A Charming Rascal

First things first : What is it with the hair?

Are those enough hints? Did you already know that I'm writing about The Donald, father of a Georgetown classmate or two of Big Cuter, possible candidate for the presidency of these United States of America.

Is this really happening? 

The man has been married three times and is looking to be embraced by the family values crowd. 

He's lost more money in more real estate deals than we'll all make in our collective lifetimes and he wants us to put him in charge of the federal budget.

I thought it was strange here in Arizona, but maybe the rest of you ought to sit up and take a look at what's happening out there.  Or maybe you have already noticed, and I've been too self-absorbed to realize it.  But self-absorption brings us right back to Donald Trump, doesn't it.

Watching the talking heads this afternoon - and yes, it is nice to be doing something normal for a change - I was struck by the tone of the comments.  Chris Matthews was a guest at one of the weddings.  He's bemused by his friend's antics.  There is none of his usual ranting and raving.  A reporter from Time laughed at himself - the interview was shameless self-promotion but he enjoyed it nonetheless. 

Trump is a clown, a man who made a mockery of himself on television and doesn't know it.  I can't imagine a genuine business person taking him seriously.  He's putting second-tier formerly famous people through their paces and he wants me to elect him to the presidency? 

I'm more than bemused.  I'm outraged.

Is this what it has come to?  A centrist Democrat holds an open air forum and takes a bullet to her brain.  A woman from middle America tests the presidential waters while momentarily mis-placing Lexington and Concord.  Our president plays rope-a-dope with the budget while the elderly and their children wonder if Tea Party zealots have aging parents, too.  And The Donald wants to be President.

What has been going on since I've left you people in charge? 

Christina-Taylor

She was a ball of fire.  She was the twinkle in your eye.  She was curious and passionate and thoughtful.  She was respectful.  She loved her parents and her brother and her large and wonderful extended family.  She played well to children and grown-ups.

She understood the nuances of getting elected, promising a chicken in every pot and winning with style.  She sang and danced and swam.  She gave back and paid things forward.  There wasn't a hostile bone in her body, at least not one that I could find.

She was always up for an adventure, always saying "YES!" to something new.  She took her responsibilities seriously, and treated every venture with the respect it deserved.  My plants never looked better than when she was taking care of them.

She was a little girl and a bullet took her from us.

More than that, it took her from her family, the people who loved her the most.  The Crayolas have been trying to heal in a private manner, as the media has stormed the barricades and begged to intrude.  ESPN scored big time yesterday when e60, their feature news magazine, shared the story of CTG and baseball.

Don't watch this without a box of tissues and someone to hug.  It's exactly wonderfully delightfully heartbreakingly true.  This is who she was to those of us who knew and loved her in person.  Her parents are the bravest, strongest, most thoughtful people we know.  This video captures them perfectly.

Rest In Peace, little one.

What They Remember

Drove myself over to visit G'ma today.  The pod-castle is in the midst of a management shake-up and there were Care Plans to be approved and releases to be signed.  My presence was requested.

Being nothing if not compliant in my rehabilitation, I was weeks overdue for this meeting.  But G'ma's blood work (and hence, her medications) have been stable for months and she doesn't remember that I haven't been by to see her, so I couldn't really feel rushed. 

And, honestly, it was hard for me to tell my story over and over again, especially on days (like today) when she manages to remember not only my piece but Christina's, too.  She's not a hard-hearted woman, my mother, and she tears up just a little bit each time she repeats the story to me aloud. 

That's what she does.  She tells the story aloud, with a question mark at the end of her recitation, and looks outward for verification.  The staff deals with her in the here and now; she's fine with those conversations.   Seeing me triggers another part of her brain, I suppose, and suddenly she has access to some memories. 

The things she remembers are emotionally laden.  "Little Cuter and SIR aren't married yet, are they?" "You got shot... in the ass!" (cue rueful giggles and a sigh).  And then, without fail, comes this: "There was a little girl with you, wasn't there?  She died didn't she?"

Yes, she did.


Usually she forgets that she'd remembered and I'm able to distract her with other topics.  This afternoon's meeting was more structured, there were questions to be answered, and G'ma had some time to look around.  And she saw the walker.  And she remembered.

I know it will be better when I am less encumbered.  I just hate to make her sad. 

The conversation around the table at lunch, for example, did not center on my injuries.  With devices safely tucked away and out of sight, we were four grey haired ladies wondering why we were eating spaghetti for a mid-day meal, or as an entree, and where were the meatballs, anyway?  They were all pretty excited about the vanilla ice cream with crumbled chocolate cookies and fudge sauce,  and G'ma remembered exactly why I was willing to share my toppings with her. 

She didn't have to say it aloud.  She smiled her G'ma smile at me as I smiled back and shook my head in agreement.  Nope, I don't like chocolate. Even the pediatrician's German pastry chef couldn't get me to like chocolate.


Some memories, on the other hand, make us smile.

 

Mei-Mei's MoyaToyas

Mei-Mei and I have been friends since we were 12 and in the 7th grade.  She convinced me to take the bus to Sunrise Shopping Center, the first really big mall on Long Island, and G'ma let me do it.  Just the two of us, $20 for clothes in my pocket, and public transportation.  I was used to the LIRR and commuters; for errands we took the car.  But there we were, surrounded by people who needed the bus to get around town, who were on their way home from the store, bags puddles at their feet.

I do believe it was the first time I realized that everyone didn't live as I did.  I'm sure I didn't share that thought with Mei-Mei.  I was busy pretending that this was something I did every day.

The years and then we reconnected at our 40th high school reunion. We were the two little ones giggling, loudly.  She looks the same as she did in 1969; the travails of the intervening decades made no mark on her.  Her life hasn't been smooth and easy, though she deserved it to be so.  A caregiver and a caretaker and a worrier and a daughter par excellence, Mei-Mei didn't spend much time studying the lint in her navel.  There was always a project of some sort, professional or personal, and always there was her art.

Her work was distinctive.  Bright and cheery and simply elegant.  Always with a smile hiding right behind the stellar craftsmanship, her pieces tickle the funny bone and warm the cockles of your heart.  Just like she does.

Paying bills and maintaining her insurance, she's employed in a soul-sucking environment, a place that nags rather than nurtures.  She's a happy soul in spite of it all.

And there's more, denizens.  Isn't there always?  Mei-Mei has moyamoya.  It's alliterative.  That's about all that can be said in its favor.  It causes headaches and strokes and all sorts of other nasties but out in Palo Alto they're doing cutting edge research and it was there that Mei-Mei traveled, with Bass-Boy in tow, last year.  Stanford cut and Mei-Mei healed and then they sent her home to recuperate.  Aches and pains, immobility, medications with weird side effects -  she and I could trade stories of our recoveries and not feel that we were inviting the un-affected to our pity party. She was a welcome port in my storm.

She's back at work and getting along nicely, thank you for asking.  Her energy is low (like me, this is a new experience for her and takes some getting used to) and she has to ask for more help than she's happy about, but she's here to smell the hyacinths and that's all that matters.  We're in this good attitude boat together.

While she was mending back at home in New York, she put her busy fingers to work and these are what happened:

MoyaToyas by Mei-Mei

I told you she had style, didn't I?  Did you figure out what she used as the basic raw materials?  Yes, ma'am, she re-purposed those silly rubber-on-the-bottom hospital socks they give you so you don't slip on your way to x-ray.  Those socks that made such an impression on Big Cuter when CNN broadcast me in the memorial garden outside University Medical Center 8 days after the shooting.  Mine were bright yellow.

Mei-Mei turned them into kid-friendly bearers of smiles and love.  She donated the first batch to Louise Packard Children's Hospital out there at Stanford.  But there are many more sick kids and too few hospital socks for Mei-Mei to play with.  This is where you come in, denizens.

Do you have some of those socks in your dresser drawer?  Does your dad have some from when he went in for his last prostate surgery?  Is your mom hiding them from her hip replacement?  How about the ones you got when your last child entered this world?

When was the last time you wore them?  If the answer is "last night' you have my permission to skip the rest of this post and come back to The Burrow in the morning.  If the answer is "Who knows?" then I have a favor.  Would you send Mei-Mei an email at moyatoyas@gmail.com and let her give you directions on how and where to send them.

It's win-win:  your drawer is just a little bit emptier and her fingers are just a little bit busier and everyone's heart is a lot fuller.

I promise to post more pictures with the treasures she creates.

Routine

It was just another Sunday morning.  I straightened up the kitchen, picked up a few things at the grocery store, made brownies for TBG and Big Cuter and Amster's kids, read a novel and watched some sports on tv.  I checked my email in the late afternoon, e-chatted a bit, and came to tell you all about it before I dice up the chicken for dinner.  I'm at ease in my heart and soul.

Today is the 13th Sunday since January 8th. I just counted them out to be sure.  Running my finger down the Saturdays, zipping through January and then a little slower through February and even slower through March, stopping here in the 2nd week of April.  All those weeks, all those Sundays, all that time.  It wasn't wasted or unproductive time, especially if you bought into the notion that my only job was to heal.

It was, however, a long time.

I came back to the house after the store, stuck things on the shelves I can reach, wobbled about the kitchen melting butter and chocolate squares, listening to the radio and smiling.

I managed to get the pan into the oven and the dishes into the dishwasher.  By the time TBG came home from the gym, I was grinning from ear to ear.

It was just another Sunday morning.  Nothing special about it at all.  We have foodstuffs for a simple dinner and a new six-pack of Sam Adams Noble Pils, one bottle of which will fuel the dinner preparations.  My dinner preparations.  I'll need some help, but this meal always requires 4 hands at the final stages.  Like I said, it's just another Sunday.

Except that this is the first Sunday in 13 weeks which held all these possibilities.  I can balance, I can stand for extended periods of time. I have enough stamina to create the mess that I can now nearly almost not quite but soon bend over and clean up. 

I'm slower than I will be, but that's okay, too.  It gave me time to laugh as I thought of Little Cuter's Cartman* imitation while whipping up a low-fat lemon chiffon piiiiiiiiiiie.

And then I collapsed on the couch.  My aches were the tired kind, not the I've-been-stapled-together-and-I-hurt kind.  I had been productive and independent. 

I love how the simple things make me happy these days.


*I tried to embed a South Park video that wouldn't offend women, children, feminists or the elderly and that still showed Cartman saying "piiiiiiiiiiie". I failed to find such an item. If you're interested, find a 20-something and ask for a demonstration.

Attitude

...... to sort out attitude from emotional range.

Nance left that as part of her comment yesterday.  As usual, she is exactly right, nuances and all.  

And so, today more than ever, I'm going to bore you with more of my self-indulgent crap, my thoughts on my thoughts.  I'm kinda sorta tired of it myself, truth be told.  But that's part of the story, so read on if you're interested.  If not, I understand.  Really, I do. 

I'm not sure how it happened, but it seems that I was under the impression that I'd be walking by now.  Striding out.  Covering some territory.  Taking the Recycling Container out to the street.... or at accompanying TBG as he lugged the thing out there .... I'd be taking a picture for you right now.  That, it seems, was my plan.

I never said it out loud.  I'm not sure I said it to myself.  I was never tempted to put weight on Dr. Boaz's hip because I'd been instructed not to do so.  I was compliant, even over those last long 48 hours when I asked everyone and anyone if it could possibly be true that my bones knew if it was 12 weeks exactly or 11 weeks and 5 days since my hip was repaired.  No one told me to disobey the doctor.  I didn't.

Somehow, though, I seem to have turned that into a fantasy : only needing the walker for balance for a few days, then, perhaps, a quad-cane - the kind with the four feet on a plate at the bottom- for a few days, and by next Monday morning I'd be strolling through Costco without a care in the world.

Definitely a fantasy.  

My hip flexors are in open revolt.  Having been nicely tucked away in a sitting or bent position for 3 months, they are unwilling to unravel themselves.  If I could type to you while standing up I would stretch them out right now.  As it is, in order to read a book or go on-line or do a crossword puzzle or Sudoku I have to sit.  And those tendons and ligaments just shrink right back up.  

I wish I were more tired.  Sleeping would be great for stretching them out.

But I'm not tired, I'm full of energy and I'm longing to get out in the car and go.  Someplace.  Anyplace.  All by myself.  The only problem is that my right leg is really an important part of the whole driving scenario and my right leg is exhausted by the time I get myself into The Schnozz.  I drive a mile, make three turns, and I'm ready for a nap.  

I'd hoped to be able to take G'ma out for lunch this week, but who will get our walkers into the car for us?

I ache, I'm disappointed, I am weak, I miss my Mommy and I'm just a little bit blue.  I haven't been this way since the hospital, when I couldn't get comfortable and it seemed that I never would.  Ever.  

But TBG assures me that this will get better, and I know he's right.  This will heal.  The sun will come up tomorrow and I will be here to greet it and it will be a good day.  And this takes us right back to Nance and sorting out attitude from emotional range.

I'm trying to approach my bad mood with a positive attitude.  Does that make sense?  I feel sorry for myself and I'm just a little bit whiny, but the sun is out and I'm going to walk in the pool and see if that doesn't alert these muscles to the fact that there's a new sheriff in town and it's time to get moving.

I'm going to allow myself the opportunity to have a bad day*.  I'm going to wallow in it for as long as it takes me to put on my swimsuit.  And then, it's Off with her head! and time to go forward.  It's impossible to be sad in the late afternoon in Tucson in April.

The depths are so profound. I am only beginning to dip my toe into the mire.  This is a much better way to be, for now.  I'm not denying the sorrow; I'm approaching it with caution. 

Today was a tough day.  Tomorrow will be better.


*Heidi gets credit for that idea.  She's as brilliant in person as she is on AMC's Heavy

Listen to Rocky

When you reach a certain age, it seems to me that things just start to go wrong.

For some people, that age is 12.  Adolescence, filled with acne and addled senses, makes every day a lousy day.  Some people never manage to get past those years.  Stuck in their sad sack soup, there's not a lot of room for sunshine and smiles.  When you leave your teen years with a chip on your shoulder, a chip reinforced by the daily hurts and slights of middle school and high school, you develop a protective covering.  That carapace keeps others at bay while keeping you safe within your "no expectations = no disappointments" zone.

It's a lonely way to live.

For some people, it starts when their athletic career is over, when there is no frisson of excitement as they walk into a room.  Suddenly those aches and pains which were just a part of the game are now just a regular part of their regular lives.  Machismo meets the mundane, and mountains become molehills.

Some of us manage to get through college and young adulthood miraculously untouched by trauma or treacly sentiment (I'm really working hard on these alliterations...).  We've watched from the outside as others lost parents and jobs and children and opportunities and we wondered how they did it, how they survived, how they coped..... all those same questions which are being lobbed my way these days.

Old age comes upon us like this, I think.  One day all your parts are in fine working order, ship-shape, able to withstand a heavy rain or a doctor's appointment.  The next, you are on your way to an MRI for an ailment which was discovered during the treatment of another misfortune which was only diagnosed when you went in for your annual check up and your blood work was unusual. 

Once things start to go downhill, it's hard to turn them around.  It's not the broken hip which does you in, it's the pneumonia from lying around because moving hurts more than you can bear and where would you go anyhow? One day everyone in the diner stands up and applauds when you open the door, the next you are slinking into a back booth, ashamed that you've fallen so far.

The events are out of your control.  Life sucks.

And this is where Rocky comes in.  Rocky, who's had a hard time these last few decades.  Rocky, who's always got an ear for a friend's troubles and then, abashedly, begins to share her own woes.  Our woes overlap sometimes, and it's good to have an old friend around to listen to the gunk which sometimes just has to pour out.  She listens to me.  I listen to her.  I'm better at some things, she at others.  On this one she is spot on :

Attitude is the ONLY thing you can control.

I couldn't help myself; I put her on speaker-phone (did you see the one in The Good Wife last night?) and typed her words as she spoke them:

You have a choice every morning when you wake up.  That's a gift.

Look around you - you don't usually have a choice.

You can be pissy - you have every right to be - it's your choice.

But remember, it's your choice.

Would that I had had that tattooed on my forehead during the Cuters' formative years.

She's relinquishing control over the most basic aspect of another's life -- attitude.  She's recognizing our inability to control much of anything, and giving us a tool to provide us with control over something.  And the end result is so much more pleasant.

When people ask me how I stay so cheery, I think it's because my attitude is the only thing that I can control.  I couldn't control the shooter.  I couldn't control the fates which brought Christina and me and him to the same corner on the same sunny Saturday.  I coudln't control how fast my hip heals nor how quickly my scars fade, though I could help them along just a little bit.  I couldn't control my comings and goings, nor my body's ability to move through space.

That was a spiral I was determined to avoid.  What started out as a flippant answer to an oft asked question became a mantra for my recovery

The sun came up this morning and I am here to see it.  By definition, it's a good day.

Because isn't that better than listening to me sigh?  If I sigh then you'll sigh and pretty soon we're all stuck in the muck, weighted down with the finality of it all.

If I'm determined to be upbeat about what is without question the most awful thing that has ever happened to me, if I am determined to remember that Christina-Taylor would be totally peeved if she knew that I were sulking and moping around, if I am determined to bring some good out of this horrible sequence of events, then I have to start at home, right here, with me/myself/I.

I really was a snarky New York heathen before this all happened to me.  A happy snarky heathen, but a snarky one all the same.  Along with 6 units of blood, my snarkiness seems to have been left behind on January 8th.

Like Rocky says, I have a choice.

I choose to smile.

Listen To Rocky's Wisdom

Coming tomorrow in this space.  Blogger just couldn't resist posting it today. Grrrr.

Being Bossy

Imelda wondered this afternoon, amidst giggles, what will happen in a couple of months, when my celebrity light has dimmed, and I try to boss people around.

OK, those of you who know me can stop laughing now.

Really.  I mean it.  Stop laughing.

See.... I'm even doing it now.  Because this is who I am.  I boss people around.

 Someone must have reinforced it when I was young.  Imelda was admiring my baby picture... at least I thought she was admiring it until I listened more closely and found that she was laughing at my sense of annoyance, of being interrupted while performing very important chewing.  Uh, people.... I'm busy here!


She marveled that my parents chose this particular shot, one with so much attitude, instead of a more traditional portrait.  She thinks it says a lot about them.  I'd never considered that before.  I do know that I still have that handset.

But I digress.

When we played house in elementary school, I was always the dad.  Imagine us, 6 and 7 and 8 years old, outlining the walls of our family's home with the fallen leaves on the asphalt playground... on the girls' side. Only the kindergarten kids had co-ed recess; 1958 was such a different world.  

While the boys played ball games we created leafy domesticity.  Aunts, cousins, sisters, babies, grandmothers, mothers and one dad - me.  I used to think that they were being mean, not letting me be female, separating me from themselves because I was younger and had skipped a grade and joined their class 8 days into 1st grade. 

In retrospect, from Imelda's perspective, perhaps it was just obvious to them that I was the dad.  I'd been bossing people around my whole life, and so did the Dad in their life.  

If teenagers are idiots, maybe it's just because they have had more time to refine the inanity of elementary school.  It certainly seems true in my case.

I'm a terrible board member - just ask anyone who has ever served on one with me.  I'm too bossy.  I'm a good parliamentarian, a good presiding officer, but otherwise you really don't want to have me sitting next to you around the table.  Policies and procedures are your friends is my board mantra; if I can't be in charge then just follow the rules, please.

TBG tells me that I was bossing the nurses and techs and doctors from the moment I was fully conscious.  Truth be told, he tells people that he knew his wife was back from the brink when he heard me giving orders.

Now, I didn't think they were orders.  I just wanted to be sure that what needed to be done was done, and done right the first time so that there didn't have to be a second time.  I was just asking for what I needed, and, as Imelda and I agreed this afternoon, the world would run a lot more smoothly if everyone was honest about what they needed.

And if that isn't the most positive take on bossiness you've ever read then I want to know what is.

(There I go again......)

I Can Walk !!

 
Yes, it's in German, but it doesn't really matter.

The first clip (2:20 minutes) is all you need to watch.

I can walk!

I can walk!

I am permitted to walk and I can do it.

I was worried about both of those things as we drove to see Dr. Boaz this morning.  We were 5 minutes late, which never happens with us.  There were no examining rooms available.  That was unusual, too.

We waited next to the neighbor of another patient - she'd answered the door to find the patient, new to the area, asking for the phone number of a cab company.  Where are you heading? turned into Oh, dear, of course I'll drive you there.  She didn't recognize me until TBG gave me up; suddenly I was awash in blessings and smiles.  

Is there any wonder that we love Tucson and Tucsonans?  We care about one another, friend and stranger and new neighbor alike.

My x-rays were taken and reviewed and brought up on the monitor in the exam room where TBG and I could study them until the doctor arrived.  There is a lot of hardware inside me, denizens.  A lot of hardware.

I have screws from pelvis to pubis.  I have plates held in with what look like garden stakes, those curved ones you use to hold the irrigation tubing in place.  I have flat spots on the right side where the left side has curves.  We saw no crazing, no cracking, no obvious imperfections and then Dr. Boaz joined us and pronounced me fit to walk.

Just like that.  I see no reason why you shouldn't start to walk.  Over our hooting and hollering he smiled and continued to give me instructions: Use the walker at first.  Graduate to a cane in 2-3 weeks.   

After he examined me, moving my femur in my acetabula, I sat as he watched me move my leg from side to side and my foot up and down and left and right and pronounced me fit to drive.

Driving...... freedom..... independence......just thinking about it makes me smile.

And then he was gone, looking forward to seeing me in 5 weeks.  Gone.  Leaving me and my fears and the walker and TBG's face wreathed with joy and concern. It's a look he's perfected over the last 12 weeks.

Slowly, carefully, gently, I put my whole right foot on the ground.  I pushed off with the toe.  

My hip did not disconnect itself from anything.  I did not fall to the ground.  I didn't scream in agony.  I just pushed off with the toe and I was walking.  For the first time since January 8th I was bi-pedal.  

I cried.

TBG still brought the car to the entrance of the building for me.  He still put my walker in the trunk and watched to be sure that my injured leg got safely into the car.  I'm still not strong enough to lift the leg from the ground into the car without my hand or my left toe for assistance.  My glutes and hip flexors and quads and hamstrings are weaker than they need to be.  My aductors and abductors are still enjoying their vacation.  My body/brain connection is wondering what is going on.  

But I am using my leg. 

I have to remember to move carefully.  Dr. Boaz looked me right in the face as he repeated that fact.  I can ease into my mobility without jumping off a cliff on the very first day.  I'm trying to do what needs to be done and to do that well.  I am trying to avoid doing anything extra.  But it is nice to know that I can take better care of myself than I could yesterday.

I can lean over and pick up the remote control from the middle of the bed while I'm standing at the edge.  I can reach the toaster, sitting up there on the 2nd shelf.  No longer can I excuse throwing my clothes on the floor of my closet; I can walk over to the bar and hang things up without worrying about falling on my face.  

Best of all?  I'm driving myself to get a manicure this afternoon before watching the NCAA finals.  All by myself, I'm going out into the world.  

Of course, TBG is coming back from the gym to supervise my departure.  This independence thing is hard for both of us, it seems.

This Last Week

I've been reading a lot about myself this week, this last week of sitting and reflecting, this last week when appliances will define my abilities, this very odd week.
*******
I'm much faster and defter in maneuvering my wheelchair.  I laughed as AnnaFarkle shook her head, marveling at my quick turns.  GrandFarkle#3 and I exchanged sly grins as I gaily replied "It's really kind of fun!" ... because it is what it is so I smile and move on.

I like this new me, this able to smile instead of growl me.
*****
I guess it wasn't enough to have one pseudonym.  Now I need a name for who I was before January 8th.  Suzi is who you all know since TBG told the media that was my name.  I'm glad he did; Susan is much too formal. After all, we've been sharing stories about infirmities and blood loss and death and healing.  I think you qualify as friends after all this time.

But who was I before this?
*****
In amongst the search results I came across a blogger who took issue with a conversation I had with Christina-Taylor's older brother about 2 weeks after I was shot.  Texas was excited to hear that our 27 year old son would be visiting Tucson that weekend.  He was looking forward to a replay of last summer's fun-filled afternoon spent with Big Cuter and Christina-Taylor and every Super Soaker known to mankind.  The three kids spent 2 hours sending streams of water at one another as they raced over around under and through our pool.  It was joy uncontained.  If you are only as happy as your unhappiest child, that afternoon we four (dry) parents were ecstatic.  Completely filled with smiles. 

Big Cuter assumed the role of "large older friend" that afternoon.  He'd been C-T and Texas just a blink of an eye ago and yet there he was, being pelted by adoring little friends.... and loving it.... just as his big cousin had done at Muir Beach two decades ago.

The blogger in question took issue with my reference to water gun fights so soon after a gun had wreaked such havoc on us.   I can see his point, but he's missing mine.  Perhaps, without context, his oops is warranted.  But there is nothing but love and wonder in my heart when I remember that afternoon.  Two against three, the Crayola Kids against the world (aka my son), strategies and plans having been laid days in advance --- they weren't trying to hurt one another..... they were having fun.

Sometimes I think we let our rhetoric get us in more trouble than it's worth.  He's right... but he's oh so very very wrong.
*****
I am having a hard time convincing myself that my hip actually knows whether I stand on it now or in 16 hours.  But I hear you all screaming Don't be an idiot so I wait, patiently, kinda sorta calmly, for tomorrow at 11am.  That will be today, as you read this.  Come back, same time, same space, same station on Tuesday to hear the results.

There may even be pictures.

Looking for That Post??

Blogger decided that I didn't want to post it tomorrow at 6am.  Noooo, they decided to share it with you right then and there. 

But no one makes ME do what I don't want to do.  I deleted it and will share it tomorrow.  I will not be controlled!

Getting Dressed

For the first few weeks after January 8th, I really didn't think about my clothes.  Hospital gowns were fine for meeting the President and First Lady, fine for walks with the physical therapist through the hallways, fine for going to x-ray. 

The only time clothes became an issue was when I wanted to go out in front of the hospital and roll through the memorial garden.  The kind nurses found me scrubs and The Bride handed me the girls' sweatshirt and I was good to go.  When I returned to my room, my cell phone was ringing.  Big Cuter was laughing as he greeted me with "Nice yellow socks, Mom."  CNN had me on a continuous loop, my bright yellow hospital gripping socks attracting my son's attention more than my teary face. 

Clothes make the woman?  Let's hope not.

Once I was home, TBG's elastic waist gym clothes were my go-to outfits.  This plan was short lived, as the physical therapist didn't want me tripping over their length and TBG found himself without proper attire for his own life.  Those over-large waistbands were lovely, though.  I was so swollen and so stapled that there were very few places on which fabric was comfortable.  Too-Big was suddenly Just-Right.

Then the gifts started flowing in.  Cousin Victoria sent comfy more-than-pajamas.  My hiking buddies brought me flat waisted yoga pants.  Not only was I comfortable, I was wearing new clothes.  That brought a smile directly to my face.

Belt loops and snaps and zippers - my waist has issues with them all.  Sitting as I do for most of the day, I found that anything metallic made a permanent impression on my delicate skin.  Bending over was a nightmare, as poking and prodding from my pants added to the general discomfort I was feeling.  I went back to elastic waists.

Gym shorts work well when I'm not entertaining or leaving the house.  I'm just not comfortable pretending that I've come from lifting weights when it's so obvious that I haven't.  Two pairs of hiking pants are pull-ups and they've become staples in my current rotation.  I have a long black skirt and several full flowery skirts and a short khaki one that sits on my hips but, as I found out quite quickly this morning, is not something you want to wear when CNN is filming you.  (Watch for me tomorrow, sometime.)  59 year old thighs need more camouflage than that particular item was providing.  Even in shape 59 year old thighs.

Sigh.

Through it all, I've been in t-shirts on top.  I like them extra large, so that posture and underwear and general slovenliness is hidden behind lots of fabric.  I've gotten shirts from races and concerts and baseball games since January 8th.  I have oodles of oldies but goodies jammed into every nook and cranny of my closet.  I have shopping bags full of ones too hole-y to wear but too dear to throw away.  I have some that are scratchy and some that are softer than soft,  and I love them all.

But there's one which has risen to the top.  Martin sent it to me, all the way from the UK.  He asked me to wear it and wondered if I'd write about it and then I got shot and it sat on the shelf until I found it.  And put it on.  And took it off to shower but put it back on again.  I slept in it and it wasn't wrinkly when I woke up so I took another shower and put it on once more.  This all started last Sunday; here it is Thursday afternoon and I've managed to wear it for most or all of every day this week.  There are no stains or odors attached, there's just comfort and coverage and the relief of knowing that what's covering my upper body requires no thought or planning. 

I just grab Mr. Monkey and I'm good to go.

http://www.tshirtprinting.net/

Now, it is true that TBG thought that Mr. Monkey was a house with a chimney, but in his defense he was standing above and behind me and there was a wrinkle through Mr. M's mouth.  From my vantage point, though, he's a smiley yellow bundle of laughs, hugging me as I think about Christina and weep. 

She'd have liked this one, I'm sure.  I even have earrings that match