Musings on Turning 65 and becoming a SENIOR. YIKES!

            I’m 65 years old today. I’m on Medicare. I’m suppose I’m now officially a senior. I ignored AARP when they started contacting me at age 50. I’ve taken advantage of all the senior discounts at movie theaters and everywhere else they are offered but since the ages vary so much, I’ve pretended that it didn’t really apply to me. Now I can no longer ignore it. Now I’ll be watching to MAKE SURE I get my discounts.

            I was fine with turning thirty. I was terribly depressed when I turned forty. Fifty was great. I even had a big birthday party for myself to celebrate fifty. I made sure I had colorful flowers, balloons, table cloths, and nothing black was allowed. None of those silly “you’re over the hill” decorations entered my house. It was lots of fun. Sixty was a very bad year because my father had just passed away a couple of weeks before my birthday. I ignored that birthday as much as I could. My family and best friends wouldn’t let me ignore it completely, though. Bless them. Sixty four was bad, too. My mom passed away that year just before my birthday. I ignored it, too.

            This year I’m celebrating again. I’m healthy and life is good. What’s not to celebrate? I’ve noticed people seem to be nicer to me as I’m getting older. Is that my imagination? I hope not. Or, maybe I’ve gotten nicer since I’ve gotten older, so it’s coming back to me. Whatever: I hope it continues.

            I did have one encounter this past week that ticked me off. Signing up for Medicare and switching from my primary insurance has been confusing and I’ve had a lot of questions. I received a letter from Social Security with a telephone number for the Brea, California office if I had questions. I called one day about a month ago and a very nice woman talked to me and answered my questions completely. Then I got another confusing letter from Medicare so I called again. This time I got a really impatient little twit that talked to me like I’d lost all my marbles. I had to get very stern and parental with her before she finally stopped talking to me like I was an idiot and answered my question. I wanted to tell her my years of experience and college education trumped hers any day, but I held back. I remained nice and patient even though she wasn’t. I hope she doesn’t talk to all the seniors like that.

            Anyway, I’m now on to a new stage of life. I’m a SENIOR! I guess I’ll have to embrace it. I don’t have much choice, do I?

Cooking for two: easy crock pot chicken recipe

Most of the time I'm cooking for just two people. I've been cooking for a lot of years and I'm pretty tired of it. The thrill is gone, so to speak. I look for tasty and easy recipes, and this one fits the bill.

CROCK POT CHICKEN

4 chicken breasts (frozen is okay)

1 package dry Good Seasons salad dressing mix

1/4 cup of Sherry

1/2 cup of water

1 8 ounce block of cream cheese

Put chicken breasts in the crock pot. Pour sherry and water on. Sprinkle Good Seasons salad dressing all over the chicken breasts. Cook on low setting while you're at work or away playing golf.

When ready to eat, remove breasts and set aside. Cut cream cheese up in squares and melt it in the crock pot. Once it is melted, stir until smooth, then put the chicken breasts back in.

I like the chicken breasts shredded and mixed with the sauce. Rex likes them whole.

Serve over rice or noodles. I like it over steamed broccoli and cauliflower (carb free zone).

Next time I'm going to try adding artichoke hearts and maybe a few sun dried tomatoes. Mushrooms would also be good, or black olives. It's great plain!

Afghans in Perris

I'd worked as an RN for about 20 years when I decided to return to school to get a degree. In addition to earning a bachelor’s degree in Registered Nursing, I also was to receive a Public Health Nurse Certification upon graduation from California State University in Fullerton. I spent one semester studying public health and received my clinical training from the public health department in Corona, California. Riverside County, I was soon to find out, was NOT Orange County.

Towards the end of my semester I was assigned Afghan duty in Perris. It was 1990 and when the soviets invaded Afghanistan and civil war erupted, millions of refugees tried to get out of the country. I was to go see a large group that had somehow made it to Perris, California. There was one adult male that spoke English, and he was the only person that was able to work, so he wasn’t in the home most of the time. All of the refugees had tested positive for tuberculosis and the Public Health Department had been trying for months to get them in to have chest X-rays to check for active disease. In many countries of the world, people are vaccinated against TB with BCG vaccine, which isn’t highly effective. However, once vaccinated, the person will have positive skin test results for the rest of their lives. So, the only way to find out if they have TB is to X-ray.

     Perris is a dusty little desert community out in the middle of nowhere. I drove around and finally found the house. I parked my car and knocked on the front door. No answer. I walked around to the back of the house and found two mobile homes, up on blocks in the yard. I knocked on the door of one and it was answered by three women who did not speak English. They did understand I was there on some kind of official business...the white lab coat has that affect...and they led me to the main house. We went inside and they invited me to sit on the only piece of furniture in the place, a dirty white sofa. I did, and then all of the refugees gathered around and seated themselves on the floor in front of me. They smiled, offered ‘juice,milk,tea’, the only English words they knew. I smiled but declined. The place wasn’t exactly clean. I gave them the name of the man I was supposed to contact, and they pantomimed calling him on the phone. They gave me the phone and the man said he would leave work and be there in fifteen minutes.

     That fifteen minutes was the longest of my life. There I sat, perched on the edge of the sofa, surrounded by refugees that couldn’t speak a word of English. And they all just sat there looking at me, smiling every now in then. The most disconcerting person was an elderly man. He wore traditional afghan clothing, a long white caftan and pajama pants, and had a white turban wrapped around his head. He was obviously blind in one eye and that eye was scarred and clouded white, so when he looked at me, all I could see was the scarred eye.

     Finally, the man in charge arrived home and we were able to have a conversation. I provided him with all the information on where to take the people to get their X-rays, and how important it was to get it done. He was upset because he said they had all been checked prior to arriving in California and no one had TB. I apologized but stressed that they still needed to be cleared in California, now that they were living there. I made an appointment to return in two weeks to follow up, and rose to leave. All the Afghans stood, too, and followed me out to the car. They watched as I put away my briefcase in the trunk, then got into the car. They were still standing there as I drove away.

     Two weeks later I returned to the same situation, and no, they had not gone to get their X-rays. But I was at the end of my semester, so the problem reverted back to the head nurse.