Sterling and Silver

Why is no one asking how or why over the last few days we are being bombarded with the tape recorded racist rantings of a billionaire asshole?

Let me say right off the  bat, of course he believes the shit he was saying. Of course he's a racist. That's been shown again and again by statements he's made in the past. And this bimbo maybe half black maybe half Latina no one is really sure girlfriend who is being sued by his wife for a couple of million dollars (let's not forget that's the real reason all of this came out) knew those were his feelings and lead him into this conversation. She probably posted the photos of Magic Johnson and Matt Kemp in order to goad him into this fight.

Which she tape recorded. Secretly.

Many Americans have been numbed to the idea that someone has to be operating a machine in order for you to see and hear what is going on. They believe reality shows magically have video and audio to show what the cast of Survivor is doing. I got news for you folks, the couples on Naked and Alone might be the former but certainly not the later. Someone is there with a camera. Another with a boom mike. Another with a clipboard and a stopwatch. Hell there's probably a catering truck just out of view. The point is that it is a deliberate act that records the so called reality of what you see on TV.

So we get to the question of how it is possible that a private conversation in a private home between consenting adults was recorded and made public fodder. Somebody had to have recorded it. Somebody had to have "leaked" it to TMZ. We are debating in the country right how far the NSA or CIA or FBI can invade our privacy and record our conversations. I don't think they should be able to without a judge signing off on a search warrant. And if the government can't do it then private parties, even private parties that are party to the conversation (that's you Richard Nixon), should not be able to do it. I don't care what such a recording would prove or not prove.

This is an age of instant and total openness about everything in our lives. Even if you're not on Facebook, a friend takes a picture you happen to be in and the world knows what your drunk face is. Michael Philips takes a puff off a joint and the whole world knows. One of those English princes pulls his pants down in Vegas and the whole world knows. Your doctor makes an inappropriate comment and the whole world knows. The concept of privacy is under attack and this episode is just another sortie in that battle.

The girlfriend knew the conversation was being recorded, either because she herself was recording it or because she had someone recording it. Was it to show the world what a horrible person her boyfriend was? Only in the sense that she was out for material gain. Forget for a moment that she slept with a guy 50 years her senior in order to get a million dollar condo, a Bentley, and other baubles. Round here we have a name for women who screw men for material gain and it's not Meg Whitman. Let's get to what her half of the conversation contained or more to the point didn't contain. You're so outraged at what he said? Where was her indignant stamp of the foot and hearty "If those are your feelings I'm out of here"? I'll tell you where it was --- in the million dollar condo and the Bentley and the other baubles.

And speaking of whores, it's pretty apparent that Sterling had no problem expressing similar feelings to any of his business associates. I don't know about his real estate business, but I do know that he has owned the Clippers since 1981. That's over 30 years. Twice a year the league holds owners meetings. That's at least 60 times that the other owners in the league sat down with this slime. And you want me to believe that in all those times he never once expressed a similar sentiment? That his racism was reserved for his home only? Just like I don't believe Penn State didn't know about John Sandusky's extracurricular activities, I don't believe that these astute business titans of the NBA didn't know what kind of a jerk Sterling was. But they didn't say anything cause it might have hurt their bottom line.

When we get down to it, the bottom line is what this is all about. The whore, er, I mean girlfriend made the recording as evidence in the lawsuit she was named in by Sterling's wife (and by extension we have to assume Sterling). Maybe evidence isn't the right word. Maybe the word is extortion. Extortion as in "dismiss this suit or I go public with this". At the very least, the phrase would be "poisoning the jury pool". The NBA is wringing it's hands and keening over how they didn't know. They've gone into damage control, which is really spin control, because unlike the sponsors who are abandoning the Clipper ship, they can't go anywhere. They are stuck with him. They can't force him to sell his franchise.

Nor should they.

Freedom of thought means you have a right to think whatever you want. I might not agree with what you think, but I'm not going to stop you from thinking it. In fact I'll defend your right to think it. You want to believe that some people are inferior to others I'll actually agree with you on that. I believe though that their inferiority doesn't have anything to do with the color of their skin. It has to do with the content of their character. I'll tell you who I think is inferior to me. The owner, the girlfriend, people who believe reality TV is real, the business associates who never said a word and anyone who is acting all surprised that a rich white billionaire who lives in the bubble of his own mendacity would think such things.

Citizen Cane

I brought the knee scooter back to the medical rental agency yesterday. It served well it's purpose. I know I couldn't have done half as well as I did without it.

I am now using only a cane and to a large degree it's mostly for my own reassurance. Funny thing about having a cane in your hand though is that people treat you different. When I was using the scooter it was pretty much people staying out of my way, like they didn't know if this odd hybrid of wheelchair and skateboard was safe to be around.

A cane though is a different matter.

It's as if there is a unspoken societal red carpet spread before those who use a cane. A door will always be held open. A place in line will always be respected or for that matter given up in order to accommodate the cane bearer. Sympathy pours forth from the facial expressions of those encountered. Assistance will be offered without so much as a raised eyebrow of need.

A cane is a symbol of injury; sympathy must be given. A cane is a symbol of seniority; your elder must be honored. A cane is a symbol of urbane savoir faire; Fred Astaire incarnate. A cane is a symbol of potential threat; a rapier hidden within.

All this as opposed to a pair of crutches. A pair of crutches are sneered at, albeit at the unspoken "there but for the grace of god go I". Crutches imply the user is a klutz who comically fell down a flight of stairs or attempted the experienced ski run instead of the more appropriate bunny slope. Crutches are clumsy even for the most graceful of us, a cudgel of a medical device. Crutches are weakness, the metaphorical made real. Tennessee Williams even used them as a metaphor for impotence or at least an improperly close for the 1950s relationship between two men.

A cane is a great prop, it adds dimension to the person wielding it. It's George Burns' or Ernie Kovac's cigar silently punctuating the joke.Twirled though the fingers or standing upright next to it's seated owner it signifies an importance, attention must be paid. The best you can do with a pair of crutches is to pretend one of them is a rifle pointed at the enemy. How gauche. A gentleman uses a sword.

At least that's the way I see it. And you should listen to me because I use a cane.

One of Those Days

Ever have one of those days?

Yeah, we all have. I'm having one right now. It started this morning when I decided to go to the gym for a little non-impact work out. I'd ride the stationary bike, get my legs and my blood moving. The apartment complex has a small gym we can use, but it's over on the other side of the complex. Rather than risk not being able to walk back home by overdoing it by walking to the gym, I decided to drive. That was when I realized I'd never driven over there before. Well, to be totally truthful I realized that when I couldn't find the driveway to get into the parking lot and pretty much passed by that entire side of the complex.

Finally making it into the gym I climbed on the bike and started pumping my legs. I've ridden these bikes for years, I know how they work, but since I intended to set it to the easiest levels possible, it didn't occur to me that I was moving my legs but the little diode on the screen wasn't moving. That's when I realized I hadn't actually been doing a program, I was just pumping my legs. Sigh.

Got back home and took a shower which turned out to be fortuitous since shortly after finishing, the water stopped running. In the entire apartment. We had gotten a notice that tomorrow they are going to be working on the pipes, but apparently the complex managers got the dates confused and the water was off today. We only found this out because Betsey stormed into their office and demanded an explanation. Betsey is very good at storming offices and demanding explanations.

The water being off I decided to brave driving my car over to the car wash. It had been sitting out in the parking lot for about ten days so it was covered in all the things associated with a car being left outside near pine trees and flocks of birds. I was braving it since this would be the first time I had driven alone since the surgery. Not that I thought anything would go wrong, but still my brain conjured up images of a sudden pain shooting through my leg making me crash the car into a lagoon or something of that ilk.

Got finished with the car wash and decided to run over to Safeway to pick up some ibuprofen (which has become like popping Certs for car salesmen to me). Being the nice guy that I am I took the parking spot one down from the only available handicapped parking space, got out of the car and suddenly realized the key ring I keep my house keys on wasn't in my pocket. I scoured the car and the area around the parking spot, but all to no avail. I jumped in the car and drove back to the car wash. Searching there proved fruitless, so I went into car wash office to see if any keys had been turned in. No luck. I left my phone number with them in case someone turned them in.

Figuring I would have to go into the leasing office to get them to get the apartment door opened, I drove back home. Along the way I kept imagining the conversation I was about to have; how I was going to have to grit my teeth and ask them for a favor only hours after my wife had reamed them over the water. It was only as I turned into the parking lot that I realized there was one last place the keys could be. Sure enough, I pulled up to the same exact parking space I had pulled out of an hour earlier and there on the pavement were five nice shiny keys on an undistinguished key ring.  Grabbing them up, I said a silent thank you to the forces of the universe that I didn't have to make an ass of myself with the management office.

Still I needed ibuprofen, so back to Safeway I went. This time I wasn't a nice guy and took the only remaining handicapped space. Now if you know me I have a rather tenuous relationship with Safeway. I have even gone so far as to make some suggestions for improvements I feel would help their customer service. This is a 24 hour a day store, they close only on Xmas eve. My question to them would be, what are the workers who are there at three in the morning doing and couldn't they possibly be restocking shelves? I do not understand why management feels 11 AM on a Monday morning is a perfect time to crowd the aisles with boxes, carts, and workers moving merchandise around. Especially when all I want is a freaking bottle of ibuprofen. And no, I didn't feel like going over to CVS and dealing with THEIR tsuris (look it up here).

And it wasn't even noon.

I console myself that I'm having a better day than David Moyes. It's a soccer reference, don't strain yourself trying to figure it out.

Spring Breaking

I went to college in San Francisco, so I never had a need, want, or desire to go "do" spring break. I mean really, when you go to school in the best place in the world why would you go to some uncivilized outpost like Cancun? Even Paula Prentiss wouldn't have been enough to get me to Fort Lauderdale (hey, brunette, beautiful, and brainy -- what more can I say?).

This year however I needed to get away from the daily grind of, well, maybe not a grind but a very dull recovery period. So when Betsey needed to head up to Lake Tahoe to map out a tour she would be doing three weeks hence, I decided to tag along and we decided to make it into an overnight trip. A chance to get away, to get out of the ordinary, and a test of how well my surgically repaired foot would react to unfamiliar terrain and a four hour drive.

So we loaded up the Civic and headed to the Sierras.

I really love the drive up to Tahoe. It's the history of California in reverse. Start out in modern Silicon Valley, travel east through farmland, a quick cross over at Sacramento with it's gleaming towers of corruption and power, then out to Placerville, the last of the Gold Rush towns, still with it's quaint Main Street, even if that street's storefronts are being filled with Subway sandwiches and Starbucks coffee. Then up to the gold fields. The higher you travel the older relics. Stagecoach stops become Pony Express stations which give way to explorer camps till there is only the tundra, the expanse of the Sierras, the majesty of the sky and the realization of how small we all are in comparison to nature.

Neither of us had been to Tahoe in a long time. Best we could figure was that it was about twenty years since we had taken the boys on a family snow trip. Tahoe though was a deep part of Betsey's history. While in college she had worked in one of the casinos as a restaurant hostess. Back then Tahoe rivaled Las Vegas. Vegas was The Strip, tawdry and broken down. Tahoe was hip. It was ski all day and party all night. Middle aged businessmen who drove Buicks and voted Republican went to Vegas. Tahoe was BMWs and environmental concern. The place was jumping, crowded with ski fit gamblers and casinos needed such a large workforce that being slightly underage to legally work in a gambling venue just meant they gave you a job in a bar or a restaurant. Betsey lived with dealers, croupiers, waitresses, pit bosses, slot machine repair men, the entire menu of gaming services personal.

Which was why we were really surprised to see how quiet the South Shore was when at last we swung off Highway 50 and into town. Traffic was minimal, no one was on the streets and when we crossed Stateline into the Nevada side Harvey's, the Hyatt, and the other casino hotels all looked ready to be boarded up. True, this was late in the ski season, but the ski runs were still open. The weather was beautiful, warm with just a touch of cool to remind you how high above sea level you truly were.
Where was everyone?

To make matters sadder, the BMWs were gone. Hell there weren't even Buicks. It was all pick up trucks and ratty looking minivans. The only sign of a spring break contingent was a solitary volleyball game on the lake beach. I know Tahoe isn't a huge spring break local for collegians, but in the past it always drew a good number of them.There seemed to be no life, no excitement in the air. It could just as easily been a cool day in Laughlin.

We drove around getting the timing for the tour and locations to stop at settled. Next we checked into the hotel we had booked, a Holiday Inn Express. We had booked it when we decided to make this an overnight, not even considering the big hotels because we assumed they would be booked up. I'm sure they would have loved to have us, cane, knee scooter, and all. As it was, the Holiday Inn Express folks were happy as all get out to assist us when Betsey asked for a room on the ground floor to accommodate her mobility challenged husband. I believe the phrase used was "pick which one you want".

The experiment with car travel had gone well. It was more comfortable to ride without the shoe on the bad foot, but I had no problem either with the travel or putting the shoe back on when stopped. I was able to walk around with only the cane for support and at times even walked without the cane. I was feeling pretty darn good about things.

For dinner we opted for the indigenous food of the region, the casino buffet. More accurately it was the $17.99 surf and turf special at the Lakeside Inn Casino. Walking into the casino we were greeted with the unmistakable aroma of the gaming room. Cigarette smoke, spilled liquor, and overuse of perfume combined with the air-conditioned accented scent of failure and greed. Oh yeah, now I remembered why I didn't like Nevada casinos. We made our way to the restaurant. Instead of fresh faced college kids looking to make some extra bucks, it was staffed with veteran hash slingers hoping to make this week's rent. But the surf and turf was quite good and a bargain to boot.

The next morning I had been thinking of going to the Red Hut Waffle House, a near legendary diner on the outskirts of South Shore that for years had been the hangout of the gaming industry workers. Finding out the Holiday Inn Express served a complimentary breakfast made it easier to chose to not be disappointed to find the Red Hut a ghost of it's former self. Coffee, yogurt, and losing out on the last banana and we were back in the car, headed home.

All in all a pretty successful trip. Betsey accomplished routing out all the possibilities for her tour and I found I could make a four hour car ride without needing hospitalization. A nice way to spend spring break.

Shoes for Industry...

I'm wearing a pair of shoes. I'm beyond ecstatic.

For the first time in over two months I have two shoes on. Real shoes; not slippers, not Crocs. And I've got socks on too! My foot is still bandaged, but the ace bandage that covered the gauze bandage is gone and that allows me to put a sock and a shoe on.

And because I have two shoes on I'm able to walk a little bit. Still not without a limp, but at least I'm on two feet and did I mention that both of them are in shoes. It's the little things that get me excited these days.

So with two shoes on and almost walking without pain, Betsey took me off to buy new clothes. Usually I have to be dragged kicking and screaming to buy new clothes, but today I had no problem with the concept. Macy's was having a big one day sale which is catnip to my wife. She drove us over to there and even though all the handicapped parking spaces were taken we lucked out and found a parking spot that was actually even closer to the front door than the handicapped spots. From there I was able to walk into the store and make my way down to the men's department. That's pretty much as far as I got. I found myself a nice padded seat over by the fitting rooms and Betsey brought me clothes to approve or laugh at. Very few got laughed at as she has a marvelous fashion sense and I have no sense at all. Three pairs of slacks, three button down shirts, a pull over, a sweater, and two t-shirts later Mr. Macy got 117 of our hard earned dollars and we got out of there before they decided we didn't pay enough.

And truth be told, my dog was barking pretty loud.

While sitting in the bowels of the world's largest department store (or at least it's San Mateo outlet) I mused on how just one week ago life was looking very different. I thought I was never going to heal. I was going to be living in pain and unable to walk for the rest of my life, I was certain of it. Now here I was having walked a fair distance from the car to where I sat and while in a bit of pain it was the pain of muscles long out of use, a pain I knew to be transitory. It was a Miracle Near 34th Ave in San Mateo.

In other words, life is beginning to look up. When life looks up, it's time to laugh. Who better to laugh with than the Firesign Theater (if you didn't understand the post title, just wait till the end of the clip).

Porgy Tirebiter, he's a spy and a girl delighter!

Ninety-six Dead in Hillsborough

For most of you, today is merely April 15, the day your taxes are due. Not to minimize the impact of that, but this April 15 marks the 25th anniversary of the Hillsborough Disaster, an event few Americans have any idea about but which should be remembered in retrospect as a reason to always question what those in power tell you.

The short version is that on April 15, 1989, 96 soccer fans were killed at Hillsborough Stadium while attempting to get into the FA Cup semi-final match between Liverpool and Nottingham Forrest. Too many tickets had been sold, standard procedure at a time when many spectators stood in a series of three "terraces" to watch instead of sitting in seats. Because of the numbers in the crowd, police decided to open an exit tunnel that normally was kept closed instead of evenly funneling people into one of the other terraces. The ensuing rush to get in caused 96 people to die and 744 other people to be hurt.

If this sounds familiar, it is almost exactly the same series of events that led to eleven people being crushed to death at a Who concert in Cincinnati in 1979. The big difference between the two events though was in the aftermath. The Cincinnati venue operators, police, and local officials all owned up to their responsibility in that disaster. The English authorities went in a totally opposite direction. Those authorities ranged from the police at the stadium all the way up to Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher and media mogul Rupert Murdoch.

Six minutes into the match fans began falling out of the terraces onto the field attempting to flee the panic and crush. The television broadcast of the game shows police trying to prevent people from getting onto the field, actively chasing survivors off, and stopping fans who were trying to help others from doing so. Medical authorities were not called till late, so fans pulled advertising boards (called hoardings) off walls and used them as make shift stretchers. Of the army of ambulances waiting outside the stadium only one was allowed to get through to the field. Dozens who might have been saved with immediate professional care died as a result.

As bad as all of this sounds, it is only the beginning.

Once the crowd was cleared and the dead and wounded carried off, the police immediately claimed that it was all caused by the fans.They claimed drunk and ticketless hooligans rushed the gates crushing those in the front. They claimed no spectator was willing to help the police with the wounded and in fact many were looting the bodies of the dead. This despite the fact that the whole event was broadcast on live television and showed nothing of the sort. Again and again they claimed all the spectators were drunk. In fact, in the aftermath the two questions posed most insistently by investigators of the survivors and the families of the dead was if they had been drinking and if they had tickets. No official was interested in hearing anything else and certainly not anything that would implicate the police as being culpable. It would come out years later that many of the statements given by witnesses were altered by the police to support their position.

In the days following the establishment rallied around the system. Prime Minister Thatcher toured the stadium and pronounced the official view that hooligans were the cause of the disaster. Rupert Murdoch's Sun tabloid screamed a headline proclaiming "THE TRUTH" and giving voice to the lies the police spread about looting the dead, fans urinating on police as they attempted to help, and beating up police as they attempted to help. Though no official investigation had even commenced, the establishment had it's story and was going to stick to it. When challenged, the editor of The Sun stood by the story. Years later it came out that his boss, Rupert Murdoch, told him to go with the story and to stand by it even though no one else at the paper thought the story was even close to "the truth". Remember that this predates the News of the World phone hacking scandal by decades. In fact it was one of the things James Murdoch apologized for at the phone hacking parliamentary hearings.

So why was the British establishment so determined to blame everything on the fans? Keep in mind the times. This was Margaret Thatcher's England, a land where if you had money you were the good guys and if you didn't you were the bad guys. Every "riot" was the fault of the malingerers, those on the dole who sucked at the teat of the government and refused honest work. Every police man was the noble incarnation of what was good and right about the land. Soccer hooliganism was the byproduct of the cradle to grave welfare state. Any evidence of such hooliganism was proof once again that the welfare state needed to be torn down.

In such an atmosphere it was impossible for the real truth to come forward. All the institutions of the establishment were aligned and in place to prevent the actual story of what happened that day from coming out. What the establishment didn't factor into this case though was those killed weren't malingerers living off the dole. They were middle class football fans who believed in the system. Many of the dead were teens or young adults from good hard working families. Those families believed the system would bring justice. When instead it brought lies and evasion they had the passion and the means to pursue real justice. It took twenty years, the fall of Thatcher and the swinging of the national mood against the abuse of power by those in power for them to set the record straight.

In September of 2012 a report was issued by the Hillsborough Independent Panel exonerating the fans from any wrong doing and placing the blame on the police. 164 statements were found to have altered by the police. It found that the police had engaged in a systematic program of impugning the reputation of the victims. It was determined that 41 of the 96 dead would have lived with even elementary first aid. Most tellingly it found that Conservative Party MPs disseminated false information and media outlets accepted that information without challenge.

The politicians lied, the media didn't challenge the lies, the public was told to ignore the evidence of their own eyes from the television coverage, people died because the forces of the establishment failed them. All that's needed is for the government to claim the fans had weapons of mass destruction and it's the war in Iraq. Remember the 96 because sadly they were only the test run for an even larger deceptions.

Hellooooo Nurse!

A doctor makes a house call these days and it's gist for a human interest feature on local TV. "Ah, remember the good old days" wistfully cries the anchor who is far too young to remember when doctors made house calls on a regular basis. Hell, I barely remember it and I'm in the fifth age demographic down on most surveys.

Nurses on the other hand are made of sturdier stuff. The signal is sent. They jump in the car with their bag filled to overflowing with bandages, tapes, saline solutions, etc. and off they go to save the day once again. Batnurse!

So far the nurses visiting have numbered four. Robert was first, followed by Rod, Val, and today Emma. Emma assured me that I've now gone through all the male nurses in the company. While each is trained and efficient, they all have their own ways of attempting to make me feel comfortable and establish a relationship. Rod for instance took an interest in the soccer match I had on the TV, though it was quite obvious he didn't know anything about soccer. Robert gave a blow by blow commentary on what he was doing. Val, well Val just got in and out (he was only coming the once, subbing for Rod). Emma gave me a behind the scenes of the company and the personalities involved.

What they all have in common is threefold. First, they all feel it necessary to ring the doorbell and before I can even get up to let them in, they begin to bang on the door. At first I was annoyed, but I realized I'm probably the youngest person they deal with. Second they take one look out the back window and talk about how peaceful our community is. Well yes, lagoons, fountains, ducks swimming by, yeah I guess it's pretty tranquil. Third, they all demand to know if I'm diabetic. Um, isn't that in your notes that I'm not? I sure hope it is and I'll thank you to put that insulin away Mr.Von Bulow.

All of this leads up to the moment when my leg is propped up and the bandage comes off and I see a giant gaping slash down the side of my foot (it's a good thing I can't see the one on my heel). "Oh it's so good, it's red" the nurse will exclaim, "that means the tissue is regenerating and growing again." I bet you say that to all the boys because it sure doesn't look good to me. To me it looks like the Joker had just pronounced "Let's put a smile on that face!". But no, they continue in their insistence that everything is fine. Hey, if it was fine, you wouldn't be here. The dressing gets changed in a timely and professional manner. My blood pressure, pulse and temperature are all recorded for posterity. I'm signed sealed and delivered. Someone will be by tomorrow between noon and one.

If I sound like a grouch then I apologize. All of this probably comes from my natural dislike of having people I don't really know in my home. Let's face it, most people feel awkward when a repair person comes tromping through their house. It's triple awkward when that repair person is there to fix your body. If a man's home is his castle and your body is a temple then when that nurse is here my castle is under siege and my body is being desecrated.

I'm sure this is just my own paranoia, but each simple question asked makes me think there is an ulterior motive for it. "Do you have a plastic bag?" asked only so they have something to throw used gauze into has me wondering if they are judging as to my carbon footprint on the earth. "Where is the bathroom?" makes me wonder if I cleaned the toilet and if I didn't, well then what the hell is (s)he going to think? They glance around the house and I worry they are secretly the scouting crew for the next episode of HOARDERS.

It's okay, I'll get a grip. The two month anniversary is approaching and my mind is wandering since my body can't. When my mind wanders I find it helpful to laugh. So let this be your Friday fun, from the only cartoon series I let Brian and Dan watch when young. Mostly because I thought it was so damn funny:

It was 30 years ago today...

And they said it wouldn't last.

We've had some amazing adventures in our 30 years together (32 1/2 if you count the living in sin). We've seen the Aurora Borealis explode into the Swedish night and the sun as it rises and peeks through the skies of a Norwegian fjord. We've zip lined through the Costa Rican jungle and rode a broken down school bus over dirt "roads" in Denali. We survived an earthquake at the World Series and the longest day of our lives waiting for Brian to come out of brain surgery. We've lounged on beaches from Monte Carlo to Montego Bay, tromped through tulips in Holland and Aztec ruins in Cozumel, had gourmet meals in Paris and frog legs in Myrtle Beach, drunk bourbon in Kentucky and wine in Napa, made pilgrimage to the Reeperbonn in Hamburg and Madame Marie's in Asbury Park.

And so many others.

This surgery and the recovery I'm currently in is for the sole purpose of being able to keep on having adventures like these. Having them with the love of my life, Betsey.

Here's to 40 more.

Home Sweet Home Care

Friday night's visit to the emergency room turned into a weekend of new experiences.

As you might recall both we and the ER doc had left messages with Dr. Knee's service, but all weekend she didn't return the calls. Not a big deal as there was nothing she could have done that was different from what had already been done. The major accomplishments of the ER visit were to get proper antibiotics going again and to set up a home health care nurse to come out and change the dressings. I groused that doctors won't make house calls, but now nurses will and how the world has turned upside down again. Betsey on the other hand was relieved that she would not have to be the one to change the dressings. I also think she expected one of the ladies from CALL THE MIDWIFE to show up.

I haven't watched that show, but I'm pretty sure none of the characters is a 5'-0" gay Philippino man. I might be wrong, but I'm pretty sure. At any rate Robert (this time I made sure to get the name) came by on Saturday evening and proceeded to go about the business of home health care. That business consisted largely in the signing of paperwork and the outlining of the information stored in the ten pound booklet he plopped onto my lap. The booklet outlines the do's and don'ts of home health care. Apparently it is enough of an issue that Sutter Health felt it necessary to put into writing the admonition that the nurse will NOT go out to the liquor store and pick up some hootch for you. Nor will they wax your floors. They WILL do light housekeeping including small window washing, but it is up to the nurse to decide just how large a small window is. They WILL cook a meal for you, but not for anyone else in the house which had me wondering why you would need the nurse to cook a meal when there was someone else in the house capable of opening a can of Spaghetti-O's.

Having agreed to all the terms and conditions as set forth in said booklet, Robert began the process of changing out the dressing. From within his bag of tricks came forth bandages, saline solution, tape, and all the other necessities for the task at hand. I asked him where he wanted me to sit; when he indicated that it wouldn't matter I took a seat in the big black chair that we bought specifically for my recovery time. It quickly became apparent that while he didn't care where I sat, where I sat didn't have enough light for him to work. Nor did the second chair I sat in. At that point I put my (good) foot down and told him to just tell me where to sit.

While he worked he chatted away, asking questions about how I came to be in this situation. As I told him he began to make suggestions of services I might want to avail myself of; services that his company of course would be happy to administer. I have done sales all my life and I know when the pitch for the "add-ons" is being given. I know that because I'm the king of the add-ons. Come in for a television and you will walk out with the tv, a sound system, a Blu-Ray player, the five year extended warranty, and a bottle of screen cleaner. So I accepted as part of his job the attempt, but he was awfully ham-handed about it and it's a point of professional pride that I smile pleasantly and dismiss ham-handed attempts. I mean I do have standards.

Robert finished up, we made an appointment for Sunday, and off he went. I think he was a little disappointed in only changing the dressing; maybe he thought he was going to make dinner or tell me that he wouldn't wax the floor. At any rate the dressing was dry and my foot actually felt better. I decided to stand up and test the waters, so to speak. Standing was no problem. I did a little stretching of my calf muscle, no problem. I took a step.

Big problem.

Pain shot up through my body like electricity suddenly returning after a blackout. It was so bad that I couldn't bring my right leg forward to balance myself and almost took a header into the carpet. After a deep breath and several self-admonitions to remember patience, I grabbed hold of the scooter and worked my way back to the black chair. There I sat for the rest of the evening catching up on episodes of HOUSE OF LIES and slowly beginning to wonder just how long this process was going to take.

Sunday came, Robert returned and did a new dressing, this time trying to teach Betsey how to change it. Halfway through she got up, walked away, and with a shudder pronounced that we'd continue having a nurse, whether Robert or another, keep coming in to do this. I don't blame her. I can't recall there being anything in our wedding vows about stuffing gauze into wounds.

This morning at the crack of 6 AM, Dr. Knee called. She apologized profusely saying that the answering service had not forwarded our messages to her. Given the problems I had leaving the messages in the first place I didn't doubt that. Even though she didn't have office hours today she wanted me to come in for an evaluation. Once in her office she examined the wounds and pronounced that though it was not the way she would have dressed them, it was still a very good job. She ordered new x-rays to make sure I hadn't broken anything, as well as some blood work to make sure the antibiotics were working. As it turned out I hadn't broken anything and we'll see about the blood work tomorrow.

So that's where it stands on day 53 of my recovery. It is totally accurate to say that this weekend was a case of one step up, two steps back so we'll let The Boss play us out tonight:

A Bump In The Night

This is going to be short and sweet today.

I ended up in the Emergency Room last night because my foot was so swollen I couldn't put pressure on it. I had thought it was simply because I had over done it my first day without the cast. When Betsey came home though she saw that the ace bandage was soaked through. Unwinding it, she discovered both incisions were horribly red and the bandages were pretty much disintegrating. So off to the ER we went.

Luckily I was able to be seen right away. The ER doc evaluated it as cellulitis and prescribed some heavy duty antibiotics. They redressed the foot and send us on our way.

Today I'm feeling okay, but not great. The foot is still swollen but apparently that is to be expected until the first 48 hours has passed. I'm back to using the scooter temporarily (I guess it's good we still have ten days left on the rental), but I'm really trying to stay as sedentary as possible.

Just a bump folks on the road to recovery.

The End Of The Beginning

And so we come to the end of the beginning and head into the beginning of the end.

While the die may be cast, the cast is at long last gone. My foot now is exposed to the light of day, the sweet goodness of the morning air and a couple of draining bandages. Oh yes, those two gashes on the side and heel of my foot are still large and in charge and demanding attention be paid. At least now when either of them bark at me I can see (sort of ) what is causing the problem. As well, I get the unique opportunity to have a nurse visit me at home to change the bandages. Who knew anyone still made house calls? 

Perhaps unrealistically I went to this appointment thinking the cast would came off, I'd just hop off the table and simply walk away. As I was quick to find out I was dreaming the impossible dream. The cast came off with no problem, the drain bandages in the gashes were still there and working, a whole lot of dead scaly skin was everywhere, the tan line on my leg was very noticeable (ah sunshine you did your job), but still I thought life was good. Dr. Knee replaced the drains, shaved off some of the dead skin, and wrapped my foot in an ace bandage. Then she said "Okay, stand up".

I want you to imagine the worst sprained ankle you ever had. The absolute worst, the one you thought for sure must have been broken with the bone sticking out. Remember how you felt when you stood on it and the pain seared through your entire body, like an electrical jolt to your central nervous system?

Now multiply that by a factor of one hundred. That's what I felt.

My knees almost buckled. I reached back for the stability of the exam table. Surely, I thought, the bones in my foot haven't knitted together properly. The muscles in my lower leg have atrophied and will never return. I am going to be walking with some kind of aid the rest of my life. As all of this is skidding through my brain I had to listen to this from both Dr. Knee and my wife:

"I can't believe how good that looks. Look at how you're standing, it's night and day from before"

Were they saying that just to make me feel better? Were they saying this sarcastically? The expressions on their faces indicated they were genuine in their platitudes. I just couldn't believe it. Looking down at my feet though I saw both sitting properly on the floor. Maybe there was something to their exhortations.

Dr. Knee asked me to walk. With the pain I was feeling I didn't think I could, but actually walking from one end of the small exam room to the other made my foot feel better. The muscles I was certain had atrophied jumped back to life as I limped along. Being conscience to keep my left foot flat on the floor as I walked, I thought I was doing pretty good. Dr. Knee informed me though that I was "leading with my hip" and not "allowing your foot to naturally fall from back to front".

In other words I was doing all the things I had done in order to walk before the surgery. I was going to have to learn to walk all over again. She gave me a referral slip to the guys we kiddingly called Hans and Franz back at my first post-op visit. They will twist and turn my foot and yell and tsk at me as I attempt to relearn the art of mobility. It's been 55 years since I've had to learn how to walk. Something tells me this isn't going to be as easy as the first time.

GROSS PICTURE WARNING: Just to give you an idea of what my foot looks like at this moment:

Don't Take My Sunshine Away

Betsey has been having a particularly busy week. She's dealing with an enormous group visiting San Francisco. They have been working her till late at night and getting her up early in the morning. Because of that we decided it would be best for her to take a hotel room up in The City from Monday night till Thursday. Of course that means I'd be home alone so to speak for that period of time.

Most of this recuperation has found me alone in the house as Betsey has been working or running around getting me everything I need from the outside world. Alone I can deal with. Inside can get on your nerves real quick.  My one solace is that I have been able to take advantage of our patio area, but because of the position of the patio in relation to the sun, it is only from 10:15 till 12:10 the sun shines fully on the area. I have attempted to spend as much of that time as possible on the deck, soaking up sunshine and the vital (so I'm told) vitamin D it gives off. As well there have been the occasional moments when I've ventured out of the house, but of course always with Betsey. With her up gone for four days that's meant me being unable to leave the house, so patio time is even more important. That's where the weather comes into play.

Monday and Tuesday were filled with overcast skies, cool weather, and occasional downpours of rain. Besides risking a soaking, venturing out on the patio wouldn't have given me my oh so precious two hours or so in the sun. So I sat in the house all that cold cold wet day.

Mr. Cat wouldn't even put on a hat to amuse me.

There's only so much television one can watch. There is only so much reading or writing or crossword puzzle solving one can do. By the time Tuesday afternoon came around my eyes were rolling up in my head and my feet, even the surgically repaired one, were itching to set out for open spaces. I was tired of breathing recycled indoor air, unable to even open a window lest rain, cold air, or both come pouring through it. Making everything worse was my upgrade from scooter dependent to cane enabled. Here I was, able to finally walk after six weeks of wheeling around and I couldn't even get out to the patio. I was getting a lot of practice with that cane pacing back and forth like a caged tiger. Well, maybe a caged penguin.

I wanted, no, needed to be outside, if only for a few moments.

Oh this morning though. I hobbled out to the kitchen to see sun creeping through the window. I looked out onto the patio to see dry cement with a hint of steam rising off the fence. I waited with baited breath for 10 o'clock to come around. Sure enough the sun shone on my chair. When I ventured outside it was warm and cozy. The sun shone on my face. I sat down and closed my eyes and allowed the sunshine to baste me with it's golden rays.

It's the little things.