“Looks like last night’s lentil soup didn’t agree with you,” Mike states the obvious as he takes away the bucket I prudently placed by my side for that just-in-case moment.
The moment was inevitable though I did my best rapid, shallow breathing to fend it off. I could feel my inner reptile taking over as my jaw unhinged and I performed my best impression of Linda Blair in The Exorcist, stopping just short of a 360 degree head spin. And then I felt much better.
That was yesterday, and I was quite pleased I nailed the scene in only one take. I was prone for most of the remainder of the day as I will be today, being the good girl I am and following doctor’s orders to keep my foot higher than my heart for the first 72 hours other than some rather obvious times when it would be impractical.
I’ve constructed the perfect uniform for my convalescence. My Melanzana hoodie has both a front pocket and a hood in which I can transport things, and the string backpack carries my water bottle and other stuff.
I have numerous skirts which when worn commando offer another wonderful convenience, though I still need to figure out how to keep them under me when navigating
down our cold wooden stairs butt-style in the morning. Brrr. The surgical stocking is a must, and the practical, sturdy slide-in shoe for my left foot is perfect. I’ll probably need to rubber band a hat over my toes when it gets cold. Like now.
It’s been 48 hours since my surgery (read my post about that here: surgery) and my tummy still isn’t feeling spectacular, but that’s probably because my fiber therapy hasn’t kicked in yet, if you know what I mean. Hey, I’m trying to be honest here. Anesthesia, while it takes you to wonderland during surgery, can really mess you up for days after.
I was able to fix a decent breakfast using a wheeled stool in the kitchen to kneel on. It’s not perfect, but it freed my hands to scoot around the kitchen and prep something easy. The stool then worked as foot rest while I sat on the foot locker under the kitchen window to eat. The foot locker was meant to be a temporary piece of furniture in the kitchen when we moved here 8 years ago, but somehow, the West Point issued trunk has managed to be a favorite permanent fixture in every home we’ve owned since 1983.
Poor Ranger doesn’t know what to do with himself, so he settles within sight until I move. He is leery of the crutches, as I have used them to nudge him out of my way several times already. In Mike’s words, he is a “furry road block.”
Time to lie down again. It’s pouring buckets and my head is fuzzy again. A Search and Rescue mission just came in for an injured hiker, so who knows when I’ll see Mike again. Maybe it’s just a little fracture.