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Wednesday, June 28, 2017

There will be dead bodies, no matter which way the Senate swings


I opened the news this morning to a very similar headline topping the page. I wrote a rather bleak post, mostly about me, and, by damn, I intended to publish it.

Now it’s four in the afternoon, and I’ve managed to save the post as a blank page.  And no, it’s not a sign from god; it’s the result of a brain injury. I’m sick to death of the brain injury. I’m sick to death of clerks who don’t know their jobs, and send me overdue notices for bills they sent to the secondary as primary. And, I’m not even a medical clerk.

I am a few visits from the end of my physical therapy medical allowance. I learned there is cognitive therapy across the hall. I signed up. Medical Mutual counts it the same as physical therapy, which I will continue to take. I’m angry. They can come and get me. They can garnish my wages. (That’s a joke.) They can garnish my Social Security. I don’t care. The savings will just go twice as fast. Three years and gone. I don’t care. It’s not my fault I don’t have a job.

Just to stay cranked up, I made an appointment with the orthotist. He can make that brace work for me, or make me a new one. I think that’s most of what I covered this morning. Oh, yes, I have an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon to evaluate my hyperexending knee, injury courtesy of a fast trip down the floor of a bus.

I recall the balance of my rant—I’m not going on vacations with grandchildren. They’re well into teenager hood now and are developing lives of their own, so I suppose I shouldn’t gripe too much.

In the meantime, the turfed yard is growing grass, big and small, and pig is happy.



Wednesday, June 21, 2017

Doing something


Some of me fell back into place recently. I woke up from one of the four hour, dead unconscious naps a week ago. I lay there a few minutes, listening to the birds and the children and I said to myself, so get up and do something. I sat up and thought about it for a minute. I got up, with purposeful action still in mind, cleaned the kitchen and resurrected the sweater I left off in March.

I have to do a deal of tinking on the ribbing I had finished, and as I picked out stitches I realized I still give a darn about the world, the one around me, and the round one I live on. The big world is in a worse mess than when I left off last March. And, I just realized, the bastards stole my birthday. I was 74 on March 31st.  But, I was unconscious from a craniotomy performed a few days before. Or, it may have been the very day I begged nurses for water. That was not a nice story.

Stephen Hawking says earth is ending, and he’s certainly right. That, actually, is interesting to read about. Not good, but boggling. That’s one big chunk of ice about to break off an ice shelf in Antarticia. That, and its consequences, will happen in my life time. The world will last longer. One of my favorite doctors and I had a discussion about drugs that have an adverse effect over time (name one that doesn’t), and I said “but, I’ll be dead by then.” Bring on the CAT scans. I can’t live long enough for the radiation to kill me.

Meanwhile, back at home, nice drains were installed, seed sown, straw distributed thickly. A violent windstorm the next night swept the straw into huge piles, and sent grass seed to the next county. Laura reseeded and moved the straw back. I bought a reel mower, and Laura has been maintaining the established grass around several local trailers. This is less grass than the miniscule front yard of my childhood home, and it looks nice, all the same height. And, the neighbors say Thanks. Like me, none of them can mow.

I asked management if we could rake the straw, as the maintenance guys don’t seem interested. I also pointed out we are mowing the lawns, so the maintenance guys should stop cutting through the side yard on that nasty riding mower. The entire interview with management went well. 

Laura raked a lot of straw into rows, and management sent one of the maintenance men down to collect it into a huge trash can. I’d said we’d bag it and take it to the curb, so I thought that was really nice. Until the other maintenance man came through, at high speed with the damn riding mower, made half a dozen passes, turfed the new growing grass into mud. He attempted to climb the small hills, failed, and made them a mess, too. This all happened near quitting time, Friday.

On Sunday we bought a roll of several hundred feet of yellow tape. On Monday I took my case back to Management, and my complaint of ruined seeding and turfed hills was seconded by the secretary whose unit is across the street.  She even revealed the maintenance guy uses my yard to “cut through.” I volunteered to reseed, if I could protect the work with tape. Management agreed. My neighbors on both sides helped Laura with the tape. I will have grass or know the reason why. My schmoozing neighbor reports the lawn mower operator is unhappy. All is well.


I rest my case.
Before the cowboy on the tractor came through, it all was lush, like the bit at the back.



Monday, June 19, 2017

Several liberations

I went early to visit my friend, and left, exhausted. To stop at one chair to say a word is to be expected to stop at each, I discovered, and did. My usual twenty minutes turned into close to an hour. Sadly, instead of nailing one of six handicap parking places at the curb (and, I can parallel park!), I had to drive well into the lot to find a place. Getting into the building and back out was a trial.  

Actually, I was dumbfounded on arriving at my floor and finding many men, and wives, moving along. A lot of men visit their mothers on father’s day, I found. Back home near noon, I simply fell on the bed in a daze.  I was so physically tired I had no strength to move the cat, or lift my legs to his other side, so my heels hung over the bed, and woke me several hours later, with my feet asleep.

For a few more minutes I dozed. Then I felt myself leaving the land of marshmallows and cotton. My brain said “You need to get up and do something.” I got up and cleaned the kitchen. Then I took the chair, turned on HGTV, and resumed working on the sweater I put aside six or eight months ago.


Wednesday the sewing machine will be liberated from the hospital, and tomorrow—ta-da—Laura takes the test for her temporary driver’s permit. She is over the moon, and studying from an app she put on her phone. I am so curious to see how she does. She has the booklet, and I do remember it well. We’ll see what sort of app it makes.