Photography Thinks
My cousin Liz just moved to an assisted living facility near us. We visited today, exchanged some health information and conversated. We were happy when we left, because we knew she was safer than when she lived by herself.
Just cannot do anything except be there, give her a little love and attention.
Della the cat, seen here getting ready to paw a shoe, keeps her company.
Basel cell carcinoma. Don’t matter if you wear a hat. Well maybe it does if the brim is wide enough. Baseball caps don’t protect enough. But the removal isn’t so bad. Needles. A little scraping and cutting. Plastic surgery to leave no trace. Heals in a week. Be careful out there.
Hey, all of you out there. Missed a lot of life. Still got some more to do, not that anyone would care.
While I cannot say I am healed from a temporary body failure, I can say I could do it again and would. Staying alive. Staying alive. No first aid reports here. Let’s just say it ain’t over.
So, as we age, so does our back, maybe faster than our brains. Pain, pain, pain from every step. Stairs always a challenge. Getting up. Sitting down. X-rays. Rolling over in bed. Putting on pants. Wiping my ass.
CAT Scans. MRIs (a real joy for those of us with claustrophobia). How about an epidural? And there is always a surgical option. Want some pills. No, I drink for pain relief.
Every step of the way, Sharon sat next to me. It was as if she was the patient, asking questions, feeling the pain, sharing my emotions. Even though she has her own problems, nothing would make her happier than knowing I wasn’t as disabled as I am.
Dr. Brett Schlifka informed her, as if she was the patient. And, she did her own independent research. Great teammate.Great doctor. Smart. Caring. Talented. Likes his patients.
I learned what I could learn, rejecting the shots and surgery, accepting the suggestion to do physical therapy. Rejecting the opioids; living with the pain. So far, so good. Call me back, Brett said the other day. “Call when you need me.”
A back is a back. I have spinal stenosis. Have to be careful. Don’t fall. Maintain my posture. Respect my limitations. The only good thing about living in FL is the pool. And my life, not worth living without Sharon.
So, last night Argus visited me during sleep. He never closes his eyes, looking into the future and remembering the past. Both for me seem pretty scary.
I have never gained control over the remnants of my past trauma or regained any sense I had control over the smashup that stole my career and adulthood. Even my understanding wife has had a tough time living with it. So it goes.
The future remains dim, too, now that I face a multitude of physical problems: blood, skin and spine being the most pressing. But I forage on, trying as I might try to live in the present, always valueing what I have, rather than what I lost which will never again be within my reach. No more dreams or long range plans.
Florida is the kind of place where many leave behind their real lives.
We remain positive that the booster will provide me with some protection from Covid 19 or whatever it’s called. Cannot understand why someone wouldn’t be vaccinated or wear a mask. I know how close my immunochallenged system could be to death if I get sick. So, shoot up and wear a mask.
Woman ahead of us in line at Publix was also immunocompromised. She had tears in her eyes. One person showed up for his first dose, pulled in by his mother. He wasn’t wearing a mask. Maskless woman called me a Douche, as she coughed while picking up a prescription. She said she would never put anything in her arm and would not wear a mask, because she wanted to breathe. Guy waiting for a booster sitting next to us said that unvaccinated should die in the parking lot.
Take a walk in the woods. Avoid street noise. Support local preserves. We go to Loxahatchee. Just amazing how few people walk in the swamp, err the Everglades.
So, Sharon stepped wrong going for a backhand. Tendonitis. Me, flipper fingers. Podiatrist wrapped her foot. Hand doctor put me out, cut and sutured. Seems like we are always at one doctor’s office or another. What would we do without health care? What do others do?
Now what? I always wanted to make a contribution. Now, all I can do is survive. Can’t go out. Cannot volunteer. Don’t have all that much money to donate. I just have to not get sick, er sicker. I have been reading and writing, wondering what the meaning of life is. A lifetime learner, what will my knowledge mean to anyone other than me?