So, you are 20 what now ?

Have a good one !

Yesterday The Father and The Baby toodled me over to the big, shiny, brand new hospital in The Big City. Before it was big , new and shiny, it was an old, decrepit dump. I know this first hand, as The Girl was born there in its earlier avatar in what I swear was a broom closet by- again I swear- a janitor named Harry.

I was there to have an orthopedic surgeon evaluate my foot, to see what step two would be. I was rather nervous about the outcome of this evaluation as one option is always surgery, involving nuts, bolts, screws and plates. It is not that I mind the idea of surgery in and of itself- although it is not up there with winning the lottery- but I was very concerned about my myriad of allergies and whether or not my body would go bah, nasty and reject any nuts, bolts, screws and plates which invaded the sacred temple.

I invited, nay, encouraged The Father and The Baby to join me in the office for the appointment. I thought that Baby would enjoy ( in that oh-how-gross way ) seeing what now was hidden beneath my cast. My teal, yellow and green toes and knee gave me a good idea of what would be revealed.

Much to the amusement of the two assistants, Father and Baby pulled up chairs and I felt just like the main event in that old painting about an autopsy. The cast was removed and my leg looked like something out of a Stephen King novel, green and yellow with startling areas of dark purple. I commented to one assistant that my foot looked like it belonged to a ripe corpse, skin ready to slither off. Baby was suitably horrified.

We saw and were amazed by the CAT scan images, really neat. The fracture or break, I guess it is, was obvious, more so than on the X-ray. The surgeon expressed again and again how serious of an injury this was and I was secretly glad that The Father was there to hear this. He also said that many surgeons would opt for surgery in this case, but he preferred to wait 6 weeks and conduct another evaluation at that time. And that I could not put any weight on my left foot for about three months. Upon hearing that, my first thought was that I would get as fat as a hog, my second that we were talking about some major atrophy coming up in the future.

We shook hands, I thanked him and he left. The assistants then started putting on the new cast. When asked what color I wanted, in response to my blank look, he rattled off the colors available. When he came to purple- Baby’s favorite color- I saw her eyes light up.

I now have a purple cast. The Baby has offered to paint- no, insists upon painting- my toenails purple. I said fine, as long as it isn’t glitter purple.

My Father was always dropping cliches and platitudes ( is there a difference ?) One was things always work out for the best.

Like most cliches and/ or platitudes, there is a kernel of truth in that one, although it could just be a reflection of an acceptance of fate or a terminal case of always look at the bright side of life ( de dum..).

Little did I know, on that dark and stormy night when I fled Casa Kitchen that I would one day know that this was a once in a lifetime opportunity which would bring me to a better place in my mind. I simply thought that I was having a nervous breakdown. What- by the way- do they mean when they say nervous breakdown ?

The Father is terminating his participation in the family company sometime in early May. His stress levels are going off of the chart. I am glad that I am far, far away right now.

The cherubs are fine. I tend to be the scapegoat.

I accomplished my goal for today : I washed my hair.

Serious planning went into this. I was rather the Prussian general, carefully crafting the plan that would lead to victory, recognizing the dangers that lurked in small corners.

What can I say ? My hair is clean.

Last summer, I finally succumbed to the pleading of The Girls : I had my hair done for only the second time in my life. I didn’t mind my Bride of Frankenstein tresses, but they certainly did, so, what the hey.

The Girl ( aka our fashion advisor ) marched me over to the local whatever P.C. word is now used to describe a beauty parlor. Books and books were brought out. I simply said that my natural hair color ( which I vaguely recall ) is light brown, that I did not want any red, nor did I want a flat color ( no one’s hair is just one color) or something very short. The Girl explained that I had very curly, frizzy hair.

And then she and the head beautician went to work, flipping through books, sounding very much like Abigail and Amelia Gabble from the Aristocats. Every once and awhile, their heads would lift up and they would ask me what I thought of some style and I simply said that I trusted The Girl.

I was extremely pleased with the results, as was the whole family. But maintaining it reminds me of something like being a sous chef : it takes forever to wash my hair, and I have all of these bottles and tubes and… well, you get the idea.

But victory is mine.

Of course, though, once one goes to a beauty parlor, one is a slave to all of those bottles and tubes. I have some major outgrowth, but since I won’t be bee-bopping outside anytime soon, I suppose that this really isn’t that urgent.

During that same season, I tossed out most of my clothing and began to replace it. I loved my new stuff : my bee outfit, my Polish sweater. Note the past tense. Fires suck. But I still have my bee shoes, from my favorite line of shoes. I also saved my *winter* shoes from the same line, but I cannot find a photo of them. They are very nice, Clarky looking ankle boots- black, of course- with a seam down the instep. How 70′s.

I am one lucky cookie.

Really. I love these shoes.

Modern Earth Shoes if you ask me.

The Father did not call yesterday but he did stop by early this afternoon, bringing my newspapers. He said that he felt better today than yesterday and I said good. He wished me luck with washing my hair and I said thank you.

Did I mention that I will be starting to work once again in a few months ? I just found out a day or two ago. I will be doing the initial steps of the book keeping for our company ( old but in a new version) , been told any fool can do it. I am pleased, but I will need something more then a small garden table to work upon.

Works for me

I am taking some pills for my foot. They are supposed to be a magic combo of painkiller, something that reduces swelling and deals ( somehow) with possible infection. What they also do- I think- is make me very tired and shaky. Although trying to repair that bone might just be draining a lot of energy right now , I also found a few more places I banged up and a number of muscles that have been pulled, either from the fall or from trying to learn how to move around on one leg.

My mattress is on the floor downstairs and I really prefer it that way, for it is cooler and there is more fresh air. I am developing ways to get to the powder room and the kitchen, which do not involve the crutches. I am going to have upper arms like a pro wrestler deep into steroids and callouses on my knees. I am forbidden to put any weight on my foot until next week, when a surgeon will evaluate my foot after removing this cast. Then, at the least, I will get another cast and a time frame of how long I will need a cast.

Today, as I looked at the box that I use as an end table by the mattress, I figured out how to get some soup from the kitchen to my little garden table ( complete with an Army Navy tablecloth ).

Before I decided to test out my soup-to-table theory, I wrote a mail to The Father. I am now totally dependent on The Father’s help , for I cannot walk and I do not have any plastic cards with which to get door-to-door deliveries ( disappeared from my wallet one night). One of the things I mentioned was that if he was in The Big City tomorrow, could he drop off the weekend papers for me ( he would be about 100 meters from where I am) ? If not, no problem.

I was making my soup, standing on one leg when my phone ( the number of which I do not know and is a pre-paid that I cannot pre-pay) went off.

Stirring my oxtail soup, I answered it. It was a rather angry Father. I got an earful, about how busy he was, cooking, cleaning, trying to work. I heard about how he needed a wife who did something, and a vague reference to me coming one day there or staying one day here a week. Twice before he said this- after long pauses- when I tried to comment, I was told very sternly not to interrupt. I stirred the soup and did ask him to clarify what he meant about me going back and forth, but that topic was dropped.

I just kept quiet after that. He eventually blew off all of his steam, and said that he was just frustrated by everything and that he could not work and that he was aware that he was taking it all out on me. I said that I understood, he said that he would call tonight and I had a good bowl of soup, sitting at a table.

So, I am living in this studio. *Studio* is a fancy name for a room.The bed is above the kitchen, accessed by a ladder. I have been joking about this ladder since the day that I moved here. * I am going to break my neck on this thing* , for I am notorious for being bad on stairs and clumsy in general. Are we getting a little hint here of what happened Tuesday night ?

I had to see a man about a horse in the middle of the night. I really do not remember too well what happened- I was half asleep, one minute I was on the ladder, the next on the floor. I rolled over on my back and tried to figure out what had happened- I was so terrified. I looked around, and when I calmed down a bit, I realized where I was.

I tried to get up, but could not stand on my left foot ( it is ALWAYS my left foot). So, I crawled to The Powder Room, did my business and- using my knees, went up on that ladder.

I checked myself out. I could wiggle my toes- good sign. I had a lump on my forehead, a scrape on my left shin and a bruise popping up on my right knee.

I managed to sleep, was aware of my left foot all night long- it hurt. A lot.

In the morning, I looked at my left foot and it was swollen to distortion.

The Father happened to call me that morning and I told him what had happened. Should you see a doctor, he asked. Yes, I replied.

It all took about 5 hours. I have a cast on, up to my left knee. I seem to have cracked my heel bone, which has a lovely, long name which starts with a *C .

The Father had to piggy back me all over, The Baby was in charge of opening doors.

I had a CAT scan done of my foot, as well as X-rays. I screamed bloody murder when *she* put that cast one.

We had our laughs- Baby kept bumping my foot and I kept screaming. But- being the saint that I am- I have forgiven her.

So the bed is on the floor now, downstairs.

Here is the bright side : at least my glasses did not break.

I am back.

Little House On The Prairie is on the TV and I have an Internet connection. What more can one dream of or wish for ?

All of this time of silence, I have wanted to write something. I can start there.

When I last had a connection, I bumped into The Father on Skype.

This was early in the morning, not my best time of day. It was a pleasant conversation. For a while. Then those black tipped sharks started swimming about. He scolded me for buying some books. Plural.

I knew that I had not ordered any books. Plural. It was a Monday. He said that he would bring them to me the next day. Tuesday. I spent all of Monday evening wondering who had sent me books. Plural. I was pretty sure who it was. Not many people have my home address.

And then I wondered what sort of books- plural- they would be.

And then I realized that I did not care. Any book would do.

I ended up getting the two books on Wednesday. They were indeed from the person I thought had sent them. I read very little modern fiction. but I do have a fondness for time travel. I can imagine her going to a bookstore and asking the clerk – she would pronounce it clark-
for classic time travel books. She sent me The Time Travelers Wife and Slaughter House 5.

How dreadfully kind. Thank you, Catherine.