Tag: injury

Thirstdaz Wandering Thoughts

I’ve lost over twenty pounds. With that came a reduction in my waist size. Now my pants are too large for me. Friggin’ swimming in them. Fortunately, I kept some pants which were too small for me. Now I fit in them again.

Large part of my weight reduction in my mind comes from exercising. With my exercising now, I can look back and appreciate how much I was hampered from exercising by health issues for the last few years. I’m running and exercising much more consistently and intensely than I’ve done since COVID struck. Back then was when I broke my arm. Feels good, too. Energy levels are up. Thinking is clearer. Mood is better.

My issues forced dietary changes on me. Embracing them, I eat more mindfully, turning down many things, enduring hunger. Like, right now, in the coffee shop, they’ve heated up quiche for someone. Smells exquisite. Another person is wolfing down a cherry turnover. Looks really good, know what I’m saying?

I thank the dawgs for my turnaround. Good medical interventions, often triggered by emergencies, saved me. As did my wife, who had to endure my emergencies, issues, and recoveries.

Just need to keep it up and keep it off. Yeah, there’s the eternal rub.

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Wenzdaz Wandering Thoughts

Hurt myself today. Yep, totally self-inflicted, and I was totes sober and drug free. Goes like this.

I was walking fast into the bathroom to get into the business of shaving, teeth brushing, and showering. A million things were heading through my mind. I’d just come from the living room, where Papi, by sole floof, was sweetly sleeping on a chair. But as I walked into the primary bath, I heard a loud, sharp meow behind me.

I knew it wasn’t Papi. Not his meow.

Whirling around, I simultaneously turned my head to go the other way and plowed straight into the door jamb. I fortunately hit with my forehead. Being hard-headed can sometimes help, and this is one of those times. Had my head been up, I could have easily broken my nose or given myself a split lip or black eye.

Staggering back after bouncing off the frame, I held my head and said, “Jesus, Michael. What is wrong with you?” Remembering the meow, I looked up.

A small gray and white feline visitor was staring at me through my patio door. I’d never seen the critter before. As I said, “Hello, who are you,” it whipped around and dashed away.

I peered outside for any more sign of it. Seeing none, I checked my damages in the mirror. One thing really still bothered me.

What caused that cat to meow like that?

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Thursday’s Theme Music

Mood: Slowed

Thursday, June 13, 2024, begins with a front’s impact. Chilliness rules the night and fends off the morning sun’s advances, rising through the fifties into the sixties, holding off on the seventies until afternoon. It sounds like I’m talking about decades or periods, but I’m referencing the temperatures in Fahrenheit. Right now, we’ve settled on a comfy 80 F.

While I’m still RICE-ing my right ankle, we plan to see the Green Show on the Oregon Shakespeare Festival bricks tonight. The performing band, Rogue Suspects, is one of our favorite. Through regular attendance of their shows, we’ve become friends with several of them. Can’t wait to enjoy their music tonight. They cover a wide range of rock, blues, pop. Sometimes they’re focus on a specific performer, like Aretha Franklin or The Eagles. Don’t know what we’ll get tonight, but they always give us a solid performance.

The Rogue Suspects 2023

Some good news from the Supremes about the abortion pill, mifepristone, was read this morning. Naturally I thought, man, ain’t that good news. That thought triggered The Neurons into starting the Sam Cooke song, “Ain’t That Good New” from 1964, in the morning mental music stream (Trademark still legal). Had to pause a mo’ to reflect that this recorded performance was sixty years ago.

Be positive and strong, and Vote Blue in 2024. Here’s Sam Cooke. Cheers

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Wednesday’s Theme Music

Mood: smooottthhh

Sprummer still thrives in Ashlandia in southern Oregon. Clouds have departed again, leaving our June 12, 2024, coated with blue. Temperatures sitting a 65 F, they’re getting ready to stand and take us into the low to mid 80s. Windows are open and a winterish zephyr is snaking through our Wednesday, depositing chill pockets. It’s fresh, invigorating, and pleasant.

I’m hanging about the house with a bum ankle. RICE is the recipe – rest, ice, compress, and elevate — so I’m nixing my coffee shop routine. Writing at home as much as possible around interruptions. No beer with friends tonight, either.

I enjoy music and read several posts each day where they incorporate music. ‘Classic rock’ tops my list but I enjoy other sounds beyond that. I’m always surprised by how often people will say that a song isn’t to their liking.

Then I get reflective about what I mean about that. Many songs exist that I enjoyed at one point which know doesn’t work for me. Part of that I suppose is because my tastes have changed, or it could be that at some point I was overexposed to the song and became sick of it. “My Sharona” is one of these songs which now make me change the station. Several other syrupy songs are on my perpetual do-not-play-change-channel-list, like “Sugar Sugar.” Woof. But the whole process led me down a road where I wondered, am I just not discriminating about music?

Today’s song was called up by The Neurons because I was waiting for several phone calls. I’d earlier decided to slow down and take it easy, encouraging The Neurons to plug up the morning mental music stream (Trademark lazing) with everything from Frank Sinatra (“Nice & Easy Does It”) to The Eagles (“Taking It Easy”), Foreigner (“Walking Slow”), and “Slow Ride” (Foghat). But then, checking the time and wondering about the calls had The Neurons bring Blondie and “Call Me” from 1982 storming in. So that’s le music du jour.

Looking for a video to share, I found Deborah Harry performing with an orchestra at something called “Night of the Proms” (Rotterdam, Netherlands, 1997). It was fun and energetic performance. Hope you find it as fascinating as moi.

Meanwhile, looking up “Night of the Proms”, I discovered holy smoke, this is a pretty big, serious dealio in Europe. It even happens here in the U.S. Color me embarassed by my ignorance. After that, I watched a half dozen more “Night of the Proms” videos.

Stay positive and test negative (COVID is rising again) and Vote Bleu in 2024. Coffee has been swallowed, calls have been received. Time to make like a banana and slip away. Here’s the music. Cheers

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Tuesday’s Theme Music

Mood: ouchy

Sprummer continues its Ashlandia rule, with signs of summer leaking in. Already 72 F and intensely sunny, clouds have shifted in, and our high will crest at 87 F. Meanwhile, cooler temps are petering in, according to forecasts, with highs dropping into the upper seventies.

I injured my right ankle again last night. Just stepped up onto the door’s threshold and that thing went snap crack and I was down and in pain. A night of RICE helped and I can hobble today but I need to follow up with ortho and pursue the answer to the question, what the heck?

The cats’ responses to my injury and condition was amusing and interesting. When I sang my song of pain and flopped down, Papi reacted, “Run away!” Tucker came over and rubbed his head against mine and purred.

Later, when my wife had set me up with my RICE package, Papi wanted out. Now, he normally pays little attention to my wife. This time, he came in, walked past me, and appealed to her to let him out.

Meanwhile, Tucker was yelling for food in the night’s depths. This was despite his bowl full of kibble. I shouted back that I was in pain and couldn’t help him so please have some empathy and shut the fuck up. Well, he was immediately quiet, and then came to me on the bed, settled himself against me and purred.

I owe Marjorie Taylor Greene for today’s music in the morning mental music stream (Trademark drifing). In an interview with convicted liar Paul Bannon (cough, cough) about Greene’s stand on defunding NATO, MTG accused Rachel Maddow of being the fringe. She of the wildfire-causing space lasers said, “It’s not fringe at all. It’s also not fringe because most Americans also agree that the United States should not be funding a war in Ukraine.”

“So when we’re going to talk about the question, we’re going to ask the question, who is fringe?” she added. “It’s actually Rachel Maddow is the fringe person in this story. It’s not me. It’s Rachel Maddow.”

Guess that makes me fringe, as I support NATO. See, I remember why NATO was created in WWII’s aftermath. And I support Ukraine in the face of Russia’s wars and attempts to forcibly rebuild the USSR.

Anyway, as I laughed at MTG, The Neurons pulled up Bob Dylan’s song, “It Ain’t Me Babe”. There are several versons but I went with Dylan’s original. I just like its simplicity.

Stay positive, remain strong, and Vote Blue in 2024. Here’s the music. See you on the other side of midnight. Cheers

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Friday’s Wandering Thoughts

A woman pushing a stroller with two infants down the sidewalk stopped to make adjustments. The sweet children looked less than a year old. A large pickup truck idled beside her, waiting for the light to change. He couldn’t help but think of the potential damages those poor children might be enduring.

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Cosmic Construction

I don’t know what woke me. The wind was imitating a full-throttled gas leaf blower outside the window, hammering the house walls with whatever it could find to fling (yeah, that’s how it sounded). One cat was on the bed, and the wife was restless.

I think, though, it was pain. I’d somehow rolled around while I slept, ending up with my mending arm and hand bent underneath my weight. The hand was crying, and was too stiff to straighten at all.

I massaged it and listened to the wind beating the world, wondering what it was doing to our garden, trash can, roof, and everything else. After a bit of that, I adjusted my hand in a safe space elevated on a pillow and settled back into sleeping mode.

The dream slyly crept in. Someone said, “Yes, we have the body before us. We can see the injuries and damages and know how to repair them. We are sending thousands of cosmic construction teams to the area.”

My wife tapped me awake. “It’s really scary outside. The wind is blowing hard and steady.”

“I know. I hear it.”

My Fitbit said, 5:25. I was miffed to be awakened and eager to return to sleep. The dream still had my thoughts entangled. I pictured the cosmic construction teams and their work. I imagined them with nano-sized machines up beside my bones, muscles, and joints. Hard hats on, they’re looking around and chatting, tapping their feet, arms crossed, assessing damages, deciding on a plan. Then the word is given and they go to work.

It was an amusing, yet wonderful and reassuring thought, that somewhere in me, cosmic construction teams are going to work.

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The Arm Repair Dream

I broke my arm on July 7 this year. I’m healing fine but am thwarted by the inconvenience. My dream subconscious response amused me.

I was with other people. My arm was broken and in a white cast. Sitting and chatting with others on a round plaza outside, I was dressed in black pants and shirt, and enjoying myself. I noticed a tall, bald black man working his way through the crowd. Like me, he was dressed in black pants and shirt.

As he closed, our eyes met. I said, “Hi, how’s it going?”

“Pretty good, you?”

“Good, thanks.”

“Good.” He was standing beside me now. “How’s your arm?”

I held it up. “Broken.”

“I know. I’m here to fix it.”

“It’s fixed. It’s healing.”

“How ’bout if I give you a new arm?”

I laughed. 

He grinned. “How ’bout if I give you one of mine?”

“That’s generous of you, but don’t you need it?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll grow another.”

“Well, no offense, but your arm is black. I’d have one black arm and one white one.”

“So? It’ll change.” He pulled his arm off and stuck it on my shoulder.

(I’ve thought a lot about this, and I don’t recall him removing my arm first.)

I was standing by then, holding my new arm out. It was white, just like the other one.

Giving me a side look, he said. “You’re always worrying about the wrong things.”

2

Sundry Sunday

  1. Typing with one hand is a challenge. Fortunately, my right hand is dominant, and it’s okay. Also fortunately, this isn’t permanent. Tedious process, though. Seven hundred words a day is my current limit. Meanwhile, the muses are running amuck with story ideas. I considered (and haven’t discarded) the idea of writing with a pen in a notebook. Anything to keep the tales moving, hey?
  2. Haven’t been drinking coffee. First, wanted to rest and sleep. Second, read to avoid caffeine to promote healing broken bones. So, no coffee, no alcohol, and no chocolate. Had dropped the latter from my diet after I discovered what it does to my prostate. Thinking about drinking coffee tomorrow, as I’m weaning myself off the Percocet. Only had one Perc today, three yesterday. Four are prescribed.
  3. My walking has declined. Been spending most of my time abed. Reached eight thousand steps for the last three days, ten thousand on the last two. I have a long way to go.
  4. Poor spouse. She’s doing such a terrific job, doing everything, and complaining. This is my fifth trauma in our fifty years together (boyfriend and hubby). In order, cut off tip of my toe, mono, broken neck, dislocated wrist, and this. She should’ve vetted me better. In fairness, I had mono when stationed in the Philippines, and she wasn’t with me. One trauma a decade average; is that normal?
  5. The cats on that first night and morning were so sweet. I usually feed them. With daybreak, I asked my wife to do that, but the cats refused to go and eat. She brought the food in to them. Nope; they weren’t eating. Wasn’t till I got up a few hours later that they ate. Number one and two cat continued to stay with me through the day. Their loyalty and concern flatters me.
  6. I feel for the rest of America, enduring a heat wave. Our temps are brushing ninety in Ashland, quite bearable, as night temps fall into the mid-fifties.
4

The Real Story

I came up to the coffee shop counter to order. The barista’s eyes widened as her glance flicked over my face. Poise returned to her. “Do you know that your eye is very red-looking around it, like it’s bleeding?”

“Yes. My wife hit me.”

Her eyes widened.

I smiled. “I said something to her. I guess she didn’t like it, because she reached back and punched me. I reacted, but she caught some of my eye.”

“What’d you said?”

“I don’t remember.”

As the barista continued looking at me in shock, I smiled. “No, I made all that up. What really happened is that I got out of bed and peed. As I came back to bed at five twenty-five, I wondered where my cat, Tucker, was. I didn’t see him on the bed. He usually likes to sleep with us. I got into bed, and shifted my head and blanket to get more comfortable. As I did, I raised my head and looked over it, toward the headboard, and saw Tucker swing a paw at me. I guess he’d been asleep. I hadn’t noticed him, and startled him awake.

“Seeing the paw coming, I jerked back, but I wasn’t fast enough, and I was in the wrong position. One of his claws caught my eyelid and hung. Pitching forward, I freed myself, but not without some pain. I ended up with a scratch, about a sixteenth of an inch deep and three sixteenths long, on my eyelid. Luckily, he didn’t catch my eyeball or the cornea or anything.”

“Did you go to the hospital or get it taken care of?”

“No.” I smiled. “I cleaned it up and applied antiseptics with cotton balls. I believe I’ll live.”

“What’d you do to the cat?”

“Nothing. It was an accident, I think. He just freaked out. Although I have to say, when I fed him this morning, I told him that I was pissed at him and he needed to keep his distance for a while.”

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