I am so fortunate to have a laser focused OCD grandchild, who performs circles around my best output. The children here are the end of the line, so she leaves the house at 6:20 a.m. and the bus comes back after four.
This band has band mothers, who leave us in no doubt of expectations. The trumpeter came in the door announcing “Inspection is at 5:15”. We performed rapid arithmetic and saw we must leave at 4:45, or 30 minutes from the present.
The cookerer headed for the kitchen, and in ten minutes produced mashed potatoes and chicken and pea pod stir fry. It was good. In those ten minutes I gathered all the trash to be emptied. We ate, we left, trash in hand for the bins, which went to the curb while I started the car. Teamwork, I’m telling you.
“Does it really take thirty minutes to put on a uniform?” I enquired. I was told there are a couple of tricky fastenings, then you must do things with your instrument, then with your squad leader, then… “But if they get there with five minutes to spare, I’ve seen guys get into that uniform in five minutes.”
But, getting Laura to band isn’t my only excitement this week.
After a week of playing chicken with the insurance company, I was issued a three month supply of Belbuca. For everyone who does not remember, my first lumbar vertebrae was crushed in ’03 or ’04. How time flies. The orthopedic guys could not fix it, and then I had bad experiences with several pain doctors. That really didn’t matter, as they dispensed narcotics, which made me comatose. I was living on Advil, until I persuaded my doctor to prescribe Celebrex, and I went merrily along for many years.
To their credit, a lot of doctors told me the various body parts I was destroying with Celebrex. They simply did not comprehend the difference between functioning with some pain and not functioning. Or, as I told my doctor, “I eat butter. Deal with it.” And then, the neurosurgeons just threw it all out the window. No more blood thinners. Except for occasionally being drugged with narcotics, I have lived with debilitating pain since the big red bus sent me down the aisle in March.
I finally had an appointment with the pain doctor. He’s about thirty five years old and just too cute. Single, too, I hear. We reviewed the list of narcotics I’ll not take again. He sighed and said, “Well, we’ll get you Belbuca.” And, he did. Now I suppose I’ll hear all the rest of them tell me about disintegrating body parts. I eat butter, too. I can walk to the corner and back. That’s ¼ mile. Take that, liver and kidneys!
I had breakfast with Carol. A year ago last spring she and Frank moved to South Carolina’s outer banks. In September they evacuated. This year they happen to be here visiting. Pre-evacuation, I guess. I had breakfast with Linn, who had a love letter from my brother Mel, who thought she was moving away after fifth grade. Then she didn’t…
There were two separate lunches with two separate fellows who thought I should be their girlfriend. I’ve known them for years. Sudden interest? The one who is eighty turned back to kiss me good bye, then hoped that wasn’t too forward.
And last, but not least, I got out of bed this morning, and in my best Scarlett rant said, “As God is my witness, I’ll never be cold again!” I stripped the bed and switched to winter feathers and flannel. Notice, the cat has staked out territory before the pillows have gone down.