The Last (Wo)Man Standing

 

The Last (Wo)Man Standing

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The last three years I have lost too many friends, good and true.

There is an expression that’s been making the rounds. “Today is a good day to die.” Where did that nonsense come from? The Lakota? The Greeks? Personally, I blame Hollywood, easy to blame, a nonentity, an imaginary force with a lot to answer for in the Grand Scheme of things. That’s what I think.

If I am to lay blame, I guess I blame all of us who dance to the Hollywood Tune like lemmings running to the sea, “Come on baby, let’s do the twist”.

I say, “Today is not a good day to die.” I miss my friends. There are few of us left with like experiences. When I count the few, it makes for very lonely feelings. My lost friends show up in my dreams. Then I wake up and remember.

Yes, I am awake and I am glad to be alive this day. Not that I felt like I was going to die. I feel healthier than I’ve felt in the past ten years, truth to tell.

However. Funny, there is often a “however”. Here’s mine. However, I had a typical woman-scare last week, one I share with many women. Made an appointment to see a gynecologist. While I had no thoughts of dying, I had thoughts of invasive procedures, of surgery, of long recovery. Okay, I was scared off my tree limb.

In the olden days, when I was younger, I would have gone through this whole scary thing by myself and told my friends all about it later, after it was over, whatever “it” was. Not today. I immediately wrote to all my friends, those of my generation as well as those much younger. I gave details for which you will thank me that I spared you. I would have told you as well but this whole process took very little time.

My good news, now that I’ve seen the specialist, answered ten million personal questions and had an exam, is that I don’t have to have an invasive procedure of any kind. I don’t have to have surgery. For relief, I need to do simple exercises. The rest of my life.

I woke up this morning. Today is a good day to live. I did my exercises. Today is a gift.

One of my young friends says that to her, any day after one reaches fifty years is a gift. It wasn’t that long ago in real time that fifty years was an old-age goal.

Am I afraid to die? Well, I don’t know. I haven’t experienced that yet so how would I know? I am afraid of surgery. I’ve been under the knife seven times. That’s seven times too many. My body is a mechanical mess, thanks to a car wreck when I was a mere twenty-three years. Otherwise, I feel pretty dang fine.

I’m glad to have this shivery winter day. Today may be a good day to die. I’ve no guarantee.

On awakening I realized the past few days I had felt like I was on hold. None of my normal activities appealed. Oh, wait. It was my own finger of fear that had hit the pause button.

But this one thing I know—today is a good day to live.

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

January 9, 2025

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Sometimes the hard stuff . . .

                                    Sometimes the hard stuff . . .

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I’ll dither around before I talk about that which I need to talk. Because that is the way I am. Look the other way. Put my head in a bucket of sand. Pretend I don’t need you.

In truth, it’s been a rough couple of weeks, what with losing phone/internet service for one of those weeks. That was an eye-opener. Try it. I’d have sworn I didn’t use my computer, except for writing, more than an hour a day. Well. Well. Well. Fooled myself. Sure did accomplish a lot of small put-aside tasks, little things, like moving the stove and cleaning under, behind and around, during those ‘found’ hours.

Then Thanksgiving. We went traditional this year: turkey, stuffing, mashed spuds, giblet gravy, sweet potatoes, veggies of variety, cranberries, fresh bread rolls, pumpkin pie—the whole roller coaster. Nine of us, five Mexicans and four gringos, each stuffed to a personal level of discomfort.

Lani took it upon herself to tell our Mexican friends the traditional Thanksgiving Story, the one we were fed from first grade onward, the pretty story. I sat on my lips. The room got real quiet. Nancie said, “Then we killed them all.” That was a show stopper.

Then we ate pie.

Montana life is harsh, hard on bodies. There is hardly a one of us not physically damaged in one way or another. Especially those of our own era. We are happy to tell you all about it.

Personally, I think we are all nuts. It’s the way we were raised. Buck up, kiddo. You can rest by and by, in the fall when the work’s all done. Those final three words make that line a joke.

Me, I was T-boned on the highway near Harlem, on my way home from Northern, February, 1968. I’ve had near fifty-two years to contemplate ever-present pain.

Out of that, I devised my own on-a-scale-of-1-10 physical pain chart. I’ll keep my thoughts on emotional pain to myself. You are welcome.

#s 1-6 are negligible, everything from hangnails and papercuts to frostbite, bad backs, strained muscles. By #6, I might seek out medical aid, depending on the tolerance level of the particular day and efficiency of over-the-counter pain medications.

Level 7 pain cannot be ignored and aspirin doesn’t work. Doctor, please help. At 8, it is a good day to die. By 9 I’m afraid I won’t die. And #10 is Call Dr. K.

I’d had too many 7 bordering 8 days when I said, “I give up.” Went to see Dr. Francisco Jose Cruz Armenta of Universidad de Guadalajara, my clutch of hip X-Rays in hand, pre-surgery (five years ago), post-surgery, and one year ago.

A new X-Ray and two hour exam-consultation later, with my pictures all lined up on the light panel, even I could follow the progression and understand my problem.

A prosthetic hip, in much-simplified non-medical terms, consists basically of a roof, a ball joint and a post. Roof and ball joint are fine. The post that fits down into the leg bone (I know, makes me queasy too.) has slipped, hence the pain, for which there is no simple solution, neither herbs, acupuncture, chiropractic, physical therapy nor large infusions of tequila.

Dr. Francisco must have noticed my crestfallen look, because he said, “I can fix it. It’s not easy. It will be a difficult procedure for you. But I can fix it.”

I left my macho in Montana and burst into tears.

This man assured me he can replace the post part of the prosthesis and fix the damage. He said I’d walk the day after surgery and go home the next day, pain free, once the incision healed. I half fell in love with him on the spot.

I have to jump through hoops first, a raft of tests, blood, heart, lungs and such. I’m an emotional wreck. I’m elated. I’m scared. I’m apprehensive. I have more questions. I waffle over my decision. Do I? Don’t I?

I’m not alone. For that I thank you. A yellow canary is flittering through the crinkly leaves of my avocado tree. Air Force jets from the Base in Guadalajara loop the sky in practice doodles. The sun hangs beamish. I’m scared. That might be the most normal thing I am right now.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

December 5, 2019

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It Was A Dark and Stormy Night

It Was A Dark and Stormy Night

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            Here in this high plateau valley surrounded by mountains, in the rainy season, roughly mid-June through mid-October, the sky bursts with pyrotechnic activity nearly every night.

            I like storms. I like the beauty of lightning skittering across night sky. I like the rumble of thunder. Storms do not scare me. I admit, there are times I’ve nearly jumped out of my skin at a sudden clap of thunder directly overhead but that is simply a startle reflex.  

            Rain pounding on the roof comforts me. I like when morning sunrise reveals a sparkling, fresh, newly washed world.  I admit it felt a bit daunting to me a few nights ago when the sky broke and all hail fell through. But that was a one-off.

            Last night was different. Oh, it began ordinarily enough. I climbed into bed to surround sound, comforting rumbles and grumbles overhead which often goes on for hours. Though early enough for ambient light, the night was extremely dark, except for panoramic lightning.

            Strangely, no night birds called across the trees. No crickets chirped. The night felt ominously still, devoid of life. Not a leaf quivered. I had not yet fallen asleep when I heard the noise, a roaring, almost a presence, moving across the valley.

            Some say it sounded like a train. Or a flight of airplanes. But it was more than noise. The blast of wind held a strangeness, almost like it had a mind and body. The closer it came, the louder it sounded, a monster of the dark.

            That wind scared me, nailed me to my bed, heart pounding, covers pulled snugly over my head, afraid to move the entire time it roared overhead, seemingly forever. I could hear the leaves screaming as they were ripped from tree branches.

            Iguanas and squirrels and birds and crickets and all manner of wildlife huddled in burrows and nests, heads tucked against danger.

And then the rogue wind, carrying all it had gathered, was gone, blowing into the mountains of Nayarit, leaving silence. Not a drop of rain fell. The air felt like all the energy had been sucked out of the night and spirited away.

            The walls of my house stood solid. I had not been carried off to Oz. That wizard wind had come and gone. Lizards crawled out of rocks and tested the air with their tongues. I uncovered my head and we all waited for sunrise.

            Well, one’s world will look different in the morning. Maybe not better, not worse, but different.

            My world was carpeted, littered, thick with scraps of bougainvillea, bits of leaf and tree debris, a few small branches.  Buckets I use in gardening were strewn about.  We all, me and my lizards and such, held our breath until mid-morning. By noon the skies were filled with birdsong.

            A journey to Oz it was not. But like Dorothy and her cohorts, I probably already have all the heart, brains and courage I need, despite hiding my head under the covers in the dark night.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

July 11, 2019

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Not the Gunfight At the OK Corral

Not the Gunfight At the OK Corral

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            This morning I sat in front of my casita, reading a book, sipping tea, enjoying the breeze on my face, when suddenly five truckloads of Mazatlan Policia screeched around the corner and, positioning the trucks to face both directions, blocked the entrance of our street.

            Without hesitation, I abandoned book, chair and teacup and melted through the screen door into the inner recesses of my apartment. I didn’t bother to lock the screen or shut the door. Why would I? These people could go where they wanted. I wasn’t going to stop them. There were at least forty, maybe fifty men and women. Some dispersed around the corners and down the street, searching empty lots and checking each entrance. One of them looked through my screen. Evidently I didn’t fit the profile.

            Four apartment entrances front onto our street. At least two dozen fully uniformed federal police, hardware hanging off their bodies, heavily armed with pistols and machine guns, milled about in the street and in front of our doors. They wore face masks to make identification and retaliation difficult.

            My neighbor Ted softly called out to me by my back door, “Pssst, Sondra. Do you see what is happening outside?”

            I joined Ted out in the back patio, an area we share. We both showed the effects of adrenalin rush. Well, in other words, fear.

            In conversations over these last few months Ted and I have rolled our eyes at the exaggerated US news reports of crime and violence here in Mazatlan. We each have been in and out of every neighborhood of the city. Never have we felt unsafe. Never mind that both of us are old enough to avoid hanging out in low places.

            But I have got to tell you, that between us, in the next few minutes, the rumors flew. “It’s got to be drugs.” “Which house do you think is the target.” “Do you think they will search every house?” “What will we do if there is a shoot out?” “I wonder if it is the neighbor down the street who tries to cause us trouble.” “She got in a pickup with Arizona plates four days ago and hasn’t been home since.” “Ah ha.” “Should we stay back here in case bullets start flying?”

            However, the effects of adrenalin begin to wear off. The heartbeat returns to normal. Blood pressure plummets to acceptable levels. And I had to use the facility. Cautiously I went inside. Two armed men were stationed outside my door. I could see activity in the street but nothing that made me anxious.

            I grabbed some mending and returned to the patio. When I finished that, I had some hand laundering to do. Mindless chores ease the mind. I began packing my bags to leave for Montana in a few days. No, no, this was not a decision of the moment spurred by the actions in the street. I had been planning the trip for several weeks.

            Hunger set in. I didn’t feel like cooking. The troops were still outside my door. I conferred with Ted at the patio. Except for strategically placed guards, the majority of the Policia stood at ease. We decided to join one another for lunch at the corner comida. That meant we had to walk through the door guards, street guards, corner guards.

            Turns out, we joined two dozen police personnel for lunch. Many of them greeted us. One personable young man came to our table and asked where we were from, typical conversation with tourists. We learned that El Presidente of Sinaloa was in the imposing government building across the street and these folks were here to guard him.

            These men and women were on our street, guarding the President and us, for three hours. I felt, well, protected. But a sudden loud percussive noise might have caused me to hit the floor, face down.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

April 3, 2014

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