Dobby is glaring at me, having been dumped on the floor in the panic of my waking. I do not normally use alarm clocks, so when the radio screamed itself into existence, pillows, books, remotes, telephones, an empty can of mixed nuts (with sea salt), and a pet hair roller pickup thingy all went flying. The great news is that I seem to have much improved range of motion in that left arm, judging by how far I threw the grabber.
And, as anyone with a love, or need, of a grabber/reacher knows, the first thing one needs upon tossing one's grabber... is a grabber.
I haven't celebrated my birthday yet. We had anticipated simply postponing the traditionally wild affair a week or so, but our plans were superceded by rude reality. I did, however, put together a dreamy Wish List of things any girl would want, using a dog-eared, glossy medical supply catalog as my Wish Book. Chief among my desires? New grabbers.
By the rapid clenching and unclenching of his jaw muscles, I can attest that one of Fred's least favorite things to hear is: Would you hand me my grabber? There are variations that may actually be worse, like: Have you seen my grabber?
Several times a day, I can be spotted trying to pry a grabber off the floor with the assistance of salad tongs, a cane or mop handle, or -- my favorite, and a sign of immense frustration -- by carefully depressing one end of the thing with a wheelchair wheel, thereby leveraging the other into the air enough that it can be... grabbed. [My understanding of lever-fulcrum dynamics may not be the standard understanding.]
After politely declining to purchase a state-of-the-art pink bedside commode, and shaking his head at the idea of a fancy new whirligig mattress -- a motor-powered pinwheel construction that takes being bedbound into new realms of possibility, Fred said he would order some new grabbers for my birthday present.
Having opened with the image of Dobby flying through the air, it's worth noting that each of the Feline Remnant has a special relationship with the grabbers. Buddy the Freakishly Large Kitten is determined to consume one, and his penchant for a good chew is evident on each of the gimp utensils. Marmy Fluffy Butt becomes scarily amorous in their presence, rubbing her cheeks against the handles, purring, all squinty-eyed. Dobby sees them as foes, and challengers to the strict hierarchy of The Manor, according to which, he, Dobby, is always Number Two.
Yesterday, I saw the good MDVIP Go-To-Guy doctor, a trip which left me exhausted, and this morning we are headed out to the infectious disease dude's place, hopefully to have good news about last week's labs, and to have this PICC line REMOVED! Pain is a bother, but it is coming more in waves now, so that's not so bad. The wound is healing nicely under my careful ministrations [hoot!], no more pseudomonas that I can see, and none that I can whiff, either. I continue to walk from bed to bathroom, scuffing and scuffling along. Can a rousing soft-shoe routine be far behind?
Have you seen my grabber?