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Island life

How Cold Was It?

After all of these years living in Anguilla ( as we say in the islands, “I make 17 next month”), I am completely incapable of conjuring up any sense of cold temperatures anymore…..not unless you count crawling out from under blankets in the morning to stare in awe at The fact that the thermometer reads 70 degrees. This deficiency is not a functional hardship at home, but it makes packing to leave island a real crapshoot. And sadly one at which I fail miserably time and time and time again.

I say this because as I write this I am huddled up in a ball wearing a Jean skirt, a long-sleeved shirt, a cardigan sweater and socks with my pashmina wrapped around my legs like a blanket FREEZING on an American Airlines flight out of San Juan. We are ultimately headed to Las Vegas and Denver; and now hours still away from Charlotte, I already know deep in my cold, old bones that I have not packed appropriately.

I can pull out the easy, go-to excuse for this: we just don’t have the right clothes anymore. And that would, in large part, be true. I have a couple dusty pairs of jeans. And a few lightweight sweaters. But even the cardigan I am wearing now is a fashionable, loosely-crocheted, airy number. These are all items I might wear on one of those rare, brisk, 70 degree nights in Anguilla. I honestly do not own a single thing made of wool! Certainly nothing downy or gortex-y. In fact, my only “coat” is a very weathered,(Sonya when did Michael buy that for me when you and Illinois were in SF during a road show of some sort?) short, leather jacket that wouldn’t keep a cow warm anymore.

What good are these things going to do me in Denver in winter? Because yes, my friends, apparently it is still WINTER. Damn you, four season climates! We completely forget. Even as our English friends delight in visiting us during this recent polar vortex cold snap that hit across the pond. Even as we see the reports of a snow storm in New England. We completely forget. We put it out of our minds. Not that winter exists but what exists during winter.

And that is because cold has become an abstract concept to us. How cold is 60 degrees? How cold is 40 degrees? You may as well ask how cold is -100? How far away is the moon? Or why, why, why did I not at least pack a pair of freakin’ tights instead of tossing in that cute, little, flirty, red dress I bought in Dinan, France?

So really the question should be, How dumb was she?

Relativity

First, I know. It has been ages since I have posted on this site. Life interfered. Irma destroyed the island. I could give you lots of excuses, but they would be just that: excuses not reasons. In reality, I just lost touch. But today brought it all back again.

Especially because this is winter. And we endeavor to try to remember that the world is not Anguilla. That we have friends up north who are out in the cold and dark scraping ice from their windshields and stomping snow and slush from their shoes watching their breath turn to mist in front of their sad, red, frozen faces.

Meanwhile, here in tropical paradise, Michael wanted to introduce me to his newest discovery – the best meat patties on island. We planned on going in to the Valley on errands early anyway. So we headed in for 8AM stopping first for sustenance. No sooner had we stepped foot out of the car but the woman at the little restaurant came out to meet us on the street.

“I suppose you are here for patties,” she said.

“Indeed, we are,” we replied.

“Sorry, but they aren’t ready yet. We got a late start this morning,” she announced.

Our disappointment must have shown because then she went on to offer an explanation.

“It was just sooooooo cold this morning. We couldn’t drag ourselves out of bed.”

Now, this might make sense if it weren’t for the fact that the low temperature last night in Anguilla was 73.1 degrees.

Ok, then, at least it was funny and good for a laugh.

In fact, I did laugh. And I tried to convince Michael to overcome his disappointment and frustration and to admit that he thought it was funny, too.

But, in his defense, he had a good point.

It would  be funny if this was a quaint and isolated incident on this charming, little island.

Unfortunately, our lives are chockablock full, every day, of similar little disappointments and frustrations.

And the laughing gets harder and harder.

And that is probably the real reason I haven’t written in a while.

Perhaps, I will see if I can rediscover the humor.

 

What are the odds?

First of all our thoughts go out to all of those individuals and families most impacted by the recent devastation caused by Hurricane Matthew. During hurricane season Michael always takes comfort in pointing out that Anguilla is a teeny, tiny island in a very big ocean so that the odds of a hurricane hitting us are very slim. Over the last few weeks, however, I have been struck time and time and time again how connected we really are to so many other places in the world.

First, my good friend, Dianne Norris, sold her home here after 30+ years and moved back to California. This got me thinking about the friends that I have made on this island – people that I would never, ever have met if I had stayed in my suburban life in northern California. In all fairness, some of that would have been my own fault. Back then when Michael and I weren’t working, we were hanging out together – just the two of us. We didn’t hang with our neighbors. We didn’t hang with our coworkers. We didn’t socialize much at all.

Here in Anguilla, however, pretty much the only leisure pastimes that exist are quiet walks on the beach or dinner parties (either at restaurants or at home). The former you can do alone. For the latter it rather helps to be friends with some other people. (When Michael and I eat hotdogs and French fries at home alone it doesn’t really count as a dinner party even if we do pop open a nice merlot.) So now we have a diverse group of friends not only from all over the United States but from all over the world. In addition to enjoying time with them here in the islands, we have visited them in far off places and they have encouraged us to visits still other exotic locations (with and without them).

Which brings me to the second reason I was thinking of how truly amazing my current circle of friends really is….especially in light of the fact that I met them all on a 35 square mile island. Here we are leaving on a one month vacation through Eastern Europe followed by a few nights in northern Norway to hopefully, successfully chase after the Northern Lights, and without any particular effort whatsoever , I have connected with friends who are right now in Austria, other friends from Germany giving more tips on Austria, a brother of a friend living in Prague, and a friend of a friend from little Tromso, Norway.

In fact, Michael was picking up our car at the garage the other day and got to talking to an Indian fellow from Kerala (we have been there) who lived for years in, of all places, Tromso, Norway. What are the odds of that? Well, apparently, mercifully, far greater than for being hit by a hurricane. (Knock wood)

Age Is Not a Disease

Granted, sometimes it feels that way. When my left thumb joint aches from holding pots and pans while my right hand scrubs them. When the first few steps out of bed in the morning are on shuffling, surprisingly stiff feet. When I can’t avoid a glimpse of my sadly lax skin. However cliché it is to say it, though, my age is just a number. It is certainly not a diagnosis.

Medically speaking, age is part of what we call the patient’s signalment. It is a descriptive term. In people that means the patient’s age, sex and race. In veterinary medicine: age, sex, breed and species. We start with the signalment because right away that begins to narrow our focus. For instance, once you know you are dealing with a female, prostate cancer is off the table. No reason to even entertain the possibility. A Doberman isn’t going to have Feline Leukemia but probably has some degree of heart muscle disease. A 12-year old dog with vomiting and a palpable mass in his abdomen is more likely to have cancer while a puppy with those same symptoms and findings is more likely to have eaten a rock.

To illustrate: I will always remember a case in my early years of practice. I was called up to the lobby to triage an emergency because all of the examination rooms were already occupied. The owner was frantically cradling a cat all wrapped up in a towel. What seems to be the problem? All of a sudden he can’t move his back legs. OK, I said. Trauma it is. Let me take him to the treatment area. He was probably hit by a car. The owner protested. Absolutely not, he is 14 years old and never goes outside. Ok, then. Heart disease and a blood clot to his legs. A quick 180 degree turn and I was off and running again. That is why medical professionals are encouraged to obtain the signalment and medical history BEFORE making their diagnosis. Not my finest professional moment, but I think you see my point.

And getting back to that point, age is a starting place. It should not be the final conclusion. Yet I find people using age that way here in the islands. From other medical professionals asking me, “Do you really want to put an old dog through that?” (whether ‘that’ is surgery or a simple blood test) To owners debating, “Is it really worth doing – fill in the blank – at her age?” To the casual conversation with someone on the street discussing their sick pet and concluding with “Well, my wife says he’s just old.” (And here pets can be considered old at the ripe age of 7.) I honestly don’t remember this being the case in my previous practice life in the States. Of course, in all fairness that was 15 years ago. I am older myself now so it might be that (1) I am more sensitive to the inherent gravity (pun intended) of aging and/or (b) I am losing my memory. Nevertheless it bears repeating.

Age is not a disease.

Furthermore, age is absolutely not a death sentence. Contrary to popular opinion, nobody ever actually dies of old age. Something else happens. At the very least, their heart stops beating. Even dying of natural causes is the manner of death (as in not a homicide, for instance), but there still has to be a cause. Aging simply shifts the diagnostic focus. Again, it makes certain diseases less likely and makes others more likely; and, as ridiculously frustrating as it may be, as we age there are more diagnoses that don’t have ‘cures’ but only the hope of management and mitigation.

Let’s face it, as the years go by most everything gets harder…. scrubbing my pots and simply living another day included. But age is not, in and of itself, reason not to look or to treat or to try. One might find plenty of other such reasons, but age is not one of them. And as I am lucky enough to get older and older and hopefully older, I personally take comfort in that. Consider that I have been with Michael through lots of doctors’ visits and even two weeks of serious illness in a hospital in New York. Doctors recommended myriad numbers of tests, a few surgeries and prescribed beaucoup different medications, and never once did I take one of those physicians aside and not-so-subtly suggest, “yeah, well, but he is pretty old……..” I’m just saying.Birthday cake

 

Reconstructive Surgery

My island physician is a trained plastic surgeon who won’t give me a face lift. Lord knows I have begged. He remains firm (pardon the pun). His sage advice includes a recommendation to gain 5 pounds to fill out my wrinkles – as if that is EVEN an option – and admonitions about how ‘once you’ve had a face lift you always look like you had a face lift’ – duh, isn’t that the point?! – and ‘you have to look older first’ – as if that makes any sense at all. If I didn’t mind looking older I wouldn’t be asking about a face lift in the first place. Apparently, his particular medical school education included an ethics course but not a logic one.

Over the last couple of weeks, however, I have become aware of another strong argument against reconstructive surgery. That being: where do you stop? Do your face and then your sagging neck looks not just worse but incongruous. Go ahead and do your neck too and then what about your arms? Your hands? Your stomach? Your knees? I fear that there is no way to create a smooth (again, with the puns, I crack me up) transition between the reworked areas and the ‘natural’ ones.

Sadly, I have not been blessed with this epiphany because I finally successfully cajoled myself an ill-advised brow lift. I realized this because Michael has started us down the apparently never-ending path of home improvement. It’s not that we ever fell into that trap of ‘deferred maintenance’. If you read anything that I write you know that we are constantly fixing things and we’ve done one small remodel (turning an indoor, open courtyard into an actual room). But we haven’t ever found ourselves sucked into this particular kind of vortex.

It all started innocently enough with the thought of putting up some pretty crown moulding around some rooms. This was not my idea, but I will resist the urge to point fingers (opps, too late. I see that I already ratted him out in the previous paragraph.) The problem is that our house has a very open floor plan. One story. Hexagonal rooms linked together in such a fashion that you can stand in one place and see into every single room except the guest bedroom, its en suite bath, and one other bath. And every room has its own vaulted ceiling that starts up from the recessed beam on the top of 10 foot walls.

floorplan

(FYI the skinny lines are not walls. They are just there to define the rooms. In those areas there are only columns on the corners holding up the roof.)

We made a decision to start with our master bedroom, the living room and the dining room. We bought the wood. We prepped the wood. And we set out to get a quote from a guy to hang the stuff. He gave us a quote. $3200U.S. Yes, $1000+ per room. I do not know if he misunderstood and thought we wanted him to hand carve the strips, but there was no way that was happening. So we did it ourselves. Michael already has an air compressor, a nail gun and a compound miter saw. We got ourselves a miter master builder’s protractor and set about learning how to use it. Thank god we did since, as might have been feared, no two walls are the same length. No two angles are the same angle. Nothing is completely smooth. Nothing is actually level. And the degree of variation in the ways that the wood ceiling beams meet the walls defies imagination. (Some beams sit completely above the shelf, some are plastered into the wall at the base, some wall corners are centered on the ceiling beams, other are to one side or another. It is complete and utter insanity. Picasso, himself, would have been impressed.)

However, our creaking, old bodies persevered climbing up and down ladders and scaffolding and in and out to the garage and now, after having done three rooms, we are getting ready to do a few more. I mean once you learn a skill, it’s so tempting to make good use of it. Seriously, here are before and after pics. Wouldn’t you want to do more?

crown before 2

Crown after 2

But deciding to do more crown moulding isn’t even what I was getting at. The plastic surgery addiction only begins with the crown moulding just like a little restylane and botox is just the hook that snares you in. Now that I have sparkling, white crown moulding, my older, white window and door frames look shabby. Clearly I have to slap a coat of fresh paint on those while I have the brush wet. If I am going to do that, though, I should first clean all the rust and corrosion off of the ‘corrosion resistant’ window mechanisms. And then I am going to need to touch up (read paint in their entirety) the walls. But I shouldn’t do that until I finally replace the curtains and the curtain rods because they have needed replacing for quite some time and I will have those holes to patch and to repaint. Not to mention those track lights aren’t low profile enough so we’ll need cool and trendy LED rope lighting instead. And now that we moved the guest room furniture around to get to the ceiling, why don’t we spruce things up by rearranging all of that. After all, we don’t have a television in there anymore so the set up is not dictated by the location of the cable outlet. That means the bed can go on the opposite wall with a better view of the ocean. And that couch is pretty old. And those pictures need moving around. And wouldn’t it be nice to introduce a pop of color here and there….turquoise? Orange? What do you think? Shall we throw that old rug away? Reframe that picture?

Sonofabitch!

Can’t a house simply age gracefully?

Somebody please tell me what the architectural equivalent of dark glasses, a well placed neck scarf, and some support hose is.

On the up side, all of this stress and hard work just might be the ticket to aging me enough to bring the plastic surgeon around to my side.

 

Of Goats and Men

So far our small, house call, veterinary practice here on the island has been only a bit different than we envisioned. We thought we would be busy doing primarily routine wellness exams, etc. In reality, however, we have been involved in a disproportionate number of complicated medical cases: unusual cancers, involved metabolic diseases, and major surgeries (performed in the local clinic or across the channel in St. Martin). It is all more of a logistical challenge given the limitations of our mobile, business model. But it is still the standard companion animal medicine we are familiar with so we’ve successfully worked things out on a case by case basis. The other night, though, the call came in that really tested our limits.

At 7PM the phone rang. It was hard for me to understand the caller, but it became apparent that he was calling because he had a goat that was having trouble delivering her kid. He tried to contact other people before us (I have no idea whom), and someone ( I have NO IDEA who) had suggested he contact Pelican Mobile PetCare. I tried to explain to him that I was a city vet. I have exactly ZERO experience with barnyard animals. So he put a woman on the phone to implore me to at least come to see if there was something I could do to help the poor animal. How do you say no to that?

Michael wasn’t home, but I managed to reach him and told him where to meet me by the side of the road….literally by the side of the road. After traipsing through the bush in the dark using my cell phone as a flashlight, we were led to the poor, pathetic, bleating, distressed goat. It turns out she had quite possibly been in labor for nearly 24 hours with the front feet of the kid visible since early that morning. After that many hours, that baby was not coming out in the normal and natural fashion in spite of our noble attempts to the contrary. The kid was likely already dead. (I could feel his teeth and he wasn’t trying to bite me.) And the mother would die too without intervention. She needed a caesarian section, but we are not equipped for that level of surgery. I have instruments and suture materials, but what I have is only really suitable for lacerations, biopsies, small lump removals, that sort of thing. Not sterile, major, abdominal surgery. We tried to explain this to the owner. Who would normally do this for him? Who would have done it two years ago when we were not available? It seemed that nobody else could help.

That’s how we found ourselves doing a goat c-section on a small table on the guy’s back porch under flashlights. We could have given a lecture on how NOT to do things. Local anesthetic only. Intestines spread out on disposable medical pads. Neighbors coming to watch and trying to video tape something that we most certainly did not want documented for posterity sake. It was a circus. When Michael finally pulled out the baby it sounded like a wine cork popping, but damn if he wasn’t still alive. And huge. The minute he was delivered it was impossible to imagine how he could have possibly ever been inside his mother in the first place. But that was only half of the process. We needed to get finished and close up. Unfortunately, the sutures we had were the equivalent of using 4-pound test fishing line to catch a marlin. We could only hope for the best. We rinsed everything with sterile fluids and bathed it all with intravenous antibiotics and put it all back into place. At one point, the mother became weak and barely responsive, so I instructed someone to mix some sugar and water and pour it into her mouth to treat likely hypoglycemia. Damn if she didn’t come around, too.

We tried to impress upon the owner that the mother and the baby needed to be strictly confined….a clearly foreign concept for a free range goat herder. We tried to set him up for the very real possibility that one or both of them would not survive the night. But at least they were alive when we left them. And they were alive the next morning when this picture was taken. (Seriously, I do not know farm animals, but doesn’t he look proportionally large compared to his full grown mother? Yes that is the porch were we performed the surgery, but at least mom was “confined” – i.e. tied to that little chair.)goat

We go to take mom’s stitches out today. We’ll see if someone is grateful enough to pay us something for our hard work and dedication or if this time saving lives has to be its own and only reward.

 

I Feel Like I Just Won the Lottery

Yup, nothing like a financial windfall to snap me out of my blogging dry spell. You might remember how excited I was when the price of gas here in Anguilla nearly dropped below $5/gallon. I just check that was almost exactly ONE YEAR AGO ( http://whaddyadoallday.com/?p=697 )

Well, then the price just stuck there. No movement here even in January when we were tortured by headline stories about gas prices in Michigan dropping to 47 CENTS/gallon. 47 CENTS! Now, don’t get me wrong. I am not moving to Michigan just to get cheap gas but that was a painful comparison to our ridiculous prices especially when you consider that lower gas prices SHOULD lower the price of EVERYTHING that requires shipping and even more especially when you are using gas to ship your gas across the ocean.

But, no. Our prices here languished to the point that we even quit aggravating our gas station cashiers with our constant admonitions about the lack of movement on prices and our questions of when something was going to change. They would nod and look annoyed or maybe say something about the company ‘virtually’ stockpiling gas at a set price to guard against fluctuations. Blah, blah, blah. It all fell on deaf ears.

So, imagine my surprise last week when I went to buy gas and saw this at the pump:

gas pump 16

Hallelujah. Be still my heart. Under $5! It’s a miracle. So much so, in fact, that the other woman pumping gas beside me didn’t seem at all surprised that I would take a picture of the gas pump. Who knows where we will go from here.

Sadly, probably back up again but I am trying not to think about that because maybe, without my noticing, other things have gotten cheaper too. After all, I checked my electric bill this week, too. We were paying $0.43/kwh and we are now paying only $0.22/kwh. I don’t want to know what they pay in Michigan, but a 50% drop in the price of electricity is better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.

So what will I do with all this extra disposable income? I guess I could be responsible and ‘stockpile’ it for when the prices fly back up again. Or I could go to Sand Bar restaurant and drink their awesome frozen rum punches. Decisions. Decisions. Decisions.

rum punch

Election Day 2015

Today is Election Day in Anguilla. Wooo Hooo.

In the past 15 years I’ve only voted in three U.S. Presidential elections and in those by absentee ballot from a land far away. In fact, it’s hard to remember, but I think California encouraged mail-in voting even before I left the state. That means that it has possibly been decades since I had the very personal, tactile experience of walking into a physical polling place and placing my mark on an actual ballot.

Thanks to my recently conferred citizenship status, I can now vote here in Anguilla. Elections here only happen every 5 years so it was just luck that I would get the opportunity so soon. These are exciting times, indeed.

Unfortunately, I made my first mistake at 5A this morning. I was awake. I could have gotten up and been at the polling place when it opened at 6A. But I fell prey to my small island mentality. I thought to myself, how long of a line could there ever be? There aren’t that many people here, and there’s only one office to fill. Only one box to check. No complicated referendums to ponder. So I had my coffee and answered some emails and drove over at 7:45A. Wow. Cars and people everywhere. Given the number of people standing in the street talking, I thought “hmm, maybe it’s a social thing. Maybe all these people are done voting and just hanging out.” But as I drove slowly past the school and looked in to the buildings, I saw a long line of folks. So I just kept on driving and came back home while doing some math in my head.

OK, so my district is one of the larger ones with about 1700 voters. The polls are open for 13 hours. If spaced out evenly, that’s 130 voters per hour all day long. Huh. About two every minute. Huh. And then I remembered reading the ‘how to vote’ section of the elections.ai website. It refers repeatedly to The Presiding Officer. Not to ‘an official’ or ‘a polling agent’ or anything that implies that there may be more than one. Huh. Uh oh, Scooby Doo.

I made my second attempt at 10:15A. Turns out that they break up the alphabet into three different lines. Luckily I was aware that the powers that be INSISTED that my legal name in Anguilla be my maiden name followed by my married name, no hyphen. Otherwise I would have stood in the N-Z line. As it was, there were about 30 people ahead of me in my line. Unluckily, it turns out that one person enters the room at a time and completes the entire process (state name, mark roll, get instructions, walk behind booth, mark ballot, ink finger, drop ballot in box, exit). So about 65 minutes later I was done. Could have been worse, no doubt. Apparently people were camped out at 5A this morning waiting for the polls to open (dodged a bullet there).

In the States I would have a little sticker declaring “I Voted”. Here I have the time-honored inked finger to guarantee that I do not vote twice.

election

Time to celebrate both democracy in action and getting to be a part of it!

However, in Anguilla in accordance with section 69 (1) of the Elections Act, on Election Day no intoxicating liquor shall be sold, offered for sale, or given away at any time between the opening and closing of the polls (6am to 7pm) at an licenced premises in Anguilla….liable on summary conviction to a fine of $4,000 or to imprisonment for six (6) months.

That’s only at licenced premises, though, so I can still drink at home while I wait for the live election results to start showing up on line….inked fingers crossed for a positive outcome.

 

 

Gas Could Break the $5.00 Mark!

Ok, before you get all panicked and jump in your car to run down to your nearest gas station to fill up your SUV, keep reading.

I don’t mean that the price of gas might go ABOVE $5.00.

I mean that the price of gas in Anguilla might actually drop BELOW $5.00.

I was out running errands this morning and here’s what I found:

cheap cheap cheap

 

Ok, so this could be a bit confusing. I see that now.  This is a gas pump on a British island that for all I know dispenses Imperial gallons based on a display panel written in Spanish that could conceivably be showing the precio / galon in Eastern Caribbean dollars. You will have to trust me, then, that the price is actually in U.S. dollars.

So yes, even in this day and age, with oil prices being what they are, I am still paying $5.164 (coz $5.16 would be too little) US for a gallon of gas. However, we were paying $6.98 something for FOREVER. And then last fall it fell down to maybe $5.64 something. And here we are now perched expectantly on the cusp of paying less than $5.00 / galon.

Heck I drove the entire length of island just to celebrate. That’s about 12 miles, but on principle I drove it really slowly!

 

 

Balance

I’ve been, as always, very busy doing who knows what: taking care of the ocean front while Michael is off on a multi-city speaking tour, making a go of island veterinary medicine, preparing to cut up 18 yards of upholstery fabric to re-slipcover an aging couch. The usual stuff. But for the last couple of days I’ve been feeling out of sorts. That anxious, unsettled feeling of not having everything quite under control. Of being just a bit off balance.

Then this morning, in a rare cosmic convergence (like say a super moon, solar eclipse and the vernal equinox all happening on the same day), I was compelled to quickly fire off this blog. I was flipping through the internet like we used to flip through the television channels, when I realized that today is the equinox. I say realized because without the change of seasons here the date of the equinox routinely goes unnoticed. But there it was in the headlines.

And that made me remember the old days of celebrating the equinox – not by dancing naked around a henge somewhere but at least by balancing eggs. On occasion I would even take a dozen eggs to the office and we’d all balance an egg just because we could, because you can at the equinox. You can balance an egg. I’m sure you can look it up (there is that internet thing)…something about magnetic poles, the balance of the earth on its axis or voodoo magic. No matter. Today you can balance an egg.

Apparently, the writers for Netflix’s popular series, House of Cards, may not know that. Just last week I was binge watching the latest season and in one episode the subject actually came up. Claire Underwood, as First Lady, is tasked with picking out the special eggs for the annual Easter egg roll on the white house lawn. Frank, the President, ends up with one of the eggs and ponders the laws of physics that make it impossible to balance an egg. HA! I thought. Says you! There it was, presumably Spring, and the leader of the free world couldn’t even balance an egg. Poser.

So, in honor of the equinox, here’s a photo of three little eggs out for a morning ‘stand’. (They are sweating not because they were overexerting their little selves to stay upright but just because it was cold in the fridge but warm on the veranda and well…I hadn’t had my breakfast yet…..:-) )

Happy Spring. Here’s to a little more balance in life.

Equinox Eggs 2