But I don't intend to let this blog pass on, even when I find myself dwindling.
The comfort of Marlinspike Hall's innate insanity, the hijinks of our neighbors, even the tonsured monks, but especially some new monied hippy-types who enjoy playing with remote-controlled whirring toys, including some scare-you-senseless mockingbird-sized helicopters that may suddenly appear hovering over your shoulder, tempting you to shout things that might be misconstrued as non-liberal, non-progressive, if not outright supportive of the NRA... Ah, I mean to say that nothing much changes here, and that is a good thing, something to hold on to.
The pain of CRPS has settled, for this mean while, in my legs, and the osteomyelitis pain is clearly focused in the absent left shoulder wreckage and in the right hip prosthesis. Which mean that Joint of the Week honors go once again to the right arm, whose wrist now sports eight Pura Vida bracelets that are clearly an excess, and, for now, at least, something of a wondrous bother. My right hand is aflame but I'm determined to make it just another desensitization exercise -- which I shall approach with a better attitude than I did the huge bucket of rice grains that Physical Therapists seemed to think was such a cool therapy tool. I go too fast. First, the kindly PT reminds you s/he is your friend and that you signed on for this torture in sound mind, and that some medical school graduate also is keen on it. Then you roll up your oversized scrub pants or switch to shorts, and place one of your feet in the middle of the empty huge bucket -- the bucket coming to just below knee height. Then, dear darling PT begins the dear darling and searing process of adding grains of uncooked long grain rice. I assume it is long grain rice, as that's what is generally cheapest, and this rice ain't for eating.
Much like I imagine shards of glass dropped one by one might feel, that's how I'd overdramatize the feel of those accursèd grains falling on my feet. I'd continue on in hysterical fashion, except things tended to ease once the rice level achieved ankle-height. In lieu of dropping glass shards, I'd revise the description to being assaulted with a pellet gun, something else I've not experienced. (This is why CRPS patients tend to sound insane. Our available set of experiences has no matches that accurately correlate to this degree of pain, so we become writers of very bad, over-the-top prose.)
Anyway, such went the rice routine. It was topped only by the heated chaff torture -- which was so awful that I terminated the exercise and a goodly amount of its technology within a minute. Some well-meaning but unexposed to CRPS PT dude assured me that his extensive background with the disease proved the validity of our little endeavor: encasing my right leg in a plastic sheath that was then hooked up to what looked like (and may well have been) a shop vac, set on reverse. The plastic wrapper was first blown large by blasts of HOT air, which were then joined by particles of swirling chaff. The clever idea was clearly based upon desensitization while under the benefit of crack.
So I think the Pura Vida bracelets are a decent compromise to that ill-informed therapist practice of rice grains and blowing chaff. Prettier also. And within a few days, I'll be able to look upon these ringlets of color and appreciate them as mindful additions to the environment. The browns, greens, and maroons of "deep impact," atop the NEGU blues, whites, and one braided blue, white, and black. Shiny silver beads,.stray threads everywhere (to the cats' delight), and out of it will come a touchstone for instant calm.
I don't know which drug or combination of drugs is defeating me so right now. Actually, it's the infection, I'm pretty sure, and though that seems to be my favored excuse, there are reasons for that. The Spaz attacks and the fever and sweats, the particularity of the pain, and its peculiar brown fuzz deposits on the brain -- after five years of it, I've not been wrong yet.
But hiding it, not mentioning it, not rushing off to schedule another end of the days surgery (always do the contaminated patients last) -- that's hard. Learning NOT to track my fever.
Learning to shut up.
I made Fred a gorgeous salad, with shredded chicken and boiled eggs. I pickled onions, just for him, and while I showered (cheer for me!), assigned him the task of dressing the thing.
He delights in condiments.
I'm hanging on!