Ankle Report

 If you’re interested, I think my ankle, foot, leg or whatever is gradually getting better. The foot is still swollen but not near as much and not as red. I can briefly put weight on it now without the excruciating pain of a week ago. Still can’t walk on it except maybe two steps holding on to something, so I scoot around the house on the seat of my walker, using my feet to propel. It’s awkward because the walker is designed to go the other direction, but I am getting pretty good at going through the house backward.

It’s not entirely foolproof. The chair can move a bit, and one night as I aimed for it getting out of bed, it moved and I was left hanging between bed and walker. Couldn’t pull myself up so I decided the only thing to do was go down and sit on the floor. If I had to call for help, so be it. Lo and behold, a major accomplishment—I got myself back up, even using my sore foot. I’ve learned to use the basket for all kinds of things—except drinks. Not only have I spilled two glasses of wine, but one morning I put my tea in the basket and it must have splashed, because I yelped and thought something had stung me. It was the hot tea.

We’ve developed a nice routine.  I’m home alone with Sophie during the day, though weekdays Lewis Bundock, the contractor, is in and out, and he lets Sophie out for me (today she didn’t go out until 5:00 p.m.). About 4:30 Jordan and Jacob arrive, and soon after I have anywhere from one or two other people to a houseful. Tonight there were three children and eight adults, including Jordan and me. These visits tire me out so that I usually sleep well.

No word on the MRI yet but when people ask how much longer I have to have the boot I say I suppose until I can walk on it. I’m afraid of getting addicted to the walker because I’ve noticed a lot of other small problems don’t worry me—my tremor isn’t as bad, I don’t fear falling (except off the walker).

I’ve both let a lot of housekeeping go and relied far too heavily on Jordan to do other chores. She’s arranged for a private duty care person to come and stand by while I shower twice a week. I admit it’s a great comfort to have someone there, handing me towels, etc.

I sleep a lot, but today I got high behind—sorted my entire appetizer folder of recipes (believe me it was thick) and read 190 pages of a book I’m reading for a competition. So it was a profitable day. Hope tomorrow turns out as well. 

I think I’ve been through depression and cabin fever and come out on the other side. Most of the time, I’m relatively content with my days—but I will be glad to be mobile again. Meantime, life is good.

Construction starts--big doings at my house

 It’s been months—early February, I think—since we applied for a building permit to remodel the garage apartment. Since then, people continually ask when we’re beginning construction. Today I can officially say construction has begun! Once again I wanted a celebration, but it wasn’t. When I woke up this morning, Jordan told me there were already workmen out back. And soon there was a swarm of them—carpenters, electricians, plumbers, and I don’t know who else.

Jordan inspected before she went to work and said they’d already made a mess. Tonight, she said, “Just don’t go out there.” The electrician had dug a trench across the yard to bury wires. She is really enjoying this process and has become sort of an assistant contractor. She informed me tonight that she and Lewis are on the same page—but they both consult with me, so all is well.

Jacob would like to be an assistant contractor—he went out to inspect when he got home from golf camp and came back to announce, “They’re all crazy out there.”

I doubt I can post pictures every day, but here are some demolition and exterior pictures.

 





Cottage as seen from my deck



Driveway first day, with trash

Jordan and Lewis celebrating

The other highlight of my day—maybe that’s the wrong word—was an MRI on my foot. I didn’t anticipate any unpleasantness, since I was sure this would be foot-first rather than a head-in procedure, and it was. But it wasn’t long before my foot began to ache, my butt hurt, and I was cold, even with the light blanket provided. The technician would come on my earphones and tell me how long the next series of sounds would last—seemed interminable, but I wasn’t about to cry “Uncle” once I was halfway into the procedure.

I’m truly hoping that this is the first step to recovery. I thought the foot was better today, but when I had to walk several feet from car to walker and then into the MRI room because the metal walker can’t go near the magnetic beast, I decided it may not be better. It sure hurts. My mind goes wild imagining the next course of action—orthopedic specialist? Who knows? Not surgery I hope. But I guess my best course is to continue trying to be patient. Glad to report that after a sleepless night, my disposition and spirits have improved.

 

 

Sometimes Life Rushes at You—or is there a spot on the moon?

            Life surely rushed at me yesterday. Thursday, after some steroids, my hip felt so much better that I thought I was Wonder Woman. Walking the aisles of the grocery stores disabused me of that idea, and I came home with a sore hip and a discouraged soul. Yesterday a good friend (she calls me her Fort Worth mom because her mom is in Canada) took my list and did my Central Market shopping for me. I was grateful for the chance to stay off my feet pretty much.

But early that morning, Lewis Bundock, one of the two brothers doing my remodeling, stuck his head in my office door to say the kitchen counter would go in next Wednesday. My understanding was they wouldn’t even think about the kitchen until the bathroom was complete, but I don’t guess the tile man got that message. I blanched at the idea of having to clean off the counter, but Lewis pointed out I had Monday and Tuesday. Then in a bit he stuck his head in to say change in plans: the counter would go in Monday morning.

I have a longstanding date to cook dinner for friends who will only be in town this weekend. We’ll have supper Sunday night on the deck, since this house is a dirty, dusty mess, and the Bundocks tell me not to think about cleaning it until they’re out of here. It’s so bad I think even the dog is dusty, though neighbor Jay says she’s just graying more. Between the hip and the kitchen counter, Sunday’s dinner looms large—though we do what we have to do and somehow it all gets done.

Then a doctor’s office called to tell me I will have an MRI next Friday. And an agent wrote to decline reading my entire Chicago historical manuscript because she didn’t find the characters came off the page in the sample (a problem to think about much later). My email went crazy. I had planned to write a thousand words that morning—between all that was going on and the never-ending email, I wrote maybe five sentences.

Around 5:30, looking forward to dinner with a friend, I began to worry about why she was so late—perhaps she meant me to meet her instead of picking me up. Turns out someone had pulled out in front of her so sharply that she hit him, had to chase him down though when she got him to stop he was apologetic and said it was all his fault. Let’s hope he sticks to that story with his insurance people. Meantime, she arrived at my house shaken and frustrated and angry at the rigmarole she would now face. We were so late getting to the restaurant that the owner called to make sure I was all right.

Good things about the day: I had a delightful lunch with Melinda at our favorite small Italian place where we always take small bottles of wine—she orders chicken piccata and I always have bresaola served with grana, greens, and a lemony vinaigrette. So good. After I told Melinda all my troubles, they didn’t seem so bad—that’s what friends are for.

Kathie and I had a good dinner and a good visit in spite of her accident. We agreed it was a bad day for both of us—she had other things going on in addition to the accident. She was worried about a museum presentation she’ll give Monday and was worrying ahead to next weekend when she’ll have her son’s family and will, for the first time, babysit a six-year-old girl and three-year-old boy by herself. I told her she’d be fine.

And last night? I wrote a thousand words.

All my troubles shall pass. I know that. Guess I’m just whining.