor’s opinion before I joined the study. She was wholly in favor of it.

Roots

No matter how long I live in Florida, I continue to feel like a Delawarean. Since I hate cold weather and cannot imagine moving back to Delaware, this remains a mystery to me. One of the first things I do every morning is click on the Rehoboth Beach Cam on my laptop to see what’s happening at my favorite childhood summer getaway. This week snow has covered the sandy beach and boardwalk, but I see sun-worshippers on blankets under colorful umbrellas. There are kids and dogs kicking up sand and transistor radios blasting out rock ‘n roll music. I can feel the incoming wave lifting me off my feet as I ride the surface and swallow a trickle of salt water. The sun is hot and the water is cool, and I pay rapt attention to the next wave coming in. The sunbathers are forgotten. It is just me and the ocean.

I was reminded of my roots last Saturday when I attended an unexpected memorial service for a friend. It was held in a beautiful chapel surrounded by tall trees, mostly naked in our Florida winter but still lovely. The pews were full and the service began with one of my favorite hymns, also a favorite of the honoree. Although most everyone was in somber colors, the atmosphere was soon lightened by happy and sometimes hilarious memories of the son, daughter, granddaughter, and wife. Ken would have been proud!

Afterward, we walked a ways to another building to share food and memories, and I ended up sitting at a table with another friend who was originally from the Carolinas. We got to talking about West Virginia, the birthplace of my husband, and then I thought of the last song I had heard my friend sing, my friend who had passed away, Take Me Home, Country Roads by John Denver. He accompanied himself beautifully on the ukulele, so talented in music, art and everything he put his hand to.

Of course, Art and I had to start singing (quietly) and after the words poured out, Art mentioned how he had noticed that one could tell where someone was from by the way they pronounced “mountain”. He said mountain people always spoke with a very soft ‘t” or no audible “t” at all. I had to say the word several times in my head and realized it sounded “normal” to me both ways. So, did I pick that up from JIm, my husband? I honestly don’t know. Mountain is a spoken word that I never thought peculiar to any particular place until now.

And that made me wonder if, unconsciously, I have become a Floridian. Has my Delaware accent disappeared? And what else has changed. One thing I know has not changed, I still hate okra and grits! But just maybe, I can now call myself a Floridian.

Thanksgiving 2024 with My Granddaughter

 

My grandson-in-law Clark and his mom Myra

A little addendum as promised on the day after…..

Thanksgiving, November 23, 2023

Since I don’t drive after dark anymore, my kind grandson-in-law picked me up around 11 on Thanksgiving morning with the little boys asleep in their carseats, but as soon as we started driving and Jingle Bells jangled through the car speakers, Russell began to sing along…in tune and everything. What a delight! 

My granddaughter Connie

We sped up I75 to High Springs to pick up their mama and then wiggled 

and waggled our way over to Keystone Heights, my Thanksgiving dinner destination.

Around thirty minutes later, we arrived at Rusty’s and Myra’s house on Crater Lake Circle. I asked if this was the name of the beautiful lake seen from their back porch, and Myra said it’s real name was Margie Lake. I’d love to know the story behind that. Lily pads hugged the western shoreline and Rusty told me he’d caught bass and bream as well as seeing a few small gators pop up now and then. The lake was considerably lower for the past few years than it had been with the community thinking it was due to a new phosphate mining company nearby who was draining the aquifer. A current replenishing attempt is in the works with water to be pumped from Black Creek to an aquifer recharge area. (Water agency inks contract to start building pipeline from Black Creek to Keystone Heights). Rusty was very up-to-date on all the information affecting his property.

The aroma as I entered their home was heaven scent (yes, that is spelled correctly). Myra, turns out, is an awesome cook. She had prepared every Thanksgiving side imaginable including corn pudding and slippery dumplings. I gorged! And gained a pound according to the response on this morning’s weigh-in! Oh well, it was worth every ounce. If only I hadn’t brought home that serving of Paula Dean’s Pumpkin Gooey Butter Cake. I ate the whole thing before bed last night, and I know that is what did the damage but it was oh so good and my granddaughter made it.

I had a wonderful Thanksgiving with loving kind-hearted people. As the afternoon chilled and dinner settled, we gathered outside around a crackling fire pit and watched the children test their athletic acumen on the trampoline and then hone their driving skills in a battery powered kid’s car. Oh, to have their energy again!

With darkness creeping in, the children were herded inside for bath time, so that Mommy (my granddaughter) would only need to put them to bed once they got back home. We drove through the dark with sleeping little ones back to my home in Gainesville…and suddenly….Thanksgiving 2023 was over, but I am trying to make it immortal by writing this down to read again and again and relive the day in the future.

Thanksgiving through the years

 

Thanksgiving has always been an important holiday to me and my family, celebrating every year with traditional foods and loved ones. There are many that I remember and many that I do not with a particular food taking the spotlight sometimes and etiquette blunders coming to mind at others. Most of my memories are of those Thanksgivings after Jim and I were married. One thing to count on with remembered holidays is that without fail emotions are involved.

My Aunt Sadie and my grandmom had a tradition of serving duck for Thanksgiving. I’m not sure where that came from, but duck was never high on my favorite food list. I can remember looking at the dark brown, glistening fowl with disdain and sorrow barely managing to take one bite. Those were the years I faked an upset stomach and satisfied my hunger with pumpkin and sweet potato pie. I felt guilty when Grandmom offered to make me some duck broth soup, her version of Thanksgiving chicken noodle, to which I had to reply, “No, thank you.”

And then there was the year Jim and my stepfather, Ken, went in together to buy rabbit dogs for hunting. We kept the cute little beagle type dogs at our home, and who could not fall in love with them, so active and loving and begging all the time. But no one was allowed to play with them, sadder and sadder, because that would supposedly ruin their hunting abilities. Autumn was always hunting season in Delaware. And those dogs were so productive, sniffing out rabbits and squirrels like nobody’s business. Have you ever seen a rabbit or squirrel skinned…not pretty. Of course, you can guess what we had for Thanksgiving dinner that year…at my mom’s house, not mine…fried squirrel and rabbit. Another year of the tummy ache. But I have to say that the dressing (not stuffing when you don’t have a bird) was pretty darn delicious. My mom was a great cook!

In the mid 80s after we had moved to Florida, Jim’s sister, Jean, and brother-in-law, Peter, flew down from Minnesota to visit us for Thanksgiving so we invited all the near-by relatives to our home for the yearly feast. That included Jim’s aunt and uncle, Jean and Russell, his brothers, Howard and Jack, and their families, about 20 of us altogether. Good thing we had a porch for the kids! I baked the normal turkey with stuffing in my mom’s old turkey roaster and all the usual sides of green beans, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce and homemade yeast rolls. I was not a connoisseur of gravy so Jean, the sister, took over that job and she turned out to be an expert at it. The episode that prompts this particular Thanksgiving memory is a little embarrassing and not one that I’m all that comfortable sharing. Peter is still alive but Jean passed away a few years ago. We had all just sat down to eat, and Peter dug in right away. The rest of us bowed our heads as the other Jean, Jim’s aunt, said a beautiful grace over our bountiful spread amid the sudden cessation of the noise of eating utensils. No one said anything and no one ever mentioned it later, but it remains as a fixture in my brain that I would like to forget. Peter and Jean had a wonderful time visiting us, I hope. We went to Disney and Peter attended a golf tournament in Tampa while the rest of us went to Busch Gardens. Jean was a feisty little sister and I remember her getting into a squabble with someone about cutting in line. Isn’t it funny the things our minds choose to remember?

After Jim passed away in 2012, his sister-in-law, Juanita (Jack, her husband passed away in 1987), always invites me to the family Thanksgiving dinner at her home in Bronson. She makes the turkey, stuffing, and ham and all the kids (six of them) bring the sides…except for the green beans. Nobody makes green beans like Juanita. Her secret is bacon and home-grown beans. Back when I ate meat, I filled up on green beans! Now that I don’t eat meat I hesitate about going, but we did have some wonderful meals at Juanita’s. She is a great cook and her children have learned well from her. I could always expect new desserts like hummingbird cake and no mundane pumpkin pie, always something special and different. And she had the largest and most beautiful Thanksgiving cactus ever…or maybe it was Christmas cactus. I never could tell the difference. She could grow anything she put her mind to.

Family is such a treasure at Thanksgiving. This year my daughter is in Scotland so she will miss the big feast here. She insists she will enjoy haggis and black pudding while I will travel with my granddaughter and family to her in-laws in Keystone Heights. It will be my first time at Rusty and Myra’s home and I am looking forward to it. An addendum to this Thanksgiving remembrance may be added later. Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

Do Strawberries Call You?

 

A Florida Strawberry Field

I would say strawberries and tomatoes are two of my very favorite foods, and in Florida we are very fortunate to be able to enjoy them year round, at least from the supermarket. Strawberries at Publix are now “fresh” from down south, and I have been exercising my right to take advantage of this, buying a container every week. I have them on cereal (overnight oats), cut up as desert with a healthy spray of whipped cream, and straight from the container as a snack. Nothing beats a ripe strawberry.

I spent the first five years of my life on a farm where fields of tomatoes grew, but if you are a farmer, you know tomatoes and strawberries cannot be planted together, some disease or other. That did not stop my grandma from having a strawberry patch at the back of the cow barn, and my mom and I visited it frequently when the berries were ripe, usually June in Maryland. I do not remember much about the care of berries back then. I was more in the eater category. I do remember seeing a black snake once as I moved back some leaves, and I high-tailed it out of there. But the memory of the juicy sweet berries overcame the fear of snakes and I was soon back at it. Grandma made biscuits everyday and all that was needed for shortcake was to add a little sugar to the mix, nothing better than sun-warmed berries over hot out-of-the cookstove biscuits with a little fresh cow’s milk poured over.

Two of my uncles, Johnny and Clarence, continued the strawberry-growing tradition after they moved away. Uncle Johnny always had a huge vegetable garden with marigolds planted around the perimeter. He said that kept away the bad bugs.

And then in another spot, he planted strawberries each year, mulching them with straw to keep them warm through the cold weather. Uncle Clarence did the same, but strawberries were his only crop. I guess you can take the farmer out of the farm, but you can’t take the farm out of the farmer. Both uncles seemed happiest when their hands were in the dirt. Of course, they were my two favorite uncles.

I have never attempted to grow strawberries and probably never will, but I must agree with plant experts that the taste of store-bought and home-grown are miles apart. In Delaware where I lived for over thirty years, I always went strawberry picking in June if at all possible. Our home was close to u-picks, one time just across the road, so availability was never a problem. Barrett’s Farm and Fifer’s Groves and Vegetables were too easy to ignore the opportunity. We had apples and peaches straight from the trees and strawberries when the signs went up. I know we feel like in Florida we are so lucky to have fresh everything, but central and southern Delaware is farm country, and looking back, I was lucky there, too. Even though I do not have a green thumb, I never lacked fresh fruit and veggies.

When we moved to Florida in 1978, we searched for u-picks and found Brown’s and Roger’s Farms. Roger’s was our favorite and nearest strawberry place,and they are still growing them today. On Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/rogersfarmfla/), they advertise strawberries to pick with, hopefully, more to come. One thing we noticed when we moved here that was different from Delaware was the use of black plastic on the mounded strawberry rows, apparently a weed-deterrent and a ground warmer. I have to say I prefer straw and I will always swear that Delaware berries and tomatoes taste better…but when you’re in Paree…. Whether they are from Delaware or Florida, there is nothing like the smell of strawberries on your hands when you are capping and cutting them up.

When we moved here, we also looked for u-pick citrus groves and found one somewhere over near Hawthorne, but hard freezes quickly destroyed the trees within a couple of years after our move and we never found another. I cannot really remember exactly where it was located, but it was a novelty to us at the time, not being able to grow oranges in Delaware. I do remember it being around Christmas-time when we did our citrus picking. Tangerines were and are my favorites with navels coming in second.

I always tell myself that I am going to make some strawberry jam with the berries I buy, but I am afraid they never last that long. I have a super easy microwave refrigerator jam recipe that I have made a few times, and it is delicious, but now I am trying to watch the amount of sugar and salt I eat so jam is on the back burner.

I read that strawberries are native to North America so that may be why we love them so much. Formerly abundant in the wild, I have never encountered any in my lifetime. I am planning to keep an eye on Roger’s Farm Facebook page and if the weather permits, I will journey over there soon, probably not to pick but to buy already picked. Then maybe I can make some of the refrigerator jam. The strawberries are calling me. Here is the link to the YouTube strawberry jam video I use whenever I can stop myself from eating all the berries…super easy!

A Hot Saturday in a Cold Theater

 My daughter lives in Jacksonville and drives down to visit once or twice a month. It used to take almost two hours, but after the Starke bypass, she has whittled it down to almost an hour and one-half. Can you imagine a Starke bypass? I guess that’s only a big thing to someone who must drive through slow-moving traffic, red lights and fast food joint-infested Starke. I remember Starke primarily for its Strawberry Festival and the place where Jim and I stopped for a Wendy’s frosty on the way home from somewhere else. And I met some friends one time at a little restaurant as the half-way point between here and there. The friend’s daughter was temporarily living in Jacksonville for school. Those are my main memories of Starke. Erica is happy to avoid it by taking the bypass and forever sings its praise to me.

Saturday before last was one of Erica’s visiting days. Usually, when she comes, we end up going shopping and then, for a meal somewhere. But this Saturday she had a different idea…the movies. Now, I’m not a movie person. In fact, prior to this particular Saturday, my last visit to the silver screen was to see Clint Eastwood in Trouble With the Curve and that was a long time ago, 2013, I think. I went to the Regal Royal Park which is the closest theater to me. The movie had maybe thirty patrons, and I sat alone in the center of the last row before the steps, which put a slight crook in my neck from looking up at the screen. And before that, I had gone with Erica and granddaughter Mandy to see The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants and that played a very good while ago. They always sit on the last row at the top of the steps. Yes, I was younger then.

But I am usually game for anything and when Erica suggested a movie, I thought, yes, something different and quickly agreed. Then, she blurted out the movie she wanted to see.

“Oh, great! Let’s go see Barbie!”

“Uh, are you sure?”

She looked so excited about it, how could I say no? And that’s how we ended up on a hot 98 degree Saturday afternoon, walking into the Royal Park Plaza theater. As I was looking around, I heard someone call my name and looked to see Elaine and her hubby on their way out. I met Elaine when she was Membership Coordinator for Writers Alliance of Gainesville several years before, and we had become friends. She asked what we were coming to see.

“Barbie,” I replied.

Her smiling expression morphed into an “are you nuts” look, but she quickly recovered and told me they had just seen The Patriot and had thought it was very good. Then she nodded toward her sweater and admitted it was frigid inside the theater, and we might want to carry a wrap so Erica hustled back to her car and got a warm throw for us if the need arose. I waved to Elaine as she rode by on her way out of the parking lot and gave her a thumbs up.

Back inside Erica sprung for our tickets and a big bucket of popcorn and off we went to the theater with the sign, “Barbie”. We were the first arrivals. Asking me about the steps, I gave another thumbs up and counted fourteen to the very top, as I had expected. It was a much better view, but I would need to be careful and hold onto the rail…both ways. Mission accomplished with less trouble than anticipated. Those steps are about half the height of normal ones. Seated and munching and looking around, we observed perhaps twenty to twenty-five more people come in to see Barbie, mostly young couples or families with youngish children. Barbie is rated PG13. There was one family that had very young children, and I noticed that they left after some explicit language in the movie referring to sexual parts. Duh, it is a PG13.

After what seemed like hours of previews and ads for the concession stand, the movie finally began. And let me say right here, that was the longest one hour and fifty-eight minutes I ever struggled through. No, I did not care for Barbie! If you enjoy staring into your cereal bowl in the morning, please, go see it. You won’t be disappointed. I have no idea where all the hoopla for it is coming from. I saw no plot, all kinds of mixed messages, lots of neon pink absurdity, and nothing that actually made me laugh. Sorry, Erica. P.S. She did not care for it either. But the popcorn was delicious! If you went to see it, and enjoyed it, just disregard all this drivel. 

Pet Scan

 7/29/23 - Pet Scan

As a foreword, I had a shoulder x-ray because of pain and that x-ray incidentally showed a nodule on my lung. Then, my rheumatologist ordered a CT scan which showed a clearer picture of the nodule indicating further investigation with a pet scan. With time on my hands, I wrote the following as I was waiting for the pet scan tracer material to go through my body.

Got to Invision at 1:30 - checked in by 1:47 and paid my $403 copay. In the Pet Scan Mobile unit (just like the BloodMobile) I had radioactive material inserted by 2 P.M. Time to wait is one hour.

I am to be a “couch potato”, no phone use allowed, but I continue to write all this down. The technician tested my blood sugar, 107. The weather was nice when I came in. Hot. In the office there was one lady ahead of me to get checked in for some other test and then two more families came in and were told to sit and wait.

And as I was waiting an hour for the “hot stuff” to run through my body, another lady came into the mobile unit with the tech for another scan of some kind…she had no tracer, apparently. Her hair was gray/white and in a sort of ponytail, looking about my age. He told her twenty minutes for her scan. They went left whereas I had come right.

The tech is all business, no joking except when I said I was stressed out a little and tended to overthink everything, he agreed and said he did the very same thing and wondered how to stop doing that. I told him I was doing Zentangles but he had no reply to that. He seemed in a big hurry.

There was a funny lift to get into the mobile unit, like an open-air elevator but bumpy. He did joke about that, and I said I did not expect to be going on a carnival ride today.

I am sitting in a recliner, legs up with a blanket over me and a pillow across my lap to rest my arms. My wrist aches a little (from this intense writing I think) and my tummy is growling…two boiled eggs and black coffee just before 8 A.M. There is a funny smell in here. Yesterday, I ate a high protein/low carb diet, and this morning I weighed 109.8, down from 110.4 pounds yesterday.

2:20 P.M. - In front of me there are many signs on the cabinets and a metal box-type thing. All the signs say, caution - radioactive materials, except for one that says disposal of hot waste only. Whoa!

2:26 P.M. - Written on a sink cabinet to my left in cursive with quotes is “Ozark River”. I got the IV in my right arm, inside crook of my elbow, the same place I always get blood work. Two umbrellas are laying on top of the sink cabinet…big ones. A white board sign to the right says Today’s team and May 1th and that’s all, nothing else written on it. Nice and cool in here.

2:32 P.M. - The door to this little “room” I am in  says it should remain closed during all procedures. It’s open. There are radiation symbols everywhere.

2:35 P.M. - The other lady just got finished. The tech asked her, “Do you feel lightheaded?” and then she and he went out the sliding metal door to the “elevator”. Now he is back and left the door open…..

Could not write anymore as things were happening so this is from memory….

The tech insisted I go back into the main office and use the bathroom before the scan. Down the elevator and in a few minutes back up the elevator and into the mobile unit, turning left this time instead of right.

I was taken to the next area and instructed to lie, centered, on the narrow table-type bed under the scanner. Had to remove my glasses and place my purse on a small table at the end. He covered me with a blanket, placed a wedge under my knees and put a pillow above my head on which I was told to place my arms. Lie still…around 20 minutes…started scan. Then, he stopped the scan and said we needed to wait a few more minutes because the turkey was not ready…what? It was 2:49 P.M.

After 5 or so more minutes he restarted the scanner and all went smoothly, finished in what seemed shorter than 20 minutes but he assured me it had been 20 minutes. No problems and we both were soon out the sliding door and on the lift back to civilization.

During the 20 minutes of the scan, it had poured rain and he walked me through the puddles to my truck, not leaving me until I was safely inside. I felt fine, no different than when I arrived. We wished each other a good day, said I could go and eat now and bade me take care. It was 3:27 P.M. Drove home in a misty rain through not-so-bad traffic.