My back hurts. And my stomach is kicked up — my stomach is my achilles heel (though I hurt my big toe months ago by standing on tip toe to reach something I just couldn’t quite reach — horrible pain — followed by too tight wading boots. Did I buy new ones? I think I did, but I can’t quite remember — where are they? –the felt was coming off my old ones and they have decided the felt is bad for the fish so I couldn’t get new ones like that. Which means we will slip and slide over rocks now, break our necks, but the fish will be good.
I guess that’s ok.
Wow, did you follow that stream of consciousness?
Anyway, my big toe is not just painful, it’s numb all the time now. Yes, it can hurt AND be numb. Strange but true. More numb than pain.
My husband asks me when I’ll see doctors for my stomach. What? Never again. I’m not going through that crap anymore. They offer nothing. I just get gastritis off and on which seems to be associated with my auto-immune issues, allergies, Hashimtos, I guess. Allergy drainage. And it always hurts into my back. I suppose if I got something horrible, stomach related, I’d never know, but I’m done with doctors.
I hate medical people. Most of them. In my advanced years, I’ve only had about three good doctors, maybe four. Of course, they are very good mostly because they are not pompous and condescending. And they listen at least some. Nurses are worse, mostly. They do what they please, most of the time disregarding what doctors have told them to do because they know better. And they rarely listen. But just when you think you can hardly stand them another minute, you get these angels here and there–like our shower lady. One person like that — she has the most amazing manner with my dad and not having to shower him is heaven. Imagine going around giving old sick people showers, let alone doing it so well. Just imagine that. For likely crummy pay. She notices everything, like the brightness of his urine indicating a coming bladder infection. And she’s calm. Patient.
I thank God for Stephanie. And actually there was another shower lady I loved, too, that filled in when Stephanie had Covid.
Oh, I pulled up an old movie, musical, with Barbara Streisand — On a Clear Day. Yves Montagne, Jack Nickolson, Bob Newhart. Funny movie. There is an actor in there she falls in love with. He’s physically beautiful and the trivia about him said he made a few movies–Ursula Andress, Rachel Welch, parts he got because he was so handsome, but he left acting for photography early on and never put any value in the acting part of his life. He died this past January of Covid, at 87.
I was thinking of watching movies with my dad like last Sunday but I’m feeling anti-social. I never get any time alone and I resent that. I don’t want to hear humanity constantly. I like people, just not all the time. And I can’t have any time to myself without guilt. Which dogs me. Writers need to be fucking ALONE a lot. And that is an impossibility now.
Did I say my back hurts?
It’s gray and gloomy out there today, but warm. 48 degrees it says on the wind-ometer deal (not called that). Never start a sentence with numerals like I just did — one of those “rules.” Screw them. Anyway, the wind-ometer (not called that) is a thing that sits on the roof and measures wind, inaccurately we think. The wind off the bay can be brutal and the highest is seems to register is about 29 mph — that can’t be right. So is it 48? Who knows. We are headed in to March in Michigan — that horrible month that even my birthday doesn’t brighten. It’s the month one should be somewhere warm and sunny, maybe until mid-April when you can start seeds indoors and prepare the gardens. Here, it’s damp and gray and muddy and slushy and snowy just when you can’t stand it anymore (and I like snow).
March: We should close on the refinance of this house within a couple weeks unless disaster strikes. All things in place, we think. I should get a new refrigerator March 12th (my dog’s birthday, mine the 13th) and lucky for me, a visit from my family, my little grandson, then one from some good friends who quarantine before coming. Those things should help nullify the ides of March. Sinister assassins. March not lucky for Caesar.
So will I leave this room and pretend to be sociable and pain free? Or stay back here and feel guilty? Or perhaps I’ll soak in the tub and feel guilty for everything including not exercising.
But my toe hurts and my back hurts, did I say that?