Nighty-night, all.

Between both hands, I've an aggregate of 4.5 usable fingers.  Three on the left, and the remainder of 1.5 on the right.

The 4.5 that are vacationing are trying to contract, are cold, a little bit painful, and extremely sensitive to contact with any thing or even moving air.  Just like in those golden days of yore when CRPS was present but unknown to me by any acronym.

Yesterday was frustrating, in that I felt compelled to clean our small portion of The Manor, which entailed much dropping of things.  However, I also discovered that vacuuming covers a multitude of sins, such as screaming, nonsensical cursing, and loud imaginary conversations with the Malignant Authors of My Condition.  It was also a great success in that I did not wrap the vacuum cord around any of my wheelchair wheels, a very embarrassing event on those exceedingly rare occasions when it does happen.

I'm going to bed as soon as this bit of nothing gets posted -- because tomorrow is Thursday!

We have to be at the Lone Alp Medical Chalet at 9 AM in order to see a neurologist.  Not a problem for most, it's pure dread at Marlinspike Hall, as Fred and I have been pulling Night Shifts.  We trot off to sleep when most of the Domestic Staff and Wandering Cistercians are just hitting their stride. Even the Crack Whore maintains a rigid adherence to office hours proscribed by circadian rhythm.

After enduring the condescension of the neurologist who cooed at me, telephonically, "Ms. Profderien, I want you to know that I believe your pain is real," we head back to the Western Wildlands of Tête de Hergé and meet up with the Occupational Therapist.

As Brother Lumpy's famous bedtime stories used to go -- "Meanwhile, back at the ranch..." -- Brother Lumpy will have his final radiation treatment tomorrow.  Maybe not final, as in "ever," but final as in "for this portion of the season." It has had a beneficial effect in that his pain level in the shoulder region, at least, is down to a "4." However, he's had horrible problems with nausea and vomiting, so the prayer there is that the end of radiation brings a lighter gastrointestinal load and even more pain relief.

And Thursday sees StepMom Boom-Boom Baba will be facing her worst fear and be transferred to a lovely Assisted Living Facility in the same town as her daughter and her fearless partner.  The dream of living out her life at the ocean-side cottage is over -- but she's blessed to have the resources to be well cared for and live near her daughter.  Boom-Boom Baba will remember that her daughter loves her to pieces in a few days.  In the meantime, should you live in the coastal Carolina region and are approached by a fiery-eyed 85 pound former ballerina in her mid-80s?  Run for your life, because she is very angry.

As for the biological true bloods of the family, meaning those birds of a feather flocked in the more mountainous regions, I guess their Thursday will be of the run-of-the-mill sort.  My half-sister will fleece someone of either money or sympathy -- if it's a great Thursday, maybe both!  Her son, my quarter-nephew (wish I'd paid more attention in Dr. B's anthropology classes on kinship charts), will battle his illnesses and combat his life challenges with aplomb and panache and other fancy words for Kid Courage.  My biological Mom will travel in and out of dementia, visiting with her deceased husband while cleverly hiding from him her recent marriage to Bill O'Reilly.  She so sweetly and unselfconsciously told me she loved me last week that I was quite taken with the idea and have rolled her words around my brain so much that I almost believe this unanchored assertion.

I've an aunt and uncle there, too, who seem lovely -- delightful, even, and I hope their Thursday is uneventful, peaceful.  Oh, and there's my buddy John, and his lovely Mom, my sister-in-law. Which posits a half-brother, but I am not sure he really exists.

Then there's that guy out west, whom everyone swears they love.  Myself, included.  Smooches galore to ya, and oh, how I wish you were here. You have a beautiful day, SweetCheeks!

Nighty-night, all.

© 2013 L. Ryan