A Little Slapstick

I don’t sleep late on the weekends anymore, at least not often.  The older I get the harder I find it to force myself to try to live in violation of my body’s natural rhythms.  Those are not of the early bird persuasion, so giving in just makes it that much harder to come back.

On Saturday I got up about the usual time, came downstairs and started on the coffee and breakfast routine.  Because I am a slow starter I’d already been at it for awhile when my husband appeared.

As he headed for the coffee pot, I decided it was about time for my third cup.  Since I am a creature of habit, I knew where I was in the routine.  At least I thought I did.

I picked up my cup and, just for fun, decided to have a good stretch.

And dumped half a cup of lukewarm coffee on my own head.

We laughed even longer than it took to clean up the mess.

Child of the Cold War

I was born in 1956 and grew up near the port city of Philadelphia.

I had the good fortune to attend public schools where there was none of that nonsense about hiding under desks. We were taught what a first strike zone was, that we were in one, and what that meant. We were also taught to how to exercise a little dignity in preparation for the day when it would be needed.

What we weren’t taught was how to deal with a world in which the Cold War was over.

When it did end, I remember having a hard time visualizing a world in which I might live a full span of years. I also remember deciding that it was probably pointless to try to do so as something else was likely to come along which would foreshorten the time.

There were times when I would begin to wonder about that foreshortening, but then someone would come along and blow up part of New York and I’d slide back into my comfort zone.

Now, at 51, I’m no so sure.

I’ve reached an age I’m already not supposed to have lived to be, according to that early life script. I’m finding it quite uncomfortable.

90th

Yesterday was my father’s 90th birthday. It’s an interesting landmark for a man who, when he was born, wasn’t supposed to live until morning. Or a man who, when he had a major heart attack at 45, wasn’t supposed to last much into his 60s. Or a man who, when he was in his early 70s and was treated for prostate cancer, was told that there was no possibility that he’d live long enough for it to kill him if it did come back. It hasn’t, but if it does, I’m not taking any bets.

He’s slowed down since Christmas. He’s now at the point where his cognitive processors can’t handle sentences of more than about five words, incoming or outgoing. He’s also a little deaf, at least in the left ear, so conversation is a bit of a challenge. Most of the time, when he comes in from left field, I can figure out where he’s been, but every once in awhile I’m mystified. Then again, that was always the case, as far back as I can remember.

I can’t help but wonder how much better his life might have been if there had been diagnosis and treatment for depression and ADD when he was younger. At least now his depressesion is being treated. I think it’s too late for the other and I doubt, with his heart, if his doctor would be willing to try stimulants in any event.

One thing that hasn’t changed is that when he makes up his mind, it’s not good to confuse him with facts. Back at Christmas, he knew that he was going to be 90 this year. However, since then, something changed. Yesterday he was determined that he was 80 and it was not well received when I said otherwise. You’d think that after all these years, I would have learned.

Here we go again

I’m back on the shoulder merry-go-round, but this time, it’s the one up the arm from my dominant hand.

Unlike last time, there is no acute injury involved. It’s just wear and tear on a rather poorly designed shoulder socket.

Funny conversation with my orthopaedist, who I hadn’t seen in eight years because he got it absolutely right on the first shoulder. He’d taken the time to re-read my file and remember exactly what went on last time. He knew the results he’d attained, so I got a very worried look from him when he asked, “So what has happened? What’s gone wrong?” Me: “I can tell you’ve read my file. But I can also tell you didn’t read my intake form. It’s the other shoulder.” We both got a laugh out of that one.

One of the things I love about this doctor is that he accepts that I know my own body and believes me when I tell him what I know about my condition based on my prior experience. Of course I’d already had the appropriate x-rays and, once again, they didn’t show anything because a shredding socket doesn’t show up on x-rays. But I know what this feels like. In fact, I know it all too well.

You know how a hangnail hurts all out of proportion to the actual injury? Well, imagine having some hangnails on the front of your shoulder socket. (Last time, it was all the way around.) In short, it hurts like hell.

I’d like to put off surgery for awhile. Fortunately, my doctor agrees with both my diagnosis and treatment plan, so I’m back to physical therapy. I have plenty of flexibility. That’s part of the problem. But I need to build some strength so muscles can help out in holding it all together.

What I learned this morning is that one of the exercises we’re trying isn’t going to work. In fact, it’s going to make things worse instead of better. It’s nice that this time I can be confident in my determination and act accordingly. It’s still going to hurt for a few days, though.

Answering Buffett’s Question

In my twenties, I was as likely to ask it as answer it, but it was usually something along the lines of “Yeah, why don’t we?”

In my thirties, it was “because it’s more fun sober.”

In my forties, it was “who has time for either one?”

Now I’m fifty.  “I think those have become mutually exclusive activities and I’d fall asleep before I got part way through the first one.”

At least I haven’t yet reached the point of “What’s the question again?”