Ulnar Shortening Osteotomy, Part II

Outside of having my wisdom teeth pulled, I've never had surgery. This was a pretty big one to start with. I mean, they cut my bone and rearranged me. Recovery has been fine. Exhausting. Sometimes challenging, but, honestly, it's been pretty smooth.

Some milestones: I got the post-surgery bandages/splint off last week and got a new splint. (This is splint number four for anyone counting.) I met with my doctor this morning and received permission to go back to work. I saw my tattoos without the bandaids today, and my doctor/surgeon did an amazing job in lining them back up--they look great, honestly. This made me so very happy. I really like my ortho and this makes me like him even more.

I've been given permission to go back to the gym with restrictions on what I can do. My doctor reassured me that I'll can get back to my heavy lifting weight (220lb deadlifts), but I need to be patient. But he understood why I needed to get back: I began working with a trainer after I was diagnosed with osteoarthritis in my knees. It has made such a huge difference in my life, both for my personal health and in how I see and carry myself. I don't want to backslide.

The first week-plus of recovery was exhausting. literally. Any prolonged activity and I would fall asleep for an hour-plus. One afternoon I went for a walk around my complex and fell asleep as soon as I sat down. Last Thursday I met with my hand therapist. I slept for probably two hours that afternoon.

The next day I met a friend for coffee/lunch, had my septum ring put back in, and went to my library's holiday party. I figured I would sleep all day Saturday. I was tired, and napped a bit, but not like I had earlier in the week. By Sunday I began cleaning my condo from top to bottom simply because I needed to move.

Several months ago I met with my hand therapist to see if there were any other things that could be done in the physical therapy realm before I met with my doctor to talk about next steps/surgery (there weren't). When we met, she said before making a decision about surgery, I needed to make sure I was ready--physically and mentally--for the recovery.

Physically, I was prepared. I'm pretty strong, so I wasn't too concerned. Mentally, I knew I had to get there. I knew there were some things I would have to come to terms with, like taking a setback in some of my weight lifting goals (deadlift 250 lbs) I knew I was ready when I broke down in tears one Saturday because I hurt, and I was tired of hurting.

But there's another mental part of recovery I wasn't prepared for: relying on others. I am super independent. Fiercely independent. I don't like relying on others for anything. And I knew surgery would mean I'd have to ask for help. I knew I needed to come up with a recovery/care plan for food, rides to doctor's/hand therapy appointments, and other stuff (like hair washing). But asking for help? That would be damn hard.

When you need help like this, you realize who your friends are. Not just those who step up to help, but those who ask about you, email you, and simply check in on you. It's been humbling, honestly. But it also means relying on others in a way that can put you in a vulnerable place.

Several friends signed up to bring me dinner on different nights. I was able to cook some nights, and I appreciated that because it gave me some control. But two nights in a row, people forgot food deliveries. The first time it was a good friend of mine, and when she realized it, she apologized several days in a row and wanted to know what she could do to make me forgive her. Come hang out with me later in the week, I told her. And she did. And it was so nice since I'd been stuck at home for more than a week. And she was convinced that the hard cider (I was done with the pain meds) and girl talk made the next few days easier. She may not be wrong. The other person didn't realize it or at least didn't acknowledge it for several days.

But more than anything, the worst part was feeling like I had been forgotten. And when you are fiercely independent, not used to relying on others, and being in a position where you really can't leave your home (due to heavy pain killers), feeling forgotten is a really tough place to be.

After that, I knew I needed to figure out how to take care of myself, like I normally would, but also welcome and allow others to help. It's a weird balance, and it was more of a mental adjustment than it was physical. I learned to ask when I needed help, but pushed myself to do thing for myself, by myself.

Essentially, I learned that surgical recovery--any type of recovery, actually--is as much of an emotional and mental recovery as it is physical. It's one thing to know that intellectually, it's another to embrace it.

Ulnar Shortening Osteotomy

One week ago today, I had surgery. I had two procedures done: Ulnar Shortening Osteotomy and a wrist arthroscopy and TFCC debridement. Simply put: they were cleaning up a TFCC tear in my wrist that may or may not have been caused by a fall and then shortening the ulnar bone. Because the ulnar bone is a few millimeters too long, it was causing pressure and pain.

In preparation for this, I did a lot of Googling. I wanted to find out what other people experienced going into surgery. I wanted to find out if it worked. I wanted to know what the recovery was like. I found several YouTube videos from others who had the surgery. Some of them were helpful, some not so much. But they did them for the same reasons: They wanted more personal stories, advice, etc. And so did I.

So I'm adding to the internet noise and adding my advice and experiences when preparing and recovering from this kind of surgery. First thing first: It's a painful surgery. And by that I mean recovery. With an osteotomy they are literally rearranging your bones. And that fucking hurts. One YouTuber said he was off the prescription pain killers and on to Tylenol after two days. Well, good for him. This is day seven for me and its the first one for me without Percocet. Because holy shit does it hurt.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Pre-op Surgery Prep
The doctor's office will give you a list of things you can and cannot do, eating schedules, etc. I'm talking about other stuff, things you will need afterwards. Some things I knew I'd need beforehand, some I figured out along the way.

Pillows. I knew I'd need to keep my arm elevated, so I bought two new bed pillows. My pillows are generally kind of old and gross. So new ones meant they were clean. but what ended up more important? They were soft. I needed to keep my arm elevated for 48-72 hours for the swelling, but I continued to use the pillows because they were soft and comfortable one the sutures.

A Cane. When my arthritis was at it's worst, I bought a couple of canes. One was foldable and something I could carry with me. The other was an old fashioned wooden old-man cane. It was the same kind my grandpa had. I would use it when I'd get out of bed because that is when my knees hurt the worst and when I was at my most unstable. I haven't had to use it for a couple of years. But after surgery, in the post anesthesia haze? That cane was invaluable. It allowed me to walk around, to stand up, to be mobile. Also, because of the curved handle, after I sat down after being exhausted by brushing my teeth, I could still grab things or even move stuff with the curved handle. Seriously, buy a can.

A Person. My mom came out to help me. I wanted her here for a couple of reasons. The first and most important: She's my mom and sometimes you just need your mom. She can keep me calm, she can help me manage my anxieties. But she's also a nurse, granted she's a (retired) psych nurse, but she's still a nurse. After surgery you need to have someone stay with you for 24 hours; it's required. I would push that to 48 hours. Those first two days were a blur. Your body is still getting rid of the anesthesia. I was still wobbly after two days. I don't know what I would've done without her.

Food and Juice. The directions said bland food and liquids post surgery. They weren't kidding. I had some red lentil soup after I got home and it tasted so very good. It didn't taste as good coming back up. Projectile vomiting is a thing. I don't know if it was because of the food or just a normal reaction to anesthesia, I don't care. After that, I moved to white grape juice and a simple veggie broth/soup. Mom made me a soup that was mostly broth, white rice, and celery. Sometimes she'd add green beans. This combo got me through the first 24-36 hours.

Face Wipes. The first night I was home I wanted to brush my teeth and wash my face. I have an electric toothbrush, so brushing my teeth wasn't too difficult. But washing my face was a different matter. I had thought and prepared for so many daily functions: I had plenty of toilet paper, I figured out how to make coffee one-handed (I grind my own and use a french press), ear plugs I could put in one handed (I had to take out all jewelry, my earplugs took too hands to put in and secure), washing my hair (go to the local cosmetology school)... But I hadn't thought about washing my face. I wish I'd bought some of those face cleaning wipes. I figured out how to wash my face one-handed, but still, the wipes would've been easier.

Insulated Cups and Straws. I have two insulated cups and a set of metal straws. I used one for juice and one for water. I live in the Pacific Northwest, everyone has multiple re-usable cups and straws. If you don't have them, buy them. As you drift in an out of sleep, they will keep your liquids cold.

A Place to Sit/Sleep. You're gonna be sitting and napping a lot. Make yourself someplace comfortable to spend your time. If you have a comfy recliner, consider yourself lucky. A friend of mine does and for the first 24 hours I was jealous of her recliner. I set up a footstool, pillows, a shoulder wrap (which I bought the day before surgery and was a solid investment), a TV tray, and a phone charger. It wasn't fancy, but it was comfy. (But, don't forget, get up and move. Walk. Stand. If you don't, you run the risk of blood clots.)

My Post-Surgery Set Up

That's it for today. My doctor said I could do some typing in recovery, but most of this was done using one hand, and I'm tired. And I want to make some lunch, and go for a walk. Next blog will focus on the things I hadn't expected.....

Me and my wrist

A little over a year ago I tripped over an empty shoe box. Boxes, really. Two of them stacked on top of each other. Doc Martens, to be exact. I fell backwards, hard. I landed on my hip, my knee and then twisted my ankle. I landed so hard I was fairly sure that was the end of my fucked up left knee. But it was fine. I made sure my ankle was okay. Fine, bleeding a little, but fine. Later that day I'd notice a really gnarly bruise. But fine.

Then I noticed my fingers hurt. And the base of my index and middle fingers began to swell and bruise. Fuck, I thought. I just broke my damn hand. I had some meeting I couldn't miss and I began to wonder if I'd have to cancel it so I could get my hand checked out. But I could make a fist and wiggle my fingers. I was fine.

A week or two later I had a doctor's appointment for something else. I was telling her about my fall and how surprised I was that I didn't break anything. I figured part of was because I'm pretty strong and lift weights, so the muscle helped; she agreed.

Fast forward another week or so.... I'm typing away for a couple of hours in my office, something I hadn't done for a long time. And my left wrist began to throb and burn. It hurt so damn bad. I called my doctor to make an appointment. She was pretty sure it was tendonitis, which can be caused by a trauma. The plan: Wear a brace for a few weeks. If it doesn't help, she'd refer me to a hand therapist.

It didn't help. I went to a hand therapist. She made me a new splint. This was December 2018. Some things got better, other things didn't. Then other stuff began to hurt: my shoulder (although my massage therapist gave me a stretch that helped), my elbow, my fingers. By April she said discharged me back to my doctor. I was initially on a six week plan with five goals, after four months, I'd achieved one of those goals. Time for an image.

I got an MRI. It looked like a torn ligament and possible cartilage damage. I was referred to a hand surgeon. Unfortunately, the hand surgeon was retiring and not taking new patients. It was still April and the new guy wasn't starting until July. I opted to see a non-hand doctor orthopedic. He was nice. Really great. He agreed, the symptoms looked like a torn ligament, but he said I really needed to see the hand doctor. Could I wait six week?

Fine.

When I saw him, I had a new Xray. Diagnosis? Ulnocarpel Impingement Syndrome, sometimes called ulnar impaction syndrome. The ulnar bone was a couple millimeters longer than the other bone. This can create pressure and inflammation between the ulna bone and the hand bones and put pressure on the TFCC ligament and cause degradation of the soft tissue. Well, shit.

Conservative treatment: cortisone shots to treat the inflammation. When all else fails: surgery. We did a shot. It hurt. I swore (one "fuck" and one "Jesus christ that hurt!") I could do shots ever four months. Give him a call if I needed another one.

Did it help? No. I waited four months and made an appointment. I was still wearing the brace I'd gotten in December. By this time, I had been wearing some sort of brace for a year. I felt like I had two options: Wear a splint for the rest of my life or have surgery. Based on my previous experience at the same office with a different doctor, I was really worried. I was terrified I'd get there and the hand doctor would tell me to suck it up (buttercup).

When I told him the shot didn't really help, he said, "I'm not surprised given the issue." So we talked next steps, namely surgery (ulnar shortening osteotomy, also: video with blood, without blood). He approached it with a If-you-decide-to-do-this tone. I stopped him, told him I was already in the surgery mindset. I didn't want to wear a splint for the rest of my life. So, we talked specifics. I have a date, I have a recovery calendar. I've done a deep dive into literature about the surgery (success rates, outcomes, etc.). I'm ready. Oh, and to add to this, I've begun to develop tendonitis on the other side of the same hand. Awesome.

And I am. But last night, for the first time in a year, I cried. I did something, like reach for something, and I got a sharp pain in my wrist. It was like a final straw. I teared up and cried. And got angry. Because I am sick and fucking tired of this. I am tired of being in pain. I am tired of feeling broken. I am tired of this splint. I am just pissed off. I'm still pissed off. Its like now that I have a plan and a solution (hopefully), I have reached my fucking limit.

My surgery is scheduled for the beginning of December, and it can't get here fast enough.

My fucked up knees

Three or four years I have found out just how old I am. By that I mean my body began to fall apart. At least that is what it felt like.

Three years ago, I developed a sharp pain in my knee. After a trip to the doctor and some time with my personal trainer, I got an MRI and was sent to an orthopedic surgeon. Diagnosis? Arthritis. And you know what? I cried. I had been in some serious pain for several months. I couldn't walk across the library without it feeling like someone was driving a nail into my knee.

Up to that point, I thought it was a meniscus tear--or something like that because it had come on so suddenly. But arthritis was forever. It was never going away. As I'm sitting there in the doctor's office, all I could think was how this would be my life from here on out. Pain. Lots of it.

During this time, the doctor started telling me how he was five or so years older than me and his knees creaked after he ran, this is what happens when you get old. Surgery couldn't help me. And then he started in talking about weight and exercise. I was like, "So what you are telling me is that I'm old and fat." He was pretty taken aback by my comment. When I cried more, he was like, "It's obvious you are upset." I was offended by his dismissiveness. I tried to explain, that this meant it was forever and I wasn't mentally prepared for that. Shortly after this, he walked out and said, "I'm sorry that it wasn't what you wanted to hear," and he walked out.

Since my appointment with the orthopedic, I had had come to Jesus moment where I realized I needed to take control over my body. It felt like it was failing and I needed to stop that. I bought a bike. I began working with a personal trainer. I began to build muscle to replace the cartilage I'd lost. I began to feel better. Then the other one began to hurt in a new way. New because I fucked up my right knee when I was in college and it had hurt off and on for twenty-plus years. But it began to hurt in a new way.

I went back to my doctor who sent me back to my physical therapist. It was my patella--again. That was the problem the first time with my right knee, but now it was the other side. After a few weeks, she sat me down and said I needed to go back to an orthopedic and advocate for myself. She suggested I go to Seattle and see a sports doctor, not a local surgeon. I wanted to see a local surgeon first. I asked to go to the same doctor a friend went to. And you know what? He was great.

I mean, it's the same issue. I have arthritis. But he told me straight up, "You have the arthritis of a 65 year old." I didn't realize how much I needed to have someone validate my pain. He took the time to explain the issues and answer my questions. Surgery still wasn't an option. I was too young. My BMI was too high (not by much, he said. If I lost 20 pounds I'd be under the limit). My age was the big one because, basically, my insurance wouldn't pay for it. He began to go into the you-need-to-be-more-active speech. I cut him off and told him I exercised.

This is the thing, I'm short, but I am not small. I get really pissed off when people look at me and assume I don't exercise or work out or take care of myself. I don't have high blood pressure. I have low cholesterol, I workout four to five days a week.

So the conversation changed: And I doing more damage when my knees hurt when I walk or workout. The damage is done, he told me. The cartilage isn't coming back. Know my limits, manage the pain, and live my life. If I had knee replacements put in now, I'd probably need two if not three more total replacements by the end of my life, and there would be a good chance they wouldn't be able to do a third one (you lose bone with each surgery). If this happened, I'd be wheelchair-bound. I didn't like the answer, but I understood it. I asked if I saw a third doctor if he'd tell me the same thing. Yes, he said. And if they didn't, they were offering surgery for the wrong reasons.

I had a bunch more questions about different types of treatment. For the most part, my knees were too far gone for those to help. So, great. Thing is? I left his office feeling pretty good. I had answers and I knew what my answers were. But more than that, being treated like my pain was real (because it was)? It was everything.

I worked with my trainer to develop a plan that would maximize muscle in my knees and that would help me develop the strength I needed. I began to take control of my body. Three years later, my knees still bother me but not like they did. I'm still working with a trainer. I'm still not small, but I am strong as fuck. I have upper body strength. My back is strong. My legs, stronger. I can deadlift 210 pounds (I started at 65).

I still have arthritis. I still hurt from time to time. I get stiff, but I know how to handle it. And, goddammit, at some point in my life, I want new knees.

Why all this now? Because for the last year, I've had a fucked up wrist. And in a little over a month, I'm having surgery. And my experience with this has made me look back on the experiences I had when meeting with doctors about my knees and how much it shaped my expectations now. But I'll continue that story in another post.

I'm a Shitty Sick Person

I really am. I get bored. Like super bored. Super duper bored.

Last May I was out with strep. Yes, strep. that thing that you probably haven't had since you were 16. Well, I tested negative for strep, but the doctor was like, "I looks like strep, it sounds like strep, we're treating it like strep." I was out for two weeks, but I stumbled into work when there was something I needed to be there for, and then I'd stumble home and sleep for 48 hours.

Now I have whatever version of head cold is making its way through campus. It's now Monday, and I've been home since Thursday afternoon. I even put a "I'm Sick" away message on my work email because I left in the middle of the day and didn't know how long I'd be out.

This is what I've learned--or re-learned--in the last few days.

• Grocery delivery services are the Best Thing Ever. I had groceries delivered Friday AM. I got things like cough drops, orange juice, NyQuil, soup, and Kleenex. As soon as I opened the door, the woman delivering my groceries said, "I hope you feel better.,"
• Sick Day TV is boring as fuck. Last time I watched a lot of Murder, She Wrote but I kept falling asleep in the middle of it. This time it's been the Food Channel. 
• Not all sleepy time sick medicine is made the same. When I had strep, NyQuil was worthless. So this time I took the same sleepy time cold medicine but it didn't do jack shit. So I was awake at 2am, groggy, watching Beat fucking Bobby Flay on the Food Channel before I finally gave up and took some NyQuil on top of what I already took. Yeah, yeah, I shouldn't mix medicines, blah blah blah, but I lived. And slept. 
• I tried playing Fallout Shelter on my phone. My dwellers keep having babies but there's not enough water, electricity, or food. So I stopped. Apparently those dwellers are still having babies. 
• Unfortunately, NyQuil only goes so far. Saturday night I slept most of the night (meaning I didn't wake up every two hours), but I did wake up at 5am coughing and feeling shitty in a whole new way. So I moved to the couch so I could sleep sitting up. I woke up at 8am feeling like I'd slept sitting up on the couch.
• I went outside today. Outside! For the first time since Saturday. I took out the recycling because it was driving my crazy. And it completely wore me out. 
• Twitter and Facebook are keeping me company. 
• My friends are awesome because one of them delivered pho to me Friday night and another delivered some groceries I forgot to order (frozen strawberries for smoothies, dish soap, and coffee). 
• I ordered a bunch of shit off Etsy. 
• The cats are super happy I'm home. 
• Being sick sucks. 

Eleven Years

Know what? I little more than eleven years ago I arrived at my current destination. It's the longest I've ever lived anywhere--as an adult. Actually, it's the longest I've ever lived anywhere consecutively. Ever. I own my condo. I just refinanced my condo (look at me, being an adult). I refinanced from a 30-year loan to a 15, because if I can get this thing paid off before I retire, awesome.

The last eleven years have been interesting. In some ways, I feel like not much has changed. In others, it feels like everything has changed. I'm older. Duh. I may be wiser. I'm not as anxious. I moved up into a management-type position. A management-type position it turns out I am really good at. I have a solid group of people and friends in my life. I'm settled. Like, seriously, settled.

Since I was in college, I decided that wherever I was living was home. I could go back to my mom's or my dad's or wherever, but, really, where I was living was home. Thing is, that home kept changing.

Generally, I'd move every two or three years. When I worked at Ye Olde University, I stayed for 4.5 years. At that point, that is the longest I'd lived in one place as an adult. Then I moved to the Pacifical Northwest. A few years ago, I had flown back to the Midwest for something. I don't remember if I was in Iowa or Missouri or Wisconsin, but I was waiting for my return flight when I remember thinking, "I'm ready to go home." But this time "home" didn't just mean where I lived. Home meant where I belonged.

This town, this region? This is home. It's a nice feeling. I settled in, I put down some roots, I have a place and people. I'm not really sure I was every truly looking for that, mainly because it took some time for me to realize I'd found it.

But here I am. I'm 49 going on 50, and I've finally found my place and my people.

It's a pretty great feeling.

Vacation Number 2

Listen, the last thing I'm going to do is complain about the benefits that come with my job. Compared to most, I'm golden. I have decent insurance and I get a crap ton of vacation.

I'm not trying to rub it in or anything, but I'm trying to explain how or why I took a second vacation in one summer.

Last year? The last academic year? It was rough. My job changed a lot over the last year and I had more responsibility than I've had before. And it challenged me more than anything--professionally--ever has. I never wanted to be a manager or supervise or be in charge of anything. Well... Never say never. I manage shit. I herd cats. And it turns out I'm fairly good at it. But it required a mental shift I wasn't expecting. When the academic year was over, I needed a serious break.

I got one. And it was great. But there were other things I had hoped to do before my vacation, like clean my condo and just be. But in the month before my vacation, I came down with a serious case of strep and was out of commission for two weeks.

Work wise, this summer has been good, but hard. There's been a lot of emotional and mental work. And each Sunday night, the thought of going to work was exhausting. And when I found myself telling myself that I didn't have the time to take a vacation, I realized I really needed a vacation.

So after some rearranging of meetings and schedules, I took the week off. And on Monday all I could think about was how much I never wanted to work again. Ever. Anywhere. By Wednesday, I had cleaned my condo from top to bottom and I was feeling less mentally overwhelmed and more comfortable in my home and with everything. And I realized that even though I knew I needed a vacation, I didn't realize just how badly I needed one.

My mom is here (she just arrived) and it's Labor Day weekend, so I am actually off until the middle of next week. So even though it's Friday of my vacation week, I don't have to go back until Wednesday.

Oh, and I refinanced my condo from a 30 year loan to a 15 year loan. Because apparently I'm a grown up and I make decisions like that now. It's kinda awesome. And also kinda weird.

Let's go for a Drive

I’m at the tail end of my vacation. I took three weeks off as soon as classes were over. It’s been one hell of an academic year and I needed a serious break. (At one point, I may have referred to this last year as a “motherfucking doozy.” And it was.)

The first two weeks were in Iowa. My niece graduated from high school earlier this month. My nephew graduated three years ago and I took the train (Empire Builder, specifically) to Chicago, saw Hamilton, and then made my way to Iowa. It was a good trip (and maybe I’ll blog about that later). I would love to’ve Been there for G’s graduation, but the timing didn’t work. And I wanted to take some significant time, rent a car, and see all the different folks I wanted to see. Also, after the last Motherfucking Doozy Year, me, a car, an Iowa highway, and no schedule seemed like fucking paradise. Because there is something about being on a two-lane Iowa highway: it's time to think. It’s time to not think. It’s a level of freedom that can be difficult to explain.

I suspect it’s a rural thing to get into your car and just drive. Sundays in the Midwest? Church, Sunday dinner, and a drive. You'd check out the crops. You'd look at your neighbor’s houses. I didn’t grown up in a totally rural town and we didn’t regularly go on Sunday drives, but we still drove. In CF we cruised, like you do, up and down University Ave. It’s where you went to see and be seen. Same thing in my Dad’s town, but you drove around the high school. In the summer, you hopped on the back of a motorcycle and drove: around town, in the country—whatever. It was all a form of freedom.

That’s what I wanted. And that’s what I got.

I hit a good chunk of eastern Iowa: Davenport to Iowa City with a quick trip to Brooklyn (Iowa, not NY, duh), Des Moines, Reinbeck, lunch in Cedar Falls, Decorah, and then back to Davenport. I took one quick trip back to Iowa City for the evening.

My Route

Much of my time was spent drive back and forth on I-80. But I drove on some state highways, like 330, 14, 218, and 61. I also hit numerous county rounds that I don’t remember, or that go by names like, Zaneta, or simply “the black top.” 

I was on my way to Reinbeck (Google it, there are two of them, the one in Iowa, and the Reinbek that’s a suburb of Hamburg, Germany). Reinbeck is one of those towns where everyone knows everyone and I'm related to about 75% of them. I was going there to visit the cemetery, to see some family, and try to reconnect/repair some relationships, but that’s a different story. 

Iowa, off HWY 14, driving towards Reinbeck 

There’s no doubt that Iowa is flat. But it has its own beauty. When I was back in Iowa to take are of things after my dad died, I remember driving to to Reinbeck (via Zaneta) and seeing a truck drive down a gravel road. It was September. It was harvest (or just past harvest) and everything was a different shade of gold (literally, Harvest Gold). So, the truck was hauling ass on the gravel road and throwing up all this dust, and I remember being struck by the absolute beauty of it. I grew up here. This is part of who I am, even if I’m not here anymore.  

What a lot of people don’t realize that parts of Iowa are hilly. Iowa is bordered by the Mississippi and Missouri Rivers and there are bluffs on both sides. But extreme northeast Iowa is part of the Driftless Area, meaning it’s unglaciated. When I lived in southwest Wisconsin, I was in the Driftless Area. It’s hilly and has bluffs and is all around lovely—and unlike what most people think of when they think of Iowa (if they think of Iowa at all). Decorah, where by BFF lives, is in the Driftless Area. 

BFF lived with my mom and I one summer, and we used to drive all over Grant County, Wisconsin, getting lost on county roads and just taking in all the terrain. I spent one night in Decorah with BFF, and she drove me around town, giving my some of the local history, showing my some of her favorite places. And I also found out I have lost all tolerance for twisty, turns gravel roads. 

Decorah

Decorah is one of those towns that isn't on the way to anywhere. To get there you need to take a series of county roads. I drove from Decorah south to Davenport--a three-ish hour drive. County road to county road took me through the unglaciated hills of Iowa. I got a glimpse of the Mississippi as I drove into Guttenburg. I was able to avoid the black sucking hole that is Dubuque. I took a couple of wrong turns but still got to where I was going.

And it was awesome. While it was great seeing friends and family, one of the best parts of the trip was simple driving through the countryside.
 

Hey, look. I remembered my password

Hey, there, Interwebs. The Yankee Librarian is back.

Honestly, I didn’t go anywhere, I just forgot my password. And email. And I didn’t feel like figuring all that shit out. But after couple beers from New Glarus, I decided to get back into my account—and I did.

Listen, the last blog post I wrote was in 2015. A lot has changed. I don’t need to make a list.

In the last four years, I’ve thought about making various posts or I’ve half written them in my head, but then nothing happened.

So, this is simply an introductory post to announce to my five followers that I’m resurrecting this blog. Let’s see how long it will last.