Senility

Wanda is 11 years old. She is nearly blind and becoming more and more infantile by the day. Don't worry, she's a dog. This onset of insanity isn't ludicrously premature :-)

As I type this, she is staring at me, threatening to pull the same naughty stunt that she has been pulling the past few days. I spend most of my time sitting on the sofa-bed in the family room. The furniture is arranged much differently than it normally is and I more or less live in here. Both of these things are wayyyy out of the routine that our dear golden retriever has settled into. To make up for this bizarre situation, Wanda has decided that she belongs on the bed with me. This would be fine except for how she wants to do this.

I started out sitting on the left side of the couch, merely because that was the side I collapsed on when I got home from the hospital. Wanda got used to climbing up on the right side. She wasn't incredibly smart about it, though. She inevitably would end up trying to sit in my lap and/or jumping over the back of the couch. The former was simply irritating, while the latter was frankly dangerous for the silly dog. I don't know why she thought it was a good idea to make that jump... I'm blaming her cataracts.

Now I'm sitting on the right side of the bed. This move was made due to logistics; it just makes more sense. But now Wanda is super confused. She still tries to get up on the right side of the bed, i.e. on top of me. She gets up and I have no option but to have her continue walking over me until I get her onto the vacant half of the bed. There isn't enough room to have her turn around and get back down. If she was a puppy I would have no qualms shoving her off backwards, but an 11 year old dog? That doesn't seem prudent.

I was able to make her happy the other day by lying on my stomach and cuddling with her. Like so:

Out on the Town

I suppose Sunday Mass doesn't really count as being out on the town, but it's only the second time that I've left the house in 10 days. It was wonderful to get out of the house for a bit. As difficult as crutches are to move about on, it's better to move than not. It was especially nice because I was going to one of the best places that I can go. I wasn't able to get to Mass last weekend (I was still way too drugged up) or at any other point since surgery. I'm spoiled at school, where I have four different options for Mass times. Barring extraordinary circumstances, I am able to get to Mass every day, so two weeks without it was difficult.

When I went this morning, I decided that I would sit on the end of the pew to give myself the most foot room (my cast, Albert, is quite bulky) and exit options if necessary. The one part of this plan that was not ideal became apparent at communion. Distance between pews is designed for space efficiency, not someone on crutches. I had to pick my way rather carefully. Even then, I had a couple of snags and almost falls. By the time I got to the center aisle, I had caused a bit of a traffic jam. I went as quickly as I could to the priest. Before giving me Communion, he whispered with a big smile, "Roller blades work marvelously, you know." I was so kerflummuxed by my little trip that I forgot to say, "Amen" (which is acceptable, although not the modern convention). Fr. Hal just patted me on the cheek.



My feet, as I play the piano at home before Mass. The drastic mismatch of my footwear made me laugh. I have to pedal with the wrong foot as well :-)

Fickle Pickle

I am very fickle. I am not a pickle. But I wanted a word that rhymed with fickle. I generally don't think of myself as a fickle individual (disagree if you want to), but last night I was definitely being an inconsistent little nincompoop.

In the space of about an hour, I went from being mildly irritated to hopping mad. That isn't too unnatural of a jump, but I didn't stop there. I next went to a state of feeling really bad about being mad, so much so that I was crying. After a few minutes of that, I started happily talking about baseball. (Did you know that the Detroit Tigers are the only American League team to have dropped three consecutive World Series? They did, between 1907-1909)

I am not an angry person. I am a very happy person. Just not post-operatively: then I am incredibly emotionally fragile. *sigh* I wish this would be over soon. One week down, five to go :-)

And really, how could you be mad at boys like these for long?

Boredom

When you sit down all day long, you get sore. But it isn't the good kind of soreness. Y'know that wonderful feeling after going for a long run and then doing some weights for an hour? Well, it isn't that. Your darriere gets... I don't know what you would properly call it. Sick and tired of being sat upon?

Anyway, I decided to try to "work out" this morning. You can't do much while sitting or lying in a bed. After some sit ups, leg lifts, and arm exercises, I was struck with an idea.

When Mum walked in, she laughed at me. I was lying on my back, doing more leg lifts with my good leg, but with a slight modification: I was holding onto weights with my toes. I suppose it must have looked very odd. The things desperate boredom will do to your mind...

My Morning Regimen

I wake up.
I stretch what parts of me that I can.
Ow.
I drag myself up to a sitting position, swinging my right leg in a large arc. The largeness of the arc is probably somewhat overkill, but I tend to move in a slightly exaggerated fashion.
I wait for a minute so that the world might stop spinning.
I grab my crutches and hobble to the bathroom to get ready for the day.
I hobble back to the sofa-bed, which has usually been made by my wonderful mother at this point.
I sit down.
Ow.
I take some pain pills.

So it begins.

Reckless Frivolity - TAC style

It was the Saturday before St. Patrick's day. There had been a large party put on by the school to celebrate the Irish feast day. Little girls in green skirts with super-curled hair had danced on the wooden stage. Medium-sized girls in black skirts with equally curled hair also danced. Then some of my schoolmates danced. They were wearing pants and didn't curl their hair, but the dancing part was the same. Tutors and their families joined the student body to drink beer, eat corned beef, and enjoy the festive atmosphere.

Plastered on the wall behind the stage was a green-paper sign reading "Welcome to the St. Patrick's Day Celebration" At about eleven pm, I was sitting on the stage with three freshmen boys. We were passing around a mandolin that was missing strings, talking about nothing in particular, and all wondering what we should do on this Saturday night. Curfew wasn't for another two hours. There wasn't enough time to watch a movie, but it was too early to go to bed. Jims stood up and started pulling the green paper rectangles off the wall. Nick joined him. Not wanting to miss any incredibly riveting fun, I stood up and walked over to see what exactly they were doing. The wall had become a large scrabble board, but Nick and Jims were on the same team. Rearranging the letters into hilarious combinations was entirely captivating. The four of us got involved in this new game. Although I can't remember every combination that happened, the final product was worth remembering:

"Pat can retry to kiss Caleb."

What better fun could you have on a Saturday night?

Worth 1000 Words

Men

Ever wondered what girls talk about when they are not in the company of men? Well, too bad, I'm not going to tell you. (I do have a really funny story about that, but it's only for very few ears to hear) Something girls do enjoy talking about, wherever they happen to be, is men. Personally, I enjoy talking about men among men more than without them. Their input on the subject is usually funny, insightful, and generally ridiculous. And I'm not calling it ridiculous in a derogatory manner. It's ridiculous, but unfortunately accurate.

A specific instance of this occurred one Friday night, about the middle of second semester. I was sitting on the floor of an elevator (about the coolest place to hang out on a Friday night at TAC) with two other girls and two boys. We were having a casual chat about marriage. One by one, we went around the circle, picking (from among the student body) prospective spouses. As a prerequisite, I wished to establish one thing: that the man be the taller than the lady. Preferably, I stated, of such a height that I could fit under his chin. (I've always found something rather appealing in the thought of being able to curl up under my man's chin for a cozy hug.) The boys found this amusing, but the girls seemed to agree with me. Little did I know that this conversation would be the ground-work for a very funny situation later.

The Thursday before finals week, I was fried. My brain was exhausted from the semester, my body was rebelling against staying up any longer, but I didn't go to bed. The more I should go to bed, the less inclined I am to do so. And for anyone who knows me, this situation leads to a very slap-happy me. I was bouncing off the walls, almost literally. In this state of impaired judgment, I skipped over to one of the nicest freshmen boys who ever existed.
"Hi," I said, grinning from ear to ear. "Would you want to ask someone out on a date?"
He laughed nervously, but he went along with it. "If you insist on it, I'll do it. I'd rather not, though, so please don't ask me to."
"Oh, no, I'm not asking you to ask me. I want you to ask someone else, 'cause she wants to go on a date." This wasn't strictly true. The girl had wistfully, half-jokingly mentioned that she was feeling un-loved and wanted Prince Charming to come sweep her off her feet.
"Hm, well, I don't think that's a good idea. But I'm flattered you'd think of me," said the poor, imposed upon freshman.
Cue one of my best friends. In she walks, catching his last statement, and seeing my face which is all pink. When I'm in a state like this, I get really red and giggly and lose most of my self-control. It's unfortunate, but it's reality. "What isn't a good idea?"
"I asked him to go on a date.... But not with me! With someone else. I'm not that forward, really."
She laughed at me. "Oh, dear. Here she goes again. (to the poor freshman boy) Sorry. She's just tired." She was grinning from ear to ear, laughing silently at me in my sad, pathetic state.
Unable to stay out of trouble, I open my mouth yet again. "Besides, the two of us would never work out. He's a whole year younger than I am. And you know how I could never get together with a younger man."
The poor boy laughs. My bestest, most loyal friend, who is always there for me pipes up, "But he is taller!"
The two of us girls made eye contact and we both know what the other is thinking. I'm very short, not gonna mince the truth on that one. And this guy isn't. He is, in fact, about a head taller than me. "Oh, would ya look at that." I laughed. "He might be just about the perfect height."
At this point, the boy has no idea what's going on. He knows he's taller than me. Without missing a beat, he walked behind me and placed his chin upon my head. "I FIT!" I squealed. The two of us girls bust up laughing.
When I related this story to someone else later, I thought he put it well. "He walked into that one." Quite literally. :)
So then and there it was decided that the two of us had to get married, since we obviously were made for one another. I have to give this guy a lot of man-points, though. Most people would play along with it for a while, but then be overwhelmed by awkwardness and run away. Not this guy, though. He's still milking this one for all it's worth. He takes a prodigious amount of care of his "fiance": he made sure I didn't hyperventilate before my lab final, checks up on me fairly frequently, and has remained an amazing friend. You know a guy is something special when he gets to know me and still wants to be my friend.
He'll make a great priest. :)

Anaesthesia Adventures

So, I'm home. I got back Sunday afternoon about 5:30 or so. I was tired after having had only two hours of sleep the night before, but I had been anticipating that lack of sleep, so I wasn't too traumatized. Besides major orthopedic surgery on Thursday, I haven't done anything exciting, daring, or adventurous since I got home. This may sound weird, but the most adventurous part of the surgery process was the anesthesiologist, whom I will call "Doug."

When he walked into the surgical prep room, it was about 7 am. I was slightly bleary-eyed, very nervous, and quite funny looking. I was wearing a hospital gown, compression tights, blue booties, and a face drawn with nervous anticipation. The nurse had completed my pregnancy test, which (sarcastic surprise!) was negative. They insist upon doing them, which I find highly aggravating. So Doug's first impression was not endearing. He walked in, introduced himself, looked at the negative pregnancy test on the counter, grinned, winked at me, and proceeded with his low-down of the situation. I was indignant.

He proceeded to tell me about how he was going to give me a "nerve block" in my lower right leg to make it completely numb. He explained that it was sort of like an epidural, but for my lower leg. It would wear off in eight to twelve hours. The doctor, he said, liked him to do these because he thought it made the recovery go easier. Doug disagreed. "It's either gonna hurt like hell now or a few hours later. HAHA." I raised a quizzical eyebrow. This was going to be interesting.

Lying on the gurney in the OR, I was praying earnestly that Doug wouldn't accidentally kill me. As he walked in, he punched me in the arm saying, "Oh, you sneaky devil, you, I didn't see you go past. Thought you could run away, did ya?" He reminded me of a pirate. Or a motorcycle rider. He stuck a needle in my arm to start an IV. He missed the vein. Ouch. He tried a second time and got it in. (I have a large bruise on my forearm as a testament to his imprecision.) He gave me a few CCs of something that would "make me feel like I had had a couple of beers." I threw him a look. He retracted that quickly, "but of course you're too young to know what that's like." I smiled. He did take a hint, whether or nor he believed my incredulity to be sincere. He had me roll over to do the nerve block. "Now this is going to hurt." Oh, goodie. Jab. Yep, that hurt. But it's over now. Jab. Ow, that really hurt... how many times does he have to do that? Jab, jab, jab. The needle went in and out of the back of my knee about twenty times at various depths and places. I rolled back over. Last coherent thought, "Remember, O most gracious Virgin Mary..."