News reports via radio, TV and the daily paper inform us there is an epidemic of bikes stolen in Chico. I believe the last statistic I read was the loss of one bike each day. That may sound like a drop in the bucket but in a town our size, that’s disturbing news.
The thefts are mainly thought to be by transients and the homeless. although I don’t know if any has been caught in the act or arrested.
However, we have seen men riding small bikes meant for children, riding girls’ bikes, and one day saw a man pulling alongside him another bike as he rode down Main Street.
But the most astonishing sight my husband and I witnessed as we were walking one evening in our neighborhood park was a van that stopped next to a curb adjacent to some trees, and a man got out and reached up into the branches of one from which he pulled out a white bicycle! The man wasn’t bothered that we had seen him in the act and even greeted us with “how ya doing?” We have no proof it wasn’t his, but I told my husband it appeared suspicious that a person would know there was a bike stored in the tree. I surmised it had been stolen and hidden in the branches tree for pick up later. Who knows, perhaps he used the van to pick up other bikes hidden in trees!

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In late July my husband and I joined a Road Scholar group that began in Denver to tour the scenic byways of western Colorado in six activity filled days. At the conclusion of the tour, we independently rented a car to drive to Estes Park to enjoy magnidixwnr Rocky Mountain National Park reached by Hwy 34West.
I noticed the same highway east led to Greeley, a town whose attraction, like Chico’s, was the state college and surrounded by farmland. So after leaving RMNP and en route to Denver for our plane trip home, we drove from down a mountainous region to high plains with the purpose of visiting my alma mater, the University of Northern Colorado. When I attended six decades ago, it was called Colorado State College and confined to an area between two avenues north and south and several streets east and west. Greeley was a small town of about 10,000 and the student body about a third of the current university that has about 9,000, after the college expanded south to a former farm and now boasts new buildings and a larger faculty and staff which led to the renaming of the institution.
I had not received any communication from the college about alumni activities so had been out-of-touch other than when I requested my transcripts. I wondered, as we neared the campus how much of the old campus had remained and whether the new annex had radically changed the old’s.
Upon arriving there, we went to the Visitors’ Center, formerly the President’s house, and inquired about the new campus that sprawled south, but the young summer employee did not know much of the history of either the old or new campuses but said we could sign up for a tour that began at 2:00. That would make it too late to get to Denver before the traffic rush hour so we declined and instead walked the old campus to see if the buildings where I had attended classes were still there.
The iconic Gunther Hall, the most beautiful building with its cathedral-like facade stood prominently as before. One would be surprised to learn that it was the physical education building,a contrast to the drab, boxy buildings that housed the familiar disciplines of music, art, social sciences and physical science. A mass of colorful annuals graced the lawn near Gunther, and as we walked the old campus, noticed some buildings were no longer in existence. WE heard those had been demolished to comply with earthquake standards, and now there was a small quad in their place. I also recognized the English architecture of the Faculty Apartments and some of the student dorms.
I had been a transfer student so didn’t live in the dorms but rented a room in off campus housing, generally where owners lived downstairs and rented the upstairs. That made me want to see if the first house six other housemates and I rented was still standing, and to my amazement, there it was! The same three windows of the upstairs above the porch roof, and the same three windows of the rear that my two housemates and I lived in for a quarter until one of them tragically died of double pneumonia during the cold winter. She was a fun-loving and popular gal and liked to show walking barefooted in the snow was nothing special.
Upstairs the gals shared three rooms, each occupied by two, with a shared kitchen and a bathroom with a claw foot tub. The telephone was installed inside the broom closet. Each room took a turn cooking and washing dishes. I remember one of the gals who lived in the front room didn’t know how to cook so her specialty was GOOP, a mixture of spaghetti sauce and macaroni. The other pair hated to do the dishes and waited until bedtime,and by then the plates were crusted from the extremely low humidity and more difficulty to clean.
The alleyway we took to go to classes still exists but the house and its neighbors, except for one with a flourishing garden of colorful flowers, looked in need of paint.
I would’ve liked to go to the door to inform the current resident I was a former tenant, but there was not a person there or at the other houses seen on that Monday morning so I merely had my picture taken with the house numbers to prove my visit.
We next drove six blocks east to the second house where I resided with three others. It was the home of farmers and the housefather said it had not rained in seven years so things were looking bad. But they were a wonderful family who included us in their activities, and at this house we didn’t have to cook or clean, the housemother did. She only charged $5/week and provided us with two good meals daily we ate with the family, and a brown bag usually of a peanut butter sandwich and a fruit.
The house is still there, looking white and pristine with new paint and neatly trimmed shrubs. But I saw two mailboxes so assumed it was now shared by two different families or tenants who were not students.
I had expected to see changes in the town, but still rather shocked the formerly bright, clean downtown now looked shabby, there were no fast food eateries that signifies a vibrant town or even a strip mall. As I had forgotten the exact avenues where churches of different denominations occupied each corner of the block, we began our drive south on the old route to Denver that we used to drive on. Adjacent to I-25 that was built after I left is the site of businesses, and so I surmised the unatractive downtown was the result of it breaking through the farmlands that still exist.
The saying “You can’t go home again” holds true, but I was happy to see some of my old haunts still are there after sixty years!

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On a recentThursday while walking with my husband across the street from the Saturday Farmers’ Market, I suddenly stumbled and in a nano second sprawled on the sidewalk face first! The sidewalk was smooth but I think at the indentation where each square meets the one that abuts it, my backless Birkenstock sandal caught on the slight dip, and without a back strap my sandals flew off while my feet was still going forward.
Immediately I felt blood in my mouth and knew I had hurt my upper lip. I also bit on a rice-grain size pebble that turned out to be my left eye tooth. Before a kindly stranger, who turned out to be the associate of my neurologist, rushed forward to help me, blood was already splattering onto my shirt. She asked me to open my mouth and said, “Oh, you need ice,” and went into the hot dog cafe and got some in a baggie. By then my lip was swelling and she advised us to call for an ambulance, but thinking my chipped tooth had to be cared for first, we hied over to our dentist. Alas, he was out-of-town, but had arranged with a fellow dentist to cover emergencies and I was quickly taken care of. After cleaning out my mouth, he put on a temporary crown, and said I should go and get a permanent one from my dentist when he returned to his office. He also advised against chewing and said I should eat only soft foods like jello. Trauma to the mouth is especially bad and even a sandwich could exacerbate in more problems.
When we got home, we further assessed the damage to my body: there was a quarter sized abrasion on my right shoulder, a small lump on my forehead and a bruise on my left thumb. My upper lip was swollen like a bull frog’s and there were small red streaks around my eyes, but since I was wearing plastic lens that got scratched, did not injure them.
The next morning the red streaks had turned to ugly black and blue circles and now my upper face resembled a raccoon’s albeit not cute like it.
When our son came to visit the next day, he said, “Ma, since you’re taking warfarin, you ought to get your head checked out for bleeding in the brain.” He related his friend’s dad had fallen backward and hit his head hard, but the ER decided he was OK and sent him home. That evening he had a terrible headache, and by the time he was back at the ER, it was too late. He died of bleeding in the brain. I hadn’t had a headache, but following his advice, went to Enloe’s ER and had a CT scan done. While waiting on the exam table for the result, I noticed my left knee was swollen. Five days later a golf-ball size lump appeared there, soft to the touch but not painful. WE decided to go to my doctor who said it was the bursa around the knee that had filled with fluid. She said to just leave it alone to heal by itself, because removing the fluid with an instrument might result in an infection.
Later my ankle swelled, and there was a big bruise there as well as on my left foot. Either the other problems had left them unnoticed till days later, or they just took time to show up. Now there are other bruises on my thumb, and on some fingers, and it may be more weeks before I’m whole again.
I am glad, however, I did not break any bones nor bleeding in my brain.
Falling is especially dangerous for seniors like me; it’s the leading cause of injuries and death among the elderly over 65. I shall have to watch my feet regardless of wheres I’m walking, and
perhaps stick to wearing sturdy shoes instead of backless sandals and slippers.

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Before e-mailing became my passion, I regularly wrote personal letters to friends and a few relatives. In fact, my best friend and I corresponded weekly as she lived on the East Coast and we rarely got together for a visit, and were too frugal to call long distance. Address labels would have saved me from me from handwriting my return address on the many envelopes , though spending for the shipping and handling deterred me from taking action.
By the time my best friend died in a tragic traffic accident, I only had two friends with whom I exchanged letters on about a monthly basis because they do not use computers.
Lately, however, I am practically overwhelmed with address labels I don’t want nor need sent by charitable organizations soliciting donations. (Some even send a nickel or dime to encourage me to add to a check they hope I’ll send.)
What to do with this ‘deluge’? A friend says she sometimes sends them back but I just put them aside and use them for the occasional business letter or the bills I can’t pay on-line or for sending cards required by rules of etiquette.
I believe any charitable group that sends a ‘gift’ of address labels soliciting for the organization they purport to support, gives but a small percentage to them and spends most of the moneys received for overhead.
It’s a turnoff and they shall not get donations from me.

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Cold and flu season are here and epidemic in many states. WE are advised by health officials to wash our hands, use hand sanitizers, cover our coughs or cough into our sleeves. They suggest we not shake hands but bump elbows or greet others without touching them. The practice of bowing to one another or as in prayer like the Thais are
ways to acknowledge others in alternatively.
The Japanese also use surgical masks as a preventive against airborne diseases. We have observed them in crowds or on the airplanes wearing surgical masks. At first we wondered about that practice, but when we visited Japan, learned that it is their consideration of others as a cultural practice not to spread germs or to prevent from catching them. It is a practice that is acceptable among school children as well as among adults; we saw kids on outings and adults wearing business suits and no one stared at them. They appeared to be unselfconscious about that while we would not think of doing the same in the United States for fear of derision or the object of stares.
Although I did not find statistics about the effectiveness of wearing surgical masks by ordinary persons who aren’t doctors or dentist or those in health professions who are in close contact with patients, a 2008 study in the Journal of Infectious Diseases of a study group of persons who wore surgical masks stated an 80% reduction in catching diseases
Thus I think wearing surgical masks is probably an effective way to prevent the spreading of colds and flu viruses.



With Christmas only a few days away and a frenzy of buying gifts and wrapping them harried and unwelcome  or  unnerving to some, it is different in Japan where wrapped gifts for ‘omiyage’ or gifting is an art in itself. At every rest stop or shop whether large or small, one is greeted by large displays of foods and other items beautifully  wrapped and ready to give to friends and relatives at home where the customers have come from. The Japanese never want to be obligated to anyone so a gift means giving back not only at Christmas but whenever one travels or for which an excuse can be found.

There were pickles, candies and cookies, clothing and  chinaware and novelties that customers could buy without needing   to wrap each. In fact, the wrappings are said to be more attractive than the contents as ‘presentation’ is very  important to the Japanese.

That said, their public restrooms are ubiquitous, clean and free. On our trip there in November, we were always guaranteed there would be restrooms where there were people shopping or taking a rest break.  There were large signs with international symbols pointing to the locations of the restrooms that are a universal necessity. In the cities, most toilets were western with warm seats and bidets, though in the country there were a mixture of ‘squat ‘or Asian,  included.

Their toilets also had the convenience for mothers with babies besides the changing tables we have in the U.S.: a high-chair-like seat attached to the wall of each stall where baby could be seated while mother used the facility! We had never seen any comparable anywhere else we’d traveled.

In  Europe the opposite is true where we’ve traveled:public toilets are fewer and one must pay to use them!  If any city is unsanitary because the residents or visitors didn’t have the cash necessary to use the facilities, it is probably due to the demand of paying to use them.  In our experience we’ve had to pay a restroom attendant to use the toilets and given a piece of toilet paper after paying money  ranging from the equivalent of 25cents to 75 cents , we’d go into to a poorly lighted stall, and often odorant.  When we didn’t have the necessary change, someone who did would go into a stall and then keep the door open for others. I remember in Scotland being scolded by the attendant  for that act, and being made to pay. She even had change for those who only had currency.

Or there is  a turnstile where one deposits a coin to enter the restrooms. At  a museum in Prague where we had paid admission to visit, we still had to put a coin into the turnstile to get into the restroom. While there.  a class of youngsters came with their teacher, and we wondered whether she had  a coin for each, but no, she merely instructed them to   crawl under the turnstile! Did that teach them to cheat or a defiance of a stupid rule to pay to satisfy a biological need?

We even encountered a  turnstile at the Vatican restrooms,  a change window conveniently located to exchange for coins.  Oh, when we went  to an eatery   we were allowed to use the restrooms without charge, but the need to use them didn’t always occur when it was time for a meal or a snack, or when the places were not open.

In fact, speaking of cleanliness, a traveler on a recent trip told us in some  Asian countries  not as modern as others,  the odors were so noxious they used Vicks vapor rub to smear their noses so they could stand to use the restrooms.

This blog is not a promotion to visit Japan, but as going to a restroom is a necessity for everyone regardless of  their differences, it’s good to know they welcome visitors and natives to use them free and readily  available.




My parents were immigrants from Okinawa and led a hard life working in the sugar and pineapple plantations  until they struck out on their own to become truck farmers. The latter was independence from the hard-driving plantation supervisors known in Hawaii as “lunas” but it did not guarantee a salary. So for many years they dreamed about going back for a visit to their homeland but stymied by poverty and a  large family to support. Then World War II made it impossible to even contact the few relatives who had remained there.

Until WWII, Okinawa was an obscure island province of Japan, and few people had heard about it nor could  place it on a map. Okinawa had once been an island kingdom and had  their own culture and dialect  different from the mainland Japanese, and often treated as second class citizens much as the native Hawaiians and American Indians have been. But  the War made its strategic location very important to the United States and troops station there helped modernize it and become  famous for karate and the longevity of its people.

After fifty years my parents were  finally able to go for a visit.  Their homeland had suffered severe destruction that   left the relatives destitute, but eventually when the economy changed in Japan’s favor, Okinawa  towns were modernized and my parents were awed by the tremendous changes to their home villages.

They were able to reassume contact with the few relatives who had survived the War, especially my mother’s sister and her family. They visited them often, as did some of my siblings, and I being a curious person and aware of my ancestry, desired to visit as well, but raising a family in faraway California and the high yen-dollar ration made it practically an impossible dream. Moreover, I could not find any agency other than those in Hawaii that led tours there and nearly gave up going for a visit. However, in November we had opportunity to go and figuratively ‘broke the bank’ to go with a stop over in Hawaii to visit my siblings.

Upon arriving in Naha, the capital city bustling with shops and modern buildings replacing those destroyed during the War, we began our hectic tour of eight days after a stay at a hotel as upscale as any five star’s in the U.S.

Our hotel room had amenities not found in American hotels we’d experienced , providing us with toothbrushes and tooth paste, razors,and hair brushes, as well as nightwear they call yukatas.

Each morning we enjoyed Japanese and American foods available at the buffet tables loaded with many choices; it was not a place for anyone on a diet!  I loved being able to eat rice and miso soup,cooked vegetables and vegetable salads and grilled fish and pickles along with o.j. and coffee, while my husband stuck with familiar western foods.

Okinawa is a narrow island of three main sections  and easily toured in a few days. The first journey took  us to the southern section where much of the fierce Battle of Okinawa had taken place. There we saw caves where natives had hidden during the bombardments and several thousands had jumped into the sea rather than being captured, and some firebombed because they would not come out. There are monuments on Mabuni Hill to commemorate that ugly history and strands of origami cranes hung from them.

In  the northern section we enjoyed touring their aquarium touted to be the second largest in the world. They  have a whale shark and marine animals only found in the region of the Okinawan and Philipping Trenches. It is aptly named “Churaumi” or beautiful sea. After there, we went to the Orion beer brewery that is perhaps comparable to Sierra Nevada on a larger scale.


At the middle and central section where my parents were born and spent their childhood, we visited Shuri Castle, once the seat of government and home to their kings. It is as grand as any castle we’ve visited in Europe albeit smaller than most. One has to take off his/her shoes to walk thru the hallways and look at their exhibits of the former kingdom. Alas, we did  not get to see their home villages that they said had radically changed owing to the War and the passage of time.

After visiting the main island, we flew to the offshore island of Ishigaki and then to Iriyama where the lifestyle is  the “old Okinawa.”   The natives appeared to enjoy an easy lifestyle and tourists can ride a water buffalo taxi on land as well as ferried thru a lagoon by the hard working animals. The guides sang native songs accompanying themselves on the samisen, a three stringed instrument perhaps comparable to the banjo.  The weather in late  November was tropical and beaches sandy altho not like Hawaii’s.

Back to Okinawa after two days in the smaller islands, we stayed at the same hotel as the first two days  and luckily got to meet my maternal first cousin and his family of ten members  for the first time! My mother had often spoken of them and it was a thrill to finally be in contact with relatives in a faraway land. One of his daughters had studied at the University of Massachusetts and translated for us, and although the language barrier made  it difficult to converse much, I can state the cousins look as westernized as we. Perhaps some of his grandchildren will come to the U.S. to study.

We left Okinawa with full hearts that made the long and expensive  trip a splendid experience. Anyone who desires to visit his/her ancestral homeland should be as lucky.

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MThe recent Ken Burns documentary, THE ROOSEVELTS, jogged my memory about FDR as  a wartime president. During WWII I attended a rural elementary school in Oahu, and we experienced an environment on alert for military action. Behind our school  was  an Army encampment, there were trenches dug behind our classrooms in the event of an air raid, we had to carry gas masks and ID cards , and there were stamp and war bond assemblies every Friday.  When the USO came to entertain the troops of the camp, they performed at the school’s outdoor stage, and we were invited to attend. For the first time we saw a magician, listened to a classical violinist and heard a brass band.

A daily occurrence was the sight of convoys  of Army trucks full of soldiers rambling on the narrow, two-lane road that skirts the beaches,  going to maneuvers at the northern end of the island. If we missed the bus we had to walk on the shoulder of the  highway and watch out as we darted across it to cross to the other side.

The most memorable occurrence was the day FDR passed away on April 12, 1945. The principal came into our third  grade classroom and tearfully announced, “The President died today. you may all go home.”

Surprised but not stunned, we gathered our books and began the 3-mile trek home. He had not called the bus company. nor notified our parents–an impossibility anyway as most of use didn’t have telephones; in fact we didn’t even have electricity in our home.

About a week later there was a memorial service during a school assembly. At that time, we had religious education every  Friday afternoon, with representatives from the various Christian denominations. If you were a Catholic, for example, the teachers were two nuns and a priest, while the Protestants had their own ministers.  The unchurched could go to any to visit, but usually went with friends,  perhaps an easy opportunity to proselytize.

I remember the service was ecumenical: a nun red the Bible passage about the resurrection, the priest and ministers took part in other parts of the service. The entire school sang patriotic songs they’d practiced in their classrooms, and we ended with “Home on the Range,” because it was said to be the President’s favorite song. We had no concept of “range,” “buffalo,” or “antelope,” but sang lustily as kids will when directed by their teachers.

My classmates and I had been born during FDR’s first term and he died during his fourth. We thought of him almost reverently, and I think no other that followed him in office has matched his charisma.

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It took nearly 14 weeks to settle a dispute in our favor with the tour company that took us to Bohemia in mid-May.

It was for reimbursement for two tickets we had to purchase to continue our flight from Frankfurt to Prague on Mother’s Day.

We contended they scheduled only fifty minutes between landing at the international gate to walk what seemed like a mile or more to the commuter gate; deplaning had taken at least ten of those minutes as our seats were the third row from the back of the Airbus.

Then we had to dodge a crowd of others trying to catch their flights, while an agent on a bicycle literally herded us to the commuter gates.

Upon arriving at the the gate printed on our boarding pass, we learned it was changed to four gates back, so we hurried  there as fast  as our elderly legs could take us, but by then they had closed the gate and we were denied boarding. We later learned from a friend on the same tour who said they took our bags off as we hadn’t boarded, and that, too, later was a problem when we did connect to Prague. I think they could’ve waited a few minutes for  us, but then a schedule is a schedule to the orderly Germans, but that is another story.

WE were stuck and to continue had to go to the Service Desk about how to get new tickets. The unsympathetic agent rudely told us “you should’ve looked at the departure board for your flight, ” a nearly impossible situation when one is in a hurry and there are many airlines going out at different times/gates. She informed us our tickets were with a group tour that didn’t entitle us to continue without purchasing new tickets. It’d cost us 75 euros apiece, but didn’t tell us we were on Standby till we lined up to board on the later flight.

We werent’ worried about the cost of the new purchase, however, as we had travel insurance that had clearly outlined, “Missed Flights reimbursement up to $750 each.”

When we finally arrived at the Prague Airport, our baggage was missing, and were told they’d send them to us later  when another flight could deliver them.

In the meanwhile, we asked a friendly  German businessman who was also at “Lost Baggage” if he’d help  us call the Prague hotel for a shuttle, but despite three attempts, the number given us would not connect. WE later learned at the hotel the number was WRONG.

Not being able to get the free shuttle that was part of the tour price, we engaged a taxi and paid  $35 plus $2 tip to the driver who calculated what we owed in dollars as we had not had a chance to exchange our dollars.

We filed a claim with the travel insurance company and quickly denied; they had a detailed list of what they would not pay, such as our case because we had not been delayed for twelve or more hours! We also learned their claim to easy reimbursement advertised in the travel brochure was almost impossible to collect.

So we then turned to the tour company with a letter documenting purchase of the new tickets and the taxi company used to shuttle us. A few weeks later an agent of the tour company called to tell me they’d reimburse us via crediting the purchase to our credit card. He assured me they were acting in good faith because the insurance company, which was part of the tour company wouldn’t.

After receiving two statements from the credit card company without the credit for the tickets of 150  Euros or $210 plus change in dollars, I wrote a follow up letter ranting that their promise was “empty” and their insurance worthless. I also sent a copy to the company president.

A new agent whom I shall call “Jack” called me about ten days later  the case was now in his hands and he’d do a follow-up. He said the first agent who’d promised me refunds had “forgotten” but I was to be assured in “ten business days” we’d be credited.

Finally, my bulldog efforts  paid off;  on the August statement  the credit was noted . The company never apologized but instead the businesss  manager wrote us  a letter they were granting a reimbursement “because of a quality issue.”

A popular consumer advocate emphasizes, “You gotta FIGHT BACK! or will be brushed aside, probably hoping the consumer will forget and not pursue the matter further.

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B.E. F.A.S.T.

Nearly two weeks ago I suffered a mild stroke that affected my left arm and hand.

My symptoms included tingling and numbness there and inability to see part of a word, such as the beginning COO  of COOKIES while  proof reading a draft of the cookbook my committee and I had compiled for our organization’s fundraiser.

Luckily, my husband and I remembered B.E.F.A.S.T., the acronym describing the signs of  a stroke. I had had a TIA or warning stroke four years before and had learned from attending support group meetings that going to the ER as fast as possible could get the help to reverse paralysis.

Strokes occur every 45 seconds to someone in the U.S. and the consequences can be death, the third leading cause of it,  or a debilitating paralysis of one side of the body, aphasia and/or cognitive affect. Most readers probably know of someone who has suffered a stroke.

Briefly, the acronym refers to: B=balance of the body such as inability to stand;

E=affect on eyes–blurry vision or temporary blindness; F=facial droop, crooked smile or inability to stick tongue out straight; A=inability to raise arms over one’s head, ataxia of hands such as not able to touch one’s nose with the index finger or to other fingers; S=slurred speech or  inability to speak(aphasia); T=Time to  call 911 to get to the ER within 3 hours so the clot busting medication can work  to  reverse the paralysis.

At the Enloe, which is well-equipped to aid stroke victims, I was quickly taken to the ER even though we had driven ourselves instead of calling the paramedics because it was daytime and we live within a mile of it, but it’s advisable to call the pros so preliminary help can be given en route.

After changing into a  hospital gown, I was taken to get a CT scan. It showed a blood clot in my brain. Wires attached from  my chest to the heart monitor showed flutters, an indication of  atrial fibrillation. It was determined an a fib had pooled blood in the atrium of my heart, resulting in the blood clot.

A neurologist on call came to speak to me, and tested whether I had feeling in my arms or legs, asked me how soon after my symptoms I had reported to the ER, and determined I should get an infusion of tPA(tissue plasminogen activator) although there was a risk of hemorrhagic bleeding.

Within a short while, the ataxia in my hand began to disappear! I almost felt I should be allowed to go  home, but having tPA administered required 24 monitoring in the neuro-tauma unit so I was taken there but not before I had had a chest x-ray and another CT scan.

At the neuro-trauma unit, my vital signs were examined often, a blood pressure cuff attached to the monitor squeezed my arm frequently. Not much sleeping in neuro-trauma, but how wonderful  to be watched the medication was working well!

While in neuro-trauma I also had an EKG, an ultrasound of my carotid arteries, and an MRI, visited by a staff cardiologist who explained a fib and the medication I would need to stabilize it, followed by the Stroke Nurse who educates patients about how to keep oneself healthy to avoid future strokes.

The next day I was sent to a private room to continue recovering, visited  again by the neurologist, the  cardiologist , the hospitalist, and evaluated  by the physical and occupational therapists; both determined I would not need to go to rehab.

I was given prescriptions for warfarin and medication for a fib before being discharged.

Now instead of going on a trip we had planned a week later, I am trekking to the anticoagulation clinc, aka coumadin clinic, to learn the right dosage to keep my blood thin enough to  prevent another stroke.  How glad I am the stroke happened while at home instead of on the road.

I hope this blog will help someone in distress of a stroke to remember BEFAST and get help as quickly as possible and the medical  help to avert a possibly debilitating stroke!

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