Fungi Foraging Covert Style (Silverton Style)
August 22, 2014
Irving Thackerman – Parking Lot Impressario (Short Story-Part I)
September 19, 2014
My father’s been having some breathing problems and spent the past week in the hospital. Right now he’s in transit back to lower elevations in Texas for the winter. My problems with the broken heel seem pretty lame compared to him. Nonetheless, I go to the doctor myself this coming Monday and hopefully he’ll put me in a boot after that appointment. Yeaa!! Another step forward in the process. Here’s a little ditty about my recovery for you folks.
Word Count: 1140
Confessions of A
Bedridden Slug
So here I am four weeks since the surgery and counting the days until I’m semi-better (80% cured anyway?). My last visit to the doc had him assuring me the heel break healing should be strong enough to start wearing a plastic boot after Sept. 8th. This has me more excited than a couch potato about to partake of unlimited, free, food samples. I get to experience this new and incredibly unique sensation of actually being able to put weight on the injured leg. I’m “Chomping at the bit,” as they say in cowboy country since this sensation is a relatively unique concept for yours truly (at lest since late July). Before this experience fades into the deep recesses of my mind (thankfully), I need to get some observations down in the computer for all you folks living vicariously through my quirky exploits.
We’ve obviously all heard the old saying, “You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.” This cliché applies quite nicely to the broken heel and its aftermath. Everything is harder when you’re in the recovery phase of a broken bone. In this situation that includes going to the restroom, showering, getting from point A to point B (including the procurement of food from the refrigerator), writing, and the ubiquitous sleep phase of a person’s twenty-four hour cycle.
I’ve never had children of my own, but getting through the night during the recovery phase of a broken heel has got to be similar to the time right after you first bring that new borne bundle of joy home from the hospital. Every few hours I find myself waking up. Only in these situations small rounds of intense pain shooting through the injured foot accompanies the regular bouts of cognizance. After going through this I can very easily see how some people become addicted to the pain pills. You’re popping them on a regular basis like Chiclets to get through the next few hours. Pretty soon opening that bottle becomes as routine as drinking your morning cup of Joe to get your daily caffeine fix.
Luckily the pharmaceutical industry in this country hates eccentrics like myself. Basically what I’m saying is I weaned myself off the painkillers four days after the surgery. That’s made for some sleepless nights over the last few weeks, but in the long run I’m sure various other parts of my body appreciated not having to deal with the weird side effects.
Last Saturday a buddy of mine had an opening reception for his art gallery. I felt strong enough to attend and planted myself right next to the wine table in the back of the gallery. After describing my exploits for the ninety-eighth time to some semi-interested friends, I decided to modify my accident story. Primarily because the falling down a flight of stairs tale just didn’t sound that exciting. I tried out my new accident scenario on the next person that asked me how I ended up with the over sized leg cast.
“How’d you get hurt Dave?” said the mildly enthralled individual.
Davo smiled. “I flew off Table Mountain outside Cape Town in my wing suit and had a bad landing.”
Their facial expression pretty much said it all. I’m convinced they refused to believe me just because I didn’t bring my wing suit to their dry cleaner service when I put that latest rip in it? Maybe the fact that I’ve never even put on a wing suit had something to do with them not buying my tale of woe? They also know I’ve never been to South Africa either? I tend to believe this played a major role in their disbelief as well.
Hospitals have come up with all sorts of innovative tools to make their patient’s repair phase easier. This latest heel break presented me with the opportunity to use one of these new toys, and the experience has proven to be all sorts of frustration, but also lots of fun. The knee scooter I’ve been using for the past three weeks lets you carry out a variety of tasks you previously couldn’t do with just the crutches. This includes transporting items from one part of the hotel to another. At least once I figured out a way to carry the stuff using a canvas bag hanging from around my neck (Necessity is the Mother of Invention).
Going in a straight line, the knee scooter enables you to haul ass faster than most mortgage companies will call to demand their money the day before it’s due. Any slight deviation from that straight line is another story.
Because the designers of this mode of transport wanted it to be fairly stable, the scooter is four-wheeled and spread out at its base. This results in turning even the slightest little bit beyond your standard straight line taking you an inordinate amount of extra time just to adjust the scooter. With a person having to wheelie the scooter by lifting its backside again and again in order to pivot the darn thing. Sort of like constant modifications of your forward momentum just to turn 20 degrees (or less) beyond where you’re presently at. Adjusting the scooter so its 180 degrees opposite of your present forward position takes forever. This task would normally only entail about five or ten seconds to carry out, but you’re constantly pivoting. Thus changing scooter angle modification into a two-minute ordeal of total frustration.
Am I making much sense? Didn’t think so. Basically all you need to know is that the scooter can be a very effective tool for forward movement, but a miniature aggravation machine when you want to adjust your direction of forward motion.
Plus the hotel I manage has a large fight of stairs leading up to the front desk. The thought of just launching myself (scooter and all) like a schizophrenic ski jumper off the top rung has passed through my mind for about twenty seconds. Rather than explore this option, every time I want to go anywhere I’m forced to call a friend to carry the scooter while I scoot downstairs on my butt. Needless to say, sometimes I’ve gone for a week or more just planted in one spot. “Explore your surroundings,” they always say. Good thing I’ve got an active (and fertile) mind, otherwise I’d end up going stir crazy.
Maybe I am going stir crazy at this point in the recovery phase? No ifs, ands, or buts as far as that goes. I just want this fiasco to be over with since it’s taken too long for me to recover (at least in my eyes). “Patience is a Virtue”, but this is getting to the point of being totally ludicrous. Most people reading this essay probably think the same thing too.
