Crutches of all kinds
I saw my doctor today and got my stitches out. My foot looks more like a foot again, and not a huge slab of Velveeta with blue toes. Dr. Thomajan said I was really healing well, ahead of schedule. But I still have to stay on crutches for two more weeks.
Somehow I had convinced myself that I was going to get a walking boot today, a mere 3.5 weeks after surgery. I mean, just because he sawed off some bone, inserted three screws into my foot and took a couple of extra little bones out --not to mention building up one bone that had eroded to the shape of a crescent moon and filling in the areas where I no longer have cartilage with some...thing that I don't understand... I guess maybe I got a little impatient.
But, Dude, we are talking about my LIFE here.
I called my husband from the parking lot (where I did NOT fall on my bum even once, thank you) and it was hard to tell which of us was more glum. My poor guy --he's doing EVERYTHING. He feeds us all, gets the kids up and ready for school, packs lunches and snacks, picks out their clothes (the less said about this the better) and then walks them to school. Then he runs the dogs, goes to work and works all day, coming home in time to make dinner, feed us all, give the kids baths, oversee homework, pay bills, clean the kitchen, brush teeth, read bedtime stories, admire whatever I've knitted that day and/or dash to the store depending on what we're out of... He's TIRED. I feel so bad that he's having to take care of everything and I hate waiting around for people to be available to carry things for me and I hate that I can't just clean up when I want to. Y'all might not know this about me, but inactivity is not my strongest skill. Nor, for that matter, is patience. I'm FRUSTRATED.
And to add insult to injury, while I was in Dr. Thomajan's office doing my normal eavesdropping/knitting thing, I heard this guy making a move on one of the nice nurses, she of the audible blonde roots. (Okay,I don't really think blondes are dumb. My mom is a blonde. Both of my walking partners are blonde and they both have more ed-u-CA-tion than I do. It's just an expression so don't be writing me calling me a blonde-ist. It's a JOKE, for goodness sake.) Both of them, it turned out were 29 and were planning on celebrating their birthdays in Vegas. After they went on and on about how hard it was to turn 30 and how they couldn't think of anything better than to go to Vegas and drink a lot and FORGET that they were turning 30, the guy said -- I swear he said this,-- "But you don't look anywhere NEAR 29, even."
She giggled. "Oh, gosh, thank you."
And he said --I swear he said this, --"I truly believe that you're only as old as you feel, anyway. Plus, you know they say that 40 is the new 30."
If it wouldn't have taken me an hour to get to him, I'd have beaten him senseless with my crutches.
Somehow I had convinced myself that I was going to get a walking boot today, a mere 3.5 weeks after surgery. I mean, just because he sawed off some bone, inserted three screws into my foot and took a couple of extra little bones out --not to mention building up one bone that had eroded to the shape of a crescent moon and filling in the areas where I no longer have cartilage with some...thing that I don't understand... I guess maybe I got a little impatient.
But, Dude, we are talking about my LIFE here.
I called my husband from the parking lot (where I did NOT fall on my bum even once, thank you) and it was hard to tell which of us was more glum. My poor guy --he's doing EVERYTHING. He feeds us all, gets the kids up and ready for school, packs lunches and snacks, picks out their clothes (the less said about this the better) and then walks them to school. Then he runs the dogs, goes to work and works all day, coming home in time to make dinner, feed us all, give the kids baths, oversee homework, pay bills, clean the kitchen, brush teeth, read bedtime stories, admire whatever I've knitted that day and/or dash to the store depending on what we're out of... He's TIRED. I feel so bad that he's having to take care of everything and I hate waiting around for people to be available to carry things for me and I hate that I can't just clean up when I want to. Y'all might not know this about me, but inactivity is not my strongest skill. Nor, for that matter, is patience. I'm FRUSTRATED.
And to add insult to injury, while I was in Dr. Thomajan's office doing my normal eavesdropping/knitting thing, I heard this guy making a move on one of the nice nurses, she of the audible blonde roots. (Okay,I don't really think blondes are dumb. My mom is a blonde. Both of my walking partners are blonde and they both have more ed-u-CA-tion than I do. It's just an expression so don't be writing me calling me a blonde-ist. It's a JOKE, for goodness sake.) Both of them, it turned out were 29 and were planning on celebrating their birthdays in Vegas. After they went on and on about how hard it was to turn 30 and how they couldn't think of anything better than to go to Vegas and drink a lot and FORGET that they were turning 30, the guy said -- I swear he said this,-- "But you don't look anywhere NEAR 29, even."
She giggled. "Oh, gosh, thank you."
And he said --I swear he said this, --"I truly believe that you're only as old as you feel, anyway. Plus, you know they say that 40 is the new 30."
If it wouldn't have taken me an hour to get to him, I'd have beaten him senseless with my crutches.
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