Tag: injuries

Fridaz Theme Music

Rain just kicked in here. Dark and gloomy. Feels lifted from a gothic novel. All the blinds are up but sunshine has vacated its post. The rain though, is a comforting background song. Fall is here, the scene outside proclaims. Get used to it.

We will. Then we’ll tire of it, and the great conveyor belt will carry winter to us. We’ll get used to that and tired of that and hit the holidays and a new year and then start looking for spring. It’s almost a tradition.

Papi is tres upset by this weather change. His downcast expression has WTF written large. I tell him, “Stay in, you’ll be happy.” After desultory outdoor expeditions, he agrees and find a space to sleep.

48 F now, we won’t see 60 today. This is Frida, October 20, 2025, in Ashland, Oregon. Ashlandia.

Trump didn’t win the Noble Peace Prize. I am so happy that the deranged bully didn’t win that honor. The prize went to María Corina Machado, from Venezuela, who worked to restore democracy to that nation. Can we get her up here? Trump’s head would explode. And congratulations to María Corina Machado for a well-deserved honor.

Back in ‘Murica, Speaker Mike Johnson (R-Hell) spoke, refreshing the impression that he’s an idiot.

‘Angry’ Johnson lashes out — says Dems need to be ‘physically separated’ from Republicans

This from Alternet:

“We’re so angry about it,” he told Fox News. “I mean, I’m a very patient guy, but I have had it with these people,” the Speaker said, emphatically, of Democrats. “They’re playing games with real people’s lives.”

Yeah, that jackass is angry that the Democrats are not caving and that more voters are realizing that the Epstein Shutdown of 2025 is a Trump GOP gift, a product of the Regime’s Misery Machine. Trump and the GOP control Congress and the Oval Office. The self-proclaimed ‘great negotiator’ can’t make a deal. As Donald J. loudly claimed back before he shut the government down three times, a government shutdown shows a weak president. He’s sitting on three. How weak does that prove him to be?

Personal news from home isn’t good. Mom’s BF, Frank, is in pretty bad shape. Hard to get details through the grapevine. Broken ribs, the hip that was replaced, heart issues, and dementia. What he’s enduring has him acting contrary to who he usually is, and he’s being violent, mean, loud, and angry. They have him restrained to a bed, someone watching him 24/7, and mitts on his hands so he can’t pull out tubes and try to escape. Little sister is pulling duty helping Mom. This is a sister who has two children. One of them lives with her. Her daughter’s BF also resides with them. She’s a grandmother who takes those duties seriously and spends time and money on her grands. She works, exercises, cooks for her family and Mom, and also keeps the books for her husband’s plumbing biz. She’s a dynamo and I’m pleased she’s there to help Mom. Other two sisters apparently have some medical problems of their own. They’re not discussing their issues but they’re not visiting Mom much.

Today’s music arises from a conversation with my orange floof, Papi. The weather has him restless. So I sang, “Lay down Papi,” to him to the tune of “Lay Down Sally” by Eric Clapton. “Lay down Papi. You don’t need go outside. I’m been trying all morning long just to pet you,” is what I sang to the boy. Natch, The Neurons were all over that, pumping “Lay Down Sally” into the morning mental music stream. And yep, that’s “Duck” Dunn on bass in this video.

Coffee is cruising through the alimentary system, delivering its needed cargo. Hope peace and grace pops out soon and visits for a prolonged period. Meanwhile, stay strong. I’ll try doing the same. And away we go. Cheers

2

Mundaz Wandering Thoughts

My wife and I had a minor disagreement the other day.

I had surgery to repair a ruptured tendon last year, in October, 2024. I’ve had pain of various kinds since then. One source of pain was along toes three to five, which was often stiff with burning pain. I’d mentioned it to my surgeon, as it began during my convalescence from surgery. He said that it sounds like a nerve was damaged. I felt the same. Although I’m not a medical expert or doctor, etc., I broke and dislocated a wrist in my late twenties. Pins casts immobilized that wrist and arm. I suffered from a burning, painful sensation along the pin sites after they were removed. My doc back then told me it was probably nerve damage. It did go away after about twenty years. This foot pain felt just like that pain.

While walking the other day, I felt a sudden sharp and painful snap in my foot where the toe pain resides. After gasping and slowing for a second, I resumed walking. Lo, that foot pain was gone. It hasn’t come back.

I was so elated. I went home and told my wife. She responded, “Why is this the first that I’m hearing about this?”

One, it wasn’t the first she was hearing about it. She’d forgotten me mentioning it, but I spoke about in early January of this year. I don’t blame her for forgetting it. We don’t remember everything we’re told.

Two was a broader philosophical position. Basically, I don’t tell her about every pain I endure. I’m aging, and have pains from time to time. Feet, ankle, hips, neck, shoulder, back, abdomen, eyes, etc. Those pains often go away. Their duration can last anywhere from a few hours to a week. Sometimes they limit movement, and more rarely limit my activities. My point is, pain comes and goes. I prefer to not complain. And then means, to me, not mentioning.

And there’s a little history in that. Number one was Mom. Mom as a mother often told us to stop crying, stop whining, stop complaining. She wanted us to be happy children. If we couldn’t be happy, she wanted us to be quiet.

Then there’s history with my wife about this. Long ago, when I was twenty, I was severely sick for several days. We didn’t see doctors back then for things like that. Basically vomiting, not eating, listless, sweating a lot, lot of pain. That pain resulted in some moaning and groaning.

Yeah, I got over it and lived. But about a year later, my wife was speaking to others and talked about what a baby I was when I was sick and hurt. That insulted and angered me. I told her so when we were alone. It since became a theme for her to talk about how often men complain about being sick or hurt when women are so much hardier, and more willing to endure. I finally mentioned to my wife that I disliked this reductivism about men and pain. She’s done it off and on since, and once, after seeing me give her a look when she made such a statement, apologized and claimed that she wasn’t including me. Since then, she’s slowly drifted out of the habit.

But this is how we evolve. We have our basic attitudes and tendencies, and then we react to our environment. Part of that is how we react to what we hear. What is said about us, especially by those we love, admire, and trust. Maybe I’m being thin-skinned, but words matter. Part of my problem, too, is that I seem to have a very strong memory. I don’t easily forget or forgive.

I guess that’s my bottom line.

1

The Exercise Routine

A friend went hiking and then needed a few days to recover. Hips and a bum foot gave her issues. She wins for the best insightful comment about exercising: “I guess my approach of one hard day of exercising a month to overcome the lack of activity every other day needs to be reconsidered.” I’m paraphrasing. She put it better.

I found myself in a similar way. After my arm was broken in two bones a few years ago, I was left without exercising it much. That resulted in atrophied arm and shoulder muscles, which really pissed me off. Just as I was working on recovering from that, I had a ruptured tendon. Repaired with surgery, I was off of intense exercise for over six months last year, beginning in September. Guess what happened to my right leg, home of the ruptured tendon? That’s right, atrophied leg muscles. Like, mother of pearl.

Recognizing these things need to be fixed, I began working to improve. Just free weights, running, pushups, the old-fashioned stuff I’m used to doing. I saw improvements. Better muscle tone and definition, higher energy levels, clearer thinking, weight loss. Then I went on vacay. Other than walking and stretching, I didn’t exercise during the ten-day vacay experience.

Well, when I dropped to give twenty a few days ago, my left arm, the one with the atrophied muscles, was not happy. I barely eked out eleven pushups. The offended limb throbbed in irritation afterwards. Same yesterday and today, proving that it wasn’t a one-day fluke. The throb doesn’t last past five minutes, but it’s another annoyance. It doesn’t affect me when I plank, but it does affect my light weightlifting.

I’ll keep working it. I mean, what else is there to do? Well, yes, I will research and adjust my exercises, and find ways to address the throbbing, but I’ll press on.

That’s the bottom line. Giving up just isn’t an option.

2

Saturda’s Wandering Thoughts

Just a pause to say that I’m grateful.

I’m grateful that the medical profession has developed the knowledge, insights, and treatment for what ailed me.

I’m grateful for a medical team who guided me safely through weeks of pain through surgery and recovery.

I’m grateful that I have a house where I can take a shower, and I’m grateful for the society, civilization, and people that built the systems which enabled me to take a hot, long shower this morning.

I’m grateful that I can walk normally again, free of pain.

There’s a lot to be grateful for in my life. I’ve always been pretty fortunate. I’ve taken a lot of it for granted. So, I thought this needed to be noted. I am grateful. I may not always sound like I am, but that’s just my nature.

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Medical Update

Happily, I can share a major change for me. My right compression sock has arrived.

TL/DR: my custom sock arrived for my right leg, ankle, and foot, freeing me from the bandages I’ve been wearing. I can bath normally again.

Longer story. As background, I had a few medical setbacks starting about six years ago. It began with an enlarged prostate gland which led to a obstructed bladder and an emergency room visit. A catheter was inserted up my johnson and I wore a bag on my ankle to collect urine for a few days. Of course, I was also put on Flomax.

Around the same time, I noticed some swelling and redness around my ankles. I didn’t know it then, but edema was developing.

I then suffered two broken bones in my left arm during a DIY effort about two years later. That slowed me down. My edema worsened. I’ve always been active. I had been averaging walking eleven to thirteen miles a day. Now that dropped way down. Six became a challenge.

The edema worsened. It was affecting the skin on my lower legs, ankles, and feet.

I then somehow ruptured my right peronous longus tendon. It snapped as I was crossing a street in Oakmont, PA, in May of last years. MRIs revealed it completely severed at my ankle. It’s supposed to wrap around under my foot, but nothing remained of it on my foot’s underside. Besides pain, it created major instability for me. And it slowed me more. My edema worsened.

Surgery was done for the ruptured tendon. The surgeon removed what was left of it and sewed up the end. My surgery wouldn’t heal. Now restricted to this boot to stabilize and strengthen my ankle, I was limited to bed rest for several weeks and reduced activity. The surgery wasn’t healing becaus the edema was worsening, causing my right ankle and foot to balloon.

It was a frustrating spiral.

Along the way, the medical ‘they’ decided that I seemed to be affected with lymphedema. In abbreviated explanation, my lymph fluid was not going up the lymph vessels and was accumulating in my calves, ankles, and feet, causing the swelling. Lymphedema massage therapy to stimulate the lymph fluid flow was set up. Three times a week, I went in and had my limbs from my calves down massaged and then wrapped in cotton, foam, and elastic bandages.

I’d also done some research about my lymphedema. Following advice and guidance from the net, I sharply reduced my sodium intake and heavily increased how much water I drank each day. I also reduced coffee and alcohol consumption, and added specific exercises to combat lymphedema to my daily routines. Part of that are self-massages to stimulate lymph fluid flow. See, from what I can tell, my body doesn’t process sodium well. Sodium is often used as a binding agent in processed food. The same thing was happening to me. Sodium is probably thickening my blood and thickening my lymph (or lymphatic — they express it both ways) fluid, driving the swelling. I drink more water to thin my blood and lymph fluid. I’m still walking six miles a day.

It all seems to have worked. I began my lymphedema therapy in Feb. Within a week, the left side graduated to the custom made compression sock. It was doing very well. I still wear that sock every day, washing it each night by hand. I’ve not had any swelling on that side. They will be providing me several more custom socks for it, and the right side.

My right side, which was the side of the surgery, also quickly improved. I no longer have swelling there, either. In fact, on Feb 19, my massage therapist put in the order for the right side’s custom sock. We expected it to arrive by the end of Feb.

But it didn’t. Concerned that it was lost somewhere, I called the company who provides the sock. They confirmed that they didn’t order it for me until the end of February, nine days after the order was put in. It seems that government bureaucracy slowed its progress, as it had to be approved by the powers before the order was created.

Anyway, the right side sock arrived yesterday. I get to go to physical therapy and have it put on today. And that means, a shower. See, the bandages could not get wet. So I was not allowed showers. I could wrap the bandaged limbs in plastic garbage bags and bath in a tub with my lower legs and feet outside the tub, but man, that wasn’t very satisfying.

So tonight, I shall shower. I suspect it will be long and hot shower, and very, very sweet.

8

Not An Easy Answer

Daily writing prompt
Share one of the best gifts you’ve ever received.
View all responses

This is another of those questions with contingencies circling around a word. Today, it’s ‘gift’. I mean, the gifts of life and good health are often on people’s lists. I’ve experienced enough personal health scares to appreciate those words. A memory seared into my being is of being very sick one year. Bronchitis turned to pneumonia. I awoke to Mom’s high pitched appeals, “Please, Lord, let my son live.” Her efforts worked, as here I am. Pretty good gift, I think.

Then there is the best gift received as a present. That would be a 1/20 scale model of a 1961 Jaguar XK-E. I was around nine or ten years old. Car fever bowled me over. Porsches, Corvettes, Ferraris, name it. But that Jag impressed me as the most stylistic art on four wheels. The roadster was my choice but the model was a coupe. It was fun to build, and I displayed the result with pride.

However, there was a shirt given to me when I was fourteen. A female classmate had a crush on me. I was aware of this because other girls wrote me a note informing me of the fact. Later that week, she bought the shirt, and gave it to me as a gift. Although the shirt wasn’t my style, I was flattered. Astonished, really. In retrospect, I understand how much courage it took her to buy that and give it to me.

I suppose, though, the best gift is that kiss and hug my wife gave me the first time she ever told me she loved me. Unable to speak the words, she wrote them in the steam on a window. We were teenagers and that’s another memory captured in amber. Married a few years later, we’re still married fifty years later.

So, not an easy question to answer. The question does force me to realize how many great gifts I’ve received.

I hope I was able to give a few to others along the way.

6

The Messenger Dream

I’d been selected to be a messenger. Don’t know who chose me, nor the message.

I was waiting to get the message in my place, a small apartment in a large high-rise building. Few windows let in light but natural sources outside were diminished by storms. Friends and acquaintances visited. Several noticed that I had four model cars in a case. These were Formula 1 cars from the 1970s and 1980s, 1/12 scale. People bent down to look into the black case to see them. As they began commenting, I turned on the case lights so they could see them. Up front on the right was the Ferrar 312 T which Lauda drove to championships. Behind it a little was a Mclaren MP4/4, a model driven by Senna and Prost, with the markings and settings for Prost’s vehicle. I explained these things to everyone, but then, the time for me to act as messenger arrived.

The message was given on a slip of paper. I went out and delivered it, no problem, despite a deluge. Coming back, I descended a long, steep hill on an asphalt path. Left of me was busy thoroughfare, twelve lanes of newly paved road, packed with cars. At the bottom of the hill was an intersection where a wide new road came down from the right. I needed to cross that wide road. My building was on the other side. I could see its parking lot.

Rain still poured as thunder rumbled. I stepped onto the road into the crosswalk, then looked back and left to ensure the cars turning right from the main road were letting me pass. They were stopped and waiting, so I waved thanks and proceeded. Mind shifting to the traffic coming on the road which I crossed, I saw a huge tanker truck approaching, going way too fast for conditions. I stopped to await the outcome.

The long truck, a blue tractor with a silver trailer, was rushing toward the intersection, sliding with his brakes locked. As he passed me, the truck entered a slow jack knife and then fell over onto its side and slid more, stopping just after entering the intersection. Everyone saw it coming and stopped. No one hit it and it sat on its own, alone in the intersection.

A young Black man on a blue bike had been riding down the hill toward the intersection. When the truck arrived and jack knifed, the bike guy braked hard, slid, lost control and was thrown from the bike.

I rushed to help, recognizing that he was also a messenger. He was conscious but dazed, sitting on the roadway, his twisted bike to one side, rain drenching him. Others came to help him, too. I told them to call for an ambulance. Someone suggested helping the truck driver, but I disdained that; he’d brought that on himself, I thought, and others were undoubtably going to help him. A glance that way confirmed that people were at the truck.

I asked the bike rider, “Are you a messenger?”

“Yes,” he replied.

“Are you hurt?”

He shook his head. People went to help him up. “No,” I said. “He had a big tumble. There may be injuries which we don’t know. Wait for the EMT.”

Then I asked him, “Where does your message go? I’ll take it for you.”

Dream end.

0

Monday’s Theme Music

5:42 AM came, bringing the sun — or did the sun bring the time? These are the things that are pondered when you awaken at an unexpected moment, along with the name of a favorite restaurant that you ate at one time in 1997, and obscure information, such as, what is the capitol of Paraguay, and other lines from Billy Collins’ poem, “Forgetfulness”. Then you find yourself trying to remember “What Dogs Think” and “A Dog on His Master” by Billy Collins, and then wonder, is Billy Collins still alive? Before you know it, it’s already 8:36 PM, and the sun is setting…

Unless you have pets, who remind you of your obligations to feed, love, and honor them, especially that feeding part, forcing you out of bed. My cats didn’t remind me of the day — who cares if it’s Monday, when you’re a cat doing the same thing every day? — and didn’t remind me of the date, May 24, 2021, because animals use a completely different calendar system. My cats assure me that their system is better. Every year is a floof year. They won’t explain what that means.

I was painting inside the house yesterday, attacking this year’s project, the great room. The great room is not great IMO. It’s just okay. It’s the living-dining-kitchen room, no walls between them, just one high ceiling. I painted the kitchen part last year after doing the foyer and front hall. I’d done the bathrooms and guest room the year before. You see the progression. I’d planned more painting last year, but then broke my arm after a poor dismount from the kitchen counter, which I was standing on to reinstall the kitchen blinds. The broken arm — two bones, at the wrist, and a buncha collateral damage — got me out of work, but I don’t recommend it. Just tell them that your cats stole the paint or something, if you don’t want to paint.

Anyway, while painting, I had Rihanna’s song, “Work”, going through my head for a while. You know, “work, work, work, work, work.” But Huey Lewis and the News took over the neurons with their 1982 song, “Workin’ for A Livin'”, and managed to stay there. Now I need to get rid of it, so I’m postin’ it here.

Stay positive, test negative, wear a mask as needed, and get the vax. Cheers

0

Last Night’s Game

Last night’s professional football game between the Pittsburgh Steelers and the Cincinnati Bengals epitomizes my frustration with the sport.

First, let me tell you. I grew up in Pittsburgh, PA. I became a Steeler fan around nineteen sixty-nine, when I was thirteen. That wasn’t a good year for the Steelers. They finished with one win, and thirteen losses. Things began picking up the next year.

Second, about ten years ago, I began thinking that football has become way too violent. I tried watching less of the sport. I marvel at the players’ speed, grace, and athleticism, and enjoy the multiple levels of tactics and strategy continuing throughout a game even as I rue the violence. I’ve thought, like others, what is the solution to reduce the violence, especially the flagrant fouls, and the head injuries?

Last weekend featured a couple of them. Gronk of the Patriots was suspended for his hit. Other suspensions and fines are being issue. But how much do these mean to these players? Yes, they recognize that they’ve let their team down when they’re suspended, and that it could affect winning records, contracts, sponsorship deals, and championships, with all the collateral associated with a season, like home-field advantages, pride, rings, and trophies, but these same players are pushed to be aggressive and competitive. They’re amped up on adrenaline. To expect them to stop instantly, in the middle of motion, when the whistle blows — and is heard — and tamper their emotions is not always realistic.

Especially so in a game like last night, between Pittsburgh and Cincinnati. Their games have been especially tough and violent for several years. Memories of results and actions linger, affecting how the two teams feel about each other, and how they play one another. The game last night featured penalties, marked off in yards and loss of downs. Quoting Kevin Siefert on ESPN:

The game was also reminiscent of the playoff game due to the high number of penalties. The Bengals set a franchise record with 13 penalties for 173 yards. The two teams have combined for 1,088 penalty yards in their matchups against each other, including playoffs, since the 2015 season. Their 32 major penalties, such as unnecessary roughness and unsportsmanlike conduct, in the same time span is nearly twice as much as any other matchup in the same period.

Wow, right? Yet, it keeps escalating. These penalties and suspensions aren’t working. Maybe something more concrete is required, like a loss of points instead of yards, or a loss of downs. Yes, flags can be thrown, and players ejected, but perhaps it’s not enough. Maybe a flag is required to warn them, one more personal foul, and you forfeit the game.

Too extreme? Perhaps, but that’s what the NFL is all about: winning and losing. Until something tangible is done to immediately affect that line, the escalations will continue.

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