My Normal: Am I There Yet?

I'm trying like crazy to return to "my normal."  

Garderobe, Peveril Castle, Derbyshire

This is a term now in my daily lexicon -- it used to be set apart.  (In that there field, yonder, a little farther, a little farther, more to your left -- LEFT, I said -- yep!  Right there!  Good job, Dear Reader!)  It used to be confined to exam rooms.  "So, would you say you're close to 'your normal'?" might be an insightful question for Dr. Shoulderman to ask after giving me a prosthesis, taking away a prosthesis, putting in a spacer, taking out a spacer, or removing the shoulder joint altogether.


The only intelligent answer is a one-sided shrug and a heart-felt muttered: "I guess so." Or just omit the shrug.  We never wanted to hurt Dr. Shoulderman's feelings.

It's that time that comes every three years or so.  My private long term insurance company that pays me 60% of my pay, post retraction of any bit of money due any agency (even my union dues!) at the level of pay I was receiving in the year 2000.  The following year, of course, was when Fred had to stop working because "someone" had to be here to call 911 in case I didn't feel like it. [Ha?]

I'm pretty sure they surveilled us and I bet that was a grand old time for some poor soul.

Anyway, now it's pretty much as my go-to-guy MDVIP doctor promised me it would be:  "No one, ever, is going to question your need for disability coverage.  This is permanent, this is not going to get better."

He actually does have a sense of humor, this devout man.  I've heard him laugh, even inappropriately (the true test of mental health).  I've seen him hold his head in his hands more, though.  And since he and his partner left their huge group practice to go off and practice excellence, he's felt free to say he'd pray for me.

One of his best jokes yet?  I said, "I hope you had a good Passover." He responded, "Did you go to an Easter sunrise service?"

I about died laughing.

So first thing I do wrong this time -- and I'm back to talking about getting re-certified as a bona fide gimpette -- was not notifying the disability insurance company that my phone number had changed.  Oopsies. (I'm channeling Rick Perry.)  So when my "case coordinator" attempted to call, and got the old "disconnected" message, her natural assumption was that I'd grown new arms, legs, bones, and a better brain and had run off to Mexico, living high on Mexican hogs via that aforementioned 60% bounty.  Plus the extra pesos brought in by selling my mail-order drugs.

That's right. I -- me -- moi -- am a cartel.

I knew I was up to something!

Anyway, this is always a time of stress, in spite of my humor-possessing but humor-skewed beloved doctor's assurances that I am "totally and permanently disabled." This is always the juncture when the neighbors might have mailed the company that tell-all video of Fred and me waltzing on the veranda, or me jogging off to teach my early morning yoga class at the community center eight miles down the road.

Hey!  Did I tell you that I have new whatchamacallits?  Elbow crutches, you know, with the cuff the fits on your arm?  Two of 'em!  One for each side, and yes, that part is tricky.  The goal is to be able to stand for three minutes (still don't get how anyone chose "three" as a goal) which I absolutely CANNOT do -- BUT I can walk around for almost that long!  Maybe half that long!  So long as I am within crash reach of the bed or wheelchair!  It's actually pretty cool, even if annoying know-it-all people around me keep changing the various length settings on the suckers.  Fred has never been man enough to accept that I am way-y-y taller than he is.  Way-y-y.

So the forms are here for me to fill out.  I keep moving them around.  I doubt I'll be able to write legibly.  Maybe I can type out the answers, print them, and attach that to the original document?  Or do they want to see me scribble?

On the phone -- we did "connect" -- Gladys, or whatever her name was, seemed thrilled that I still had the same doctor as three years ago, as six years ago, as nine years ago.  "That makes it easier!" she crowed.
I had to pause as a vivid image of the man, his head gently knocking against the doorframe, overwhelmed me.

Like Fred, he had told me he was "overwhelmed."

Neither of them know it, but both of those moments were... sea change.  Pearls, eyes.  But it doesn't read that way, seem that way, exist that way, for Gladys.

I'm still having gastrointestinal bleeds on an ongoing basis, particularly when I don't follow the strict instructions not to take the drugs which help my bone pain the most.  I am doing so less and less, until the next time I cannot use my legs due to pain, cannot straighten them, and definitely cannot stand on them.
Here's something funny.  You know how people lose socks?  That great eternal mystery?  I lost the ankle brace that was making my right ankle fracture bearable.  No, I am NOT kidding.  And I always thought the punchline was that socks had PAIRS.  I only have the one sweet, little brace -- it has no sibling.  My theory?  It's here.  Somewhere.  Yes, that qualifies as a theory.  What do you want?  There was a thief in the night (swam the icky algae-afflicted-as-never-before moat, jumped into Marlinspike Hall via a well-used garderobe -- eww! -- bypassed the small golden museum quality pieces scattered about and took, instead, my damn ankle brace?  Here's the blatant flaw in your version, bud -- I am not sleeping, not since the return of the suicide-inducing spaz attacks.  Even the cats are staying away.  And since I've started guessing at how much insulin I might be needing, I've been in a jolly blood sugar roller coaster kind of mood.  A bit of advice for you:  don't take insulin, then half eat half a salad.  You might be unlucky enough to fall asleep.  I -- being forced awake -- simply transformed into Hulkette, snarling and green.  Fred did the bright thing and ran to get the jalapeño, red pepper-flaked with Thai chili sauce brown rice to shove down my throat... running right past the left over holiday peppermint candy.

What I dislike most about episodes of the sort?  I get paranoid afterward.  Fred must hate me.  The Domestic Staff seems distant.  Bianca has a sudden extra shift at the bar (the opera was among the first and hardest hit by Tête de Hergé's plunge into forced sequestration -- damn this proclivity for copying the politics of governing exhibited by failed and dying systems!).  Buddy came, but decided I'd be best comforted if he deposited his Maine Coon ass right where my shoulder used to be.  Buddy left shortly thereafter, as in:  Buddy fled.

I dunno.  Am I back to "my normal" or not?

What?  You afraid I'll bite your freaking head off if you try and answer?

Sunday Morning

It's a scary thing, announcing that you've achieved some kind of relevance, and then offering as your first bit of evidence yet another piece extolling the virtues of hot heat applied to vegetable and animal flesh.  Okay, maybe "scary" is not the right word, just as more mushroom talk is not entirely appropriate, either.

Be these things as they may:



When your blood glucose reading is already low, and beginning to flirt with the concept of Plummeting, carefully prepare your perfectly seasoned black cast iron skillet  to receive the last two boneless-skinless-and-trimmed-of-excess-fat chicken thighs remaining in the refrigerator.  Salt them;  Pepper them.  Be liberal.

Sling them around a little on the cutting board while that pan gets so hot it would glow red if it weren't so black.  Get to know your chicken.

Just when you see the air start to shimmer, add a tablespoon or so of good olive oil.  If you're going to fret over how much oil to add, stop now and go find some other recipe to abuse.

Make yourself wait again, some more.  Squash any thought of caramelized onion or sweet red pepper.  Fuss at yourself.

Slap the chicken into the hot oil in the shimmering hot skillet, then don't touch it. Don't move it. Leave it the hell alone. Wait a minute or so -- in fact, yeah, wait exactly *90* seconds, then flip the bird parts, smartly, in one smooth move, and cover that sizzling mess tightly with foil.  Turn the flame down a bit.

Grab your mushrooms.  We only have big gorgeous button shrooms on hand.  I don't wash them.  Sue me.
They were large enough that, quartered, they were still meat-hunky.  How many?  That depends.  Today, I quartered six humongous mushrooms.  I didn't get 24 browned and caramelized mushroom pieces, though, so I must have either lied about quartering each piece o'fungus or I ate a few sections raw.  Or both.

Unseal the magic skillet, flip the bird again, toss in the mushrooms, seal it back up.  Again, refrain from touching the chicken.  Count the number of times you have chicken contact since it met up with the skillet -- to this point, three spears with a fork's tines.  That's it.

Learn not to touch the mushrooms, either.  Don't sprinkle them with special fruity vinegars or provide a nearly invisible crust of sugar.  Not necessary.  Hot hot hot heat and good fat, basic seasoning.  The side of the mushroom that touches the skillet is undergoing a transformation that reduces wide-eyed references to butterflies to annoying dead butterfly powder.

Try not to get splattered. If you broke the covenant and washed your mushrooms, you're likely covered in burns, and all is lost.  I mean it, everything is ruined, so just turn off the fire and go hide somewhere. If you got splattered but did not transgress against your food, be sure you replace the foil seal before you commence to whining about it.

Wait the perfect amount of time.  Turn off the gas. (Don't cook with anything but gas. If you're just now realizing your mistake, Your Bad.  You should have read carefully through these ridiculous instructions before beginning.  What's wrong with you?) Drag that pan to an unused burner.  If you want, you can call this "resting." The aroma ought to render you a quivering five-foot-nine column of self-basting salivary gland.

While everything is squirting and leaking and juicing itself, getting all married and united and stuff, wash up.  Chicken germs:  Ew, ick. Lots of soap and hot water.  Wipe down the counters, even the ones you didn't use.  Once you've done that, that snooty resting phase is over.

Serve yourself.  It goes without saying that you should have waited to hear the screeching tires of the last church-goers as they left Your Manor, late for the opening hymn, before embarking on this juicified, quick-fire adventure in moist mouth sin.

It's gonna be hell, when next you venture into that kitchen, to clean the skillet, but give it love. The dish you just made is now part of the perfectly seasoned black cast iron skillet mystique. It was good to you so be good back.

You should be feeling much better now.  Round off your protein with a glass of extremely cold water and a large, flawless, crisp apple.  Don't claim that someone left you the apple on a plate next to an apologetic note about having devoured some sweet-'n-sour golden kumquats.

Nibble at a bit of lemon wedge, let it cut through all that is viscous.  Realize that while everyone who flew off to worship God will be rolling home, repentant, you are the one who ate the pan-fried chicken thighs with caramelized button mushrooms.  That ought to put things in perspective and be a singular rallying point for you, later in the week.

Major Stupidity

Major Stupidity:                                      

Most of the morning and much of the afternoon was dedicated to diuresis, and there was great success in that endeavor, with fifteen trips to the bathroom ending in the suspicion of ankles down there where the leg ends.  Oh, and all my rings fell off!  [I wear three at all times.  Unless they fall off, willful little Tolkien-cribbers.]

The dregs of this Summer Viral Thingy had my throat sore enough that I did not want to drink, and the seemingly endless trips to the WC only reinforced that reticence.  Of the things I did manage to swallow, 50% was a strong Italian roast.  The remainder was split between a Diet Root Beer and a paltry 12 ounces of water.  This is noteworthy as I normally drink too much water (according to the Go-To-Guy Doc) -- roughly 4 litres. That's water on top of coffee and 1-2 diet decaffeinated drinks.  I could try to justify this weirdness but I won't.

We are out of yogurt.  This hardly ever happens.  I need yogurt in much the way I yearn for lots and lots of water.  I popped the foil on my last container last night only to find that it was... abnormal.  That's right, my last serving (or three) of yogurt came on Wednesday night.  Please keep in mind that I am continually on antibiotics and that my gut therefore has its own appreciation of my low fat plain yogurt concoctions.  I add a preferred amount of artificial sweetener and a dusting of cinnamon, or cocoa, or a spritz of vanilla extract... Add the current novel and you have my bedtime routine in its entirety.  Of course, "bedtime" around here is a laughing-stock of a notion.  Last night?  I kinda-sorta slept from 22:30 to midnight and then again from 03:00 - almost 05:00.  When exactly was bedtime?  Now, Fred sleeps like the proverbial rock as well as the fabled log.  He came to bed at 03:00, read precisely 5 pages of his book, and then rose from the bed at... drumroll, please... 15:30!  ManorFest 2011 is sapping the boy's strength.

Oh, you thought I had forgotten ManorFest 2011?  Not so, not so.  I am just at a loss for the best words to EXPLAIN it.  It hasn't exactly been your normal ManorFest...

Okay, so... the last of today's oddities.  That would be my handling of blood sugars.  I recently became a bit hot under the collar at the price of diabetic testing supplies (one of the greatest undisclosed absurdities of Medical Economics, probably because we poorer diabetics don't want to embarrass ourselves in front of the doctors, be they Go-To-Guys or not).  My anger resulted in the brilliant decision to not test as frequently as recommended.  Like sometimes not at all.  Which is what I did today, while not eating, not drinking, taking a humongous amount of Lasix, all the while still having my usual fever and *sweats*.

The sweats and the heat (Yes!  Even here in Tête de Hergé, it's freaking hot!) consorted to make me decidedly in need of a shower.  That's a major undertaking, so I filed it under "things to consider doing later, like, when I'm feeling really weak and shaky."

What?  Why, yes, I *did* take my insulin.  As scheduled.  Right on time!  Without eating, without testing.  What?  Why, yes, I *am* a Brainiac!

(Are you still with me?)

Fred, all perky-like after his marathon sleep session, heard me whining about not having any yogurt and cheerfully volunteered to make a yogurt run -- and I bet you've already guessed that one of the Cistercians' numerous cottage/mail order industries is yogurt-making!  Put Fred and Abbot Truffatore together on a Friday evening and you have a recipe for communion wine and politics.  Jump back, Jack!  Not that there's anything around here as exciting as the debt-ceiling debacle in The States, mind you.  We have, nonetheless, our own brand of titillating government scandals.  And they just go down better, says Fred and The Abbot, with communion wine on Friday nights.  Sometimes Tante Louise totters down to the Monks' Mess and joins in, but we won't talk about that.  It's okay, though -- she has a cell phone now so there won't be any more missed "911" calls.

Not that there's much of a need for "911" calls in Tête de Hergé.

{cough}

Ah, alone in our apartment within the West Wing of Marlinspike Hall!  What a luxury.  Why not surprise Fred with a freshly scrubbed face (and feet, don't forget the feet, those things purported to be down there at the end of my legs... where are my legs?)?  Some fresh bright Gimp Clothes to tie my red face and purple feets together, and my goodness, he will faint from shock.

Which is, of course, what I did in the shower...
While alone in our apartment within the West Wing of Marlinspike Hall;
With La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore on duty out in the middle of the ManorFest 2011 maze (as if she'd be of any help were she in the shower with me);
With Fred getting potted in the stolid arms of Tante Louise as the Sweet Boys sing the world a lullaby, and settle in for the night's silence.

I am fine.

Stupid, a little bruised, but fine.
Let's thank God for the shower chair, perfectly placed, as it happens.

Fred just made it home, fine purveyor that he is of all things I ever need.  I can hear him banging around in the Medieval Kitchen, shelving his purchases, feeding the felines, doing little jigs.  And Bianca's there, too -- determined to have a cup of tea despite the blanket of heat.  I think I hear The Cabana Boy, as well, humming along with the dread Jewel Song she never ceases to rehearse -- Sven's son.  Oh.  My.

Well, some catastrophes just have to happen, I guess.

I am going to finish chugging this water, then devour my sixth piece of hard, sweet candy, and go join the merriment.  Right after I verify a blood sugar above 38...