OMG . . . I’m sure you’re all gone by now. *tap tap* Is this thing on?
I’m finally out of bed and off the pain pills for the most part, taking physical therapy a couple of times a week to try to get my knee to bend again. I still have the immobilizer, but it’s not painful now to strap in and get off the bed (though somebody STILL has to lift my ankle and rotate the “lever” to the floor.) Next Monday I’ll get a brace that has a hinge at the knee. Maybe then I’ll be able to ride in the passenger side of the van or car. Right now, I have to sit across the back seat with my leg stretched out next to me. What a drag! I will not be getting back to normal until September, according to all the medicos. That’s really depressing.
But maybe I’ll get my creative drive back. I don’t know. Typically, when I sit around or lie around (the way I’ve had to do for three weeks now), my thoughts drift to one story or other, adding ideas or lines of dialogue or debugging something that needs to be tweaked in one of the books. Since this happened, though, I’ve had absolutely no story thoughts, even when I’ve tried. It wasn’t just that I couldn’t get to a computer to type. It was a paradigm shift into “this is not important any more, and the emphasis on it was wrong.” I still don’t know whether I am “supposed” to keep trying to get something published. If this is displeasing to God or the Universe or whatever you believe in, then I should drop it. My motivations are crappy anyhow, since they’re things like “I don’t want to disappear or have my voice not be heard,” and similarly selfish things. “I’d like to entertain” is secondary, and perhaps that’s supposed to be primary. Give, rather than try to leave behind a legacy for people to read later on.
Things have been so much worse because our little Pomeranian got sick. Last week he suddenly began having these painful attacks a few minutes after he’d go outside to tinkle (it took us a while to maike that connedction), and when hubby rushed him to the vet, they coulnd’t find any reason. The spell was over by that time (it lasted twenty minutes the first time, with him yipping and not able to stand still and rubbing his head and stomach on the floor or bed and being in pain, looking glassy-eyed and zoned out–very frightening). She didn’t X-ray him but took blood work. Took two days for them to get it back, and they said his kidney tests were a couple of points higher than high normal–creatinine and BUN. This meant he’s eating too much protein, and they wanted us to change his food to K/D diet. That’s always fun–dogs don’t like change. But I suspect that what happened was a kidney stone. . . though they don’t really sem to agree. See, it’s like when Mama and I had them . . . we coulnd’t stand still, we moaned when the stone moved, we suffered for three to four days with it. And this would be caused by lying around next to me and never getting up to go tinkle or get exercise, as I could not pick him up and walk on the crutches, and the “family” (sigh) (yes, I know, poor overburdened things, but stil) would not take him out the way I do or let him run around the house–he wanted to stay and guard my leg, as he knoes I’m broken. I told him I won’t stay broken, but still he’s not really confident. The last attack he had was night before last at 3 AM and it was much shorter and he didn’t pant and suffer and dig with his head that time, so perhaps the last of the stone finally passed. I prayed and begged and asked all the saints and every one of my relatives who has passed to the other side of the Veil and might have the ear of God to ask that the dog be healed. We can’t cope with anything else . . . the family gets frustrated taking care of me, although I am not requiring nearly so much as I did at first. (They would bring a glass of water, but then I’d need to go tinkle, or it would be time for a pill and they’d have to come hand it to me, as I was flat on my back–it was all doctor’s orders.) If only dog stays okay until I can be more up and around and bend my knee better. I can get around well on the crutches now.
Thank you to all of you who have sent prayers and positive thoughts. It’s so kind of you to give a thought to someone you don’t really know. We have had needs for people to go pick up medicine or groceries or help us with things over the past weeks, and have found that there was not one neighbor kid we could pay to run an errand or anyone we could call who wasn’t too busy and distant-sounding to help out. (I know I have helped others out when I could drive and do things–but that doesn’t mean that anyone else does or has to, of course. It’s just a bit surprising, is all, when you have lived in the same neighborhood for thirty-odd years.) I’ve discovered that even though a person may have contributed to every neighborhood/office fund over the years, and attended all the bridal and baby showers and graduation things and so forth for everyone, well, when it comes time for anyone to reciprocate, it doesn’t happen. Even when you ask. Interesting. Not that I resent having been the one to get people cards and funds and so forth, or that I think anyone owes me/you anything . . . it’s just interesting that when YOU have a need, they’ve all forgotten you. Of course I’m not at the office any more, and the neighbors all keep to themselves these days, because they’ve grown elderly and frail and just don’t get around that much. Still, it’s a bit daunting. You have to remember that you are doing the random acts of kindness for God/karma, and out of a desire to make others happier, and not because you are necessarily going to be sent a card in return. (I AM NOT ASKING Y’ALL TO DO ANYTHING! I’m just making the observation that people have short memories, and if you fall down and break your leg in front of the door to an office they want to get into, they’ll step over you without even an “excuse me” and hit you in the head with the bottom edge of the metal door as they open it so they can go inside to buy moving boxes. I swear I have never done such a thing. Perhaps that was a lesson to teach me never to do it, eh?)
YET ANOTHER REASON NOT TO BE NICE TO FAT PEOPLE
Have you seen that longitudinal study that tells us that if you have fat friends and associates, you will get fat? They think fat is contagious. Of course there’s the aspect of going out to eat with them or whatnot, but they claim that they have found a connection about obesity being contagious. Well, then! No wonder the Mean GIrls torture us fatties and people are allowed to say anything they like to us, insulting as it is! We’re pariahs!
I don’t kow where the linki is for that, but I saw it on TV, so it MUST BE TRUE
Keep praying for my dog and my knee . . and for Mama’s lungs . . . and hubby’s patience. If he’s gonna run away, he can’t do it until I can walk!! *grin* I told God that He could toss the books in the toilet and have all the agents and editors and contests reject me in exchange for my dog and my knee getting well, and I mean it. I would stil like, for selfish reasons, to see one of the books be pubbed by NY, but if it doesn’t happen and wasn’t meant to, I still got to be some of the mud that got to sit up and look around, and that is enough. Even though when hubby brings me books from the supermarket and stuff that he thinks I’d like . . . and it turns out to be poorly written dreck . . . I can’t worry about that. OK, so other people can have absolutely no charm to the prose and can make egregious errors on the first page or so and can have stupid recycled plots and have nothing original at all . . . and get published to great acclaim . . and that’s OK! Who gives a shit! You can’t give a shit. And if I do keep writing, it’ll have to be for personal satisfaction in that I feel one should not hide a talent (if I have any, and I’ve admitted I have no talent in other areas, so who knows) under a bushel. It’ll have to be like playing the piano; piano teachers hate me and have dismissed me over and over, but I still enjoy playing for myself. Shakespeare was forgotten for a time after his death, and bach would have been lost had it not been for Mendelssohn, so it’s all a crapshoot in the first place. You might roll boxcars or you might crap out. I’m kind of tired of crapping out all the time (tired of screwing up, tired of falling down, tired of myself and tired of this town), but hey, what the hell. Nobody’s happy anyway. I can look out this window and see the birds at the feeder and the squirrel getting in there and stealing seeds, and the passionvine hanging with twelve blooms, and the ornamental pepper getting bigger and coming toward the window glass, and that is enough.
More than I deserve, now that I think about it.