Propriety, Blueprints, Surgery

In the past, in certain circles, a woman’s name was only supposed to be mentioned in the newspapers three times: birth, marriage, death.

I feel much the same about hospitals and the maximum  should be three: birth, childbirth, death.  This list is flexible downwards.  There is no need to have any of these three events in hospital.  As to myself, my birth sufficed.  It was noteworthy at the time as I was the largest baby delivered at that hospital up to that point – a whopping 9 lbs., 8 oz.  Very healthy indeed.  In fact, record breaking for that hospital at the time!  Since  I did not have children, no hospital for me.

However, things appear to be changing.  Dr. F, my neurologist, told me when I first started this journey almost 10 years ago, that there appeared to be some issues with my spine.  If it wasn’t going to definitively help my walking, then why bother.  Well, Things Fall Apart.  I have been back for my second surgical consult.  This practice lets you know in no uncertain terms if you are 15 minutes late, your appointment is forfeited.   Despite having left early, I hit construction and traffic. Having made up my mind, I want this done as soon as possible.  I gimped in five minutes before my appointment and then waited for over 2 hours! Not fun and definitely stress making.  Surprisingly, my blood pressure was 90/50; repeat 90/50.  I am normally low but never this low.  And surprisingly, they were good with that.  The first time I had Rituxin,  they were freaking at 100.

The surgeon enters along with the resident, who  is under the impression we have met before – so not a good sign.  If I was still in my youth, this would not  have been disturbing as I was highly visible and was all around.  Now, in my little old lady mode, NOT. The surgeon pops my latest MRIs and scans into the computer.  I do not like seeing these.  One, they are ugly and I do not do ugly. Two, I really do not understand what I am seeing.  So, why look? Now, Tom is a different story entirely.  The surgeon pops up my lumbar spine MRI and announces that it’s arthritic but I am old and that’s normal.  Who’s old?  Yes, there’s edema .  So, yes I have fractured my tailbone.  Too bad. There’s nothing to be done and it won’t impact the surgery.  Now, he brings up my neck.  I feel like a skeleton.  It looks like one for sure.  I have become my own Dia de las Muertes.  Tom is fascinated.  He tells the surgeon it’s just like reading a blueprint.  Dr. B agrees and they are off on a tangent on elevator construction (Tom’s old career) and blueprints.  Well, the fracture they thought they saw in my neck is not new and apparently healed. These latest tests indicate that surgery will be through the front of my neck aka my throat.  I am not reassured that this is positive although he assures me it is better.  It doesn’t sound that way to me but who am I?  The patient? What are the downsides?  Well, since they are going in through my throat, nicking my caratoid?  As an old boss used to say, “oh joy, oh rapture unforeseen.”  Not likely.  My voice could go down an octave.  It can be low to begin with.  I used to work on a phone line and people used to call back and demand to talk to Steven, me.  It’s not the worst outcome.  I may not be able to swallow, briefly.  I did want to drop a few pounds before the New Year so in a twisted way that works.  And of course, smoothies always work for me.  In terms of positive things, I won’t be one of those old ladies who can’t raise her chin from her chest.  Also, he is confident that my balance will improve.  Also, from what he describes about this impingement, I am cautiously optimistic that I will improve.

Also, on the positive side is that this is normally an outpatient procedure.  However, since I am “special” ( I tell him, “No.  I am unique.” which discombobulates him)  I will have to stay overnight.  Tom’s scheme is to not leave the hospital while I am there.  He will hide and/or stay in the cafeteria.  I anticipate strong painkillers, so whatever.  It is sweet though

Next rant.  My neurologist, Dr. F needs to sign off on it.  Since she is female I continually refer to her with feminine pronouns which he ignores and continually references he and him.  He needs to get “him” on the phone as “she” needs to sign off on this surgery.  Considering she has advocated for this for 10 years, I do not envision problems.  I feel comfortable with his arrogance, a necessary trait in a surgeon.

I am scheduled for December 11 which is just about perfect.  I was able to conduct my last Elves Workshop, traditionally held Thanksgiving Friday; Hanukah, Christmas tree purchase (the joys of being interfaith), my tea vendor show and our annual holiday centerpiece class.  I know I am lucky that this is only my second stay in hospital.  And on the upside, maybe I’ll buy blouses instead of pullovers?

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Things Fall Apart

I have always had atrocious handwriting.  I received an A in penmanship first quarter 5th grade.  Both the teacher and my mother thought I had doctored the grade until they realized it was in his handwriting.  I received a D for the next quarter, had to stay after school and had a special book.  Alas, to no avail.  By the end of my first semester in college, my dorm mates said I could encrypt anything against Russian spyware.  I was in trouble my second year on.  My parents, in particular,my father were concerned about my wellbeing – academic and personal.  My father was a writer and an editor.  He was interested in what I was reading and would edit my papers.  This usually occurred after the paper had been graded.   I soon figured it out.  With right amount of charm and angst, I could get Daddy to read the texts and send me notes.  These could then be lifted almost whole and used for a paper.

As I said, my life took a very bad turn from my sophomore year.  However, I did find my groove.  For those of you who have only seen the fashionista side of me, there’s more.  I became excited by African and West Indian studies. Take a deep breath.  My particular area of interest was the syncretization of African religious forms in the colonial world.  Yes, I did spend the majority of my working career in financial training.  I had wonderful, absorbing classes and read amazing things.  I loved it.  I was very excited to be reading Chinua Achebe’s “Things Fall Apart”.  In the ’70’s, it was revelatory.  So, back in the old days, mail was composed via either typewriter or handwriting.  I’ve mentioned my handwriting.  In terms of my typing, let’s just say that I was sent to school with erasable paper, typewriter erasers, Correct-type and tape, and whiteout.  Also, it was back when a telephone call to the next town involved extra charges, let alone another state.  The usual agreement was 1 call a week. Now that I have set the scene…

You might guess where this is going…

I wrote home very excited about Achebe.  My father couldn’t read my handwriting but could see THINGS FALL APART very clearly.  He jumped to conclusions and called me.  We sorted it out.  Hysteria on both sides calmed.  And no, he couldn’t read the novel because Achebe was not available in the Levittown of the 1970’s, nor did I need the help.

Present day, my writing is worse.  I am older but more than that, my hands are impacted by this condition.  Even I can no longer read my handwriting.

When this first started, I would run into people I had not seen in ages.  Three years ago this week, I was let go from a company I’d been with for 15 years.  I was a technical trainer so literally had worked with hundreds of people there in the NYC office alone.  The company occupied four floors of a building that was an NYC block.  I did an enormous amount of walking as part of my job.  I didn’t see some people due to they’re being on different floors and not needing me.  I’d run into someone at a meeting  or in the hall and I would hear, ” Oh my G-d, oh my G-d! What happened?”  My response, a shrug and “Things Fall Apart.”  And no, it wasn’t a stroke or an accident.  It’s not cancer, contagious or terminal.  My brain is the same.

Well, things do fall apart and are falling apart; not colonial structures but me, for real.  I have discovered since summer’s end that my spine is a mess and I have osteoporosis. My teeth were rotting.  I have acknowledged that I am in pain.  I never used to be unless I had fallen.  I went for my spinal surgical consult on Monday.  I was fairly inured to the idea that surgery was in my future.  Two neurologists said it was time. My walking was bad.  I am beyond non-surgical intervention.  When the issue was first raised, I had intense issues.  My dear friend was paralyzed after spinal surgery twenty years ago. I have always been fearful due to that. I also made the analogy that it was either like cataract surgery or laser surgery for the over 40 eye.  In each instance, change would be minimal at best.  The surgeon showed Tom and I, an in-depth section of the MRI.  My philosophy has always been not to look.  Do I know what I am seeing? Can I tell the doctor to do it differently?  This time I could clearly see something was not right. So, this appears to be like cataract surgery.  It’s so bad that anything will be better.  I was told without surgery I will be one of those little old women whose head falls on their chest.  He discovered a fracture in my neck.  I need further tests to see if this is new or old and a better picture.  This is disturbing on several levels.  I fractured and didn’t feel it?  My mother had spinal fractures and they were excruciating.  She literally broke apart.  I am so similar to my mother.  This is not a trait I wish to share.  I was also told I am two inches shorter.  Visions of the Wicked Witch.  I am too young to be melting and shrinking.  I walk worse.  I am fighting as hard as I can to stem and reverse the tide.  But. But things fall apart.

In terms of the surgery I need they can’t say if it will be through the front or through the back.  Two different types of surgery.  The additional tests will tell. It will require an overnight stay.  In anyone else it would have been outpatient.  However, because of my multiple issues, I need to be monitored and physical therapy will have to sign off on my release.  Now, back in the day, a lady only had her name mentioned in the papers three times – birth, marriage ,death. This corresponds to my view of hospital stays.  I am not pleased although I do realize the sanity of staying overnight.  May I be blunt?  I have bashful kidney/shy bladder.  This is almost scarier than any operation. I won’t be able to drive for a couple of weeks due to painkillers. I am the driver for my household.  Scary, huh? And I see another wheelchair ride in my future.  The surgeon is disclaiming all over the place about my prognosis as is my neurologist.  I’ll still have MC and they say it probably won’t impact my mobility.  I remain totally optimistic that I will be improved on all kinds of levels.  If not, why bother?

Things Fall Apart! But… But..

 

4th July Independence

The Fourth Of July was not my mother’s holiday.  She grew up in another country. As with Thanksgiving, she would state, “This is not my holiday.  I did not grow up with it, but I will do it for you children..” So, we would have hot dogs and hamburgers and most importantly apple pie.  She would laugh and say the garden knew it was a holiday as it was red, white and blue -hydrangea, roses and daisies.  We’d sit out in the backyard to catch glimpses of the fireworks from the park.  It meant ice cream.  Sometimes, sparklers.  Illegal, illicit glittery sparklers with the other neighborhood children.

As time marched towards adulthood, it became a day to sleep late and not work, followed by the requisite barbecue and pie.

The summer I graduated college I was looking for work.  I went to my local neighborhood dive.  Most of the people there were people I’d been at school with.  I was an introverted nerd who had blossomed in my time away.  I was shocked when a football team jock invited me to spend the 4th with him in Montauk, at another classmate’s house party.  I told him I had to ask my father.  Said father was furious, not that I wanted to away for the holiday with a boy; but rather that I had said I had to ask.  So off we went.  I remember getting  there early in the day.  Just about everyone was from high school and the cool kids no less.  Despite my blossoming, I felt as if I was in a foreign land.  We all grew up drinking.  It was the era.  But these people had started way too early in the day for me.  When it was dark, H the host, suggested that T and I join him and his girlfriend and sleep on his boat.  I don’t do boats.  My grandfather was a ship’s pilot and drowned.  Yes, this was over 50 years later but I had and have an innate antipathy towards boats.  Evening falls and finds us in bed.  Hey, red blooded American twenty somethings! So, lying on my back and thinking of England and see fireworks.  Yes, they’re exploding in the harbor or wherever the hell we are.  I say, “I am seeing fireworks.”  Poor thing took it seriously.  The romance was short-lived.  It was the Son of Sam Summer and that coupled with his fear of spiders cooled things down quickly. The other takeaway was that my high school and forever boyfriend was in California at the time.  Some years later, he returned to NY.  The first phrase out of his mouth was, “What’s this I hear about you sleeping with H on his boat?”  Uh, wrong guy and it’s a truly tiny country.

Next decade(30’s):

“Paris was a place you hide away if you felt you didn’t fit in.”  from  “Every Picture Tells a Story”

I found myself in Paris for July 4 for pret a porter and my job.  I knew I’d get a comp day.  Imagine being paid to do this?  I love Paris and it was not my first trip.  I went all over the city.  My employers had a “rule” that I couldn’t come home without a roll of film.  It was unusually  cold and I wasn’t prepared.  On the Metro, a gentleman thought I was homeless.  One thing, whenever I travel, I note what makes me an American.  If I hear the Star Spangled Banner, it gets to me.  “land of the free; and the home of the brave”

Next decade – the Millennium

I find myself on July 3 starting at a monolith which I call the Bank, in all its omnipotence.  The HR orientation woman tells me, “There is no early leave at the Bank.”  I look at her quizzically as why are they discussing retirement when this is my first day?  She explains that early leave means for the 4th.  This is good because I am already planning my own early leave of staying just a year.  So much for plans.  I end up staying for 15 years through a new marriage, the death of both my parents and the onset of my lack of mobility.  Yesterday was the 18th anniversary.  So much of me was tied up there and still is.

Next decade (40’s)

I am at the Bank.  I have been seeing the man I will marry for about 9 months.  He has a room in a house full of guys.  The owner is a friend of my brother’s.  He has AIDS, which he denies; smokes copious amounts of weed and drinks heavily.  He  is one of the sweetest guys I have ever met.  We barbecue in the backyard.  And of course, we drink.  Everyone laughs as I discover I have drank a whole bottle of rum.  They laugh again as I try to get up the stairs into the house in my dizzy flipflops.  Tom and I sit on the lawn and watch neighborhood fireworks.  I am happy

Same decade(50’s):

We move.  We laugh as our house is close to the police precinct and the display of fireworks emanating from that direction is spectacular.  We sit on the step and move back and forth between the front and the back.  The noise continues till morning.  My reflection is that we are lucky to live in a country where the explosions and the lights are not bombs

Present Day

It’s hot and steamy.  Normally, this my weather.  Instead, the heat has made me captive in home and body.  The fans spin and the A/C is on.  I look out windows and at security cameras instead of being outside, half dozing, reading in the afternoon heat.  No barbecue, no apple pie, no fireworks of any  kind.  I have been told that currently I am grieving the Bank or more precisely my work there and my life.  A couple of things -it may be illogical but I see not being at the Bank, the beginning of my current decline.  I became complacent.  I didn’t learn enough new things.  Most importantly, I didn’t make a plan.  Even if I had, there was no plan to lose mobility.  Today, for now, I am dependent rather than independent.  However, I still have my mind! So, land of the free, home of the brave.

 

Vice Presidential Aspirations and Disability

What did you want to be when you grew up? I was about ten and I sent away for career brochures.  I think it was from an insurance company.  I thought lawyer looked interesting and different.  Girls just didn’t become lawyers then.  I also really, really wanted to become an actress.  Also, write books.  My father was a writer so it’s in my DNA.  And I probably couldn’t do it because my father was a writer.  He did tell me before he died that I should write and not let him stop me. It was a gift from him to me.

As I grew, practicality intruded.  I have a facility for language.  I decided to be a multi-lingual secretary.  My mother was a secretary.  She was excellent, well-paid and powerful at times.  I was told in high school that I wasn’t fluent enough;  native speakers would receive precedence; I was that smart that I should have my own security. Reality?  After Hopkins, I applied for a secretarial spot that wanted someone who spoke English, French, Spanish and German, and who studied Latin America and Africa in that order. All checks.  I didn’t get the job because my typing wasn’t fast enough.

Moving on, again with the practicality. OK, if I couldn’t be a multi-lingual secretary, I would major in International Relations at Johns Hopkins and become Henry Kissinger.  Well, that didn’t work.  Economics and I were a nonstarter.  I did attend a job placement interview at Hopkins.  When asked for my aspirations, I said I wanted to wear Vogue clothes.  The counselor was mildly taken aback but assured me with a Hopkins degree I could do anything.  NOT!!  See above for starters.

Attempting to be logical, I determined if I wanted Vogue clothes, I needed to work in clothing.  I had thought  about this in high school but fashion was a trade and I was supposed to be too smart.  And I didn’t draw.  Uh, all work in fashion is not design.  Hopkins?  So, not working.  I was on my second job as assistant office manager in a major construction company when the receptionist turned me on to FIT Continuing Ed.  I was off and running.  Sundays 9- 5 and two nights a week till 9:30 or 10:30.  And I received an A in my art class.  My new ambition?  I was gonna be Calvin Klein.  In later years, I was questioned as to why I always wanted to be men.  Duh, that’s where the power was and is.

I started out as an assistant at Bobbie Brooks.  Why I got the job?  I was the only candidate with personal stationery; I am a Libra and they thought because of Hopkins, I knew psychology.  I decided I wanted to be a merchandiser in my own right.  Five companies later, I did it!  So, then what?  I wanted that VP title but I was just a “girl”.  This “girl” negotiated a licensing agreement with a major French fashion company.  Girls didn’t get to be vice presidents in that company.  The fashion press referred to me as vice president merchandising but not the company. Yes, they  merged with another company and gave my job to a male VP.  I definitely was able to buy and wear Vogue clothes so I did fulfill that ambition.

Back to the drawing board and I started working in financial services from the bottom up.  I had a facility for it.  Who knew that a fashionista could be successful in banking?!  Complications.  I was up for an AVP but was let go.  I came back as a consultant for another 11 years.  Same story – perceived as VP but no title.  I wanted to end my career as a VP.

Unemployed again, over 50, mobility issues, not happening.  In the last three years I have applied and applied.  I  began to realize that I could no longer commute into Manhattan.  If you want to be a VP and a woman on Long Island, you have no life.  I tried anyway.  I was told three years ago to apply for disability.  Me?  I am not disabled.  I just don’t walk well.  I am no longer the woman who wore three inch heels ,carried pocketbook, laptop and projector but disabled?

I finally succumbed last November and applied.  It’s like when I obtained the handicap sticker 5 years ago.  It was a “just in case”.  I thought it was temporary and I would be me in 5 years.  I am worse.  Cane, walker. Everyone said if anyone deserved it, it was me.  I have fought so hard.  I only did it because of economics.  This is a title I do not want.

Last Thursday, I received a letter saying I was medically qualified but the non-medical was still being evaluated.  This makes no sense.  Friday, there is a check in the mail.  I am officially disabled.  It is bittersweet.  The wolf at the door is being held back.  This is not a title I ever aspired to or even wildly imagined. WTF happened!! This was not what I wanted to be when I grew up.  I am coming to terms with the fact that my career life is over.  I am NEVER going to get that title, again, something outside the sphere of possibilities.

It’s reinvention time, Tresswann rising.    What do I want next?  What am I going to do for the rest of my life?  Well, the great Carib-American novel is possible but probably not publishable. I need to walk.  This gives me the opportunity to focus on getting back to walking.  I feel a little lost but I shall regroup.  I did originally want to write so maybe…

What did you want to be when you grew up and what happened along the way?

 

Urgency, Bathrooms and Mascots

I go to vendor shows to sell tea and tea accessories.  In the last 6 months or so it has become challenging.

Yesterday, I was signed up to do one at a church in the town I grew up in.  The weather was filthy but it was to be indoors.  Now, I grew up in this town and literally walked or drove by this church thousands of times.  I have never  been in  it.  We pull up yesterday.  Thank goodness for the handicapped sticker as I didn’t need to park on the grass.  Here’s the problem, in order to get in, we need to go down a long driveway.  Tom always argues that I shouldn’t use the walker but there is no way I can do this on my own.  It’s a long driveway and in the scheme of things not terribly steep.  To me, it’s the equivalent of Alpine off trail skiing.  It’s slick due to the rain.  Cars are coming up and down the drive dropping their wares.  Get to the bottom and there are stairs; only three but still stairs!  Luckily, my booth is right next to the door.  Unluckily, it’s right next to the door and the rescue greyhounds so it is constantly being opened, leading a woman in late afternoon to look at my hands and say “Raynaud’s?”

We settle in.  I need to go to the bathroom.  In days past and my youth, I was always teased that I had camel kidneys.  I used to be able to hold it.  I don’t do Porta Potties nor unless over 6 hours, airplane bathrooms.  I recall once flying to Chicago, foregoing the facilities so as not to miss the bus to the hotel which was supposed to take 20 minutes.  Hello!  Chicago rush hour traffic and the bus broke down.  Most memorable?  Bus from Montevideo to Punta del Este and back.  No bathroom in the bus.  There was a comfort stop but as it involved a bucket and newspapers.  I thought I’ll manage till we get to the restaurant.  Uh, curtained partition that didn’t close all the way.  At the end of the day, I held it for 13 hours!  Of course, with age things are different.  My mother always told me I was going to pay   for it. I actually refuse to acknowledge it’s my condition.  Seriously, why else are incontinence panties being advertised in magazines and television?

My challenge at these events is to get to the bathroom without being knocked off my feet.  Yesterday starts out looking good.  There is one bathroom.  It’s across the floor, unisex and handicapped accessible and equipped.  There are no crowds so it appears that I can navigate successfully.  The door is ajar, my husband says “Go, go!”  I start my slow gimp over.  I see two men go in together.  My assumption is maybe they are drying off?  I get there and the door appears to be ajar.  I knock, open and a flustered man shuts it.  There are still two guys in there.

Lately, what has been happening is that when I decide I should or need to go, it’s like a faucet turns on.  No real holding and I have to NOW!! So, my body is ready and set.  I begin to shuffle, do a jig and pray.  The last time I wet in front of anyone I was 8 years old and at sleepaway camp for the first time.  One minute is creeping into five.  It’s getting serious.  My husband, across the room is flipping out as his mind is moving in two directions.  First, what could two men possibly be doing together in a church bathroom? Second, poor me, if someone has been having “issues.”  Desperation is setting in and I am beginning to frantically scan the room for the organizer.  The door opens and one man comes out, closely followed by the church mascot.  They apologized.  They were changing! Emergency averted.

And going up the driveway much better than going down.

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Mourning Clothes

I know it sounds trivial but I am mourning my clothes.  The weather has  snapped and I need heavier clothes.  The way my house is structured there is only one real closet.  We do have armoires upstairs, keyword – upstairs.  I have enormous problems going up and downstairs without having anything in my hands.  I used to work in the garment industry and from time to time in retail sales.  I know how to carry tons of clothing over my arm.  I used to do it without even thinking about it. Now, I have problems hanging one suit in the closet.  Plus, I am dependent on T to get up and down the stairs and carry things.

So, this morning we go up and I want to bring my winter things down.  I’ve already brought down most of the casual stuff – the sweaters, the cords.  Today is for the business and dress stuff.  Each season change, it’s like running into old friends.  This year,  there are new and different options.   I weigh less so fit into different things.  And since I constantly have to use a cane instead of making the spectral leg visible, I have more options.

I bought some beautiful suits and pieces when I returned to work last year.

I start making a pile for Tom to take downstairs.  “Where are you going to wear all this stuff, really.”  Rub it in.  I worked from mid-February last year.  And the winter before that, I interviewed heavily.

We brought the clothes downstairs.  I don’t want to give them up.  I have always had a definitive sense of style.  I express myself through my clothes.  I do not want to live in sweatpants and jeans.  It’s not who I am.  I miss my dresses! Forget the party stuff.  I left all that black velvet upstairs.  I haven’t been to a party in years.  I was down to one holiday luncheon or dinner a year.  It’s hard for me to navigate.  NYC is out of the question.

People barely dress any more.  It is depressing to see all the faded jeans worn by faded people.  Where’s the sense of excitement?  Where’s uniqueness.  Let me date myself further by saying I sound like Hermione Gingold in both Gigi and A Little Night Music.

 

I have more pants than ever.  I was brought up in a household where ladies don’t wear trousers.  However, I need them for interviews  so I don’t terrify potential employers completely.

Today, I am realizing who am I kidding?  I have had 1 in-person interview since July.

I want to get up most mornings and wear my clothes. I want to preen like a peacock.

This condition is trying to destroy my soul.  It’s tried to take so much from me.  I have to draw a line in the sand, somehow.

Crashing

Well, the doctor did tell me to use the walker, at least till I meet with the rehab specialist.  I rang this week and he doesn’t accept my insurance,  However, he will see me at a clinic.  Tom doesn’t like that but we are just going to have to suck it up and go.

I have been unable to go to the gym this week as Tom is on another binge.  Aside from  the fact that the gym and liquor store are in the same center, he’s been too drunk to really go out in public.  It is what it is.  So, as an alternate measure and part of my plan anyway, I have been doing the stair stepper as much as possible.  The  most I’ve reached is 6600 steps, not enough.

So, what I did on Thursday, was lock the room door.  It is the only room in the house with a door.  This allowed me to do some thinking, writing, reading and even watch programs that I like while I did the stepper. I did get a bit wobbly.  Tom spent most of the day passed out.  After 5, I unlocked the door.  Dunno why.  Just did.  And years ago, he did destroy the door so it’s not like it means anything except symbolically.

The last few weeks I have felt myself deteriorating.  Ever optimistic, I have tried to attribute it to the intense stress that I have been under as well as the lack of activity.  In order for me to take control, I took the walker out from behind the door yesterday.  I need to practice with it before I use it outside and frankly, I needed the extra support.  I almost  never use the spectral leg or cane in the house but I guess life is beginning to change.  I struggled not to weep.  How did this ever come to pass? How can I consider this a viable option?

It happens sometime after you become an    adult.  You walk down the street and see a reflection in a window.  Who is that adult that resembles you if you were grown up?  Wait a minute!  It’s you and you are grown up.  The next step is inevitable.  You catch sight of yourself and….  Yes, I see a little, fragile, misshapen old lady.  How the hell did that happen?

It’s after 5 and I felt a bit weakish.  I didn’t have the cane in my tiny room.  I went to sit down and somehow I didn’t sit on the chair correctly, lost my balance and fell.  I fall well but still make all kinds of noises along the way down.  Tom had been passed out in the other room.  He rushed in bloodshot eyes and all.  This man does not wake up well in the best of times.  I was flat on my back on the floor.  There’s an upside to everything.  Due to drunkenness, I had  a bag filled with bags of tea on the floor.  It was supposed to have been taken upstairs and out of the way.  I can no longer go upstairs without help so it was lying there.  Lucky!  My head hit tea instead of the floor.  So there I was.  I wasn’t hurt but couldn’t move.  This is a man with three sisters and I think he might have played with dolls or maybe not because he has no concept of how real limbs work.  I literally can’t sit up.  First order of business is to get me upright.  He pulled but I have no strength at all apparently in my core.  I slid back down.  It took awhile to explain I needed something to hold onto to keep me in a seated position.  We get there.  Next step is get me to stand or into a chair. Ha!  This is when I discovered my right leg  no longer works.  It cannot bend .   I cannot even cry.  Picture this.  Sometimes, I have problems getting out of the tub.  I lift my right leg with my arm.  If it doesn’t stay up, Tom comes in and lifts it for me.   I explained to Tom that we were going to have to do the same action but not in the tub.  He was still fuddled. Back to I do not have doll limbs.  The video would have gone viral.  Somehow, we got both legs bent.  Then  I flipped over like a bug.  Somehow, I managed to pull myself up onto the chair.  Tom stumbled back to bed.

This was a pretty devastating evening.  I knew I had deteriorated but not to this point.  I guess I need to buy one of those I’ve fallen and can’t get up devices.  I am so scared and frightened.  I WILL NOT BE IMMOBILE.  I WILL DANCE AGAIN.   I must be delusional.  The only thing to do is fight harder  Someone just told me today, in another matter, that my persistence paid off.  I guess I need to keep it up.  I am losing strength all around and crashing