Thursday, July 06, 2017

cow [sic] tipping

Um. My life seems hard right now. I know compared to some it isn't. I fell over on the 4th of July. I just fell over and landed, unbuffered, on my right hip. Like this: I purchased a pair of extra wide cowboy boots because my feet are Birkenstocky and I am accustomed to wearing comfortable shoes. I never did train my feet to endure heels or pointed toes, thankfully. Torture. The cowboy boots are bad enough. So, I bought them for being on the motorcycle, because, sandals. We'd decided to take a run over to Garibaldi for the day, so I yanked on my new boots, jumped up and down in them and stuck an extra pair of sandals in the saddlebags just in case I couldn't take the restrictive boots. It was a fine day, and when it got time to head back, I, of course, opted for the sandals. It wasn't easy getting out of the cowboy boots, so I asked for help. Picture this: me leaned up against a minivan, Jenny pulling off the boots one by one. The first one was okay. The second? Well, she had to give an extra little tug and it tipped me just off center enough that I began to tip. You know that feeling when you've passed your center of gravity and there is no hope of recovery? Well, I do. My back slid along the minivan and I knew, in that slow motion sort of way, that nothing broke my fall except my hip. I heard a crunch. I thought bad thoughts. I just laid there for awhile, assessing my situation. Can I stand up? Is it broken? Is this fear or pain? So I went through the available range of motion, mine a tiny bit limited on a good day, and figured I was good to go. I hopped back on the bike and off we went. Nah. That's not what happened. I struggled up from the pavement, wandered around a little bit, then got back on the bike with a tiny bit of help. "If we get as far a Tillamook and it still hurts, I'm going to the ER and get an xray." So that's what happened. it still hurt, of course. Hurt worse, in fact, and we pulled in to the hospital and got a picture taken. So far so good. No fracture.

The ER doc wasn't thrilled to put me on a motorcycle to go home, but options were few, far from home on a holiday weekend. Well, it wasn't a weekend, I guess. it was Tuesday. So anyway, I made it home. I am alive.

This next part is personal. You don't even have to read it. I just wanted to record it as a day in my life so sue me. It is my blog, after all. So I am old and female and have hemorrhoids. I'd decided to do something about it. Something like surgery. So I made an appointment weeks ago and today was the day for my consult. I was going to see the surgeon, have him check it out, chat it up and schedule surgery for August when I have some time off.

Imagine my surprise when he decides to do the procedure in the exam room this morning. I said something like, ".. but i dont' have much time and i have my little dog out in the car and you know how people are about dogs in cars and it isn't even hot i mean i treat him better than most people treat their children." So anyway, he jams his gloved hand and some scope thing and rubberbands where nothing wants to go and boom. I've had a procedure done. I make it to work and I am somewhat traumatized.

But I don't have a voice today. I woke up without a voice. So, broken hip, butt-reamed, laryngitis. I'm exhausted.

Saturday, July 01, 2017

30

Thursday marks 30 years of not drinking booze. It seems an over-reaction, sometimes, of an extended adolescence and some, very few really, matters of public record. The phrase "pitiful and incomprehensible demoralization" comes to mind. But still... 30 years? I joke. I'm so grateful I don't drink. I'm so grateful to have found my way out of that familial deathtrap. I was not alone then and am not alone now. Happy 30, HP.