Blueberry: Proof the Universe Occasionally Gets It Right

There are friends… and then there are friends. The one kind who drift in and out of your life like seasonal decorations—nice to see when they appear, but not exactly structural. And then there’s the rare, magical, possibly slightly unhinged category: the lifelong best friend. The one who has stuck around long enough to know where the bodies are buried… and helped dig a few of the holes.

I’m talking about that friend. The loyalest and bestest friend ever. For me that’s Blueberry.

1981

We met so long ago and both of us remember exactly when and where. As I look back now, I think the Universe assigned us to each other and brought her uncle and my mom together so she and I could be lifelong besties. Of course, we didn’t know it then (1980 I believe) that in our 50’s we’d still be besties.

Over the years we have seen each other through everything: crushes, questionable haircuts, jobs, terrible fashion choices, life decisions that seemed brilliant at the time, and the slow dawning realization that maybe—just maybe—we should not have cut our own bangs.

A lifelong best friend is the person who remembers you before you became a somewhat respectable adult. They remember when you were a twenty something goblin fueled by diet soda and poor judgment. They know all of the embarrassing stories. In fact, they were probably there when the embarrassing stories happened.

1999

They are also the only person who can say, “Remember when we…” and instantly send ourselves into a full-body cringe while laughing so hard you can’t breathe.

Loyalty like this isn’t loud or flashy. It’s not grand speeches or dramatic movie moments. It’s the quiet, stubborn kind of loyalty that shows up again and again over the years. It’s the friend who answers the phone when you call, but takes forever to answer a text.

The friend who has helped you move, even though they know you own an unreasonable amount of scrapbook supplies and kitchen gadgets.

They are the keeper of your shared history. They remember things you forgot. They remind you who you were when life gets messy and confusing. Who has the memory of an elephant and whom you rely on to remember the details of our story.

And perhaps most importantly, they are the one person who can look at you across a room, make a single facial expression, and start a silent conversation that leaves both of you trying not to laugh like middle schoolers in detention.

1990

That kind of friendship doesn’t happen overnight. It’s built slowly over years of shared adventures, inside jokes, small kindnesses, and some of the most ridiculous conversations.

Over the years, many friendships fade. Life happens. People move, priorities shift, and paths diverge.

But every once in a while, if you are very lucky, you get one that sticks. One that grows right along with you through all the stages of life—from reckless youth to whatever strange, creaky version of adulthood we’re currently inhabiting.

A lifelong best friend is proof that time doesn’t weaken real friendships. If anything, it makes them stronger… and funnier… and occasionally a little more sarcastic.

2010

This is Blueberry to me.

The one who stayed.

The one who knows everything. EVERYTHING!

And the one who, if the zombie apocalypse arrives tomorrow, will absolutely be on your team—mostly because they know exactly how weird you are and have decided they’re sticking with you anyway.

I’m lucky. I’ve always known Blueberry was special. She’s the kind of person who roots for the underdog, stands like a rock when things get wobbly, has a heart the size of Montana, and—most impressively—never folds on her morals and values. Basically, she’s the respectable one in this friendship. Every duo needs one.

2008

From the beginning, I figured we’d be there for each other through thick and thin. In my mind, though, the arrangement was pretty simple: if she ever needed help, I’d be there in a heartbeat. What I didn’t imagine was the Universe deciding to test the “thick and thin” clause with a full-scale hospital adventure.

Apparently, the fine print of friendship includes things like medical drama, hospital rooms, and me being the one who suddenly needs help. A lot of it.

And that’s where Blueberry has absolutely blown me away.

Time and again she’s shown up, done what needed to be done, and taken care of me without a single complaint. Not even a tiny, passive-aggressive sigh. Honestly, if there’s a gold medal for “Best Human Under Ridiculous Circumstances,” she’s already on the podium.

I always knew she was loyal. I just didn’t realize the Universe was going to run such an aggressive loyalty stress test.

So yes, I’m lucky. Truly lucky.

And I just want to thank the Universe for dropping Blueberry into my life. Because when life gets weird, painful, or downright ridiculous, it turns out the best thing you can possibly have is a loyal, rock-solid friend named Blueberry.

I genuinely can’t imagine my life without her. And frankly, I don’t want to

My only wish if that I am half the friend to her that she is to me. 

2000

Rehab Diaries: Seven Days, Countless Reps, and One Very Opinionated Knee

When we spoke last, I had just finished recounting my harrowing expedition through the land of Problematic Kneeland. A reasonable person might assume the adventure ended there.

A reasonable person, however, has clearly never dealt with the Universe.

The Universe, as I have mentioned before, is a fickle bitch. And apparently it had decided my story needed a sequel: Rehab: The Director’s Cut.

Now, my first exposure to the word “rehab” had nothing to do with celebrities or substance abuse. It happened years ago when my dad fell and ended up in what everyone vaguely referred to as rehab. I asked Mom what that meant. She explained it as a place where people go after the hospital so they can be watched closely while professionals help them get back on thei qr feet.

Which sounded reasonable.

Then I visited.

What I saw looked less like a recovery center and more like a dimly lit waiting room for the afterlife. People were parked in wheelchairs along the hallway like unused shopping carts. The air smelled like sadness, urine and antiseptic.

So, when the doctor at Swedish casually mentioned they were sending me to rehab for a week, I was…less than enthusiastic. I wanted to be home. But home is where stairs were and I wasn’t ready for stairs.

Getting discharged from a hospital, by the way, is an experience somewhat akin to trying to put a straightjacket on yourself. Endless forms. Endless signatures. Endless waiting.

Later I would learn that getting out of rehab is like trying to remove that same straightjacket while wearing oven mitts.

My case manager arrived with four rehab options. All four had one star.

ONE.

STAR.

Now, I don’t know about you, but if a toaster gets one star, I don’t buy it. Yet here I was selecting a place to live for a week based on Yelp reviews that strongly suggested tetanus shots and emotional trauma were in my future.

There was a fifth facility with three stars, but they didn’t have any beds available. Apparently, all the other unlucky souls had the same idea.

I quickly scanned the four remaining options, looked at which one was closest to Blueberry’s house, and picked one at random.

Pine Ridge Post Acute.

Would it be okay?

Would I survive?

Only one way to find out.

The case manager called what they charmingly refer to as a “Cabulance.” Think Uber, but with straps and medical liability waivers.

It took forever to arrive. I was so ready to leave the hospital that I didn’t stop to consider whether I was escaping the frying pan only to swan dive into the deep fryer.

The reason I couldn’t just go home was simple: I live in a townhouse. Townhouses contain stairs. And at that moment in my knee’s recovery timeline, stairs might as well have been Mount Everest. My knee couldn’t bend enough to step up six inches, and even if it could, the strength required to actually lift my body was currently theoretical.

So, rehab it was. The case manager estimated seven days. Possibly ten. Over my dead body was I staying ten days. In my mind I was shooting for four. This was…optimistic.

The cabulance ride itself lasted approximately two blocks and cost $60. For a distance I could have crawled in a reasonably determined afternoon. The driver, however, was worth every penny.

She was a petite woman from Jamaica who looked about as threatening as a kindergarten teacher. I briefly wondered how she planned to push my wheelchair. Turns out she pushed it like she was training for the Olympic Powerlifting Team. She maneuvered that chair, lifted it into the van, strapped everything down, and secured me with the efficiency of a NASCAR pit crew.

While she worked, she chatted cheerfully. “How old are you again?” she asked.

“Fifty-seven,” I said. She grinned.

“I turn sixty-nine in two days!”

I stared at her. There was absolutely no universe in which this woman was sixty-nine. Then I noticed she had a boot on her foot.

“Oh no,” I said. “Did you fall?”

“Yes,” she said.

Pause.

“While I was out jogging.”

Jogging.

I was suddenly very aware that my own injury had occurred while attempting something far less athletic: peeing. I needed a better story.

We arrived at Pine Ridge and I was whisked to Room 303B. As the sliding doors opened, I braced myself for the depressing nursing home of my childhood memories.

Instead, I rolled into a bright, warm entry space filled with light. And—most importantly—no smell. Already this place was exceeding expectations.

The rooms were set up like little suites: two separate bedrooms connected by a shared bathroom. I was wheeled into my side, deposited on the bed, and then immediately surrounded by a parade of nurses, CNAs, and assorted healthcare professionals introducing themselves and checking things.

The first nurse was Dieter, who was friendly, efficient, and got me fully “onboarded.” Vitals, weight, explanations about the facility, and—most importantly—ordering me food.

(We will discuss the food later. It deserves its own chapter.)

That Friday afternoon I was mostly left alone. The last few days had been overwhelming, and once the quiet settled in I simply lay back, closed my eyes, and tried not to cry.

That’s when I heard a faint tap tap tap. I opened my eyes. Directly in front of me sat a tiny, frail woman in a wheelchair with bright blue eyes, staring at me.

“You new?” she asked.

Now, I could have said something snarky like “Nope, just redecorating.” But I behaved. I answered, “Yes.”

She introduced herself as Ida. Ida was ninety-eight. She informed me she had been there three years and was sick of the place. Later I would learn she meant three separate stays over three years—not a continuous sentence—but at the time I wondered if I had accidentally checked into Alcatraz.

Her son was visiting the next day, she said, and she planned to demand her freedom. Then she asked if my name was on the door. Not what my name was, just whether it was on the door. She rolled over to check, came back triumphantly, and announced that yes, my name was on the door.

Then she asked my name.

I quickly realized Ida was quite deaf. I’d start explaining something and she’d interrupt with a completely different question. Eventually I just surrendered and followed her conversational lead. She was delightful. If I had to have a rehab roommate, Ida was an excellent choice.

Later that afternoon, I heard a familiar commotion coming down the hallway. That would be Blueberry and Princess Lori. They arrived with clothing, essentials, and—more importantly—pizza.

Heroes. Absolute heroes.

But the real surprise came next. They looked like two cats who had just swallowed the entire canary population.

“What did you do?” I asked. Blueberry grinned. Turns out the two of them had spent the day at my house assembling a new shelf for the scrapbook room, cleaning, and doing laundry.

I was floored. And incredibly lucky to have friends like that.

The rest of the evening dissolved into giggling, guffawing, and the kind of laughter that makes your ribs hurt. Those two together are dangerously funny, and for a while everything felt normal again.

Eventually they left, and I fell asleep almost instantly.

At 4 a.m. The lights came on. Vitals. Blood draw.

Hospitals and rehab facilities believe the human body functions best when startled awake in the middle of the night. But I fell back asleep quickly.

Later that morning PT and OT—Hannah and Nathan—arrived to assess me. They walked me down the hall as far as I could manage and explained what the coming week would look like.

They also gave me permission to walk to the bathroom by myself. It felt like receiving a gold star in kindergarten. But I’ll take it.

Saturday’s highlight was lunch with my friend France, followed by more visiting with Blueberry. At the time I hadn’t yet realized how incredibly valuable outside food would become.

Then the power went out. As soon as the power went out, the facility came a live with machine beeps going off and the staff hustling into action.  The generator quickly kicked on the staff confirmed the rooms that required oxygen were, in fact, getting oxygen and had lights. My room did not qualify. I sat in soft darkness being lit only by the window in my room.

However, they did hand out old-school call buttons.

Within seconds the hallway sounded like a casino jackpot floor.

Ding.

Ding.

DING DING DING.

Residents were absolutely going to town with those things. I’ll admit… I giggled.

Sunday was blissfully uneventful. PT exercises, bland food, and far too much true crime television.

Monday, however, was Social Interaction Olympics. People streamed in and out of my room all day: cognitive tests, surveys, nurses, therapists, activity directors, doctors, wound care specialists. For an introvert, this was exhausting.

Then PT returned and absolutely kicked my butt—in a good way. I walked all the way to the exercise room. Did stairs.

STAIRS!

Then walked back.

It may not sound like much, but getting to that room was roughly the length of a football field and stairs were my ticket home.

Later OT decided my arms needed strengthening because I had casually mentioned the walker—now nicknamed Johnny Walker—was making them tired.

Huge mistake. Rubber arms followed.

By the end of Monday, I had worked five hours remotely, exercised, socialized beyond my introvert limits, and was ready to collapse. I was hoping—optimistically—for a Wednesday release. Reality had other plans.

Wednesday afternoon the social worker, Nicole, arrived with another woman who immediately radiated Attitude. I nicknamed her Mrs. Attitude.

Nicole explained that paperwork had to be filed to arrange home nursing care, which would take about two days.

Fine.

But Mrs. Attitude insisted my wound care had to be done daily. I corrected her. My wound specialist had specifically said every other day.

She pushed back. I pushed harder.  At this point I know my wound better than anyone, and the wound care I had received there so far had been…let’s call it uninspired.

The second obstacle was my INR blood test, which couldn’t be redone until Friday due to “orders.”

Red tape. I suggested alternatives. She refused. Eventually I gave up arguing, swallowed the bitter pill of disappointment

Nicole promised I’d be out by 10 a.m. Friday.

So I accepted my fate.

The silver lining? It was book club night and the gang was coming to me—with pizza.

Thursday brought the mysterious wound care “doctor,” whom I had never seen before. He looked at my wound for about thirty seconds and declared it fine before disappearing.

Mrs. Attitude then wrapped it…incorrectly. If that set my healing back, someone was going to hear about it.

Finally, Friday arrived. It also started snowing. Because of course it did.

Nicole stopped by at nine with good news: I was cleared to leave.

Blueberry arrived shortly after ten. I signed the paperwork. And we walked out the front door.

For a brief moment I considered shouting something triumphant and slightly obscene toward the building.

But honestly? Aside from questionable food and two questionable staff members, they had taken good care of me.

Instead, we went to breakfast.

Real food. Real coffee.

(I hadn’t had coffee in two weeks. Two. Weeks.)

And finally, I went home.

Linus greeted me at the door, scolded me appropriately for my absence, and within minutes it felt like the last two weeks had never happened.

As Dorothy wisely said:

There’s no place like home. 

Torn Between Walking and Whining

Do you believe the Universe has a say in what happens to you? I do. And lately I feel like I’ve been in a slightly toxic relationship with it.

Now, to be fair, the Universe has given me some pretty good high-fives over the years. But I’m also convinced that when you tease the Universe too much, it doesn’t just tap you on the shoulder… it slaps you upside the head. I’ve been slapped and put back into my place.

When I was in the hospital back in December, I made a lot of promises to the Universe. The kind you make when you’re lying in a hospital bed, staring at the ceiling tiles, and bargaining with forces you can’t see.

“Just give me a little grace period,” I said. “Let me get back on my feet for a bit before you hold me accountable.”

I asked for a month. The Universe generously gave me two.

Then on March 1st it said: “Alright, time’s up.”

It started innocently enough. I headed into the bathroom to, well… go to the bathroom.

As I sat down, I heard a small pop in my knee. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a polite little pop. And I said — out loud — “Well… that can’t be good.” But when I stood up, everything seemed fine. No dramatic collapse. No screaming pain. So naturally I did what any reasonable person would do: I ignored it. I thought perhaps I was being paranoid.

I even went into the scrapbook room and happily worked away for another 45 minutes, completely convinced my knee and I had reached an understanding.

Then I went to head downstairs.

And that’s when my knee said, “LOL. Absolutely not.”

The pain hit like a freight train. I could barely stand. Somehow I managed to hobble downstairs and collapse onto the couch where it became very clear that I had entered another situation the Universe was dishing out to me.

That’s when I called Blueberry.

Now, there are two reasons this was immediately alarming to her: 1) I was calling her. I don’t call people unless something is wrong and 2) I was calling her.

So when she answered and my first words were:  “Sherrie… I think I’m in trouble.”…I’m guessing she knew this wasn’t about  missing scrapbook scissors.

I explained the situation and said I thought I needed to go to the emergency room. She was in Renton (about 25 miles away) but immediately said she was heading over. My hero. (I’ll write about how amazing my BFF is in another blog. Suffice it to say, I’m still hoping I’m half the friend to her that she is to me – at least half. If I measure myself against the Blueberry yardstick, and I think I come up short.

When she arrived, we attempted the seemingly simple task of getting me downstairs. Spoiler alert: it did not go well. I managed one step. Just one. And then my knee sent such a dramatic pain signal that my body basically said, “We’re done here.”

At that point we accepted the inevitable: It was time to call 911.

About ten minutes later — or what felt like ten minutes — three VERY handsome firefighters showed up. (Do they hire only handsome firefighters?) I mean… if you’re going to have a medical emergency, you might as well have attractive first responders. At least I wasn’t lying naked in my shower. I wouldn’t recover from that embarrassment.

They were friendly, calm, and very determined to help. After asking a few questions and evaluating the staircase situation, they quickly realized their equipment might not be the best option. (My dirty brain thought, “Oh I think your equipment is just fine.) Ahem.

So they called for an ambulance. And that’s when things really escalated.

If I thought the firefighters were handsome, the ambulance driver put them all to shame. If I hadn’t been in crippling knee pain, I might have been drooling.

His partner, a female EMT named Stacy, was the true problem-solver of the duo. She suggested using a special chair designed to get people down the stairs safely. It looked like something between a futuristic wheelchair and a medieval torture device.

An example from the Interwebs

But I climbed in and was given very direct instructions not to “Help” them on the way down. The cute firefighter said “Keep your arms crossed over your chest.”

I tried. I tried very hard. But as we rounded the corner of my stairs I tilted slightly and my arm automatically shot out. I hear from WAY behind me Blueberry’s voice “DON’T HELP THEM!” and off we went.

What shocked me most was that going downstairs in the chair barely hurt at all. I had braced myself for lightning bolts of pain with every step. Nothing. But when we reached the bottom and transferred me to the stretcher? Sweet merciful heavens. That’s where the pain showed up with a vengeance.

As they loaded me into the ambulance, I couldn’t help but wonder what story the neighbors were inventing while watching a fire truck and ambulance parked outside my house.

My guess: “Something dramatic happened over there.” And they wouldn’t be wrong.

Soon we were on our way to Swedish Edmonds Hospital. Once there, I was whisked into the ER where Sherrie stayed with me for a while keeping a watchful eye on me and asking the staff questions that never would have found their way to my noggin. They started with a quick X-ray. Which showed…absolutely nothing helpful.

Next came a CT scan and then an MRI to figure out what exactly my knee had done to betray me so thoroughly.

The verdict:

• I had torn my meniscis. Both slightly torn.
• A piece of bone from a bone spur had chipped off. Lovely
• Fluid (likely blood) had filled my knee joint.

Which explained the pain, the swelling, and why my knee had decided to go on strike.

Surprise! You’ve won a Week in the Hospital A week-long hospital stay was definitely not on my 2026 Bingo card.

But I will say this: the staff at Swedish were fantastic. The nurses, doctors, CNAs — everyone was kind, helpful, and incredibly patient.

The things that were less fantastic?

Two words: Hospital food and Shared rooms.

But that… is a story for another blog post.

Next Chapter - One week in rehab…

…and whatever the Universe decides to throw at me next.

Something is missing

I was texting a friend before surgery about having the joint removed from my pinky toe. She casually asks, “So what are they replacing it with?”

Replacing it?

I froze. It had genuinely never occurred to me that something might need to go back in there. I’ve never shopped for toe parts before. Is there a catalog? Do I get to pick between standard issue and deluxe model?

Fast forward to my pre-op appointment with Doc M. He’s explaining things, using doctor words, being all calm and competent. I decide this is my moment.

“So… what are you putting in its place?”

He slowly looks up at me with an expression that very clearly says, Ma’am. Please keep up.

Very calmly he explains that because there’s an infection, they can’t “introduce” anything new into the toe. Nothing goes back in. It’s just… gone. In the future, if I want to add a bone-like item, we can discuss it.

A bone-like item. As if I’m accessorizing. “Oh yes, I’ll take the seasonal bone insert, please.”

He leaves and I sit there imagining my poor pinky toe hollow and unsupported. Is it just going to flop around like a fish out of water? What’s keeping it from wandering off from its little toe friends? Is there a toe support group?

At my first post-op appointment I ask the truly important question: “How is the toe going to stay close to its friends?”

Doc M, without missing a beat: “You may find that you stub your pinky toe more often now.”

Excuse me, WHAT? That was not comforting. That was a threat.

I’m still deeply unsure what’s happening inside my foot at this point. I’m picturing an empty cave where a joint used to live.

Then at the second post-op appointment, he pulls up the X-ray.

It’s like a magic trick. Now you see it, now you don’t. I’m staring at the screen thinking, “Sir… that appears to be a disappearing act, not a joint removal.”

The entire section of bone looks gone. Gone-gone. I had been walking around thinking, “They’re just taking out a little joint.” No. Apparently we went full renovation. HGTV: Toe Edition.

I even looked up a normal foot X-ray. There is very clearly an entire bone there in other people. I, however, am now rocking the minimalist version.

But here’s the thing: the incision is healing. The infection is clearing. Everything is doing exactly what it’s supposed to do. And at this point? I don’t particularly care if a whole bone packed its bags and moved out.

I still have a pinky toe. It may be lighter, freer, and slightly more accident-prone… but it’s still there.

And honestly, that feels like a win.

Finally...some good news

This foot adventure has been exhausting in ways I didn’t expect. The constant ups and downs really take a toll on your emotional reserves.

It feels like every time I take one hopeful step forward, I’m pushed several steps back. It started as just a sore on my foot… then came the infection and a hospital stay. After that, things seemed to be improving. I let myself believe we were turning the corner.

But then another infection surfaced — or more accurately, the old infection flared back up once I stopped the antibiotics. That led to a second surgery.

In the pre-op room, Dr. M gently but clearly told me this might not be the last one. If the pathology showed infection in or around the bone without safe margins, I needed to prepare myself for the possibility of yet another surgery.

As he walked out of the room, it took everything in me not to fall apart. I had convinced myself this surgery would be the fix. That I was finally in the home stretch.

At my follow-up with Wound Care and Infectious Disease last week, Dr. L explained that while the cultures had identified the bacteria — Enterococcus — we were still waiting on the pathology report to determine whether the infection had reached the bone. If it had, I’d be looking at several weeks of IV antibiotics. That would mean getting a port placed and learning how to administer the medication myself.

I left that appointment feeling deflated. Trying to stay positive, but definitely heavy.

And then today — finally — some good news. Dr. L left a note in MyChart. All good.

The relief that washed over me caught me off guard. I hadn’t realized how tightly I’d been holding myself together until I could finally exhale.

I’ll admit, earlier in the day I “cheated” a little when the pathology report came through. It made absolutely no sense to me, so I dropped it into ChatGPT and asked it to dumb it down for me. It sounded promising… but I’ve been down this road before. I wasn’t letting myself believe it until I heard it directly from my doctor.

If I’m being completely honest, I think I’m still holding my breath just a bit. Part of me is afraid to fully trust that this might finally be the last hurdle.

I guess only time will tell.

Stay tuned for the next chapter.

My very first car

I was turning sixteen, and like every sixteen-year-old in America, I wanted a car. The answer from my parents? Always the same. “No.” Or my dad’s favorite: “Save your money and buy your own.”

Then one afternoon, everything changed. I heard the rumble of a tow truck outside. Dad was standing in the driveway, grinning like he’d just won the lottery. Behind the tow truck was… well… a beast.

A 1971 Ford Country Squire. With wood paneling.

Oh Lord.

This thing had clearly lived several lives before arriving at ours. It was massive. Faded. Slightly sad. It smelled like it had opinions about disco.

Dad proudly announced that a buddy of his said it was ours. Free. Completely free! “All it needs is a new battery and four new tires,” he said cheerfully.

He offered to cover those. My responsibility? Pay the difference in insurance for being added to their policy, plus maintenance and gas.

Deal.

The car was enormous. It could seat nine people—which meant it could seat nine teenagers. Suddenly, its size felt less embarrassing and more legendary.

We got it running. Dad filled the tank for the first time. And just like that, I had wheels.

There was one rule: I could only drive it to school on days I had band practice. I mostly followed that rule. Mostly.

Some of My Favorite “Country Squire” Memories

1. The Gas Tank Incident

Our family friends Dick and Marianne Holly were visiting. Dick struck a deal with me: if he could use my car while they were in town, he’d fill up the tank. Done. At the end of their trip, Dick stormed into the house looking completely flustered.

“You didn’t tell me it had a 20-gallon tank!”

Honestly? I didn’t know. That tank had never been full under my ownership. My gas strategy was simple: feed it spare dollars and hope for the best.

2. The Manson House Adventure

One night, Laura and I decided it would be a brilliant idea to drive out toward the Manson house in Quartz Hill. It was pitch black. No streetlights. Just a long, dark road. And then… the car started fluttering. Not fully dying. Just threatening us.

We turned that long boat of a station wagon around as fast as physics would allow and got out of there before it left us stranded in horror-movie territory. We did not look back.

3. The Permit Prayer

One summer day, I decided I needed a sandwich from a grocery store about a mile away. I still only had my permit. But surely no one would know. I’d be quick. I made it there. But when I tried to leave? The car flooded. I sat in that massive driver’s seat, alone, praying like my life depended on it.

“God, if you let this car start, I swear I will never do this again.”

It started. And I never did. Looking back, that old wood-paneled land yacht wasn’t just transportation. It was freedom. It was friendships crammed into bench seats. It was small rebellions, big lessons, and the smell of gasoline and possibility.

That 1971 Ford Country Squire may not have been the car I dreamed of at sixteen.

But it was exactly the one I needed. 

Plot Twist: The Toe Saga Continues

So… it turns out I have a stubborn infection hanging out in/around my pinky toe joint.

Because of course I do.

I genuinely thought I was nearing the finish line. The wound was healing — slowly, yes — but healing. I had mentally circled the end of March as my “freedom date.” I could see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Apparently, that light was just the reflection off an X-ray machine.

A couple of weeks ago, I went back to the podiatrist for what I assumed would be a routine check-in. He took one look and wasn’t thrilled.

“This should be further along,” he said That’s never what you want to hear.

He sent me for X-rays to see if there was still an infection lurking around. And sure enough… there it was. Still alive. Still thriving. Apparently unimpressed by the army of antibiotics I had already thrown at it.

You would think nothing could survive that level of pharmaceutical warfare.

You would be wrong.

Next option? Surgery. Remove the joint.

Ugh.

Surgery day arrived. We checked in, waited in pre-op, did the whole hospital shuffle. The doctor came in to go over the plan one more time.

He examined my toe and casually asked: “So are we taking the whole toe or just the joint?”

I’m sorry… what?

That was not previously presented as Option A.

As far as I was concerned, we were removing the joint. I’m still fairly attached to my toe — literally and emotionally — and would prefer amputation to remain a last resort.

He nodded, signed my leg, and said he’d see me in the operating room.

Which, oddly enough, I had to walk to myself. Nothing like strolling into your own surgery with your white butt cheeks hanging out the hospital gown.

They placed me on what can only be described as the world’s least comfortable table. The anesthesiologist explained she’d start with oxygen and then the “sleepy gas.”

She put the mask on and asked, “What’s your favorite vacation?”

I never answered.

Didn’t get a word out.

Lights out.

The next thing I knew, I was in recovery.

Phase 1 for about 15 minutes. Then Phase 2, where Janet met me. The nurse gave us post-op instructions, and just like that, we were heading home.

From my perspective? Everything went smoothly.

Minimal pain (thank God). No drama. No horror stories.

Now we wait.

The doctor did say there’s still a chance I could need another surgery. But I’m choosing hope. I’m choosing to believe this one did the trick.

The first surgery was done cautiously. The hope was that removing the initial problem area, combined with antibiotics, would wipe out the infection throughout the toe.

It didn’t.

So, this time, they removed the joint entirely and sent samples for culture.

And this time? We got an answer.

Enterococcus.

Finally — a specific bacteria with a name and a targeted antibiotic to fight it. I’m now on medication designed specifically for that stubborn little invader. And that gives me something I’ve needed through this whole saga:

Hope.

Maybe this was the missing piece.
Maybe this was the right move.
Maybe this is the beginning of the real recovery.

I am more than ready to put this chapter behind me.

Fingers crossed. Toes… still crossed too.

8 Years Ago

There is a quiet kind of love that never fades, even when Mom is no longer here. It lives in the small moments: a phrase she used to say that suddenly slips out of my mouth, a recipe I still make the way she taught me, or a piece of advice that echoes in my mind just when I need it most. Repeating my mantra "What would Mom do?"

Losing Mom left an absence that words can’t fully describe. Yet, her love doesn’t disappear with her passing. It becomes woven into who I am. It shapes how I care for others, how I face challenges, and how I love. In many ways, she continues to guide me, not through presence, but through memory.

Grief changes over time, but love remains constant. Some days it feels heavy, and other days it feels warm and comforting. Remembering her is not about holding onto sadness, but about honoring the bond that still exists. 

So Long 2025!

Hello 2026! Please be kind! 

Here we are, the start of a new year. A clean slate. Time to reflect and plan. I gotta admit it's my favorite time of year. The beginning. One of my favorite song lyrics is from Linkin Park's song "Waiting for the End" and the lyric is "The hardest part of ending is starting again." 

So let's get into it

Reading

This year I blew the roof off my reading goal. I set a goal of 45 and read 61. I did the Book Bingo challenge again - I selected the prompts like always. I have some that are easy and some a bit more challenging. Of the list, the Cher book was the worst in my opinion. I can't really pick one favorite, but Summer of 69, Luckiest Girl Alive and People We Meet On Vacation are among my favorites. 

For the A-Z list; so many good books. The Forgotten Bookshop in Paris, The Things We Leave Unfinished, and The Very Secret Society of Irregular Witches were my top three. 

I've set my goal for next year at 50. Along with a goal to stop scrolling so much. Together I should reach my goal. 

Cooking

I didn't officially set a goal this year, but thought it might be fun to try to meet or beat last years number of 170 recipes. When I say that number out loud I'm a bit blown away to think I tried ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY NEW recipes. 

This year I had 170 in mind and I was well on my way to hitting that goal. Doing Hello Fresh for several months really helped to get there. But then, the hospital stay in December completely derailed it. My final number for this year was 159 New Recipes. That's still a ton of recipes and so many good ones this year. 

My Top 5 Favorites this year - in no particular order, but if I had to choose it'd be the Vegetable Beef soup followed closely by the Garlic Steak Sandwich.

1. Doner Kebab
2. Jenn's Kick Ass Vegetable Beef Soup
3. Garlic Steak Sandwich
4. Country Style Beef Ribs
5. Crispy Sweet Chili Shrimp Tacos with Cilantro Slaw

June and July was when I started Hello Fresh. I'm not surprised to see those months so high. I was cooking 4-5 new recipes a week when I started Hello Fresh. 

This is how 2025 stands up to previous years. It's pretty clear Covid got me cooking more. 

I'm gonna keep my goal at 150 for next year. I'll probably do more, but if one thing I've learned lately, the best laid plans can get shot to hell in a moment. 

Scrapping

My scrapbook goal hasn't really changed over the years. My focus at the beginning of the year is all about not spending on new and using the old. I find I am often very motivated at the beginning of the year (aren't we all?) and then a favorite manufacturer will come out with a new collection I "can't live without" and it all goes down hill. 

I have a LAUNDRY list of projects I want to do/work on and I'm going to really focus on using what I have. 

My goals this year: 

1. Using my enamel dots stash on at least 20% of my pages. The result: 15%.
2. Stamp on at least 25% of my pages. The result: 10%.
3. Use Washi Tape on at least 15% of my pages. The result: A pathetic 3%!
4. Use Frames on at least 10% of my pages. The result: 8%

All these goals are designed to use up stash that I have a LOT of. The washi tape on, in particular, is difficult for me, because washi tape is usually an after thought. It rarely goes into the planning of a page. I'm gonna have to work on that one this year. 

The stamping goal has always been about using the amazing stamps I've purchased. I have a ton, almost too much if I'm being honest, and I really wanted to work on that skill. 

Bottom line; I'm going to keep the same goals as last year for my stash. 

As for total pages, last year I did 537 pages. I had a lot of big projects last year though, so that number wasn't surprising. This year my goal was 500 pages. And I fell short. Again, I'm blaming December being toss aside due to foot issues. 

The Year Over Year chart doesn't tell me anything new. Clearly the summer is when I'm most prolific in my scrapping time. It's usually following a big trip in May so that makes sense. This year without any travel planned, it may be difficult to hit my 500 pages goal. 

So to sum up, I find that my goals are reasonable, achievable, and yet a challenge. And I'm ok with that. I used to be very serious about my goals, but I've found that these days they are just something to try to achieve, but not required. The only goal I find I'm very competitive with myself is reading. 

Other goals are always in the forefront too; eat better; save more and get out of the house more. I'm going to focus on saying yes more again. I didn't do too well this last year on saying yes. But you'd be surprised how motivated one gets when one can't actually do anything at the time. 

Hello 2026! I'm ready for you! Let's do this.

New Friends and a New Life

 I'm home. I've been home since the 14th. Being home is nice and a little scary. 

Janet picked me up and brought me home on Sunday, Dec 14th. Before leaving the hospital though, I got a fancy new boot and a cane to help me around in my house. 

Meet Harvey the Cane and Klause the Boot. Yes, I named them. I can't help myself. 

The boot is a "wedge" boot which has nothing under the toes. The wedge is in the back to keep all the pressure off the toes. It's been a challenge learning how to walk on it. But if learning to walk on it meant I can go home, then I'm all for it.

The cane and boot came with a PT specialist in the hospital who taught me how to walk on them and especially how to go up and down stairs. Who knew there was a right and wrong way to do that? 

I was still a little unsteady on them when I left the hospital and was sure glad to have Harvey around once I got home. 

The cat greeted me at the door then promptly ignored me for about an hour. I'm not sure he was sure I was sticking around. The poor guy had to spend a week alone with only Sherrie stopping by to feed and hug on him. Eventually he ended up in my lap as if life was back to normal. It wasn't yet, but we were on our way. 

I went right back to work on Monday. Happy for the distraction. Work peeps were amazing. The PMs picked up anything I had left, and took on all the new stuff. The boss was super understanding and willing to help me out where I needed it. They sent me some beautiful flowers while in the hospital too. It was unexpected and so very welcoming. I needed a little color in the dull hospital room. 

I have a Home Health Nurse coming in twice a week to take my INR (blood thinner number) and clean my wound. We're down to cleaning it every other day. For the days the nurse isn't here, Sherrie has stepped in to do it. (Have I mentioned how lucky I am to have such a good BFF?) There has been some talk of me doing it on my own, but I can't see it very well and am a bit uncomfortable with that. If I had to, I would, and I may have to. 

I have learned some new tricks this last week. I learned about Amazon Fresh. I can't shop you see so I had to get groceries into the house and Amazon Fresh was the answer. I miss grocery shopping. But for the next month this will do just fine. In fact, it's a little too easy. 

Now, here I sit on Christmas even wondering, yet again, how I got here. I've reached the acceptance stage of this adventure that this isn't a quick fix. It's a long game of healing. Healing takes time and patience and is SO VERY exhausting. Still, I've come to grips with the fact that I'll be down for the count at least through the end of January. Can't drive until the wound is completely healed over, and based on the look of it, it'll be weeks, if not months. 

One of the promises to the universe I made was that if I didn't have to do IV antibiotics at home, I would start paying attention to what I was eating. It hasn't been easy since I can't really cook much, but I'm making a plan and changing where I can. I'm sure the universe understands that I'm a slow learner and has given me a grace period to get used to this new reality. 

I bought myself a book to read to really, truly start understanding what being a diabetic means. I've been ignoring what this means and assuming that there weren't any real changes I need to make. I know that's wrong now and promised myself I'd learn more about this disease and how I can best management. 

I have weekly doc appointments now with the Infectious Disease doc. He'll be the main one I check in with now. Doc M, the podiatrist, wants me to visit him in a couple of weeks. I'd love to if I could get an appt. 

And so on this day before Christmas, I've stopped feeling sorry for myself. I'm learning to be patient and accept that this will take some time to heal and I'll be back on my feet in now time (pun not intended). I'm so very grateful for all the friends and family who have helped out either by driving me somewhere, bring me food and conversation, or just checking in. My tribe is very special to me and I've learned that they are here for me. It does take a village it seems. 

Bored and Anxious

We last left off with me sitting in hospital room wondering what the hell had just happened. I was ultimately in the hospital for 7 days. Seven LONG days. Let me give you a quick run down of what happened.

On Monday, Dec 8, Doc M, the podiatrist, came in to see me. He filled me in on the significant infection. They took cultures and needed to determine what bacteria was involved so they can focus the antibiotics. Until that time I’d be on three different, hard hitting antibiotics. I could expect some nausea and diarrhea for my troubles too. Yipee.

He also informed me that I’d be going into surgery Tuesday evening. They needed to get ride of the “dead” skin and what not and see just how far the infection went. He suspected it was into the joint and was hoping it wasn’t as far as the bone. If it was in the bone, I’d lose my pinky toe. If it was in the joint, it’d still be bad, but not as bad.

I met two additional doctors that night as well. The “hospitalist” doc who is the doc on the floor for several days; Doc E2 (not to be confused with the first Doc E I saw way back when). And the Infectious Disease Doc – Doc V – who was amusing and serious all in one. His specialty, besides infections, was wearing ugly Christmas sweaters every day of December. Hearing I was being seen by an infectious disease doc kinda freaked me out a little more. As if I didn’t realize how serious this was, THAT made it more serious to me.

He repeated what Doc M said and scolded me a little about how I should have come in sooner. He said the cultures could take 2-3 days to grow for them to know what it was. That’s about when I realized I wasn’t going home anytime soon.

If I’m being totally honest with myself, I didn’t have a CLUE what an infection looked like or signs of infection. I had always thought a fever meant you had an infection. I never had a fever. The Saturday before I had bad chills and was exhausted. It turns out that should have been my sign. I know that now.

 I slept like crap those first two nights. I had anxiety running through my veins and I just couldn’t turn off my brain.

Speaking of veins, by this time, I still have the two IVs in my arms, one on the left side and one on the right side. They are pumping me full of any and every antibiotic known to man. They took cultures, but don’t know what they are yet and so are hitting it as hard as they can with the hard stuff.

Surgery was scheduled for that Tuesday which meant I had to hang out all day Monday and anxiously wait for Tuesday. And not just Tuesday but Tuesday at 5 PM.

Because of the surgery the last time I could eat on Monday was by 9 AM. I was sure I was going to be starving by the time they took me back for surgery. Turns out anxiety tends to take away your appetite. I spent the day wondering what the heck was gonna happen. What was I going to do? What was the plan? How was I going to do this living by myself? I knew all these answers would be answered eventually but as you know, I’m a very impatient person. Guess this is another lesson I need to learn.

Surgery day came and went. The surgery was a success in that they were able to confirm it wasn't in the bone (Thank God) but it was in part of the joint. They "cleaned house" and feel like they got all the bad stuff out. Now it was the waiting game. More antibiotics, more waiting. That was going to be my next several days. 

The cultures were still not done so I waited. Daily visits from all three doctors. I lost count of how many different nurses and CNAs came in and out of my room. 

On Thursday, Infectious Disease doc closed down my bathroom because I had diarrhea and that meant I had to use the commode. Oh goody. As if the hospital stay wasn't bad enough. 

Finally on Thursday though, they had an idea of one of the bacterias was. I couldn't tell you what it was. All I know is it had a LONG name that was rattled off as if I was to know what it was. It's probably good then I couldn't Google it and freak myself out more. 

It wasn't all bad. Really, the only bad part was the boredom. Not a lot of interesting TV. Didn't want to read. I spent a lot of time contemplating my life choices and making promises out to the universe. 

I did have some visitors though, so that broke up the boredom. K&R stopped by and got to witness the cleaning of the wound. They brought me the most frustrating game ever...which kept my mind off things. F stopped by with hot chocolate and conversation. Janet stopped by twice. Once to get Wroamin to take him home and once to bring me clam chowder. Sherrie was constantly there too. She got to learn how to care for the wound for once I was home. She's a trooper that one. I really don't deserve her. I will be forever grateful for her though. 

Finally the day came when I was going home. Now the hard work would begin. I had some learning to do and it wasn't going to be fun. 

The silver lining here, if there was one, is I have zero pain. The curse and the blessing of neuropathy is you can't feel your feet. After watching all the poking, scraping, cleaning that went on with the wound I'm VERY glad I can't feel it. But, now I have to be extra diligent it seems. Another lesson has been learned. 

The Unexpected Hospital Stay

It could never be said that I am not the queen of learning life’s lessons the hard way. Why is that? Is it human nature? Or just my nature? I often soften the fall by saying we learn more from our mistakes, and I do believe that, but I could have gone a lifetime without this lesson.

It was a gray overcast Sunday, typical of the PNW this time of year, when I decided that perhaps I take myself off to urgent care to have them take a look at my poor foot that was looking worse by the minute. Maybe I should back up to tell the story of how I got here.

This adventure all started when I discovered what I thought was a blood blister on the bottom of my right foot after we got back from Greece. I’m sure it happened in Greece because there’s no other reason for me to have a blood blister that size other than for the miles and miles that we walked on our trip. Perhaps my shoes weren’t as great as I thought they were.

Once I showed the family, they immediately said to get to the doctor. Well, getting to a doctor these days takes an act of congress I swear. I was fortunate to beg and plead enough that they were able to get me into a doc to look at my foot. It wouldn’t have been so hard if, while in Greece, I hadn’t received a letter saying my primary care doc left Evergreen hospital. So, without a primary care it’s almost impossible to get an appointment.  

The appointment was a week out so I monitored and photographed the sore to have something to share with the doc. The doc I got was AMAZING. He was an older doc who was the kindest, understanding, and gentle. I wanted him to be my new primary doc – sadly he was retiring in 6 months.

Doc E took a look at my foot and he thought it best to send me to a podiatrist who specializes in diabetic foot ulcer.

Yep. I said what I said. He diagnosed it as a diabetic foot ulcer. I wouldn’t google that if I were you. It still looked more like a blood blister to me, than a foot ulcer. He said any wound on the foot of a diabetic can turn into a foot ulcer. Oh goody.

So off to Doc M a week later. I was sitting in his office starting to really worry about what it was and what it meant to me. Doc M took a look at it, cleaned it up, wrapped it and gave me strict instructions to care for it. And to set up a mtg for a couple of weeks out. Off I went.

I swear I followed his instructions as best I could. I did not walk around the house barefooted. I put gauze on it twice a day. I covered it. I didn’t get it wet. I didn’t walk around without shoes. I was doing all the things. Or so I thought. In hindsight now, I can see where I didn’t follow these instructions perfectly. I took a shower one day without covering it – I forgot. I had to run to the bathroom one day without it being covered. So maybe these small missteps got me to where I am. No matter. I’m here, now we deal with it.

Then the first week of December, my boss came to town and we all met at a coffee shop to work and then go to a Christmas dinner. Being out of the house and sitting instead of lying back with my foot up on the recliner, cause the foot to swell a little bit. I thought. Thursday night it was swollen and a little red. By Friday, it was MORE swollen and MORE red. Saturday I was contemplating going to Urgent Care, but I thought I’d just watch and see. By Sunday, it was getting even worse. So, I put on my big girl pants and went off to urgent care.

Urgent care sent me to the ER. While there, the nurse on duty got me all hooked up to IVs for fluids. By this time, I’m panicking a little. I’m picking up on the serious expressions and concern with each nurse/doc that comes in. The on call doc, Doc David, casually comes in, takes a look at my poor pinky toe and foot for like 15 seconds, then states matter of factly that “we’ll probably have to amputate” and walked out.

WHAT? Amputate! Amputate what? My foot? My pinky? What? Now real panic is setting in.  

Honestly, I just don’t think you should drop that kind of word on someone who’s already in a fragile mental state of being admitted into ER. 

Within a matter of 2 hours of leaving my house, I’m admitted into the hospital with a whole lot of questions, 2 IVs dumping massing antibiotics and a stunned woman who is trying to figure out what just happened.

They took some cultures. They did some other tests but really didn’t tell me much other than it’s a significant infection. I felt judged and scared. And in that room, I sat now for six straight days, staring at the walls, staring at the TV, staring at my foot, and doom scrolling like nobody’s business. All the while wondering what the hell this meant.

Revisiting Greece...scrapbook style

It's done! I finished the Greece scrapbook this week. Took me just about a month - give or take. My process served me well. It's efficient and it allows me to be creative and get shit done. 

I had to change things up a bit this year because my scrapbook computer is having issues and won't allow me to open a windows explorer window and then it stopped connecting to the internet when I updated my router. No biggy, I was able to work around it. 

My process always starts with organizing my photos. Over the years, and so many scrapbooks later, I know what I'll scrap and what I won't. I organize the photos by day then by event of that day. I always have a "Misc" folder because there's always random photos I take that don't really belong anywhere, but may have a story I might want to tell. For example this photo. 

I couldn't tell you what day it was, but it amused me and so I'll scrapbook it. 

Once I have the photos organized, I go through each folder and decide which photos I want to use. I create a "Do Not Use" folder and drop any photo that isn't something I want to scrap or a duplicate of a photo. I try to narrow it down to as few of photos as I can, but will still display our trip and tell my story. 

From there I go searching for a layout. 90% of my layouts are scraplifted (basically taking a page someone else did and trying to duplicate it). Most of the time they never come out looking the same. It's something a lot of scrapbookers do. The manufacturers post pages using their paper and what not hoping you will buy it. And we do. Here's an example:

This is the layout I was working with.

This was my layout. Close, but different.

Once I have the layout figured out, now it's time to scrap. This is when my scrapbook room becomes a complete disaster. I get all my travel collections out and put them on a table so they are within reach. This year I had organized them into these 12x12 plastic containers and it worked perfect. It made it easy to get the collection out and clean up after I was done. 

I'm really happy with how this scrapbook turned out. It's so much fun to look through the photos and relive the event. Sometimes when you're on a cruise/tour it has to go so fast that you don't really have time to reflect on what you're seeing or doing. Creating the scrapbook gives me a chance to do that. I look up things and document the photos as best I can. 

I have a few favorite pages this year. All were scraplifted, but with my own twist. 

This one required a lot of stamping. All those words are stamped. I saw this done and knew I had to give it a try. I love how it turned out. 

I always love a good grid. I had several layouts that are in the format of a grid. 

I used a kit from Paige Evans called "Adventurous". I'm not a huge Paige Evans fan in general, but this kit was just different enough of what I normally would use that I felt I had to challenge myself. 

This page required some painting. I don't have any paints, but I have stamping ink. I used a paint brush and the ink and I feel like it really turned out looking good. 

So now I'm done! It was fun to scrap in a 12x12 layout and be able to use all the embellishments. Scrapping in a smaller format often doesn't allow me to use all the embellishments as they are often too large. I felt my creating juices really flowing this year and am happy with each page. The full book is here in case you want to see it all.