Various non-hurricane things
I feel slightly ridiculous, updating on random minutiae when so many people I know and love are battening down the hatches in preparation for Sandy, but here I am. Nothing I can do from here can stop a hurricane, which seems unfair, really. That’d be a good superpower to have. My superpower, instead, is WRITE ABOUT NOTHING AS A DISTRACTION. It’s not as flashy.
[Sidebar: I wrote something on Facebook this morning about how, when weighing the pros and cons of letting Chickadee move away for the year, “life-threatening hurricane” hadn’t even been on my list of concerns. As I wrote it I was wondering for the 1,000th time if I should ask my ex if he’s properly laid in supplies or if I should continue to assume he’s a capable adult and not, you know, be a worrywart jerkface even though I’m nervous. And then Tarrant commented that, “Oh geez, after the year you’ve had, you’d think you would have factored that in,” and that made me laugh so hard that I forgot to be worried for a couple of minutes. Thanks, Tarrant!]
Anyway, our weekend was SUPER exciting, I’ll have you know. read more…
My doppleganger!
There have been a few requests to see my actual zombie hand, though I realize this is a delicate matter for some. The day I got my new splint (which meant the bandages got cut off and I got to see it for the first time) I was super-jazzed to show it to Monkey and Mario when they got home from school that afternoon. To my dismay, when I removed the splint, Mario said, “COOOOL!” at the same time that Monkey gagged, turned away, and yelled, “PUT IT BACK ON, THAT’S DISGUSTING!” So, you know… your tolerance may vary.
Here, I’ll make it a link for those who dare to click: This was my hand this morning while I waited for the surgeon to come poke me and then take out my stitches. (Don’t say I didn’t warn you.) The stitches are out, now, and the good doc says everything looks great. Given how black and blue I am, I wonder if he has a different definition of that word than I do, but whatever. (I also told him I thought being bionic would be more exciting, somehow, and he laughed and said I probably thought it would hurt less, too. Come to think of it, he’s kind of a jerk.)
I’ve received some lovely, kind gifts while convalescing. Most of them involve chocolate, which is awesome. But this latest one is clearly the best. read more…
I’m pretty sure I’m dying
In case I haven’t mentioned it 72,000 times already, my hand is broken. I know, you haven’t heard this before. It’s totally new news! And so, complaining that my hand really really really REALLY hurts is also news. (Feel free to punch me in the face, now.) (Maybe it will distract me from the pain in my hand?) I have been a bit preoccupied with the pain in my hand, is my point. Because it hurts. DUH.
Unfortunately, life still requires that I do tremendously demanding things like get dressed, take care of my kid, leave the house for appointments, and work. Harumph. At this point, anything with a “simple,” no-fuss solution is a-okay with me. Basically the less that is required of me, the better I like it.
So when I was at the doctor last week and she said my thyroid was off, and she said she was giving me some medication, I thought that was fantastic! There was a problem; there was a solution; done. Perfect. (Also, I’m not gonna lie—it was vindicating to know I haven’t been imagining my symptoms.) read more…
Don’t forget to remember
Oh hey, I almost forget to tell you that I’m over at Feel More Better, today, wondering how to remember the right things. It seems like we too often forget the good stuff, while many times what we’d happily forget forever just refuses to leave our memory banks.
I haven’t figured it out. I mean, other than simply wishing to have a memory like a dog—time passes quickly when things are bad, and happy feelings seem to trump all. That seems like a pretty good deal.
Hey kids, drugs are bad!
This is not a post I wanted to write. I blog about many things, but I think I have yet to blog about this particular thing. And yet, here we are.
Let us briefly retrace my medical steps of the last week. On Sunday night, I broke my stupid hand on a stupid apple. I then spent many hours in the emergency room with my long-suffering husband, and when we left we had a prescription for a heavy-duty narcotic (Narcotic 1). I had told the ER staff that I don’t do well with narcotics; in fact, most of them make me throw up. So when I mentioned this, they threw in a prescription for an anti-nausea med to take with it. This was very nice of them. However, I was still worried about taking the medication they’d prescribed, because—in case you haven’t noticed from the years of my neurotically writing about it—I fear nothing as much as I fear vomiting. The next morning (Monday), I saw my primary care doctor. I mentioned that I had been given a narcotics prescription but that I was afraid to use it. My primary care doctor, who is very nice, gave me a prescription for something “non-narcotic,†and said that it was unlikely to make me ill (we’ll call this the Not-Narcotic).
I did a small victory dance. Surely this medication would be the answer to my (pain) prayers. When Otto came home that night, he’d filled my prescriptions. I happily popped two of the Not-Narcotics, looking forward without to my pain ending without any subsequent silliness. Within about 20 minutes, I was completely stoned. Why yes, I AM a cheap date, why do you ask? read more…
Meanwhile, from up north
Chickadee is finishing up her first week of classes at her new school, and so far, so good. She doesn’t tell me much, but I am trying to step back a little, plus I am often all doped up when we talk. She did mention wanting to use the x-ray of the hardware in my hand as her screen wallpaper, which I’m gathering to mean that breaking my hand in a really stupid way is—in her eyes—the coolest thing I’ve ever done.
Her father was kind enough to send along the obligatory first-day picture:
Those combat boots could use a little polish, but that’s okay. Keep flying, girly.
Being bionic feels a lot like stoned
I neglected to tell you that the night we went to the ER, Otto and I couldn’t stop laughing. I mean, really, what can you do?
“How did you hurt your hand, ma’am?”
“I was making apple crisp.”
The questioner would do a double-take, and then we’d burst out into fresh giggles. Also Otto kept me entertained while we waited with great suggestions like, “Sooo… wanna play Rock, Paper, Scissors?” (We later decided to change it to Rock, Paper, Scissors, Crisp, but then deemed it too dangerous to play. Cue further giggling.)
Eventually they wrapped me up and sent me home with an orthopedist referral. And lucky me, I just happened to have an appointment for a physical the next morning, anyway, so they told me to give the paperwork to my doc and have them get me an appointment.
Meanwhile, I was lucky to even make it to the doctor in one piece, because I ended up sleeping only about an hour that first night. It turns out that broken bones HURT. read more…
… and then I broke my hand on an apple
We went up to the mountains to pick apples on Saturday. So pretty! Idyllic! I kept cautioning Monkey about the uneven terrain at the orchard because “all we need now is for someone to break an ankle.” HAHA. No one broke an ankle; we picked a bushel of apples, and the boys ate some fried pie.
Back at home, I made an apple crisp and several batches of dried apples. Sunday night I was working on a second crisp and mounting the LAST FREAKING APPLE when my apple peeler/corer doohickey decided to slip off the counter, and I can’t tell you exactly what happened because I really don’t know, but let’s just say that the peeler won. Four hours at the ER later, I am the proud owner of a spiral fracture and a temporary splint up to my elbow. Baby’s first broken bone! I should send my folks a picture.
More to come when I figure out how to type faster.
Draw Something, say something
Before Chickadee left, she made me load Draw Something onto my phone. “It’s super fun,” she said. “We can play together and you will love it, I promise!”
My drawing skills are rudimentary at best, but on my tiny phone screen with my suddenly-fat-feeling finger, there are kindergarteners who look like Da Vinci compared to me. My drawings are straight up terrible. The only way she can possibly guess anything I draw is when I write hints over the top of my scribbles. “You’re real super good at this,” she commented one day. You wouldn’t think sarcasm could drip off of a phone screen, AND YET.
Yeah, well. That from the girl whose drawing for “YACHT” was simply scrawling “This is the sound you make when you need to puke!” Points for making me laugh, anyway. I keep guessing, and drawing, and adding notes that I hope somehow say the things I’m carefully trying not to say.
“Text me every day,” she said. “Don’t get upset if I don’t always answer, but just let me know you’re there, okay?” So I do. And I draw shapeless blobs and dare her to decipher them. read more…
I’ll be under my desk with a snack
I’m sure you never would’ve guessed this (ha ha), but the departure of my daughter coincided with the triumphant return of the Apron Of Coping—our code-phrase ’round here which loosely translates to “Mir is cooking and baking in a futile effort to avoid feeling those pesky and unpleasant feelings.” Some people are emotional eaters, some people are emotional chefs. I consider myself an excellent multi-tasker because I am BOTH. I bake goodies for the gluten-eaters in the house and then I make other sorts of comfort foods for me.
Today I’m making soup. That’s a little messy to eat while curled up under my desk, but I’ll do the best I can with it. Desperate times, desperate measures, etc.
Anyway. It of course reminds me that many of my memories are inextricably tied up with various delicious treats, so I’m over at Feel More Better reminiscing about goodies and memories. I tried really hard not to drip any ice cream on that post, too.