Wednesday, May 30, 2012

29 attempts to pick up 1 peanut

I have not been posting because even mine own ennui has become boring.  Not worth a groan, an utter waste of a moan.  An insult to adjectives, a baseball bat to the knees of my home-grown adverbs, really culled from your community gardens, picked wet with dew, the gourd mature yet not so large as to be tough, too seedy, but packaged under my name -- printed on squares of cellophane, attached with high tech red rubber bands.  Eggplant, cucumber, climbing the vine beans, I want them tender.

Surgery has been put off a bit, again, this time until June 18, something to do with giving more time to yet another humeral fracture to heal.  I don't know where they're coming from, these breaks.  Fred doesn't beat me about the upper arms. Marmy Fluffy Butt has stopped gnawing in an ill-advised attempt to strike tuna in my marrow, and terror in my heart.

I think a lot about dying.  That's right:  the height of ennui.  Fred even said, "I feel like I am just sitting in this chair waiting to die."

These are the dangers of days so hot and humid that we lose hope and our buttocks carve our cushy futures into the cheap styrofoam of way past cool paisley wing chairs and roll-about PETA-sanctioned pleather office furniture.

Between now and June 18, I need to have my right hip evaluated.  Maybe it'd be more accurate to say "located," because I swear it's gone off again, road-trippin'.  It was on my list of things to do, right after "everything else." However, it seems that during my ICU psychosis, I went on and on and on about how effing much my hip hurt.  To ShoulderGuy OrthoWizard, no less.  At a recent meeting, he intoned (and intoned is the only verb that works here), "I was very angry with you for not telling me about your hip."

Far be it from me to avoid repetitive testing that will clarify nothing, eat the stray orts of my checking account (influence of NYT Cross Word Omnibus) from among the other detritus seeding my dirt-strewn floors, or just shout out about insanity, frustration, pain, and crap like biofilm infection....

Good news?  The clonazepam is greatly helping quell the spaz attacks.  I am down to about one visit from the automatic shimmies a day.  The cost is worth it -- I feel very sedated.  Word is, though, that I'll adjust.  Even if I don't, even if I sort of slant-smile and fail to blink my way through religious services and medical appointments, that's fine with me.  God, or someone, finally took me seriously -- I cannot tolerate the dystonia, the jerks, the nadir of me.  Thank you, God, or someone.

There have been some supremely funny moments here at The Manor.  The telecommunications installer who couldn't stay because he was allergic to cats, forgot the protective cones to.... protect himself, and failed to bring the necessary equipment as detailed in the work order... which he'd love to go over with us but he was starting to itch and did I have any Benadryl?  The third instance in as many years of a person asking me if I knew their friend X, who was also in a wheelchair.  My 29 attempts to pick up a peanut off the floor using one of my new grabbers.  I mean, seriously, who keeps going after, say, the fifth time?

Oh, and the doctor whose name I did not recognize from his $1300 bill.  Something made me check his licensure status.  License?  What license?  Absolute giggles set in when I noticed that my insurance company paid his claim, in its entirety, without batting a corporate eye.

just a few of the available assistive devices.
29 attempts, people, to pick up a freaking peanut.

I'll try to write more, and better, soon.