Adjust your seat belts, passengers. I am cleared for take off.
At today’s appointment, the doctor was happy about how far I’ve come, happy about how good I feel, happy about how easily Pete’s knee can be fixed next month, happy about Pete’s long experience in professional kitchens, happy to talk about Anthony Bourdain and Eric Ripert, happy about how long it might be until Pete’s knee eventually needs resurfacing, happy to hear about how our visits are really exotic excuses to get to Veselka for borscht. I wrote down the address for him: 2nd Ave. & 9th St. and told him to get the challah.
Tonight, we rode two laps around the park by our house that felt like a victory parade without a horn section. I have to look into that.
WordPress wrote me a little thank you letter for sticking with either blogging or WordPress for three years, which would be hilarious if Blogger hadn’t tossed me the hell out. Siobhan and I spent two months in a glamorous panic, trying to put down our adult beverages long enough to move Poor Impulse Control. Thing is: we actually have poor impulse control. So WordPress? Don’t take this the wrong way because you’re nice and only go through our wallet for loose bills now and then, but we’re only with you because our ex was a real bastard. Happy anniversary. Let’s order a pizza or something. You pay.
In other news: tomorrow is Pete’s and my fourth wedding anniversary, which is sure to surprise everyone who’s ever met me. Certainly, Mr. DBK will be surprised by all these pronouns. Pete and I will celebrate this by – we don’t know. We had to look at the marriage certificate to figure out the actual date. Romance is in the air – or pollen! Either can make you sneeze.
In even more news: Wednesday, Pete and I have appointments with the same doctor. I have reached three months post-surgery and hope to be allowed to bicycle and use the rowing machine. This is important because I am decadently fat and must change that immediately. Pete is seeing the surgeon to determine if and when he should have a torn ACL repaired. Naturally, all this involves celebratory borscht. Things may be looking up, if the trees overhead aren’t filled with poop-squirting birdies.
Yesterday’s post-surgery first was walking three blocks to deliver a loaf of homemade bread to my boss’ house – and walking back.
This box full of cat blankets readies itself for the ejector seat flight to Georg’s house, though chances are excellent it will go by the postal system, which loves me back.
Today’s first was 12 minutes on the stationary bike, which would be a big surprise to the nurse at the hospital who told patients not to do that. Those other patients were not me. I’m fairly sure about that.
Every post-surgery day brings a new first or two. Today, I napped in my own bed. It wasn’t an easy nap with ponies-and-bonbon dreams, because this was only the second time in eighteen days I tried stretching the rearranged ligaments in that direction. But: I was able to sleep a bit in my super-more-comfy-than-the-couch bed and it’s only a matter of time before I’m spinning the spinner and going full-metal Right Foot: Blue and Left Hand: Red.
Yesterday’s firsts included washing my own lower legs in the shower and walking up a step with my right foot and without thinking about it. Saturday, I walked around the house most of the day without my cane because I am unbelievably brilliant at healing up. Yes, I’m seeing these ordinary events as proof that I AM A SPECIAL SNOWFLAKE.
Pete went grocery shopping this morning. I demanded a mop and the good almond floor cleaner so I can do small household tasks and/or polish my chimneysweep/Tevye’s daughters routines for the talent show down at the Jiffy Lube. You can’t let those skills slide.
When the doctor told me that for four weeks post-surgery I would do nothing but sleep, eat and stretch, he glossed over a few things. For one: patients are supposed to sleep flat on their backs; also: patients can’t sleep. Nap, yes. Sleep, no.
In addition, the doctor could in no way account for things like that my mother would barge into my house every day to talk for a few hours, bearing yet another dessert large enough to feed a high school basketball team. This morning, Mom asked what she could bring over. I shouted into the phone, “No! No more puddings! Put down the spring-form pan and back away from the flan! Do not stop for pound cake! If cotton candy tries to give you a strange man, don’t take that, either!”
One thing the doctor was right about, though: after a few exercises, I feel bone-weary and have to put my feet up. Even so, I cannot look a bonbon in the eye.
Another of Georg’s friends sent us productive pressies.
By the end of each day, I feel like I’ve been run over by something large. It’s temporary, of course.
It’s good to have goals. My goal today was to wash my hair. Topaz, Drusy and stuffed penguin approve.