I Think I Was Fooled

Clinic day and I looked out the window for my weather report.  Sunny.  Bright.  Lovely. The trees are especially enticing.  Lacey and shivery in the very early breezes.

Showered and shiny.  Wearing the newest of my new pantie stash and an ever so comfy shirt.
Hobbled down the hall and once outdoors was nearly blown over by the wind.

This is not meant as idyllic imagery.
Rather, my canes were planted on the pavement and I was fighting to remain upright.
Waited it out.  What choice did I have?  Hurrying up is oom-possible.
Made it to the car.

Okey Dokey.
Drove to the clinic and parked in my usual "crips" spot.  The wind is rocking Ancient Vehicle.

Usual wait time.  Paperwork jumbles as they "update" their files and get most everything wrong.
No husband.
Knee and hip NOT back pain.
No income from work.  And this is where the "I am obviously not worthy of medical care" panic/doldrums begin to rush in.  Everyone is kind,as usual, I still feel like the freak in the carnival sideshow.  Please don't let me start sobbing in the waiting room.

Doctor's visit and I tell her about some decisions I have made.  I don't think she agreed.  Tough.  Prescriptions renewed.  Tomorrow I am officially on the wait list for the pain clinic.
Could be six months if I am lucky.  What do I do til then?  Put my forms in my book bag and hobble to the car.

It's still really cold.  I get inside.  I shut the door.  I am overwhelmed by self-pity and how goddam brave I am to keep doing what I did today.  I sob with a modicum of privacy.  I drive home

April had such a gentle, peaceful start.  I guess the shit is about to hit the fan.

Just For Today

This is probably a result of watching too many doctor shows online.

But why couldn't it be a giant, honkin' tumor?  Rip me open and scoop the damn thing out and chuck it in the trash.  Huh?

Or why can't I just get the damn leg chopped off at the hip?  Let somebody experiment on it.  Bonus weight loss for me,eh?

Maybe the bloodwork will show a new disease that necessitates massive painkillers or injections of some kind.  And then the doctor will get me into a fancy, schmancy clinical study somewhere.  Or an up and coming medical reasearcher will want to glom onto my case to advance knowledge and save people.

But the truth is...

The actuality is that none of those options will occur.

This pain will go on forever and I will keep missing the good parts of life outside these walls.  I used to be afraid of becoming one of those huge, bed bound freaks who can't leave their house because of their weight.  I didn't ever suspect that I'd be locked in by the inability to walk.  Well, I am not quite the hugest of freaks; but I am certainly bound.  This leg.  This pain.  I am a prisoner.

And I doubt I can tolerate it much longer.

Fling Open Those Windows!

This mini-season of unlocking can be tricky here in the Midwest.  The temptation to open glass surfaces as far as possible is strong.  The rewards can be great. Tantalizing aromas of other people's dinner preparations.  Yum.  Someday I will figure out all the spice-meat-potato combinations and duplicate them for myself.  Or I may simply go door to door clutching a fork and spoon and begging for a taste.

The giddy sounds of the Kid Parade every weekday afternoon.  Boys have shed their parkas for hoodies alone.  One young chap has actually shed his shoes!  Yup!  Walks home in his stocking feet.  These children seem very good natured.  I've never witnessed a fight or teasing or bullying of any kind.  And, this delights me, they all look both ways before crossing the street.  I guess at least one of those early parental lessons has stuck.  No girls in flip flops yet, however.  Dancing Daughter informs me that's the only sure proof of springtime.

Breezy breezes.  Not the howling shrieks through every uncaulked crack endured the past months, but rather lilting, drifty, pleasant air movements that waft.  Damp evergreen and muddy earth fragrance.  Even faithful Cigarette Man having his 3pm smoke is a welcome addition.  The trees haven't been bamboozled; there are no buds yet.

And then there is, of course, the one sour note.  A new dog has moved in somewhere upstairs.  This dog is left alone for hours and hours every single day.  It is loud.  It is obnoxious.  It is unrelenting in its noise.  I know it is only doing what dogs do.  I don't care.  Do you know what cranky old farts do when faced with a public nuisance?  Even one with fur?  We contemplate slitting its little throat; that's what we do.  Then we can all enjoy this pretend respite from winter.

Wazzup Names

When I was a teenaged girl I did not have a driver's license or a car and I certainly knew better than to consider asking for rides places.  I think I still had my bike, which I LOVED, but biking when you're in high school says "loserville" and I had enough to deal with already.  I baby sat for money and I made plenty.  For that time, of course fifty cents an hour was major coin.  I had a lock on most of the teachers' kids.  Them that had 'em; most of the teachers I realize now were just a few years older than me.

Babysitting meant I was trusted and responsible.  Check.  It meant I was out of the house.  Double check.  It meant I got to see how other folk lived.  Hoo Baby Triple check!  Wow!  Houses with more than one bathroom!  Carpet in a kitchen!  (OK, that was a little weird.)  Kids with their own bedrooms.  Basements tricked out with TV's, sewing machines, and ping pong tables!  Attached garages!  It really was a different world.

But, today I'm thinking about the kid names I remember.  When I had  my own daughters I spent many, many hours considering what their names should be.  I stand by those choices.  My kids ARE their names.

 But some of those names from long  ago.  Bambi:  not good, never will be President.  This child was gorgeous and, I think grew up to be a Playboy bunny AND a police officer.  So I make no claim to total "name" power.  But her parents didn't realize the Disney Bambi was a boy. 

 Pippa: excellent, exotic without being weird, yeah, there's Pippi Longstocking but that was different just enough not to count.  She also had great freckles and her dad was one of the smartest men I had met by then.

Last night I watched some old 60 Minutes clips.  Angelina Jolie as a responsible grown up.  Good for her.  Her kids have unusual names.  They are acceptable on my unofficial, very personal list.  I'll bet those kids will get teased, but not very much.  The boys' names all have "x" in them.  I wonder if that was intentional.

And then there's Jay Z and Beyonce.  Blue Ivy is not SO out there. (I confess I listened to the song as soon as I heard about it.  I don't understand rap music as a whole.  I recognise the passion and I'm glad it's out there as a genre'.  I'm just not sure it's music.  To me it's more of a poetry slam with a bit of backup.  The poetry is not always good and I do not appreciate all the misspelled words.  Sorry, that's an old white curmudgeon  talking.) It was nice to hear a dad in love with his child.  But is that the baby's mother in labor in the background?  I hear the baby crying a bit toward the end of the song.  I think I read that there's a sample of Mrs. Carter moaning as she was giving birth. 

Oh! NONONONONONo!  I wish that (if that's what it is) would have been kept private.  That baby is going to be in the world like celebrity babies and I feel bad for her already.  Maybe she will appreciate her name.  I hope it was chosen with love and caring for her by her parents.  But the music of her actual birth; that should be hers alone.