The Whackadoodlian is Back, and Apologizes for her Absence.

I'm here with a story about why I've neglected posting guidepost reminders during the month of May. Perhaps by the end of the story, you'll forgive me and comment about how much my posts were missed.

Photo by Stephanie Buffington on Unsplash

Our story begins last September. The Screen Actors Guild had finally tracked me down after fifteen years of living in Hawaii, and informed me that they were holding all my residuals for Fire in the Sky, Blaze of Glory, and End of Days in trust, and if I could verify my identity and address, they could mail me a check.

Now by this time, my residual checks are often worth less than the postage stamps used to send them; but after fifteen years, those postage stamps had added up to a pretty nice check. I decided to give myself a Staycation for my birthday. But as my birthday approached, the whole idea began to feel silly. I mean, why stay, when you have a chance to go?

On impulse, I asked my Dad, “If you could go anywhere in the world for your birthday, where would you go?”

He answered instantly, “Oregon.”

Oregon is where he was born. Where he lived through a depression and a World War. Where he met his wife and started a family. Where he graduated from forestry school, and began to tend the forests he so loved. He wanted to go back and see those forests. He wanted to see family and visit old friends. He also wanted to go in May because, as he said, “The forests will be the most accessible and beautiful in May.”

“It’s settle then,” I told him. “I am taking you to Oregon the first two weeks in May for your birthday.” It would be his 93rd birthday.

I began reaching out to friends and family to inform them of our plans. My cousin Jeff was the first to respond. “We can’t wait to see you. We can offer you our couch. I want to spend as much time with your Dad as I can while you’re here.”

My eldest sister was the second to respond. She lives outside of Oregon City, and offered her home as a base of operations where we could stay between road trips. We could use one of her family’s cars for travel, and she hoped that she could join us on our road trips. She could even help out with hotels.

I contacted a friend on Facebook that I hadn’t seen in nearly thirty years. She now lives near Cannon Beach. We made plans to meet up to walk Cooper, her new puppy, on the beach, and then spend the day gabbing.

Cooper, photo take by my friend.

I contacted a few of Dad’s remaining living friends, and made plans to meet up with them. All the relatives were informed.

My middle sister came for a visit near Christmas, and told me that she had learned about the trip and thought she should come with us. She was afraid that I had bitten off more than I could chew, and wanted to help. She talked with my Dad about all the placed he wanted to visit, and developed a full itinerary, even booking several overnight stays with Airbnb. I told her that I planned to spend at least one day in Cannon Beach with a friend. She included my visit in her itinerary. I would be able to spend a day with my friend, while they headed up to Astoria and then came back for me that evening.

I have to say that I felt torn by it all. On the one hand, I was thrilled with the help—especially the financial help—and I did want both sisters to be a part of the memories. On the other hand, I had been envisioning a relaxing vacation where we wandered where we wished and stopped when we got tired. Now, I was facing a heavily organized vacation with ten to twenty-five planed stops per day. Nothing like the leisurely trip I had envisioned.

My Dad’s response was more plaintive, “I guess this means that I won’t have to pack my sleeping bag.”

“No, Dad,” I laughed. “You won’t need to pack your sleeping bag.”

As the month of May approached, my Dad had a few health issues. He was getting a new medication, and it was playing havoc with his balance and bowels. The Saturday before we were due to leave, he fell twice, both times back into his bed. He didn’t tell us. On Sunday, he fell three more times. These falls were witnessed and not good for someone on blood thinners. I suggested going to the emergency, but he refused, saying, “I have an eye appointment tomorrow. You can take me to that.”

The next day dawned, and we went to the eye doctor. While there, I mentioned to the doctor that Dad had fallen several times the day before. The doctor was immediately concerned, and his concern spurred my father to agreed to let me take him to the emergency after his eye appointment.

Away we went, to spend the next several hours in the emergency, where they gave him every test they could think of. At six o’clock, they sent us home with twenty pages about how to prevent falling in the home and a warning to be more careful; however, the next morning, they called bright and early. We had to return. The blood test had finally come back, showing a bad infection that need immediate treatment.

This was Tuesday. Our plane tickets were schedule for the following Friday—four days away.

Dad was admitted to the hospital and began an antibiotic treatment; they did more tests to determine the exact nature of the infection. I mentioned our vacation plans several times to several people, and asked if I should cancel them. Their answer was always the same, “Hold off on canceling them. Let’s see where we are in a few days.” I informed my sisters, and we waited.

Thursday day dawned, and the Docs okayed him for release—along with a prescription for more antibiotics. They saw no reason for him to not go on the trip. I took Dad home and began packing his travel suitcase. He was very clear on what he needed. “I want seven socks, seven T-shirts, seven underpants, and two regular pants. I will wear my sweatshirt and and coat on the plane.”

I called my sisters to give them the news. My middle sister repeated several times, “So we’re doing this? We’re really doing this?”

To which I simply answered. “Yes, we’re really doing this. I will see you tomorrow at the Portland Airport.”

“He’s getting a wheelchair at the airport, right?”

“Yes, I have arranged for him to get a wheelchair at the airport.”

The next few days were pretty uneventful for a vacation. We arrived. We got settled. We began visiting friends and family. I had brought my computer with me, and I had every intention of continuing my weekly guidepost reminders. I actually thought that the trip might inspire a few fun twists. However, everywhere we went, it became impossible to get a Wi-Fi connection. Even at the places we had one, I could never get anyone to take the time to give me the password. Of course, I didn’t press the issue. I had time before Sunday, and we were on vacation.

We began our first overnight road trip and headed to the Oregon Coast. My middle sister and I staged a snow fight at Mount Mary Peaks. My eldest sister filmed it. We visited all the towns where our family had lived. We hunted for trails that my Dad had helped design. We looked at a mountainous slope where my Dad had planted trees, wondering if these might be old enough to be the exact trees he’d planted. We visited my Dad’s Alma mater and stopped at every National Park or scenic site on the Coastal Highway. We stayed in Depot Bay the first night: in a cute road side motel. We stayed in Lincoln City the second night: the place had an amazing cliffside view of the ocean out of it front windows, but all the other rooms made the Bates Motel look safe. We were happy to leave for the next stop on our journey.

And now we come to why I never posted any guide posts: Cannon Beach, pizza slices, wrought iron, paving stones, and Cooper.

We arrived at Cannon Beach the day before I was to meet up with my friend. It was a beautiful, impeccably kept bungalow only one block from the beach. I borrowed my sisters phone to give my friend a call, and set up a time to meet up the next day.

That evening, I decided to relive a family tradition with veggie-dogs and regular dogs, along with all the fixings. I also had marshmallows. I love a toasted marshmallow, no need for graham crackers or chocolate, just the lovely toasted taste of marshmallows. I insisted that we cook them over an open fire like we had done as a family when were kids. Later, we walked towards the beach and watched the sun set.

Friday arrived, and my sisters and Dad headed off towards Astoria while I waited for the arrival of my friend.

One of two things will tend to happen when you meet up with an old friend. Both start with excitement, curiosity, and maybe a bit of trepidation. How different will they be? Do we still have things in common? Sometimes you discover that the only thing you have in common are some memories. Other times, it’s as if no time has passed. This is still a person with whom you can share anything. This is still a person with which you can vent and laugh. Fortunately, this reunion was like the former. My friend arrived with her husband and puppy. Within minutes, we were sharing stories, discussing politics, and laughing. I felt a burden lift off me. I had a good friend.

We talked for about two hours before we even headed out for our puppy walk on the beach. I call Cooper a puppy because he still had that puppy energy, but he was two years old and weighed more than me. My friend’s husband was the only one who could really keep a hold on him. We walked along, beach combing and talking, and eventually found ourselves near downtown Cannon Beach. My friend knew of a place that served pizza by the slice. “It’s been rated “thirty-fifth” best pizza in America,” she informed me full of local pride.

I have to admit that it was damn good pizza. We ate in a cool court yard full of wrought iron tables and coble stone pavers. Once we had finished our treat, my friend’s husband got up to throw away the plates. I offered to hold the puppy’s leash while he walked the five feet to the trash can. As soon as he move away, Cooper made it clear that he wasn’t having it, and I felt my chair begin tipping to the side before I could let go of the leash. It was one of those slow motions moments when you know something bad is about to happen, but there is no going back. I landed on the coble stones with an audible crack.

I won’t bore you with the details of my attempts to get up, or my decision to finally call the emergency. I will say the emergency medical technician was amazing, as were the pain killers she gave me in order to survive the bumpy ride to Seaside Hospital. I’m serious. The pain went from a ten-plus to a two in less than a minute. She winked at me, saying, “I told you that I was giving you the good stuff.”

My friends followed me there in their car, and came in to watch me get x-rayed, poked and prodded. I had muscle spasms so bad that I couldn’t breath until I took it upon myself to ask for a muscle relaxant. The verdict came in several hours later; friends still by my side. I had fractured my femur. I think the doctor put it best when he said, “The ice cream has come off the cone.”

Treatment? A hip replacement.

Problem? They were a small hospital, and while they had an excellent surgeon to do the surgery, he was off until Monday. They would see about transferring me to a larger hospital in Portland to get me into surgery as soon as possible.

My family dropped by that evening, and my eldest sister suggested that they forget the central Oregon road trip, and all come down to Seaside to stay near me. I quashed that idea right away. I wanted my father to have his birthday present.

Anyway, I was checked in, and at my insistence, my family continued their trip.

Every night, the nurses told me, “Don’t eat after midnight because as soon as we have an operating room and a surgeon lined up, we’re wheeling you in. Meanwhile, we are going to try to manage your pain.” And I needed pain management. Even with the amazing pain killers, I couldn’t move without my pain meter shooting up to a nine.

Day after day, I went to sleep hoping “tomorrow” would be the day, only to awake to the question, “What would you like to order for breakfast?”

On the bright side, it was a very restful vacation. I couldn’t do much but rest.

On the other hand, once the deductibles are paid for, it is likely to be a lot more expensive than I had planned.

The best part was having extra time to visit with my friend. She had had two hip replacements in the past, so she was able to tell me all the gory details the doctors might be leaving out. She came by nearly every day. On the days she didn’t come by, she called. She and her husband brought me flowers and dark chocolate truffles along with a note from Cooper apologizing for breaking a family friend.

Let me be clear. I do not blame Cooper. I blame myself for thinking I could hold on to a puppy who weighs more than me and was determined to follow his Dad.

Anyway, here is what concerns you. While in the hospital, I had no access to my computer or iPad. No way to post an article. When I add it all up, I spent three nights traveling with my family, eight nights in the hospital, and four days recuperating at my sister’s Oregon City home. (My sister’s husband had even moved a hospital bed into the main room for me, and put it right in front of their massive television.)

I'm home now, and back to writing. I can almost walk without limping, but still can’t bend properly, or lift anything heavy.

I hope you can understand and forgive my lapse. I will write again this Sunday.

All my love,

Lynn