We all walk ancientrails. Welcome to the journey.

America, America

Written By: Charles - Oct• 11•20

Fall and the RBG Moon

Sunday gratefuls: Peanut butter and bread. For Rigel’s pills. Working for now. Kate’s conversation with Annie and her other sisters. The polls. The bugs me a lot distrust I have of them. The black, black sky and the stars, the millions, the billions of stars. Clear now.

Been thinking about America, this land I love, this nation, my nation. Our nation. Will we transform into a large simulacrum of Britain? A once mighty country brought low by its own perfidy and a too rapidly changing world? I hope not. The Plastic Hour article by George Packer gives us this one chance to turn away from that fate. We need to take it.

Not sure when I first knew I was an American. Maybe during one of the Decoration Day parades in Alexandria? Or, when Mom or Dad would talk about World War II. Mom on Capri. In Algiers. Her signal corps job. Dad dropping flour bombs on troops in training, flying folks on the Manhattan project. Air taxi. Talking about flying.

Maybe it was late at night when the TV stations turned off and the flag would wave, the National Anthem playing in the background, then the ironic screen image of a bonneted Indian Chief. Not sure.

I do remember the first day I learned our nation could be bad. It was in the summer of my seventeenth year, the same year my mother would die. We were in Canada again, Stratford, Ontario. The Shakespeare festival with its then new theater shaped like a crown. Those road signs with a crown on top of the number.

The Black Swan Coffee House sat near the Avon River in a green sward. Before Starbucks, before Dutch Brothers, before Caribou Coffee. Back then coffee houses had folk music, tables with candles. Were often dark, gloomy places. No chains that I recall. Independent small businesses dedicated to a counter culture before the one that emerged later on those same 1960’s.

I went alone. A place filled with foreigners. I felt brave. Got hot chocolate, coffee hadn’t entered my life. Sat down at a table by myself, took in the atmosphere. No coffee houses in Alexandria.

A singer came on stage and sang a protest song. Against the U.S. presence in Vietnam. It shocked me. An electric jolt. They’re criticizing my country. MY Country! I was an outsider there. An American. No one was thanking us for beating Hitler or stopping Japan. The singer said leave Vietnam to the Vietnamese. I did not know we had troops in Vietnam. I did not know that two years later my voice would speak the same words.

There were those other ways I learned my country. Watching American TV. Going to drive-ins for a hamburger, fries, and a milkshake. Paying close attention to the Greatest Spectacle in racing, the Indianapolis 500. Listening to the Dodgers on transistor radio while I delivered the Alexandria Times-Tribune.

Those times I got on the Greyhound bus at Mr. Stein’s Tailor Shop. Fruit on my lap. Headed across the vastness of this country to Oklahoma. On the train later headed to Arlington, Texas. This nation filled my nostrils as bus exhaust. As a conductor checked tickets. As I watched Illinois and Missouri roll by the window. Merrimac Caverns. Frankoma Pottery. The Tulsa Turnpike.

The United Auto Workers Union represented the parents of most of my classmates. Its decisions, its bargaining had a direct and positive effect. A house, a vacation place, a car, medical care, retirement pension, affording college for their kids. I left town before the U.S. Auto industry began to shrink in the wake of foreign competition. But, even those troubles reinforced my vision of American life.

Our life in these United States has been the envy of the world. Now journalists from other countries write articles pitying us. My early immersion in American culture, we each had our own, feels warm and fuzzy, a cloak of identity that wrapped around my psyche, shaping it, nurturing it, so a vital part of me feels sad when I read these opinions.

There’s more but I’m written out for this morning. What do you think of as the American Way?

Minding the Gap

Written By: Charles - Oct• 10•20

Fall and the RBG Moon

Saturday gratefuls: Two ayes for two eyes. Clearer, some fuzziness. Supposed to go away. Easy to read computer screen. No pain. Tony’s. The clerks at Tony’s. Kate’s wrist improving. This mythic sky. Fall. Courage. Sadness. Springtime for inner work. The days and nights of the year’s last half. The harvest. The rut.

Come into me, spirit of Fall. As I drove down Shadow Mountain yesterday, the golden glory of autumn Aspens against the evergreen Lodgepoles, all on soaring Mountain sides, this prayer came, unbidden. Soon my hand moved in a waving motion, like the sageing rituals of the Lakota, wafting the vision of Fall I could see into my heart, into my soul.

Judaism emphasizes kavanah in prayer. Intention. I wondered, what is the intention of this prayer? Why has it come to me?

Minding the gap. That’s the intention, I understood this suddenly, too. The gap between my self-understanding as a distinct and separate living being and the World outside my car window. It is a false understanding, made to appear real by the mind we carry and the body that is its vehicle. I am part of the Fall, part of its courage and sadness. Part of its springtime for Soul work.

The Great Wheel turns. We live through its Seasons. Its Seasons live through us. Invite the Season into your body, into your Soul. Live within it, not as an observer only.

Then. The Mountains. What do they mean? Strong. Hard. Tall. Shansin make me strong, hard, and tall like Black Mountain, like Shadow Mountain, like Conifer Mountain. Raise the mountain in me, let it support and define me.

Then. The Aspens. Make me aware of the living links I have with friends and family. Like the Aspen Grove. Interleaved. Sharing nutrients and knowledge and warnings. Then, no, not like the Aspen Grove, as the Aspen Grove. Help me feel the rootlets of these Aspen, these Lodgepole supporting me, feeding me, making me aware of what’s coming.

Why these prayers, these meditations, came to me, I can’t say. They were powerful and sank into me, radiated back out of me. I was one with the Fall. One with the Mountains. One with the Aspen Groves.

The Great Wheel has within it the learnings we need. And, apparently, will grace us with them when we need them. Blessed be.

The Plastic Hour

Written By: Charles - Oct• 09•20

Fall: RBG Moon, Mars, Orion, and Venus in the morning sky

Friday gratefuls: Savannah, nurse at Cherry Hills. Dr. Gustave. Sandy, the nurse anesthetist. Right eye cut and healing. Zeiss. Alan. The intraocular lens. Those who invented, designed, and made it. Annie and Sarah. Kate, her wrist calming down. Carne asada from Tony’s.

Right eye patched. I see Dr. Gustave today at 10:30. A familiar routine. Even with the right eye still dilated, I can see the words I type with clarity. Not before, not without glasses. And, even then, fuzzy,

I feel younger. Silly? Yeah, but I feel it anyhow. I’m ready for a bonus round with life.

Wondered what it meant to have Johnny Nash, the singer of “I Can See Clearly Now”, die in between the surgery on my left eye and the right one.

Checking on the idiot. Give me a sec. OMG. He’s worse. Prosecute Biden and Obama. A rally in Florida on Sunday. Won’t debate virtually. Going out in public when he should still be in quarantine. No boundaries. No sense. Aarrggh.

George Packer writes for the Atlantic. In the Plastic Hour, he wrote himself into hope after dispirited articles: “We are living in a failed state”, “Failure is a Contagion”. and, “The President is winning his war on American institutions.” He’s brilliant and has a feel for this time we’re in. Recommended. And, if you read it, what do you think?


Written By: Charles - Oct• 08•20

Fall and the RBG Moon with Mars, Orion, and Venus

Thursday gratefuls: Steady hands, Dr. Gustave. Cataract surgery, the new lens. Kate. Cool weather coming. Alan. Susan and Marilyn who will keep Kate company during my surgery. Aspen gold among the Lodgepole green.

Right eye. Slice, dice, remove old lens, insert new. Clarity in both eyes. Cherry Hills Surgery Center is a standalone building just off Hwy. 285. Cataracts, corneas, other procedures peculiar to the eye. Alan will stay in his Tesla. He bought a new infotainment upgrade so he will be back home in his living room if he wants.

This surgery will improve my eyesight in several ways. No need for glasses to drive. Sunglasses, I’ll still wear. No glasses for TV. Colors brighter. Cheaters for reading. As it looks right now, I will only need cheaters. I got three of them for $10. Much cheaper than my old ones. By a factor of almost 100. I suspect I will be able to see better in low light, too.

Eventually cataracts cause blindness so improving my vision while preventing blindness offers something medicine rarely does. A body better than the one before.

Kate had a tough day yesterday. Her rheumatoid arthritis kicked up, making her right wrist painful, red, swollen. Her upper arm became swollen, red, and hot. That subsided over night. I do not like leaving her when she’s having trouble. Surgery has its own demands. I’m glad Susan and Marilyn offered to be with her, at least by phone. Marilyn is close, in mountain terms, so if Kate needs medical care, she could take her.

Did not watch the Presidential Vice’s debate. I could have streamed it through the New York Times or the Washington Post. But, no.

Rigel refuses her meds and bites down when I try to open her jaw. Will need new strategies if we go the whole 12 weeks.

The RBG Moon stands above Orion’s right shoulder while Mars, as close it ever comes to earth, twinkles over Black Mountain. Venus shines in the east. When warriors fight, they fight for love. Of country. Of family. Of an idea. This sky, this warrior sky, filled with love. A strong night sky.

Warrior Energy

Written By: Charles - Oct• 07•20

Fall and the RBG Moon seconded by Mars and Orion

Wednesday gratefuls: Dr Taryle on a good day. ILD stable. Pneumo thorax gone. Effusion an artifact, a ghost in the machine. Kate in a better place. Rigel, weeks out now from her hospitalization. A note from Joe about the Elk goring the golfer in Evergreen. Watch out for Elk! Tilapia, new white potatoes, asparagus. Trash collection.

Kate got some helpful news. Her interstitial lung disease has remained stable since April of 2019. The pneumo thorax is gone. The pleural effusion was either an artifact or her slightly higher right diaphragm. Taryle does think she has problems with aspiration so we will switch specialties and go back to Dr. Rhee, the gastroenterologist. More imaging. Big fun.

Rigel has begun to refuse her antibiotics. I’ve given them to her in meatballs of dogfood for several weeks. Now, she turns her head away. That means sticking my fingers in that mouthful of big teeth and putting them down her throat. She doesn’t like it and neither do I. She ate none of her supper last night.

I need a break I said to Kate after I tried to get Rigel to eat. Kate thought I meant a vacation, time away. Nope. What do you want from me? I want you to get better. I want Rigel to get better, too. That’s what I want. Naive, childish. Yes. But always there, behind the realist there is a dreamer, a hoper, a wisher.

At times, when Rigel refused her supper for example, I try to make things better. Eat, Rigel! As if a sharp word will overcome whatever she’s feeling. Frustration, fear, sadness. Even here, especially here, we follow the path, the Tao, as it wends its way through. Kate, Rigel, Kep, me. All on the path, the ancientrail of Lao Tze.

This morning the RBG moon’s waning light made bright Mars and rugged Orion fainter. All there, though. Warrior energy in our sky. Those willing to fight. I’m glad they are with us in this month, a month when we need all the warrior energy we can muster.

Fattening the Curve

Written By: Charles - Oct• 06•20

Fall and the RBG Moon

Tuesday gratefuls: Kate’s continuing better days. Eyedrops. Cataract surgery. Clarity of vision. Aspen Leaves blowing in the Wind. DJT acting in character. This spinning planet. Our blue home. Joe and Seoah. Happy. Hawai’i. The Pacific. China. Korea. Vietnam. Cambodia. Laos. Thailand. Malaysia. Singapore. Taiwan. Japan.

Trump on the balcony of the White House watching Marine One takeoff. Removing his surgical mask. Standing there as a stalwart for lack of common sense, mendacity, misdirection, confusion, leadership failure. His normal state.

There are no words adequate to describe this USA. My country. My dream. My nightmare. Much of the world flattened the curve. We fattened the curve. Don’t let the virus dominate you, he says. 210,000+ dead. 7.5 million infected. Flu season on its way.

Wildfires screaming through California. Whole mountains ablaze. Another hurricane on its way to U.S. landfall. Climate change. Sea levels rising. Temperatures. We fattened the emissions curve, too.

If you are a senior citizen in the U.S., the gauntlet of flu season has its sister virus, Covid, to help. It could be the worst winter ever for infection. Probably will be. And Trump says, don’t the virus dominate you. While he’s still in mortal danger from it himself.

What manner of Armaggeddon is this? Will we rush headlong into a doom of our own devising? The four horsemen: War, Plague, Famine, and Death on a pale green horse. Ridden by Trump, Xi, Putin, and a dictator to be named later.

The pace and manner of problems facing the U.S. make us uniquely vulnerable. A strange, unprecedented election underway, careening towards a conclusion. A country ravaged by a no longer novel illness. Deaths in the hundreds of thousands. Racial injustice and its long reach backward in our history so apparent, so visible. An economy struggling. Workers unemployed at staggering rates.

Yet. Kate and I live our lives. Loving each other. Loving our dogs, our grandchildren, our sons and our daughter-in-law. Our wider families. We talk with our friends and family over the antiseptic pixels of the internet.

Dinner gets cooked. Groceries purchased. Newspapers read. Mail delivered. Our boiler fends off the cold, heats water for showers, laundry, dishes. The sun sends us energy. Our Rav4 works. I’m getting cataract surgery.

Life has not ended. Though. Tentativeness. What’s next?

This, That

Written By: Charles - Oct• 05•20

Fall and the RBG Moon

Monday gratefuls: Orion. Mars. The waning RBG moon. Venus. Kate. Cheerful. A good three, four days. Rigel and Kep. Our tempur-pedic mattress. The virus. Still reshaping our lives, our nation, our democracy. All those struggling with the virus, with the deaths of loved ones. May they be comforted.

Each time I think 2020 can not get weirder, it proves me wrong. The Donald doing a beauty queen wave while bemasqued and endangering his secret service team. The news that yesterday a Bull Elk in Evergreen charged several golf carts and gored one man in the back. Sister-in-law Annie struggling with memory loss. When will this ever end?

Yesterday I had a honey-do list. Got all those things done.

Met with the ancient ones, a good session, deep and telling. Mark amended his peak performance question by asking when we felt filled with grace, cosmic juice. In his usual clear, clean way he identified 1985. That year he designed the wolf exhibit that went on for six months in the New York City Museum of Natural History. A big opening there, attended by art world luminaries. It now rests permanently in the International Wolf Center in Ely, Minnesota. He also started a design conference at the Walker Art Center that is now in its 30th year. “Everything I did that year was golden.”

Have you had such a time in your life?

Appointment with Dr. Taryle tomorrow. We will ask what happened with the cat scan. Why the thoracentesis wasn’t canceled. Why did Kate experience the radical shortness of breath she had and why is she now feeling better. What is his plan for her treatment.

On Thursday my right eye gets cut, my cloudy birth lens taken out, and a new artificial one put in. Dr. Gustave. Alan. Cherry Hills Surgery Center. I feel good about the results in my left eye and look forward to having both eyes sharp, clear. My cheaters are ready, one for each reading spot: downstairs, kitchen table, loft.

Rethinking the holidays. Probably no family Thanksgiving this year. Flu season plus Covid is a bad combination. Not sure what to do about Christmas/Hanukah. Joe and Seoah will come. They have to pick up Murdoch from Brenton and they often spend Christmas with us. Safety has a difference face this year.

At the Peak

Written By: Charles - Oct• 04•20

Fall, the RBG Moon and Mars

Sunday gratefuls: Oktoberfest. On Shadow Mountain. Kate’s list of things to do. Aspen leaves, gold nuggets flying in the Wind. Orion. Clear and comforting. For over 50 years. The 8 point Buck that strolled onto our driveway yesterday afternoon. The World and its abundance. The Universe and its vastness.

Or, the Virus and the President. A back and forth between the zombie like creatures keeping us all home and the zombie like creature trying to erase love, justice, and compassion in the USA. Dialogue. Oh, delightful. Look at the fat and the alveoli and what was that orange stuff on top? A treat for later? Why am I, the best, the healthiest, the most beautiful sexy beast sick? Why, oh why? Why would this happen to me? In the third act they could struggle to the death.

Question for this day’s gathering of the ancient ones: When were you at your peak performance in life? What was that like for you?
Now years later, what do you still carry over from this time? from Mario.

Been on my mind. Peak of what? Performance suggests skills and gifts working together. Achievement. Peak suggests a time, now past. This is a retrospective question, a life’s worth perhaps entangled in the answer. Or, not.

When I played right field in Little League for two or three years, my physical peak was years away and it did not involve hand/eye coordination. Only the lamest get relegated to right field where few kids could hit. I feared the ball and, thank God, the ball seemed to fear me, almost always going somewhere else. There was no astounding growth and wonderful realization of ability. Just shame and fear.

That was summer. I was not one of the boys of summer. I was a boy of fall, of the day after Labor Day. The same emotions I felt when an errant fly ball drifted over to me, most of the boys on my team felt when the bells rang for first period. Not me. I could swoop in with my glove down and conjugate those Latin verbs. Grab the laws of physics and throw them with eerie precision right to the first baseman for a double play.

At my father’s funeral, Richie Howard, one of those boys, came up to me and said, “I came to your dad’s funeral because you were smart but you never lorded it over us.” One of the best compliments I’ve ever received.

I’m gonna with a two hump graph for intellectual acuity. One hump would be from maybe 16 to 22. Another would be from around 60 to right now. In between I had many other things to do.

I married Judy when I was 21 and she was 17. 12 years later, several years divorced, I married Raeone. Again, about 12 years later, a couple of years divorced, I married Kate. Gonna give myself one hump on relationships, or, at least one hump on the positive half of the graph. And that hump is at its peak. In terms of intimacy, love, caring my peak performance as spouse, friend, lover is happening now.

Fatherhood. From 1981 to 2000 a roller coaster, mostly up with some downs. Then Joseph left Andover for St. Paul, for the UofM and after that, Colorado, then the Air Force. A sort of plateau, perhaps gently lower than the highest moments.

Jon and I have had a rocky path, beginning when he was 21. He’s now 51. That moment when he wanted to live in our house, not work, not be in college. No. A DUI. Moving him to Colorado well before Joe. The Jen years. The divorce and its awful aftermath. Going to court hearing after hearing with him.

Today. Joe and Seoah are integral parts of our lives. Helping us when we need it. Loving us. Jon, too. The grandkids. Family, a good, healthy family. One for all and all for one. Our family is at its peak. Kate and I feel we’ve managed to wend our painful way through the dysfunctions learned in our nuclear families. Not repeat them. Stop them in our generation.

But, there was a peak performance time. My 30’s. Leading struggles against corporate paternalism, the C-suites know best: General Mills, Sandoz, Control Data. Chairing the Downtown 2000 task force to create a master plan for downtown Minneapolis. Organizing Jobs Now, the Metropolitan Interfaith Coalition for Affordable Housing (MICAH), the Philanthropy Project which became the Council of Non-profits. Trying to create a bank for the poorest of the poor. Guiding the West Bank Community Development Corporation through millions of dollars of development, housing and neighborhood businesses. Leadership Minneapolis. A busy, striving time. Arrogance and certainty. Confidence and effectiveness.

After I married Kate, I began to write. Got out of the church, community politics, and sat at home with my computer. And wrote, and wrote, and wrote. 9.5 novels and another aborning. Since Kate’s illnesses and my own, that highly productive time has ended, but it will come again.

There were, during this time, other peak performances. Our garden. Working with the soil and the plants. Bees. The orchard. The docent years when art suffused my life. Now in the past.

Since seminary, too, I’ve cooked. Not a chef, not a gourmet, but mom type cooking. Feeding others. That continues. I’ve not peaked as a cook.

My point here is that there is no one peak. Each of our lives has several. We can review those ancientrails that each of us walk: love, the life of the mind, work, creative work, family, physicality, intimacy. And the thousands of other ancientrails that human life has given birth to.

What does the mountain range of your life look like?

RBG and Mars

Written By: Charles - Oct• 03•20

Fall The Full RBG Moon and Mars

Saturday gratefuls: Kate’s better breathing, stamina. Easy Entrees Oktoberfest meal today: Pork Schnitzel, Bavarian Pretzels, and German Cucumber Salad. Prosit! Sukkot. The Sukkah is up at CBE. Harvests all round the world. Confirmation on masks, social distancing, staying away from crowded enclosed spaces. My new lens. My new cheaters. Fall. It’s courage and sadness.

The alignment this morning of the full RBG Moon and Mars happened just over Black Mountain, a bit to the northwest. Beautiful in the early morning sky. Mythic, too. The warrior God of ancient Rome and the warrior Woman. Anima and Animus. The full power of masculine and feminine writ large. A good time to remember that this miserable administration has only a few weeks to its reckoning.

No. I don’t relish Trump’s struggle with Covid. Not when I view him as just a man. I neither wish nor celebrate suffering on anyone. Sure, I might joke about it, but in the end, no.

As a scumbag President, cheerleader for the Proud Boys and the Klan, as a misogynist, a racist, a mocker of the disabled, and as an ignorant man in a job that requires learning though, I’m glad he’s sidelined. May he be out of the picture long enough to ensure his defeat.

Saw Dr. Gustave yesterday. Still at 20/25 for distance. He seemed disappointed. I’m not. Things are so much clearer. Colors are brighter. The World has a certain freshness to it. It seems younger. Cataract surgery gives me a boost mentally.

Had to sign permission for my right eye to get cut. Acknowledge that I still had blurry, hazy vision in it. Forms and checklists, scheduling. The usual morass of American medicine.

I won’t rant. I won’t. Yet, for all the questionnaires, all the releases signed, the same ones over and over, the system, well, no, not a system, the chaotic, entangled delivery of medical care here in these United States, medical care itself is often thwarted rather than delivered.

If you’ve followed this blog at all, you may recall my struggles with the axumin scan and subsequent imaging. Kate still has no wheelchair. She went in Wednesday and got prepped for an unnecessary procedure, called off before it was about to start. Why? What caused her shortness of breath that has now abated? Will we get a referral to Dr. Taryle to answer those questions? Unclear.

The referral system demanded by insurance carriers is at the heart of all this trouble. It’s the way we curb medical costs. They say. It’s the way they guard their profit margin, I say. Wish we could just get Marine One to pick us up at our front door and deliver us to the doctor or the hospital. That we could get the same kind of care as the President. That all of us could get that kind of care.

Delay, denial, and skepticism are the main tools of this failed institution. Sure, there are doctors who know what to do, hospitals that deliver excellent care, but how can we access them? The burden of making the system move too often falls to the sick one. This is cruel and inhumane.

Hoping for a massive and radical change in how Americans receive medical care. Vote. That’s a start.

Moral Discipline Required

Written By: Charles - Oct• 02•20

Fall and the RBG Moon

Friday gratefuls: Dr. Bachtel and Kylie. Kep and Rigel riding together. Easy Entrees. Mark’s suggestion about their Bavarian pretzels. Dr. Gustave. My clear, dominant eye. Next week’s appointment with Taryle. Let’s call it the WTF appointment. So much medicine. Alan. A good buddy.

Schadenfreude. Not the most attractive emotion, I’ll admit. Yet. I felt a sudden rush of it with the news that Trump has Covid. Melania and Hope Hicks. No. In my world they’re just folks and I’m sorry they’re sick. With Trump I have to exercise my moral discipline to push past the initial joy in his misery and see him as a victim, too. A victim of his own mendaciousness and his own fear of disapproval from his macho base.

Trump in Quarantine. A playwright out there somewhere has to be working on this script. They could make sly references to Napoleon on Elba. Or, put a giant Air Force One on stage as John Adams did in “Nixon in China.” Perhaps a compare and contrast scene with Daniel in the Lion’s Den or Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. An ironic twist, too. Like Hitler in the Camp. Gonna be a hit once Broadway opens full time.

OK. Moral discipline at work. I’m sorry he’s got it. As I would be if you got it. Or, me. He carries the spark of the divine. Perhaps this scare will give him a conversion experience and he’ll come out like Chuck Feeney, the billionaire who gave all his money away.

It is October so we can’t discount the possibility that this is an October surprise. A ruse to leave him unavailable for the next two debates. He comes out recovered in two weeks, a more sympathetic character, one with the millions who have survived. This seems unlikely to me; but, if I can imagine it, I know his team can. If this were the case, well…

Dog news. Kepler has an unusual syndrome-the vet’s words-post-grooming foliculitis furunculosis. It’s a staph infection. Antibiotics and prednisone.

Rigel wanted to go along, so she did. At VRCC Kylie, Dr. Bachtel’s vet tech, invited Rigel in for the appointment. Kylie read the story about Rigel eating her Baytril. We laughed. Dogs will be dogs. She has three Newfies.

Kep does not like to go. He’s always worried he’ll get left behind like he did when Joe got deployed. When I go with him, that helps, but doesn’t entirely resolve his anxiety. When Dr. Bachtel took Kep off for his exam, Rigel whined at the door. Where did he go?

I see Dr. Gustave today for a one week check. Everything feels ok. Even the line I had in my vision has receded. Got three pair of cheap cheaters in the mail yesterday. They seem to work. A pair for the loft, a pair for the kitchen table, a pair for downstairs. Maybe later a pair for the car.

Kate has gained back some of her stamina. Perhaps she had an effusion and it disappeared? We have no idea. But we want to know what’s up. Really want to know.