Saturday, September 22, 2018

Daily Life, Legless

I spent ten years, from 7 to 17 in English boarding schools which I like to describe as akin to Hogwarts without the magic.  Thus when presented with a plate of institutional food I tend to get warm fuzzies of being looked after.  Beef stew strawberry shortbread and milk. Hot tea to follow.  I’m good, very good. Too bad they serve it at 4:45pm.  A tad bit early...

I sit up a little in bed, not too much as my stomach has been sliced to get access to my pelvis for surgery and I pull the plate up over a napkin and with BBC radio 4 on the miracle of the internet I spoon food and ponder Brexit in my solitary rehab room (Thank you Cigna). Later I’ll have a candy or a Kind bar or something with Netflix on my phone.  Then Percocet. Then oblivion. And no I’m not getting Oxycodone addicted. I am addicted to riding but I want no comments on either please. It’s a lost cause. I’m 60 and I know who I am. 

The break in the day is rolling out for therapy for a few hours.  I come back battered.  I don’t complain but I am as covered in sweat as if it were broga. I desperately want to be able to put weight on my legs.  Even just my good left will come they promise. 

My therapist Eddy marches people up and down the stairs so they call the contraption Eddy’s Mountain. And then I met Missy the therapy dog who comes by Friday through Sunday...

And there I am stretching legs and arms and building back my core strength; leaning forwards, building confidence preparing to transfer from bed to wheel chair. Heady stuff. 

It’s a learning curve. I met Eleanor yesterday (I can’t photograph patients) a teacher who suffered a stroke. She is 90 years old all wispy white hair and gentle smile who was widowed 8 years ago and is learning to climb stairs with confidence. She is of Hungarian descent and has a wicked sense of humor with no fear of talking of death. We have a date in heaven when the time comes. 

Television news remains nonsense I have discovered now I have access to cable. However Sunday night at nine Anthony Bourdain’s last series begins so I shall be glued to CNN probably with tears in my eyes. Don’t bother calling. His death really affected me. I felt kinship for his outspoken eccentricity I think. 

Get this: two of my scooter forum buddies sent me care packages. Pretty bloody special! And this is the weekend. My own therapy dog. 

Have a weekend everybody!  I am !!