Brother likes to say I go crazy in August. He says that I tend to call him with random stories that don’t show me in the sanest light. I say he’s an ass. But he’s not wrong. August is when I found out about ex-boyfriend’s extra curricular activities with people who were not me. It was also when I found out that karma was not going to get evil boss in time for me to keep my womb from imploding from the stress induced fibroids. Bad emotional stuff has happened a lot in August. Which is why, last night when I was telling Brother about how Baby Owl keeps trying to eat Pepper and he told me that would be a good thing, I understood. Not because we want Pepper eaten. That would be totally traumatic. But because, “My sister called me and told me that Baby Owl ate her dog” would make an awesome story. Especially since every story this year has been about what the dogs have done and how it’s affected my/our life, i.e. Broken Ankle and everything that's come with it. And every picture is an “Ick, I can’t look.” shot of the nastiness that is Broken Ankle or some variation of THIS: Family. They know you and your sick mind best.
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Lest you think I am the only one in the family with gravity issues, I present the sole content from an email from her guy yesterday: Chunk from log splitter popped out and caught her just above the eye. We will be more careful in the future!! That was the first email, just those two sentences. WHAT??? So much information missing!!! That first sparse email was followed by a second, which just had this image of my mother: Yeah, that didn't make me feel any better. And I still don't have enough to go on - like did she lose consciousness? Did you go to the hospital? Is she making sense? I mean.... WHAT IS GOING ON???
The text message from Brother later that night simply said: Oh my goodness Because what else can you say? This is her fourth eye incident. FOURTH!!! The first one that comes to mind is when she stumbled on a bit of raised sidewalk and stopped her fall with her face. For weeks she looked like she’d gone a few rounds in a boxing ring and yet no one asked her about it. I mean this woman looked like she might need an intervention in her home life and not one person checked to make sure she was okay. And this wasn’t a “Did she mean to wear her make-up like that?” black eye; this was a kaleidoscope of colors all over her face. Some people suck. Mom’s second 'face hits a solid object' event was when she “tripped and gracefully fell” in the driveway, conked herself on the head on a rock and didn’t tell a soul. I found out a week later when she showed up at our house thinking I wasn’t there, the motley purple-green evidence still very present on her face. She tried to play it like I was over reacting but when your face is still swollen a week later; a doctor’s visit should have taken place. And when your daughter informs you of this, laughing in her face and telling her she worries too much is not a happy answer. The third incident was later that year when Tigger the Dog spotted a squirrel and “pulled” her over. I blame Brother for that one. Who lets a 60 something woman who barely weighs 100lbs walk a new 70lbs rescue dog with anxiety issues? We were in the Philippines trying to help Brother manage the situation from there but Mom refused medical care – despite not knowing the name of Brother’s girlfriend of many years. “But he’s had so many...” was her response. Cold! When I got back I insisted she go to a doctor and was pleasantly surprised when she reported she had. Until I asked her what the Doctor said about her face and she informed me it was the gynecologist she’d seen, for her annual check up, and that “the head wasn’t the part of the body he was interested in.” And now this little “chunk from the log splitter” popping out and whacking her in the eye event that they have informed me via email. Seriously? By email??? She, of course, will not be seeking medical care. Why should she worry that she’s whacked herself in the same area FOUR TIMES and that at Seventy-two, there might be an issue with repeated head wounds? Especially when it's is large chunks of wood flying out of log splitters and hitting her at what I imagine is not a pillow soft thunk and leaving that kind of bruising on day one? And the proper response to my concern is not to laugh and tell me "it's going to look spectacular in a few days." ARG!!! Adulting adults is so flipping frustrating!!! UPDATE: Picture of day two below. Sigh. For as long as I can remember, my mother has driven old cars. Not Husband's definition of ‘old’ which, is two car years. 'Old' like ten or twenty or thirty years with nothing electric or shiny or new 'old.' When we first moved to America, she carted us around in a VW square back named Henrietta. Henrietta was beige and stinky with no seatbelts and a rusted floorboard that mandated a swift hoist of your feet when she hit a puddle. We were mortified to be seen in her with our hand-me-downs and our Kenyan afros but Henrietta got us from point A to point B so Mom told us to get over it.
She followed Henrietta up with a Volvo with questionable environmental repercussions and doors that could slice off a finger. That thing was a tank and not only drove like one but sounded like one too. You could tell when she started the bugger up by the sudden flight of birds from the surrounding trees. Then Mom bought the car she still drives today, Nellie, a beat up blue rusty ’68 VW Bug. Nellie was purchased for me as my sixteenth birthday gift. Due to some lovely migraines with blackouts and a doctor’s note to not drive for a year, I didn’t get to drive Nellie. Mom did and still does. Nellie was a curmudgeon of a car. She was hot in the summer and cold in the winter. Her heater took two hours to work and smelled like exhaust. Her air conditioning was the two wing windows tilted just so and only really worked when you hit at least 30mph. She shook like an earthquake if you went over 50mph but would stall if you went below 10mph. And if you filled her gas tank up in the summer, it would overflow and saturate the carpet inside leaving you high on the fumes. Mom painted Nellie black and red, got her a new engine and seats and clutch and all the various bits and bobs needed to keep an old car running. But no matter what she did, Nellie still pissed and moaned about starting and would pop the clutch out of first whenever she felt like it, usually in rush hour traffic. Broken Ankle is like Nellie; it pisses and moans when starting, shakes if I go too fast and that sucker threatens to pop out of first whenever it feels like it. BUT she currently gets me from point A to point B so I am working on getting over it. I am “walking” people! Of course, "walking" means one step with Left Foot and then one very slow step with crutches and 20%(ish) of Broken Ankle. But that counts as "WALKING!" Yesterday, I went outside BY MYSELF. And I did some weeding, the big ones I could reach without bending over, BY MYSELF. And I came back upstairs BY MYSELF. Of course, I have to chant to myself, “Good foot first, bad foot second…” every time I step and it takes me ages to go anywhere and the swelling has been impressive. But it counts! So what if yesterday I was afraid my toes would pop off; they were that purple and squishy? So what if you can see the foam the indentation of the inside of the boot on/in my skin for hours after Boot comes off? So what if the surgery scars are PISSED OFF at this whole weight bearing endeavor? So what if nothing I do adds to the comfort and ease of anything and I moan and grimace so much I've got new wrinkles at the corners of my eyes? I'm still "WALKING!" Now, Husband is SO over the whole, “Look at my scar/swelling/bruise now...” conversation. (Heck, I even made Father-in-law participate in that via FaceTime so he's prepared when he gets here in a few weeks.) And I am SO over the random shooting waves of pain and the constant ache and the fifteen-minute hassle that is putting on of Boot and taking off of Boot. BUT, I haven’t had anything stronger than acetaminophen, chocolate and a hot bath since the dreaded Oxy withdrawal. I am able to get around a bit easier with Boot than with Stupid Green Cast. And each day is a bit better than the day before so there’s that. I know one day, I’ll be walking again without crutches or walkers or walls holding me up. That one day, I won’t have to think which foot to step up with and that I might get to wear more than just the one left shoe. That I won't be whispering, "You're okay... you're okay..." to myself under my breath with each and every step as I Frankenstein my way from room to room. I know that will happen by that day seems so dang far away... So for now, I’ll just take delight in the fact that I am able to put some weight on Broken Ankle and I haven’t broken back into the Oxy and I can get from point A to point B, just like Nellie. It’s the little things, people! |
AuthorMy name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me Archives
April 2019
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