Monday, September 30, 2013

Grader Boob: The Small Things That Tip Me Over

Poor Grader Boob, one of my two Brother-Units.  I would say "poor TW," referencing the other Brother-Unit, but he had his turn last week when I actually used one of those things, a phone, I believe they're called, to reach out and touch him.  For other phone phobics, it is worth it, friends, to remember the person on the other end and not the annoying technology in between.

I'm less embarrassed embarrassing myself with Grader Boob, having had so many more years of practice with him, and his unfailing compassion.

What he really thinks of me?  Now, that, I don't particularly want to contemplate.  For I am far from worthy.

Anyway (my favorite segue), I sent the following email to Grader Boob just about an hour ago.  Pretending that I'm posting some random, meaningless correspondence makes copying it here easier.  You may not understand it;  It has nothing to do with my politics, or any other ardent hobby;  It has to do with... my increasingly intimate relationship with the irrational, such that the irrational no longer seems...
 \sqrt{2} .

**********     **********     ***********     **********     **********
o grader boob!

why are the small things the things that tip me over?  hmm?  i was making some kind of point, that even i don't understand, by doing more than i know i can/should do... stemming from a near-fight with fred.  not even an actual fight.  and, to sum it up, it was a situation in which he deserved an "i'm sorry" from me, and i was just sick and tired of apologizing for myself, no matter how deserved the apology.


so i wake up determined to prove how i don't need help with anything.  my only venue for such demonstrations, now, is within the realm of domesticity -- basically, cooking, cleaning.

so i cleaned.  two days ago, i cleaned the house for about 7 hours straight, and paid for it, physically.  and paid for it, psychically, by the near-spat with fred, who did zero, nada, nothing wrong.  it was just the tip to the scale.

it used to be my self-imposed physical therapy schedule, cleaning the whole house every other day, with an alternation worked in for things like laundry and damp-mopping  (+ vacuuming of rugs only) versus vacuuming, alone. i had some sort of rhythm worked out for morning baking and late afternoon dinners.

then it got so i couldn't do it.  at least not on the every other day schedule, and not to the standards that mom would accept. which are my standards (modified because she never had three cats). still, it remains a goal, the work-my-gimp-ass-off-every-other-day CRPS PT plan.  the next days are spent, guilt-free due to the proof of my work ethic, reading and writing, and trying to defeat the pain spike i caused my self to my self.

i took on the back of the house, purposefully, because that is supposed to be fred's domain.  he could give a shit about "clean," whereas i not only give a shit, i have made the elimination of cat hair and cat odor a raison d'être.

so i was mopping cat litter that the lovely felines scatter in the process of doing their doo.  their poo. etcetera. i was mopping the remains of hair balls that he'd only half-assedly cleaned up.  this is the area where we do laundry.  so i track whatever is there into the rest of our (clean) house with the wheels on this goddamned wheelchair.  if i drop a piece of clothing on the floor while transferring from the washer to the dryer, that piece of clothing has become totally nasty.

we have a portable, folding ramp that allows me to descend, in style, from the heights of culinary creations to the attached bowels of litter boxes and washers and dryers, and fred's collection of tools, dyes, and assorted ADHD paraphernalia. i moved that sucker, mopped underneath, moved it back.  in the process, injury number one:  removal of skin over the second toe on the right foot, the same wound i have been trying to heal since... january of 2012.  incurred during the fall in the bathroom and worsened by the crawling on the floor to try and reach the wheelchair.  failure, called 911, ended up in ICU shortly thereafter.  that damned toe is a daily reminder of the hell of being eventually consigned to the "acute care" transitional facility in february.  a personal hell, because i won't tell anyone all of what happened there.  no one listens, no one hears, because no one can.

then i decided to cool it, and just vacuum the rest of the house.  i made it to the end, had just decided to watch some deadwood (your wonderful gift).

i dropped the box of DVDs and it hit to the right of my right shin bone.  the skin and schtuff is so fragile, it made a sort of Vee.  a very deep Vee.

so fred and i made up while sopping up the blood and bandaging.  making up means we had something neutral to talk about, we had care to take, one of the other.  and then, there was the news playing on the telly -- the right wing wackos shutting down the government and imperiling my much needed obamacare -- more good mutual conversation.

the slicing and dicing of my right leg as i sought to clean my house in retribution for a non-event has left me... desolate.  the pain is ridiculous, thanks to CRPS.  the cut is deep; we argued over the need for stitches.  i won the argument with this:  the skin is too fragile to even hold a stitch.

the pain, of course, is not centered where the slice diced, but on the sole of my right foot and deep in my right hip.

none of this did you need to know.

but i have no one to talk to.

and you know enough to shrug, and proffer an "oy" to the sky, with the proper rolling of the eyes.

oh yeah -- i got oral thrush from the amoxicillen they put me on last week for bronchitis.  the fluconazole to treat that is doing wonders.

this isn't even self-pity.  or a rant.  this is what is, and that's what sucks.

putting on my happy face, because fred has made pizza pie.  pizza pie is fred's answer to all of life's problems.

i love you so much.

© 2013 L. Ryan

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