Whining again

 After vowing not to whine anymore, because it made me feel like a wimp, here I am complaining. My right ankle—the one I twisted when I fell two weeks ago—was getting much better. Until the last two or three days. This morning I decided I didn’t want to wait to the weekend and have it become an emergency situation so I called the doctor’s office. I could hardly walk and was lurching around the house holding on to furniture and walls. They gave me an appt. with a PA at 2:30, saying my doctor was completely booked.

The morning was brightened because friend Carol brought a used-book dealer to look at my books, and she took 40 books, most for her business but a few for her personal reading. Carol was a great salesperson, pointing out one title after another. Carol estimates I have about 500 books left, not including the ones I wrote. Maybe books are like spaghetti or salad that grow in the bowl as you eat.

Made a peanut butter sandwich for lunch, grabbed a small glass of wine, and then a small nap before Jordan came. I told Jordan I feared the diagnosis would be “You’re clumsy” and my sweet daughter said, “Well, you are.” The woman examined the new bruise and swelling on my hand and asked if I bruise easily. I truly wanted to reply, “No, I’m clumsy.” I have no idea what I did to my hand and arm but it sure does look ugly.

Sent for x-rays. The site said two-hour wait, so I voted for waiting till tomorrow, but Jordan went in and came back to get me. Honest, we were out of there within half an hour or less, and the doctor’s office sent the report before five: small fracture of the fibula just above the ankle joint. I’ll see the doctor, not the PA, Monday morning. Meantime I’m trying to stay off my feet and using a neighbor’s walker—I’ve resisted the latter for a long time, but it really does help. I feel more secure and there’s a more even distribution of weight.

So Jordan and Jacob are here tonight, though she has gone to a birthday party at the Wine Haus down the street for an hour. Tomorrow night, Colin will be here with Morgan and Kegan so that will brighten my weekend a lot.

I don’t mean to sound like Joe Bftsplk, but it seems it’s always something. In a sense I’m relieved to know there is a diagnosis and I wasn’t just being a wimp; on the other hand, all those people who keep warning that I’ll fall and break a bone can now say, “I told you so.”

Reflections on a Week of Food

I seem to have eaten out a lot this week, and the menus have varied wildly--from  a chef's salad and meatloaf to fresh crab, oysters and a charred artichoke--oh and there was a great scoop of tuna salad (my favorite food perhaps). It as strange to have an egg and toast for breakfast, when I usually eat cottage cheese, and I looked with awe at my tablemates who ate ham and eggs and hash browns and biscuits. If I did that I'd be uncomfortable--and soon fat as a blimp.
I often say I travel on my stomach. I like nothing better than finding a wonderful restaurant in a new city-the domed restaurant in Edinburgh comes to mind--but I equally like going to old familiar haunts, like Harrys Roadhouse, Pasquales, and Tecolote in Santa Fe. So does food define my life?
I've given some thought to writing a memoir--I'm sort of between projects, a place I find uncomfortable, though I have several possibilities on the horizon, and some projects underway that will require attention again soon but not yet. So what do I do in the meantime?
The trouble with memoir is deciding how I want my life defined. In spite of my love for good food and cooking, I don't think that's the main thread. I'd probably define my life in terms of the four children I raised as a mostly single parent--but where's the story in that? Too many women have that experience and probably many in much more difficult circumstances than me. And often without the wonderful adults my children have become. But readers want trauma--not the happy life I lead.
I've thought about anxiety, which has plagued me all my life and limited my opportunities. Once in my thirties I consulted a psychiatrist who predicted that if anything ever happened to my husband (it did--he absconded for life with one of his students) I would probably live close to a university and work there. Still makes me mad because it proved true--except I've done a lot that many people with anxiety wouldn't dare do, like traveling to the Caymans and Scotland. Still I don't want it to be the defining factor of my life.
And then there's my career in publishing and my work as an author of over 60 books (I've stopped counting but could figure it out if I had to). To other writers, it might be an interesting story, but it still doesn't define my life the way my children and grandchildren do.
And how would I work in the Scottish heritage that is so important to me? And my liberal beliefs which are part of me? And my faith? How would you organize a memoir? Chronologically? By subject? The whole thing is a conundrum to me.
I actually did write a food memoir--Cooking My Way Through Life With Kids and Books--but it sure doesn't tell the whole story. It does have recipes however.
I give up. I'm going to read a mystery now.