What to do with the rest of the day after a 9:30 a.m. eye doctor appointment

I’ve been on Medicare these many years, plus supplemental private insurance. In the olden days, when I was under insured anyway and did not carry a vision plan, I had my eyes checked every two or three years.  The first eye doctor visit after I’d rolled through the obligatory sixty five years, and the youngster checking me in asked for my insurance cards, I demurred. “My insurance doesn’t cover that,” I explained. And in return was told Medicare would check my eyes once a year.

This year, however, the technician asked the reason for my visit, and I replied my annual visit. She responded my doctor had scheduled me annually for these several years because of my cataracts, “but you don’t have those anymore.”  We settled on dry eyes, which are the truth, and the exam proceeded.

It was still overcast and raining as I came home, so I only needed one pair of sunglasses to offset the numbing and dilating drops. Though I drive right past the town hall, I didn’t go to work. I only have two tiny jobs to get done before Wednesday’s payroll, and they can keep till then. I never like waiting for my eyes to return to normal, and less so at work.

I did decide to weave some more on the scarves. I’ve finished six seventy to ninety inch scarves since we put the new warp on the loom three weeks ago, with another almost done. After those initial painful sessions I can weave about an hour at a time. Not without hurting, but in a more weaverly fashion. I’m now convinced there’s more arthritis going on in my shoulder and arm than broken bone recuperation, and when I visit the arthritis doctor in January I will slap my disc of shoulder x-rays on his desk and say “Do something, please.”

When I see the physical therapist tomorrow, I will astound him again with progress brought about by toughing out the weaving. With my arm fully extended I have about eighty percent of all motion down pat. This morning the young technician checking me in stopped about half way through all the new computer stuff, clasped her hands behind her back at her waist, stretched her arms straight and lifted them chest high.

I got up from the chair and tried it myself. I only reached bottom of my rib cage height, but I’m making progress.

And, I’ve spend the rest of the afternoon wondering how I am going to set up an inventory accounting system so I can figure cost of goods sold for this year’s taxes. Note how brilliantly I’ve avoided it for another day.

On weaving with a broken arm

Here's how to weave:

Step on a treadle, open a shed.

Throw the shuttle, catch it on the other side.

Use the hand that threw the shuttle to pull the beater into the weft.

Repeat with the other hand.

Here's how to weave with my broken arm:

Step on a treadle, open a shed.

Throw the shuttle left to right, with broken arm.

Put the shuttle in left hand, in order to use right hand to beat warp.

Put shuttle back in right hand, throw to left, catch in left hand,while beating warp with right hand.

Anyone who had done a job that requires a rhythm will see the broken beat here.

I can throw the shuttle left to right and catch it coming back if I do not lift my wrist or forearm from the breast beam.

I cannot raise my left arm high enough and far enough to reach the beater.

My left hand caught the shuttle in the picture below, but cannot rise and move left to make the return throw properly.

I have spent three days trying to weave, and can keep at it a little longer each day.

I have made half a ninety inch scarf.

Emily bailed on me. Teenagers!

Back at it tomorrow, after physical therapy.

On a happier note,

I put on a bra today, for the first time in six weeks.

Plan B +

We pulled a lot together in a week.

Linda came Wednesday afternoon and wove until Thursday afternoon.

That took care of about half the remaining warp.

I'll try the yoga skirt from this tomorrow.

Friday evening and this morning Emily took over.

Her first time throwing a shuttle.

In the meantime, I wound all the bobbins for a scarf warp,

which Emily got on the loom.

Here, tying the new threads onto the old threads in the tension box.

Turn, turn turning the new warp onto the sectional beam.

Beth arrived mid afternoon, and we began threading heddles. That's the royal "we;" I handed threads.

Her reward was to pick the color of the first scarf.

Basketweave with stripe. Looks a little psychedelic. 

We should have scarves to the gallery by Wednesday.

And I can't even throw a shuttle

I went to the gallery today to deliver the last two garments I was able to make from nothing. Two weeks ago, delivering two scarves I made "before the fall," Diane mentioned a customer demonstrated her yoga skirt and said one in handwoven would be cool.

What are you talking about?  I now will know a yoga skirt if I see it on a person exiting a yoga studio. If you run wearing yoga pants or spandex, if you ride your bike wearing spandex, if you actually practice the art of yoga, the activities conclude, and you and your friends  duck into your favorite coffee shop for a latte.

God forbid your butt  hang out now, so you throw on your yoga skirt. It's only job is to cover the same butt that jogged the trail, rode the bike or did downward faceing dog. Mine was not to question, especially as a yoga skirt merely is a sixties wrap skirt, that anyone can make. Even a weaver with only one decent length of fabric in her stash.

Always too clever for my own good, I decided to put a series of button loops on one side of the fabric and buttons pretty much around, for a rather infinitely variable size feature. This so I could avoid making draw strings, though I remained on the hook for twisted cord. I made the skirt, and I did not like it. Nevertheless, I would hang it on the rack and see if it went off in a bag.

This morning I decided it needed a tweak, so back to the sewing machine. On the way by I put it around my sister's shoulders. Like it was meant to be, there hung an understated little wrap that buttoned down the front. I immediately made another and delivered two. I forgot to take a picture. I did do a count of coat hangers on the rack and see I've sold another ten or so garments this month. And, I cannot throw a shuttle.

It has been four weeks, and my intention of being half through the ordeal isn't panning out. Two sets of  X-rays show no separation, but one round of therapy was disheartening. A couple of the exercises were cake, but another showed up a problem I already put up with--severe arthritis in that shoulder. Moving the arm away from my body now is too painful to contemplate. I made it through three snaps of my shoulder. "It sounds just like a rachet," I groaned. "No more!" Jamie laughed and said that's exactly what is is called, racheting, as bone spurs snap past each other. I must bring this to the attention of the orthopedic fellow this week.

I hope I find another Plan B around the corner.

I neglected to take a picture of my yoga skirt cum shrug this morning, but here are pussy willows behind a gallery, with no idea it isn't spring. 

Another week in a sling

Well, it’s interesting, this eight week (from my lips to God’s ear) side trip, life in a sling. When I played silly games with my brothers we would pretend to be blind, or roll an arm up in our tee shirts to immobilize it, and pretend how well we could function, handicapped. Ha! Double Ha for my brothers, one of whom broke a leg and the other an arm (twice!). I don’t recall having sympathy for them.

The worst is the clothing. Even without appearing in public, it is mental humiliation to look like a bag lady. From bottom to top, I cannot tie my shoes, though I can put on socks. I can pull up both my underwear and my “petite ladies’ jogging pants”. The pants are not S or M, they are XL, with a drawstring. With only a moderate struggle, they come up.

No bra since the one I removed to go to bed in the infamous cozy flannel gown that snatched the legs from under me three weeks ago. As vain as I am about size ten trousers, front zip, I am more vain about arranging my over sized chest. Oh, the humiliation of appearing to be contained in a camisole, or, worse yet, a men’s undershirt.

Every morning my sister, or a granddaughter removes the sling, then the nightshirt, gets me into a soft and warm oversized denim shirt I’ve had for years. We reverse the process at night. So much for the TMI intro, unless it convinces you to shorten your cozy flannel gown to knee length.

To drive my car (yes, in public), I have the seat enough forward to use my knee as my left hand on the steering wheel. Joe was disbelieving the first time, and I could feel him mentally steering. Two weeks later he simply is distraught over the continuing post season winning streak. Last night’s team was the only team considered able to beat them, and it failed. Poor Joe.

The first two weeks I limited myself to driving around town. There is plenty of that, between work and schlepping children four times a week. Yesterday I elected to drive myself to the doctor. I went over the route mentally, planning on being a sedate old granny driver who would endanger no one with one handed driving.

It is far easier to cruise the freeway with one hand than city streets. I had my nerve back at the first merge and soon could mutter, “Get your damn BMW up to speed, old man; don’t make me pass you! Oh, well, you were warned. Hasta la vista.”

I stopped at the bird seed store. If I bought two seed cylinders, the feeder was free. The cylinder has meal worms in it. I bought two, so Laura could say "Ewwee" when she put them up.

Our old cylinder feeder. Laura won't give them a new cylinder until the old one is cleared away.

The new suet feeder with a tail paddle board to make woodpeckers feel like they have a tree under them. The feeder has been discovered, though I've seen neither a bird or a squirrel on it.

It is such a cold and dreary day. But, many inches of snow are falling on my friend Ann, in Wisconsin. No complaining, Joanne. Only five weeks to go.

In the orthopedic office

Just a week ago I broke my arm. I fell smack on the point of my shoulder. The humerus broke at a place called the surgical neck. No separation, no cast. Hooray! I was in the hospital two days, because the pain could not be controlled (and I’m one tough old lady!). The made sure I could walk and climb stairs, had someone to take care of me at home, knew my patient rights, could manage clothes…..they never made sure the sling was on properly!

I still was a ball of misery when Beth brought me home, where she had a front button gown waiting to replace the ankle length flannel that tripped me up and sent me down, and which must be cut off. Linda called. The weaver of beautiful rugs and former psychiatric nurse. You don’t get anything over on her!

“Don’t even think about a bra!” she thundered. As if I could move enough to even get it on and comfortable.  But I did not like as much loose anatomy as mine rubbing around. “Go to the Dollar Store; get men’s’ muscle shirts, three to a pack. Just step in, get it pulled up, tuck it up under the boobs!” Easier said, but my personal assistants got it done.

I had a shower Sunday evening, and my personal assistants constructed my attire:

Grey sweats (pride goeth before the fall of the woman who owns no pants without zippers!)

Men’s muscle shirt from the dollar store.

A turtleneck from my closet.

The yellow plaid night shirt Beth made appear overnight from Woolrich.

The sling.

My front zip hoodie around my shoulders.

“I look like a Wallmart person,” I lamented.

“No, no visible thong,” my sister replied.

I had to report to the orthopedic doctor Tuesday afternoon. Save clean underwear, my costume was unchanged. Oh, well.

The doctor’s assistant was a most dour thirty something. She was all business, no smile. After the preliminary computer work, she handed me a gown.

“That won’t happen,” I said.

“But the doctor…”

“It won’t happen. I am not going through the pain of un and redressing for anyone.”

“How did you get dressed this morning?”

“I haven’t been “dressed” since Sunday. No gown!”

“You’ll have to take that up with the doctor,” she sniffed, and left.

Half a magazine later, the doctor came in. “Here, let me adjust that sling properly!”

The pain in my shoulder diminished by half!

Back in a week for new x-rays. One week gone, seven to go!