Took names; Kicking ass

I mentally sorted my gripes, high to low. Absolute highest: no use of right arm re broken shoulder. Think about this. My left arm is trashed and scheduled for repair surgery when I broke the right. Every thing I do with the left hurts and hurts it more.
Last week I called the young whippersnappers nurse and told her (voice mail, of course), my therapy is severely limited by not using my right arm. What solution does the doctor have? He must get on this team! No answer, of course.
Over the weekend I had lots of time to consider. I am permitted to further wreck my left arm, but don't use the right arm you broke! Without that arm, I cannot stand, except with help. Once up I can stand for the derigeur ten minutes required for clearance for the next activity, like walking, again.
But I cannot hold the parallel bars to walk, except left handed. I skew left, twisting and aggravating my right knee, not to mention my feet are not stable to walk because two hands are not on the bars. Don't tell me there are plenty of one armed people. That's a skill set I don't have and don't have time to develop.

I returned from PT at lunchtime, angry. I called the whippersnapper and made an appointment for tomorrow. I need him to clear me to use that arm to get up and walk! Then he can fix them, one at a time.

Boggling boredom

Normal boredom has expanded exponentially today. Usually morning is therapy, afternoon is recovery, evening is free time.

It's Saturday. All bets off! My aid said " What are you wearing today, then just evaporated. Breakfast came, no information. Some visitors to my roommate, who brushed by me. Just as well; I don't need breathing treatments. But I haven't washed my face or brushed my teeth yet today.

I did have a shower yesterday; first since the infamous morning of July 20. 

My world. Sigh. I did snag a lost seeming aide with hands in pockets. I sent her off to see if I have therapy. She passed my door three times before she came in and reported No. At least I could dismiss the clothing issue.

I sent her to find Mary Ann, and pulled out the fake tablet to try a blog post. I heard someone approaching. Mary Ann parked the vitals trolley center door and oozed away. 

Eventually she reappeared, zipped around the curtain and sat on the bed. "Seen Titanic? I'm the violin. One called off, one went home. I came in three hours early. Then one of us fell.

It's eleven in the morning. Maybe after lunch I'll get into the chair. I can side board transfer now.

I think this will be more small print. If I change to big, but set the post aside, it gratuitously goes back to small print. WTH. It's not like I'm using paper and pencil.

Cat rights

So much housekeeping to deal with in an emergency. Laura went with aunt Janice. Money comes and goes in the bank. "Just board the cat," I advised. "Toby likes it there."
 "But how much!?" asked my sister.
 "Eight or ten a day."
 "We'll work it out at home!"
And so Toby took up temporary accomodation in
Jake 's home, in the basement. Door closed.
Jake is a year old Cairn terrier, full of himself. There have been innumerable encounters over the last year! Toby has learned confidence. Jake has learned to jump higher and higher, and bark--well, you know Cairns.
Tom put cushions on high basement places, made a playground, takes care of Toby's food and box; even goes down to play. Jake knew the cat was afoot, and not invisible. He kenneled up the first night,  but did not sleep. The next morning he hoovered up all the evidence Toby spent the night upstairs. Jake was awake two solid days.
Toby, meanwhile, expanded his "upstairs privileges. He called at the basement door earlier and earlier. He slept in every piece of furniture; with every person. Jake knew real trouble loomed. Soon his bed time would be noon.
Actually, Jan took pity. Toby grew up with dogs, and worked into the heart of cat, dog, person alike. Although he wasn't about to set Jake straight, he could wait for Jake to get it. So, for several evenings,
Jake sits by Jan on short leash and high alert, watching a cat make itself at home. He's quit the incessant barking. Jan's almost ready  to invite Toby up for a  formal introduction.
Stay tuned.

No sacrificial jeans

I lay on the foyer floor of the wellness center, broken shoulder cradling broken thigh. The EMT deftly slipped a pair of scissors into his hand and reached for my jean's cuff.
 "Don't cut," I hissed .
 "Your knee. Your thigh."
 "Don't cut!"

It was not noon, and I spent the next several hours having my broken bones xrayed at that auxiliary emergency room, under the direction of "downtown" . "It's easier this way," and recalling my experiences of being trundled from A to B "downtown," yes it was.

I kept my jeans intact.

About eight in the evening I made the trip to Cleveland Clinic main emergency room. 

Barely in the examination room, the kid whipped out the scissors. 

 "Don't cut!"

No answer. The fabric taughtened.

 "DON'T CUT!"

 " She said not to cut!, " and a lovely woman EMT elbowed Mr. Scissor Hands aside. "We know the value of good jeans!"

Over the butt, good leg, bad leg; jeans folded and sent home with Jan. Probably less noise from me than cutting.

Grossness first, then onward and upward

On the way into therapy a couple  of weeks ago, I ran straight into that damn toe lift problem, and fell straight down on my shoulder. The other one. My foot that couldn't be bothered to lift up broke first; metatarsials three and four, I think. My shoulder broke, of course. I heard the clavicle snap.

In between, I heard my femur break. I now have 8 inches of steel rod in my thigh! The good news is, perhaps both legs are the same length again. The bad news: I'm still in bed.

That's it for now. I'm not tablet savvy yet.