Affectionate Light Bulbs, Toilets, and Surgery

The toilet overflowed.

I was on my way to see the orthopedic surgeon, was running late. Of course, the toilet chose that moment to do its thing. Yes, I *do* believe my toilet has free will.

That reminds me. Richard Brautigan wrote a poem about the lightbulb in his refrigerator, and how he believed that the lightbulb was fond of him. Fred was walking around the other day with a lightbulb in his hand, exclaiming over and over about how he thought it would never go out. I thought the household was going to have to go into mourning.

Here is the Brautigan poem, titled "Affectionate Light Bulb." So it turns out the bulb was in the toilet instead of the fridge. Looks like TOILET is the theme for the day.

I have a 75 watt, glare free, long life
Harmony House light bulb in my toilet.
I have been living in the same apartment
for over two years now
and that bulb just keeps burning away.
I believe that it is fond of me.

I remember the day that The Great American Writer and I went on a pilgrimage to Brautigan's place -- why, I don't know. I have a beautiful shell that I picked up there, on that dreary day. I remember that the sand wasn't so much sand, as mud. Muddy sand. It wasn't long after he had committed suicide -- the Fall of 1984.

That was a strange and wonderful time full of writerly things, trips and readings, periods of fecundity. Oppen's widow. Palmer. The time of Après-Foucault. Before the era of The Great American Writer Does Waitresses.

Sometimes the plumbing at Marlinspike Hall resembles more a mysterious labyrinth than anything that could be reasonably plotted on graph paper. Most of the "conveniences" were put in before plumbing hit its heyday in the 19th century...

I cried in the car on the way home. Poor Fred didn't know what to make of me, sobbing. Apparently, it just needed to happen.

Surgery is scheduled for Monday, April 27. It was going to be sooner, but I begged for time. I mean, I just had the last *major* surgery on February 16. This will be the fifth *major* surgery in 8 months.

And sometime between now and then, I have to go see another orthopod about the possibility of the osteomyelitis being in my knees. Yahoo. ShoulderMan said he is sending me to "the guru of knees."

I don't know how I ended up with Dr. ShoulderMan -- I mean, of course, I do know... What I mean is that he is great and I really lucked out.

Anything even remotely good that has happened since -- oh... -- 2000? I am in awe, I am grateful, I know what a gift is. That I have this superb surgeon who is also a superb doctor and person? A big "Thank You" emanates from my heart to the heart of the universe.

Jokingly, I showed him the two infected fingers -- it's a fungal infection and apparently not unusual if you're immunosuppressed. I said, "Thank goodness that *this* is not growing in my bones!" and got ready to guffaw with him...

So, of course, he said: "Hmmm. It just might be growing in the bone... but I think you'd be much much sicker. Of course, we're talking about *you*, so who knows..."

Good Golly, Miss Molly!

I find that as my trust in him grows, I accept his opinions as innately superior -- when I told him that the I.D. doctor had stopped the i.v. antibiotics after 10 days because of the muscle pain and sky-high CPK, and then stated we were "out of antibiotics to try," ShoulderMan said he would have let me "rest" for a week or so and then put me right back on it.

I hope I.D. and Ortho will work and play well together. When I asked the I.D. doc what we should do after the next surgery -- what antibiotics, etc. -- he said, "I've no idea." He thinks even vancomycin is now useless.

I can't worry about it. My bloodwork sucks, I am tired and depressed, in pain, constantly fighting a fever, sweating, exhausted. I never seem to be done cleaning or doing laundry. We had to stop at the pharmacy to get a new blood glucose testing meter -- while we were waiting, I had a terrible episode of chest pain. I couldn't really even communicate with Fred -- he didn't seem to hear me everytime I tried to tell him that I thought I was croaking. It lasted at least 20 minutes. But you know what feels GREAT? When a pain like that *stops*!

As soon as we got home, the roofer showed up to fix a small leak, and Fred showed off by fixing the toilet. (Hey, I never had the benefit of Boy's School.)

So... that leaves the clean-up chores for me, courtesy of Girl's School, I suppose.

I am so tired of these surgeries -- but there is no choice. He has to get the spacer out because the antibiotics embedded in it have all leeched out, leaving what he believes is a "bacteria magnet."

Well... there is a mop calling my name.