Forgot about the blog. Got so used to having a left foot immobilized and swinging around like a monkey on crutches, just forgot. Still hate the cast, and the crutches, but it's not as bad as it was. Been since Nov. 7, the surgery, first two weeks in a splint, then since in a rock-hard but wonderfully holiday-colored cast. Must say, it's lovely. Must say, it's making me say stuff like "Must say, it's lovely." I'll stop now.
ONE WEEK TO GO! This time next week, the cast is off, a walking cast/boot is on and therapy can begin, I am so ready for this. Much as I'm used to the cast and crutches, it totally blows to not be able to carry a goddam thing, save for a cup or plate and gingerly at that. I mean I carry my laptop bag every day, over my shoulder, that's not TOO bad, but can't really shamble up stairs with things in my hand. Laundry has suffered, my daughter's moved and she's not around to help me bring it down and up, so I have a huge basket full, ready to somehow get downstairs, in the car, to the laundromat. I'm thinking of doing it in bags. Or maybe lowering it down on a rope out my kitchen window. Shit, I think that would work!! Of course anyone can see where this is going, any time any mechanically impaired male (me) thinks he has a great idea involving moving parts and/or physics, he's screwed, things will not end well. Does it keep us from trying? FUCK NO! Bring on the rope, I'm ready.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Candy is dandy and on a cast it's a gas
OK, bad headline. But I went to the doctor today, 16 days after surgery, to get stitches out and splint changed. I thought I'd get a walking boot, but doc said no, we'll put you in a cast for four weeks, let the surgery heal up right and proper. I can't argue that. I mean, it was ruptured, and they took both broken ends, sewed them together and then sewed in the big-toe tendon to make it even more secure. So yeah, I can see letting it heal and immobility is about the only way. Sucks it's for four weeks, but it is what it is. Then the walking boot goes on and therapy starts. Can't wait.
But the cast is cool, hope to post photo of it. Guess they don't do run-of-the-mill casts anymore, the guy asked what color I wanted, and was going with blue, but he said "I can do a candy cane thing, red with green stripes," so I said sure. And that's what I got. Rather dashing, I must say, and fits the season. Will find out at Thanksgiving dinner just how smashing others think it is, too...
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Two plus weeks..are we there yet?
OK, now I'm getting impatient, which I knew would happen. Was two weeks ago yesterday I had surgery, and it's gone well, very little pain, a little twinge, twitch, tickle here and there, probably healing, I'm getting around, albeit slowly on crutches, but almost feel normal. Save for this club foot that's preventing me from free movement, playing hockey, skiing, walking like a normal human, etc.
So now I'm officially in the "Are we there yet?" stage. I knew it would happen. I have been VERY good about keeping the hoof up for the past two weeks to minimize swelling and it's worked, I have it down a lot now, leg crossed, on floor whatever, and it doesn't feel all puffy and fat, just feels like, well, a club foot. That's a hard part, too, getting used to the big old bandage around my whole lower leg, plus splint beneath. In bed it feels like I'm wearing a massive boot and 10 pairs of heavy socks.
But now I want to start therapy. I can't, they said six weeks on crutches, and I get it, but my head doesn't. It wants to move and move now. I know I can't Must convince that big open space 'tween my ears to go slow.
I've never gone slow. Every injury I've ever had, I've pushed to come back and always have. Mind you, this is THE most serious one ever and then I was well, much younger and more able to rebound. So I must go slow. Head, are you listening???
I go to doc tomorrow, taking the stitches out, I think like 30 in all, should be fun. Then a new splint and wrap. I have many questions to ask, like when can I put weight on, is there anything I can do between now and therapy to help myself out, things like that. I have many, many questions. Thankfully, they're very, very patient. Whereas, me, not so much. So we get along.
had fun with Jess today. I needed food but can't get around a store with carriage, and I surely can't carry anything to car, up stairs, etc. So we went and I got me one of those little electric grocery carts, you know, the types really old people and cripples use? Well, I'm not REALLY old, but I am cripple. At first, I felt self conscious, especially with Jessie laughing at me and taking cell photos (expect them on Facebook soon, I love that kid), but then I got used to it and it was rather fun. For one thing, it reminded me of being a kid and seeing things at three-foot level. For another, I was driving something. Men are like that. We like driving things. We like golf carts for example, and boats and things we can command. We're weird like that. That's just the way we are. And we never ask directions. In my little electric golf cart, I never stopped once for directions. I did, however, have to swap my first one out for another, the battery was dying. Jess wondered what would happen if it died in the middle of an aisle. I said you'd just sit there and turn into a skeleton if no one found you. Then again you'd have lots to eat. Unless you were in housewares or detergent. ugh.
OK, back to work.
So now I'm officially in the "Are we there yet?" stage. I knew it would happen. I have been VERY good about keeping the hoof up for the past two weeks to minimize swelling and it's worked, I have it down a lot now, leg crossed, on floor whatever, and it doesn't feel all puffy and fat, just feels like, well, a club foot. That's a hard part, too, getting used to the big old bandage around my whole lower leg, plus splint beneath. In bed it feels like I'm wearing a massive boot and 10 pairs of heavy socks.
But now I want to start therapy. I can't, they said six weeks on crutches, and I get it, but my head doesn't. It wants to move and move now. I know I can't Must convince that big open space 'tween my ears to go slow.
I've never gone slow. Every injury I've ever had, I've pushed to come back and always have. Mind you, this is THE most serious one ever and then I was well, much younger and more able to rebound. So I must go slow. Head, are you listening???
I go to doc tomorrow, taking the stitches out, I think like 30 in all, should be fun. Then a new splint and wrap. I have many questions to ask, like when can I put weight on, is there anything I can do between now and therapy to help myself out, things like that. I have many, many questions. Thankfully, they're very, very patient. Whereas, me, not so much. So we get along.
had fun with Jess today. I needed food but can't get around a store with carriage, and I surely can't carry anything to car, up stairs, etc. So we went and I got me one of those little electric grocery carts, you know, the types really old people and cripples use? Well, I'm not REALLY old, but I am cripple. At first, I felt self conscious, especially with Jessie laughing at me and taking cell photos (expect them on Facebook soon, I love that kid), but then I got used to it and it was rather fun. For one thing, it reminded me of being a kid and seeing things at three-foot level. For another, I was driving something. Men are like that. We like driving things. We like golf carts for example, and boats and things we can command. We're weird like that. That's just the way we are. And we never ask directions. In my little electric golf cart, I never stopped once for directions. I did, however, have to swap my first one out for another, the battery was dying. Jess wondered what would happen if it died in the middle of an aisle. I said you'd just sit there and turn into a skeleton if no one found you. Then again you'd have lots to eat. Unless you were in housewares or detergent. ugh.
OK, back to work.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Ambulatoriness is wonderful
Don't even know if that's a word, ambulatoriness. Should be. Anyway, I am. Up to a point. Doc cleared me yesterday to drive. I went, with Jess, she drove, and doc says wound looks great, healing well. I never, ever listen to doctors, or didn't when I was younger, I just plunged ahead into recovery and did what I wanted when I wanted. Not this time. They said sit around a lot with foot up, I did. And I guess that's why their doctors, they appear to know what they're saying.
Anyway, doc says sure, drive, just don't overdo it. So I've been driving since yesterday, and it's not bad, little pain if it's down too long, but then I get wherever and put the hoof up. Sucks being on crutches, still, I mean, so much planning to just get around and getting up and down stairs from this shit apartment, with it's curling stairwell and ailing cat always camped on one of the steps that refuses to move no matter how hard I whack him with the crutch (and I LOVE cats, if I didn't, little phucker would be dead now), but I'm getting by.
Went to Beth's last night and on way home today, stopped at car dealer to see cars with Jess, then went for haircut, home, took nap. Felt old. I mean really, a nap? But I just needed it. And I'm listening to my body now. Usually listen to just the one part all men love, but not any more, listening to the whole thing now and if it needs rest, rest it gets.
Also found out my barber, great guy, Tony, can't recall his last name, but it's Italian, is retiring end of the year. Been down the Weir for 44 years, I can't imagine being in one spot that long, but he's calling it quits.
Funny think about barbers you get used to, they leave, retire, whatever, you feel deprived. I told him it's like having a doctor you like, or whatever who you go to, get to know. When they leave, it's like "You can't go! You're MY barber (or whatever)!!!" I feel abandoned. He has a new guy taking over, will give him a shot, younger guy. Tony's been great, just a classy gentleman, great head of snow-white hair, friendly, remembers who you are, what you do. Make a helluva bartender, too. anyway, he'll be missed, and by lots who've known him longer than I...
Anyway, doc says sure, drive, just don't overdo it. So I've been driving since yesterday, and it's not bad, little pain if it's down too long, but then I get wherever and put the hoof up. Sucks being on crutches, still, I mean, so much planning to just get around and getting up and down stairs from this shit apartment, with it's curling stairwell and ailing cat always camped on one of the steps that refuses to move no matter how hard I whack him with the crutch (and I LOVE cats, if I didn't, little phucker would be dead now), but I'm getting by.
Went to Beth's last night and on way home today, stopped at car dealer to see cars with Jess, then went for haircut, home, took nap. Felt old. I mean really, a nap? But I just needed it. And I'm listening to my body now. Usually listen to just the one part all men love, but not any more, listening to the whole thing now and if it needs rest, rest it gets.
Also found out my barber, great guy, Tony, can't recall his last name, but it's Italian, is retiring end of the year. Been down the Weir for 44 years, I can't imagine being in one spot that long, but he's calling it quits.
Funny think about barbers you get used to, they leave, retire, whatever, you feel deprived. I told him it's like having a doctor you like, or whatever who you go to, get to know. When they leave, it's like "You can't go! You're MY barber (or whatever)!!!" I feel abandoned. He has a new guy taking over, will give him a shot, younger guy. Tony's been great, just a classy gentleman, great head of snow-white hair, friendly, remembers who you are, what you do. Make a helluva bartender, too. anyway, he'll be missed, and by lots who've known him longer than I...
Monday, November 14, 2011
Sure sign of the (personal) apocalypse
Been a week now since operation, healing well, far as I know (it's under wraps, could be festering and teeming with dangerous microbes, who knows), and no pain, well, little from time to time but not bad.
Been locked up here since last Tuesday which, if I'm not mistaken, is the absolute longest time I've been in one small place since...I hesitate to say the womb, but close. Been here a long, long time, seems longer really than it's been, but since I'm restless to start with, it's been a challenge. I work regularly, have my hoof up next to my computer as I type this, following doctor's "toes above nose" orders to keep wound elevated above the heart as best I can, hoping it speeds recovery.
But cabin fever has officially set in. Big time. I'm going freaking nuts. I hate day-time TV, and much at night, and read the Kindle when I can, but prefer to work through the day to maintain some sense of normalcy and routine.
But I can tell my mind is mush because of what just happened. Just had "The Death Talk" with Mickey. My cat. Honestly. The fat tub of fur, all 18 pounds, was laying in a sun beam on the living room floor and I was just standing there, on crutches, looking at him and this conversation actually took place:
Me: Hey.
Mickey: (just stares)
Me: Lemme ask you something...
Mickey: (Just stares)
Me: Say I just fell right now, hit my head and died, right here, on the floor. Say I wasn't checked on by other people, lucky I am really, but say I wasn't. Say I died, and in a day or two you ran out of food and no one knew I was dead.
Mickey: (Just stares)
Me: Now correct me if I'm wrong, but I always heard that a cat, when trapped in a house with a dead person, that cat, or cats if there's a bunch, will get really hungry and then start eating the dead person, but starting with the eyeballs, cause it's the softest part of the body.
Mickey: (Just stares)
Me: Makes sense, I guess, path of least resistance and all. But anyway, just wondering if that's true. Whaddya think? Is it true?
Mickey: (Just stares)
Me: Stop looking at my eyes like that, I know what you're thinking.
Mickey: (Just stares)
Me: OK, fine, but just remember how nice I've been to you all these years. I took you out of the pound, gave you a home, loved you, fed you, cleaned your litter box. Just don't forget, OK?
Mickey: (Just stares)
Me: (Just stares)
Mickey (Just stares. Wins. I move back into my office, sit down)
Me: Please stop staring. I know you are.
Mickey: Just make sure you land face up.
Me: I'll try.
Mickey: (Just stares)
I need to get out of the house. And not fall down in front of Mickey on the way out.
Been locked up here since last Tuesday which, if I'm not mistaken, is the absolute longest time I've been in one small place since...I hesitate to say the womb, but close. Been here a long, long time, seems longer really than it's been, but since I'm restless to start with, it's been a challenge. I work regularly, have my hoof up next to my computer as I type this, following doctor's "toes above nose" orders to keep wound elevated above the heart as best I can, hoping it speeds recovery.
But cabin fever has officially set in. Big time. I'm going freaking nuts. I hate day-time TV, and much at night, and read the Kindle when I can, but prefer to work through the day to maintain some sense of normalcy and routine.
But I can tell my mind is mush because of what just happened. Just had "The Death Talk" with Mickey. My cat. Honestly. The fat tub of fur, all 18 pounds, was laying in a sun beam on the living room floor and I was just standing there, on crutches, looking at him and this conversation actually took place:
Me: Hey.
Mickey: (just stares)
Me: Lemme ask you something...
Mickey: (Just stares)
Me: Say I just fell right now, hit my head and died, right here, on the floor. Say I wasn't checked on by other people, lucky I am really, but say I wasn't. Say I died, and in a day or two you ran out of food and no one knew I was dead.
Mickey: (Just stares)
Me: Now correct me if I'm wrong, but I always heard that a cat, when trapped in a house with a dead person, that cat, or cats if there's a bunch, will get really hungry and then start eating the dead person, but starting with the eyeballs, cause it's the softest part of the body.
Mickey: (Just stares)
Me: Makes sense, I guess, path of least resistance and all. But anyway, just wondering if that's true. Whaddya think? Is it true?
Mickey: (Just stares)
Me: Stop looking at my eyes like that, I know what you're thinking.
Mickey: (Just stares)
Me: OK, fine, but just remember how nice I've been to you all these years. I took you out of the pound, gave you a home, loved you, fed you, cleaned your litter box. Just don't forget, OK?
Mickey: (Just stares)
Me: (Just stares)
Mickey (Just stares. Wins. I move back into my office, sit down)
Me: Please stop staring. I know you are.
Mickey: Just make sure you land face up.
Me: I'll try.
Mickey: (Just stares)
I need to get out of the house. And not fall down in front of Mickey on the way out.
Saturday, November 12, 2011
My Big Hurt Left Foot - The Weekend with a Weak Foot
Weekends are no big deal to me, usually. I mean I have no set schedule for work, I work pretty much every day, doing what I want, when I want, how much I want, etc. Writers get to do that. The work is there, always there, so it's just a matter of spreading it out. I haven't had a 9-5 job in almost 15 years, and to be honest, I love it that way.
So the whole TGIF thing is lost on me. Thank God it's Friday may as well be Thank God it's quarter to four on a Wednesday morning. Really doesn't matter. I do work every day, sometimes a little, sometimes a lot. The days all blend together.
But with the bum hoof leaving me homebound now for the fifth straight day, I'm more aware of the delineation of days, probably because I'm living every one, every 24 hour period of every day, here, right here, on the couch, my desk, the futon, bouncing between all of them on crutches. I know when it's Thursday because I can't wait for Friday because then it'll be Saturday which turns into Sunday and then Monday's gonna be soon and....so forth.
I have started every day with all good intentions of doing not just the usual work i do for the Globe and RI Monthly and other places, but finally getting started on a play I always wanted to write, or that book on my high-flying life as a flight attendant in the free-wheeling '70s. Every day, I tell myself, OK, this is Brain Dump Day, just gonna sit down and let stuff spill out, not worrying about context or spelling or comprehensibility, but just letting the thoughts that have been in my head forever take SOME shape on paper, or rather, screen.
Haven't done that yet. Always, I find an excuse, not so much verbally or even consciously, but just there, in my head, oh, well, I had this to do first, then that, then something else.
it's crap, of course, there's no excuse. This guy I met in the hospital, Ernie, the IT guy for Pawtucket schools, wants to write a book, he'd always wanted to be a writer, and said from talking to me, he's inspired to finally get going on one, maybe start down a new path in life. I'd told him to just do it, no excuses, just fire stuff out, write it down, don't think about the long-term consequences, just purge yourself, do the stream-of-consciousness thing and it'll take shape as the universe intends it to take shape.
And yes, it's a case of physician, heal thyself inasmuch as I GIVE great advice but can't take my own. But I will. I have to, too much going on inside my head driving me nuts, must get it out, get it down, tell the story even if no one else reads it.
I mean what the hell am I waiting for, what am I afraid of? Success? Failure? Little of both? Not sure. I should be afraid of not making the effort to succeed or fail. Someone once said the worst day of your life is the day you wake up and realize you never even TRIED to realize your potential. True that. I mean, I do a lot of stuff I LOVE doing, stuff I'm good at, I've realized my potential in chunks, some here, some there. But the bigger things, the overall things, the more encompassing things, the things that come with the tagline "projects," not so much. Writing a play is a project. Writing a book is a project. Not at least trying to do that is a sin against self. It hurts no one but me. And since I've often been accused of it always being about me (I'm not arguing that point, just stating it), gotta stop hurting me and set about starting - and finishing - a project.
Get busy living, or get busy dying. Man, I love great movie lines, and that's a good one. So are book lines, and I'm now reading "The Way of the Peaceful Warrior," by Dan Milman, which they made into a Nick Nolte movie, which I'll watch after I finish the book. One thought in that was it's not sad when someone dies. It's sad if they haven't lived.
Pretty deep thoughts for a weekend.
So the whole TGIF thing is lost on me. Thank God it's Friday may as well be Thank God it's quarter to four on a Wednesday morning. Really doesn't matter. I do work every day, sometimes a little, sometimes a lot. The days all blend together.
But with the bum hoof leaving me homebound now for the fifth straight day, I'm more aware of the delineation of days, probably because I'm living every one, every 24 hour period of every day, here, right here, on the couch, my desk, the futon, bouncing between all of them on crutches. I know when it's Thursday because I can't wait for Friday because then it'll be Saturday which turns into Sunday and then Monday's gonna be soon and....so forth.
I have started every day with all good intentions of doing not just the usual work i do for the Globe and RI Monthly and other places, but finally getting started on a play I always wanted to write, or that book on my high-flying life as a flight attendant in the free-wheeling '70s. Every day, I tell myself, OK, this is Brain Dump Day, just gonna sit down and let stuff spill out, not worrying about context or spelling or comprehensibility, but just letting the thoughts that have been in my head forever take SOME shape on paper, or rather, screen.
Haven't done that yet. Always, I find an excuse, not so much verbally or even consciously, but just there, in my head, oh, well, I had this to do first, then that, then something else.
it's crap, of course, there's no excuse. This guy I met in the hospital, Ernie, the IT guy for Pawtucket schools, wants to write a book, he'd always wanted to be a writer, and said from talking to me, he's inspired to finally get going on one, maybe start down a new path in life. I'd told him to just do it, no excuses, just fire stuff out, write it down, don't think about the long-term consequences, just purge yourself, do the stream-of-consciousness thing and it'll take shape as the universe intends it to take shape.
And yes, it's a case of physician, heal thyself inasmuch as I GIVE great advice but can't take my own. But I will. I have to, too much going on inside my head driving me nuts, must get it out, get it down, tell the story even if no one else reads it.
I mean what the hell am I waiting for, what am I afraid of? Success? Failure? Little of both? Not sure. I should be afraid of not making the effort to succeed or fail. Someone once said the worst day of your life is the day you wake up and realize you never even TRIED to realize your potential. True that. I mean, I do a lot of stuff I LOVE doing, stuff I'm good at, I've realized my potential in chunks, some here, some there. But the bigger things, the overall things, the more encompassing things, the things that come with the tagline "projects," not so much. Writing a play is a project. Writing a book is a project. Not at least trying to do that is a sin against self. It hurts no one but me. And since I've often been accused of it always being about me (I'm not arguing that point, just stating it), gotta stop hurting me and set about starting - and finishing - a project.
Get busy living, or get busy dying. Man, I love great movie lines, and that's a good one. So are book lines, and I'm now reading "The Way of the Peaceful Warrior," by Dan Milman, which they made into a Nick Nolte movie, which I'll watch after I finish the book. One thought in that was it's not sad when someone dies. It's sad if they haven't lived.
Pretty deep thoughts for a weekend.
Friday, November 11, 2011
My Big Hurt Left Foot - Life as a Process
Life is a series of processes, big and small. Mostly small. You do things, routine things, to get through your day, your week, your life. You wake up, shower, shave, brush teeth, head to work the same way in the same car, see the same things along the way, the same people when you arrive. On weekends or off time, different processes, more relaxed, less routine perhaps but processes nonetheless.
We are a processed people. Eating too much processed food and ingesting FAR too much processed politics, but I digress.
Since I've been homebound (since Nov. 8), which I cannot stress enough is temporary and I'm in no way complaining about it, just observing, I've noticed how my process has changed. Well, not changed really, just slowed down. WAY down. Every process now requires a plan and if I'm smart, consolidation, ways to condense processes into one, to lessen impact on the injured foot and what it takes to work around it.
Going to the bathroom any day is never anything more than going to the bathroom. Now, it's planning the process. Do I use crutches or the wheeled stroller (a very worthy device but which makes me feel like I should be creaking through the aisles at Shaw's bitching that the price of tomato soup went up a cent and seeking senior discounts around every corner)? Crutches are easy, just lift and swoop and boom, you're there. But then you lean them on the wall, or one of them, stand on the good leg, do your business and you're done. Maybe. Depends on your business. If you sit, well then, a whole 'nother story to be sure. More time. More planning. More process. More processing.
If you use the wheeled thing, you kneel on it, with the knee of the bad leg, and fly across the kitchen, into a narrow hallway, and jockey into the bathroom. There, you freewheel it, leaning on the wall or sink, and do your business. Again, depending on what that business is. One or two. In the world of processing incapacitated bathroom stuff, numerics are quite important. One thing's for sure: When sitting, and trying to hold the injured leg aloft, it surely cuts down on reading time. Eliminates it actually.
One big help: The plastic male urinal thing they gave me at the hospital. THis thing is a godsend, it really is. Gotta go? Go! Right there, wherever you are. Provided you've thought to bring along your little friend to the couch, the bedroom, your office. I've no idea why one of these isn't by every man's bedside. Oh, right. Wives. Yeah, it's kinda gross, when you think about it, though you clean it all the time and it has a snap-lid device on it. But still, there it is, right there, which is full of, for lack of a better word "pee," right there on your nightstand. Separated by a thick wall of plastic, to be sure, but visible nonetheless. Which apparently women don't like. Men? We don't care, we'll go anywhere. It's one of the creator's gifts to our gender, the ability to go in front of people streaming by in cars on major highways, like we're invisible. One of the greatest gifts, I might add.
So there's that process. Probably the easiest. The hardest could be eating. My daughter, bless her heart, sees me every day, leaves food apportioned in fridge or wherever, making it easier for me to get to, so that's hugely helpful. But the process involves hobbling into the kitchen, again on crutches or the wheeled thing, preparing the food, pouring liquids, etc., and then getting it all back to the living room and safety of the couch and coffee table. Not easy. Forget it on crutches, no way to carry and hobble. Best on the wheeled thing, but then you're limited to one carry per item. Bring in the liquid. Back for the salad. Back for the main course. Shit, forget the fork and napkin, back again. Dessert? Well, maybe, if I'm up to it, but the idea of pounding something fattening down and letting it turn to inches around the waist by sitting on the couch sort of has deterred me from eating too much. So far I haven't noticed any weight gain. Then again, I'm wearing sweat pants. I'm not sure I want to try on jeans any time soon.
But like I said, it's all a process, and I don't mind. I sorta like breaking down these long-held mindless processes into tiny, analyzed bits to see how it's done. That's why I love Discovery and History channels, things like that showing how things work, how they're made. Processes fascinate me. I guess even my own when I step back to look at them.
On one foot of course.
We are a processed people. Eating too much processed food and ingesting FAR too much processed politics, but I digress.
Since I've been homebound (since Nov. 8), which I cannot stress enough is temporary and I'm in no way complaining about it, just observing, I've noticed how my process has changed. Well, not changed really, just slowed down. WAY down. Every process now requires a plan and if I'm smart, consolidation, ways to condense processes into one, to lessen impact on the injured foot and what it takes to work around it.
Going to the bathroom any day is never anything more than going to the bathroom. Now, it's planning the process. Do I use crutches or the wheeled stroller (a very worthy device but which makes me feel like I should be creaking through the aisles at Shaw's bitching that the price of tomato soup went up a cent and seeking senior discounts around every corner)? Crutches are easy, just lift and swoop and boom, you're there. But then you lean them on the wall, or one of them, stand on the good leg, do your business and you're done. Maybe. Depends on your business. If you sit, well then, a whole 'nother story to be sure. More time. More planning. More process. More processing.
If you use the wheeled thing, you kneel on it, with the knee of the bad leg, and fly across the kitchen, into a narrow hallway, and jockey into the bathroom. There, you freewheel it, leaning on the wall or sink, and do your business. Again, depending on what that business is. One or two. In the world of processing incapacitated bathroom stuff, numerics are quite important. One thing's for sure: When sitting, and trying to hold the injured leg aloft, it surely cuts down on reading time. Eliminates it actually.
One big help: The plastic male urinal thing they gave me at the hospital. THis thing is a godsend, it really is. Gotta go? Go! Right there, wherever you are. Provided you've thought to bring along your little friend to the couch, the bedroom, your office. I've no idea why one of these isn't by every man's bedside. Oh, right. Wives. Yeah, it's kinda gross, when you think about it, though you clean it all the time and it has a snap-lid device on it. But still, there it is, right there, which is full of, for lack of a better word "pee," right there on your nightstand. Separated by a thick wall of plastic, to be sure, but visible nonetheless. Which apparently women don't like. Men? We don't care, we'll go anywhere. It's one of the creator's gifts to our gender, the ability to go in front of people streaming by in cars on major highways, like we're invisible. One of the greatest gifts, I might add.
So there's that process. Probably the easiest. The hardest could be eating. My daughter, bless her heart, sees me every day, leaves food apportioned in fridge or wherever, making it easier for me to get to, so that's hugely helpful. But the process involves hobbling into the kitchen, again on crutches or the wheeled thing, preparing the food, pouring liquids, etc., and then getting it all back to the living room and safety of the couch and coffee table. Not easy. Forget it on crutches, no way to carry and hobble. Best on the wheeled thing, but then you're limited to one carry per item. Bring in the liquid. Back for the salad. Back for the main course. Shit, forget the fork and napkin, back again. Dessert? Well, maybe, if I'm up to it, but the idea of pounding something fattening down and letting it turn to inches around the waist by sitting on the couch sort of has deterred me from eating too much. So far I haven't noticed any weight gain. Then again, I'm wearing sweat pants. I'm not sure I want to try on jeans any time soon.
But like I said, it's all a process, and I don't mind. I sorta like breaking down these long-held mindless processes into tiny, analyzed bits to see how it's done. That's why I love Discovery and History channels, things like that showing how things work, how they're made. Processes fascinate me. I guess even my own when I step back to look at them.
On one foot of course.
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