Thursday, October 20, 2016

Miss Birdie and the Show

Well, what about that show last night, Lizzie Beth honey? The folks here was a little ill with me after the other one -- the one where that hateful orange-faced, yaller-haired feller, which I don't believe that's his natural color a tall, was prowling around while Miss Hillary was talking, making faces and interrupting after she had sat all polite and quiet whilst he was going on.

I got so put out with the way that he was doing that one time whilst she was talking and he was creeping up behind her, I kindly forgot it was on the TV and I hollered "Look out, honey, he's right behind you!" and flung my water cup at him.

There weren't but a little water in it and it didn't do no harm but the nurse come and talked with me about how I had ought to behave if I wanted to watch the show last night. So I promised to do my best but said maybe they had ought to make sure I didn't have nothing in reach but for the button I mash if I need someone. 

Him and me both done better last night. He didn't prowl around and I didn't throw nothing. But, lord have mercy, didn't no one ever teach him not to interrupt all the time? His mama had ought to have slapped him twist-legged back when he was a young un. I admire Miss Hillary for not back-handing him when he kept butting in on her and calling her names. She's a strong one.

And when that referee feller asked would each of them go by what the voters had said, win  or lose, and he said that would depend on what happened -- I tell you, Lizzie Beth, I never heard of such a thing. Just like a spoiled young un who sees he's losing a checkers games and will dash the board and pieces to the ground rather than admit he lost.

But this ain't no game. It's our country and our government and our votes. His folks sure done a bad job not to teach him better. 

My vote? Oh, don't worry. I already put in for voting by mail. The quicker I can send in my vote for Miss Hillary, the better. 

Tuesday, October 18, 2016

The News

Yesterday I was taken to the orthopedic surgeon so he could assess how my injuries were healing.

On the whole, the news is encouraging: the broken ankle seems to be healing nicely; cast and stitches were removed and I was fitted with a boot -- which is only marginally less cumbersome but can come off for baths and PT. He gave me exercises for the dislocated shoulder-- still must go cautiously there for another four weeks. 

The big (8x3 cm) laceration on my right leg --  has been a bit of a concern because it had a big patch of dead skin (eschar) in the middle that needed to be removed. ("It's dead; it won't hurt when I pull it off--(insert howl of pain) oh, sorry, didn't realize there was a stitch in it.")

When eschar and stitches were all removed, the doctor declared the wound free of infection. (Yay!)

The unhappy news is that the ankle is non-weight bearing for six more weeks. At best. After which I return to the doctor for x-rays and further assessment. So it seems I'm stuck  in this facility for at least that long...

Happy news, if you'll excuse my mentioning it, is that I've graduated from the bed pan to the bedside commode. I still need help to make the transfer via sliding board; nonetheless, it's a bit of a victory.

I enjoyed my outing -- the autumn colors advancing, and being able to see the mountains . . .

But best of all was the magnificent Peregrine falcon I saw from the van. He was perched on a guard rail just outside an underpass, waiting, no doubt, for one of the pigeons that roost there. He was a gorgeous reminder of the Wild Things out these. (N0, not my picture -- from Pinterest. The others are mine, of a waterwheel in Cherokee.)

Sunday, October 16, 2016

Lapsus Linguae

The nice CNA who was rolling me off to the shower room asked me just how I'd gotten so banged up.

So I launched into the story yet again . . . "I stopped the truck by the garden because I wanted to pick up some pumpkins-"

 "Pumpkins?" she squealed. "Pumpkins?"

It took me a minute. "Oh," I said, "Punkins, I meant punkins. 

I'm not from around here, am I?

Friday, October 14, 2016

Above and Below

From my window I have a view of the sky and some pines and poplars peeking over the roof top of the next wing of the facility. It's a pleasure to rest my eyes on them, especially when the evening sun catches the poplar leaves and makes them sparkle. Then, when the sun is gone, my eyes drift down to the circle assembled on the patio.

At first it looked like a cocktail party that met three or four times a day, with convivial little groups scattered around. "How nice," I thought. Then I started paying attention. 

Just before 4 they began to gather -- the eager ones a bit early. They form their groups and as I watch I see they are eagerly awaiting the arrival of the aide who dispenses the smokes. All are tense, faces turned toward the door. They lean forward a little as the door opens then slump back in disappointment when the newcomer is just another smoker.

One impatient fella begins to dig around in the covered ashtray at his side till he finds a butt end big enough to light and, producing a lighter from his pocket, fires up the butt and inhales deeply.

Some, presumably more shaky than others, are covered with vast aprons, fireproof, I suppose, to guard against a dropped cigarette. There is someone with a tracheotomy tube . . .

When the aide with the cigarettes arrives, she passes among the eager congregants, handing out cigarettes and lighting them. It seems an act of sacrament. 

And possibly it is. Having never been a smoker myself, I can have no idea of the comfort, the relief, the pleasure these sessions must bring folks who are hurting. The look that comes with the first inhalation suggests how it must be.