I am angry with myself. I've been exceedingly dumb.
Because I knew and didn't go in. I vacillated. I hemmed, hawed, and poled down the longest stretch of inland water, that mighty, rolling African river.
Fred has great pictures of Lake Tana, where the Blue Nile begins.
Ethiopia Travel hawks its ware: "1 lake, 37 Islands, 14th century Monasterys and the blue Nile Falls!"
"1 lake, 37 Islands, 14th century Monasterys and the blue Nile Falls!"
"1 lake, 37 Islands, 14th century Monasterys and the blue Nile Falls!"
We just got back from the first post op visit chez ShoulderMan. The first visit is with his Physician's Assistant, and usually consists of two views of the shoulder in x-ray, and having the nurse remove either the staples or the stitches. Having been through this six times now, it is usually a ho-hum deal, with the exciting pay-off of finally being able to take a shower!
Last night there was a minor explosion from the suture line. (Sorry, I don't intend to gross you out. Really.) I was changing the dressing and lightly touched on an area that was red and well, hmmm, there was, as I said, an explosion.
The PA said to be ready to go back in. That he was calling the surgeon. That likely they'd have to go in and do a wash, maybe remove the prosthesis, go back to the freaking spacer. I know he was just trying to prepare me for any eventuality. He also opined that maybe I could use a little more time with the Zyvox. (I vigorously supported that thought.)
The pain is worse, and I have lost all the range of motion gained early after the last surgery.
Fred --in shock, I think -- drove us home in high cuss. "High cuss" is my attempt to graft something new off of "high dudgeon," about which Michael Quinion of World Wide Words fields this query:
It's embarrassing to admit, but I am one of those who have said "high dungeon," when, of course, "high dudgeon" was what I meant. Or would have meant, if I had known better.
Better to author a new phrase than mangle an old one, so "high cuss," it is.
On the bright side, given that Bob didn't tell me to stay NPO, surgery cannot happen tomorrow.
There's that, at least.
We're going to brew some coffee, start the day over. We bought a bag of $3 coffee at the local ALbrecht DIscount which, go figure, brews something almost divine, it is so straightforward, pure. The coffee, not ALbrecht DIscount.
**********************************************************************************************
Ah, some good news from the fantastically tall and exceedingly kind Bob the PA! He phoned the surgeon who wants to watch and wait, wait and see.
***Now Friday (saw Bob on Tuesday): Sadly, we have achieved pus, that purulent exudate, itself. Very localised pain, and a sitting-behind-the-eyes steady fever.
I'm cleaning up the evidence, wrapping gauze hither and yon, taping tape-to-tape, swabbing, dabbing, daubing, staunching. I'm possibly going nuts. I just might grab my dudgeon knife in a vain attempt to redress this slight.
To all medicos in the Monday-to-Friday world: Don't leave people hanging over the weekend. Not when they're leaking purulent exudate!
Bob pretty much said surgery is the only answer... unless the Zyvox kicks in.
So pray that the Zyvox kicks in.
Because I knew and didn't go in. I vacillated. I hemmed, hawed, and poled down the longest stretch of inland water, that mighty, rolling African river.
Fred has great pictures of Lake Tana, where the Blue Nile begins.
Ethiopia Travel hawks its ware: "1 lake, 37 Islands, 14th century Monasterys and the blue Nile Falls!"
"1 lake, 37 Islands, 14th century Monasterys and the blue Nile Falls!"
"1 lake, 37 Islands, 14th century Monasterys and the blue Nile Falls!"
We just got back from the first post op visit chez ShoulderMan. The first visit is with his Physician's Assistant, and usually consists of two views of the shoulder in x-ray, and having the nurse remove either the staples or the stitches. Having been through this six times now, it is usually a ho-hum deal, with the exciting pay-off of finally being able to take a shower!
Last night there was a minor explosion from the suture line. (Sorry, I don't intend to gross you out. Really.) I was changing the dressing and lightly touched on an area that was red and well, hmmm, there was, as I said, an explosion.
The PA said to be ready to go back in. That he was calling the surgeon. That likely they'd have to go in and do a wash, maybe remove the prosthesis, go back to the freaking spacer. I know he was just trying to prepare me for any eventuality. He also opined that maybe I could use a little more time with the Zyvox. (I vigorously supported that thought.)
The pain is worse, and I have lost all the range of motion gained early after the last surgery.
Fred --in shock, I think -- drove us home in high cuss. "High cuss" is my attempt to graft something new off of "high dudgeon," about which Michael Quinion of World Wide Words fields this query:
[Q] From L Crary Myers: I have seen others attempt to answer this, but apparently maddeningly little is known. You always seem to manage to find something interesting, however — so, here is the question: from whence the phrase in high dudgeon? Thank you, and I am an avid fan of your site.
[A] “Maddeningly little is known” is unfortunately a fair summary. I’ll try to add a little more, but it is one of a distressingly large group of words for which we have no idea of their origins. The group includes a couple of others also ending in -udgeon: bludgeon and curmudgeon.
Dudgeon means a state of anger, resentment, or offence and often turns up as in dudgeon or in high dudgeon The Oxford English Dictionary can’t give its source, though it’s sure it’s not from the Welsh word dygen, meaning malice or resentment, which has been suggested in the past. It does point to endugine, a word recorded just once, in 1638, with the same sense, which might have given us a clue, but doesn’t help at all.
It also records another sense of the word, itself mysterious, for a kind of wood used by turners, especially the handles of knives or daggers. It has been suggested it was another name for boxwood. It appears in Shakespeare’s Macbeth: “I see thee still, / And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood, / Which was not so before.” Later the word was used for a dagger whose handle was made of this wood.
It just might be that a state of anger or resentment could have led to the grabbing of a dudgeon knife with intent to redress a slight, but there’s no evidence whatever of the connection.
It's embarrassing to admit, but I am one of those who have said "high dungeon," when, of course, "high dudgeon" was what I meant. Or would have meant, if I had known better.
Better to author a new phrase than mangle an old one, so "high cuss," it is.
On the bright side, given that Bob didn't tell me to stay NPO, surgery cannot happen tomorrow.
There's that, at least.
We're going to brew some coffee, start the day over. We bought a bag of $3 coffee at the local ALbrecht DIscount which, go figure, brews something almost divine, it is so straightforward, pure. The coffee, not ALbrecht DIscount.
**********************************************************************************************
Ah, some good news from the fantastically tall and exceedingly kind Bob the PA! He phoned the surgeon who wants to watch and wait, wait and see.
***Now Friday (saw Bob on Tuesday): Sadly, we have achieved pus, that purulent exudate, itself. Very localised pain, and a sitting-behind-the-eyes steady fever.
I'm cleaning up the evidence, wrapping gauze hither and yon, taping tape-to-tape, swabbing, dabbing, daubing, staunching. I'm possibly going nuts. I just might grab my dudgeon knife in a vain attempt to redress this slight.
To all medicos in the Monday-to-Friday world: Don't leave people hanging over the weekend. Not when they're leaking purulent exudate!
Bob pretty much said surgery is the only answer... unless the Zyvox kicks in.
So pray that the Zyvox kicks in.
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