The RV

For some reason, more than 10 year ago, my mom decided to buy an RV. She had dreams of traveling around the States with her own traveling kitchen- despite the fact that the only RV vacation we had ever been on together was a disaster.

So we bought an RV.

The RV, parked outside our house.

The thing is, my mom never followed through on planning any trips in the RV. So it sat in our driveway for years. The furthest it's been driven is from our old house to our new house when we moved. So what do you do with an RV in your driveway?

First off, make sure you put cardboard under the wheels. In a pinch, cinder blocks or scraps of 2x4 would work too.

Next, I'm sure you were previously unaware, that unused RVs work very well as storage space. Which is precisely what the RV has become. A large, somewhat portable, storage unit that sits in our driveway.

Perfectly normal, right?

Lost in the Woods, Part 2

Remember that time when my mom got lost and ended up atop her "own" mountain? Well, undeterred, she still continued doggedly to train for her Mount Whitney summit bid. (Warning: long but funny story ahead with no photos- sorry!)

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It was well past bedtime (read: 11pm for this surgery resident) in Salt Lake City when I got a text from my dad in California.

DAD: Can you please call search and rescue. Your mom and I go on hiking she is not come back.

Huh?

I called, but he didn't pick up. I tried again. And one more time. Finally he picked up. He sounded frantic.

"Dad? What's going on?" I asked.

"Your mother!" He proceeded to tell me a long story about how "you know your mother!" She had picked out an 8-mile hike but they hadn't gotten to the trailhead until 4pm. She and my dad had headed out together, but again, because my dad hikes too slowly, my mom had ditched him and forged on ahead. Once it started getting dark, he had turned around and headed back to the trailhead, where he had waited for her for hours well after dark. Getting worried, he had tried to call for help, but didn't have any reception. He had driven several miles from the trailhead just to get reception to text me. He had tried to call my mom too, but either she didn't have reception either or her phone was dead. He wanted me to call Search and Rescue so he could head back up to the trailhead and wait, just in case my mom turned up.

"Okay, Dad. Where are you?" I asked.

He then proceeded to describe how they had gotten there, but couldn't tell me a name of a trailhead or any mile markings. I Google Map'ed the location he had mentioned, but couldn't see any marked trailheads or hikes on the map. But he said that one of my mom's hiking friends had told her about the hike. I called him back again, but he didn't pick up. He must have already headed back to the trailhead.

Sigh.

So remember Kay Maser from the previous story? Thankfully, her email signature had included a phone number. So I gave her a ring.

"Hi... is this Kay? My name is Alice. I'm Jan's daughter? I'm really sorry for calling so late..."

"Yes, this is Kay."

"So, my mom is still out hiking and my dad can't find her. He's been waiting for her at the trailhead for a while but doesn't have any reception. He said that somebody from her hiking group had told her about the hike? Would you happen to know where she is?"

"Yes, I suggested that she do The 8-mile Hike* today. What time is it? 11pm?! She's still out there???"

I explained how my parents had started off late again, how my mom had ditched my dad again, and how now my dad had been waiting for my mom for hours. Kay said that she would try to help. I got off the phone with her and began Googling the phone number for Search and Rescue in Southern California. No luck.

So I dialed 9-1-1. Sort of an emergency, right?

"9-1-1, what is your emergency?"

"Hi, I need to reach Search and Rescue, but not in Utah. In the LA area? My mom is out hiking and she hasn't come back."

I got transferred back and forth, with all parties being confused as to exactly under whose jurisdiction my mother was located. Finally, I was on with Search and Rescue for the Wrightwood area and they said that they would dispatch a team to look for her. Kay had reached them too- the officer I was speaking with said that another woman was also searching for an Asian woman measuring about 5'4".

I had spent more than an hour on the phone, worried sick. My phone beeped, and I looked at it- another call from my dad. Telling the officer to hold, I took the call.

It was my mom on the phone.

"MOM?!?! Are you okay? Where's dad?"

"Dad is here, he is driving so I am on the phone."

"What? Where are you?"

"We coming down the mountain now in car."

"So Dad found you? You're okay."

"Yes, of course. He always so over-reacting."

"MOM, I CALLED SEARCH AND RESCUE THEY ARE HEADING OUT TO FIND YOU!!! ... Hold on."

I switched the call back to Search and Rescue. "Hi... sorry. That was my mom. She returned to the trailhead and she and my dad are heading home now. I'm really sorry for the trouble... could you please tell Kay that she is okay... Thank you so so much for your help. Yes. Um, thanks again. And sorry. Goodbye..."

I hung up, switched back to my mother and then proceeded to thoroughly berate her for worrying us sick, keeping me up half the night on the phone with Search and Rescue, and made her promise never, ever to do this again- and that if she were going to go hiking, that she needed to plan ahead and start early.

"Yes, yes yes. Next time, yes," she promised. "Your father, he always is over-reacting. No one need to Search and Rescue."

I banged my head against the wall a few times, thanked God that my mom was safe, and then finally went to bed.

*I unfortunately do not remember the name of the hike or trailhead. =(

The Chicken-y Cutting Board

My mom has been long forbidden to touch anything in my kitchen, for a variety of reasons going back since I was in college. So, when they come to visit, usually either myself or my sister is watching her like a hawk to make sure she isn't trying to do something like sneak vegetables into our soups or put my knives back without cleaning them.

One of these visits, I was preparing a chicken, sausage, and white bean soup. It's a great wintertime slow cooker recipe, and I was trying it for the first time. The ingredient list called for fennel, which was a vegetable I had never cooked with before.

The strange vegetable known as fennel.

Being most familiar with Asian cooking throughout childhood, this was an ingredient I had never cooked with before. Thankfully, my cookbook had thoughtfully included a section on how to prepare a fennel bulb for use. As instructed, I cut off my fennel bulb's leafy frondy stalks, and discarded them in the trash. I then took out another cutting board and cubed the chicken breast. As the chicken was browning, I took my chicken-y cutting board and knife and stuck them in the sink to be washed.

"Ach! What's this?" I then heard my mom exclaim. She was looking in the trash bin.

"What?" I asked.

"This! So much in trash- so wasteful!" She held up some fennel stalks, having picked them out of the trash.

"Mom, that's fennel. That part isn't edible. You can cook fish on top of them or use the leaves for seasoning, but I don't have any plans for that before they'd spoil," I explained. Puzzled by the prospect of throwing so much greenery away, I had looked it up myself before I had started cooking.

"Mmm..." she muttered.

I turned back to cooking, turning the chicken cubes to brown and adding in more vegetables. When I turned around again, my mom was on the other side of the kitchen with her fennel stalks, using my chicken-y cutting board and my chicken-y knife from the sink to cut the fennel stalks into pieces. And then sticking those pieces raw into her mouth.

"MOM!" I yelped. "You can't do that! I cut chicken on that cutting board with the knife!"

My mom looked up. "What? Why not?"

Incredulous, I asked, "Why not?! Haven't you heard of Salmonella?! You're going to get sick!"

"Nooo," she scoffed. "I have a strong immune system." She continued working at the fennel with the knife and putting pieces of it in her mouth.

"Mom..." I started.

"Ai, you worry too much," she interrupted me.

I sighed and continued cooking, thinking to myself that this was yet another reason why she was not allowed in the kitchen.

Salmonella! (Source.)

As a side note, she didn't get Salmonella. Lucky for her. Although in a perverse way, I wish she had, because then I WOULD HAVE BEEN RIGHT!!! (But she would not have learned a lesson from it, because she is incapable of learning from life experiences...)

The Poopy Tomatoes, Part 3

Who'da thunk there would be a part three to this story? (See parts 1 and 2, here and here.)

My parents came to visit about a month ago, to see their new grandson and to spend the holidays. I was still on holiday break, but my husband had gone back to work already.

"See any interesting cases at work today?" my dad asked my husband.

"Not really..." my husband replied, but then told them about a twitter feed, @radiopaedia, that shows an interesting radiology finding once a day. Then he had an idea. He showed them this CT scan:

CT scan showing numerous cysts from cysticercosis. (eMedicine)

My parents were duly impressed. He explained that these cysts are from the pork tapeworm, Taenia solium.

Scolex of Taenia solium. Shudder. (Source.)

Humans become infected when they eat raw or undercooked pork. Infected hosts then shed ova in their stool, and when these ova are ingested, the parasite can then go to the brain and cause cysts which can then lead to seizures.  This parasitic infection is hence continued by the fecal-oral route since the tapeworm's eggs are in the infected human's feces.

Life cycle of T. soleum. (CDC)

"And that's one reason why you shouldn't fertilize with human feces," my husband concluded.

"But we don't eat pork," argued my mother.

"You don't have to. When somebody else eats contaminated pork, it's their feces that contain the parasite eggs. When you fertilize with feces, the eggs contaminate fruits and vegetables that are grown in that soil, and when you eat those fruits and vegetables, you can get the parasite."

"But the vegetables are on the plants, and the soil is on the ground."

My husband then pointed out that the ova can be spread simply by insects landing on the ground and then on the produce.

"It must be so rare. I have never seen this before."

"Actually, it's pretty common. And why would somebody who presents with acute seizures or severe headache and encephalopathy present to you?" my husband questioned. My mother has an outpatient Internal Medicine practice. "They are going to be in the ER being seen by neurology."

At this point, my dad started getting very concerned. "Maybe we should get CT scans to see if we have it."

"Well, we stopped fertilizing that way 6 months ago," my mom claimed.

"Doesn't matter," my husband said. "The soil is already contaminated."

"Well, how do we get rid of it?"

"I don't know. I'm not a farmer!" My husband sighed. "See, this is why I'm worried about bringing our son to your house in California. Also, it makes me concerned that you guys don't use soap to wash dishes, so all of the dishes are basically breeding grounds for bacteria."

"Oh, and soap kills bacteria?" my mom scoffed.*

Waaaiiiiit a second. Back up. Apparently my mom started a Hepatology fellowship, but then switched to Infectious Disease. Infectious Disease. Granted, she didn't finish the fellowship because she became pregnant with my little sister. Maybe they don't learn about parasites or the benefits of SOAP until the end of the fellowship, because my mother doesn't know about either!

My parents finally left later that evening, very disturbed and hopefully will never fertilize with human poop again. (I am still not going to eat anything from that garden though...)

*sidebar: technically, regular soap does not "kill" bacteria, but allows it to detach from our skin/dishes and then get washed off with water.

Lost in the Woods, or Mommy's Helicopter Ride

My mom is painfully goal-oriented. This is definitely an admirable trait, and is responsible for how my mother has gotten far in life. However, I would posit that she is goal-oriented to a fault. In 2012, she decided that she was going to climb Mount Whitney. I am not sure how she got this idea, but I think it started with a group of women at her church who decided to train for and climb Mount Whitney together.

Mount Whitney, photo from Wikipedia

So this story is difficult to tell, because I got all of my information about it in fragmented form, but it started with an email from my mom entitled "Fw: Mommy's Helicopter Ride" with this attached video:

Huh???

One day later, I got this email written by a Kay Maser* forwarded from my dad:

Fw: Another Story About Mommy's Helicopter Ride

So, it was brought to my attention that my message Tuesday evening seemed to have some urgency.  I meant to fill you all in, but the night became very late.   Sorry to keep you in the dark...

Yes, there was a sense of urgency in my message, but I was driving and trying to 'text' ... 

After missing a gathering for a hike and hikers being unwilling to wait due to impending darkness, Jan [my mom] (yes, our Jan) said she was on her way and would start up the trail, planning to meet us on our way down.

When we didn't cross paths, I'd assumed she decided against the idea.

After a stop at the grocery store, I returned home to find a text message from Jan.  The message had been sent nearly an hour before and requested that I call rescuers because she was stuck up on top of the mountain and couldn't get down. 

There I was calling the Sheriff's Search and Rescue, while trying to reach her husband to see if he'd heard anything... while driving like a bat out of hell back to the trailhead. Search and rescue members were already on the mountain and in communication by cell, her husband 

So - upon arrival, there was Jan's husband, Peter (who had been hiking part of the trail with her), a nice young man that assisted Peter back to the main trail when Jan ventured further, and Sheriff volunteers. 

A very exciting (and cold) evening which ended in Jan's personal helicopter ride from the top of 'her' mountain to a nearby park. 

Thanks Cathy, for the number (and offer to come join in the wait).  Thanks Carol T for the call and for letting everyone else know that I'd received the information. 

See you all next week when Carol F. leads us! 

Easter Blessings to all!

Kay Maser

So let's hit the high points, shall we?
1. My mom seems to be physically incapable of getting anywhere on time, so she misses the group meeting at the trailhead.
2. She ditches my dad because he hikes too slowly for her.
3. She gets lost.
4. She ends up at the top of a different mountain. (Or "her" mountain, as she referred to it when I called her about this fiasco.)
5. She can't get back down.
6. Search and rescue gets called.
7. And they have to rescue her by helicopter.

My. Mom. Is. Amazing.


*name changed for privacy reasons

The Chihuahuas

Winter 2008, I called home to tell my mom that I was going to drive up from San Diego to visit. "Oh good," she had said. "You can meet the dogs."

The dogs?!?!

Let me take a step back and explain. My parents don't understand having pets, mostly because they find that they have little utility and are expensive. To them, buying food for a pet to eat is akin to throwing money down the toilet. Although my sister and I did manage to beg our way into owning a few pets as children, pets were never viewed as part of the family. For instance, when our pet bunny got weird stuff in her ears, the solution was not to take her to the vet, but to "let her go." Since we lived up in the foothills, this really meant "let the coyotes or mountain lions eat her." As kids we didn't really understand this. Eventually, we did beg our way into owning two cats: one of which we still own. She lives at my parent's house, and my parents only begrudgingly care for her because we remind them to and cry if we come home and see her doing poorly.

So. Dogs. Completely out of character, and without months of begging from their children. I was perplexed.

"Dogs, Mom?!" I exclaimed. "Um... what type? How many?"

"Two of them. Small dogs."

"Two dogs?? Like, what breed? Are they mutts?"

"Oh, I don't know. But they are small."

"Why in the world did you guys decide to get dogs???"

"You know we have the groundhogs in the backyard. Bad. They ruin the lawn." This was true. Last time I was home, I had noticed the burrows and piles of dirt in the backyard. My mom had even had somebody drive a car back there so they could try to pipe exhaust into their tunnels to drive them out, but this hadn't worked. "A patient tell me a good way to get rid of groundhogs is to have dogs. They run across the ground and the sound scare the groundhogs away."

That's right, my mom had gotten dogs because she wanted to get rid of groundhogs.

I came home to visit, and discovered that my mom had gotten two yappy, mean, and obnoxious Chihuahuas.

Unfortunately, not the actual Chihuahuas. The ones they had looked meaner.

Where had she gotten them from? Apparently, somebody was giving them away at the park. And where were they staying? In the pool house. (This was before the pool house was being rented to the Tent Person.) When I was home, I went by the pool house to meet the dogs. It was the middle of the winter in California, which isn't cold by any sort of standards, but definitely is cold for two short-haired Chihuahuas living in a poorly insulated structure without heat. Or blankets, for that matter. The two pitiful dogs were shivering in a kennel placed on the cold cement floor. And my poor cat was terrified of them and was nowhere to be found.

My sister and I told my parents that this was a terrible idea and that if they were going to have dogs, they ought to take care of them. We then left after the weekend, and the next time I visited home, the dogs were gone. I didn't ask any questions.

Finally, a few years later, I found out that my mom was getting her hair done and her hairdresser mentioned that her children wanted dogs, so she had given them away.

"Better than your dad's idea," she told me, "to drive somewhere and drop them off far enough away so they can't find their way back."

The Poopy Tomatoes, Part 2

I never thought that there would be second part to this story. But then I asked my sister to take pictures of various things when she went back home to LA, and returned with these photos:

White, plastic material?

Laying around in the dirt?

DIAPERS, perhaps?!

That's right folks, apparently they aren't putting them in a pot, punching holes into the pot, and burying them in the ground. My mom is just putting my grandma's dirty diapers on top of the dirt in her garden, spraying them off, and letting them decompose there. You know, quickly, like plastic does.

I AM SO GLAD I DIDN'T EAT THOSE TOMATOES!!!