August One, 2016
Remember when my friend Susan gave me this little gem of a book? Remember when I had all those lemons falling around me? I found the good in that. None of them fell on my head. Pamela had the vodka. Remember? I do. Like it was yesterday. The sky didn't fall, I didn't lose my mind, but I'm better at consciously seeking the good. And it's all good.
Um, remember my studio clean-up? I never did get around to putting knobs on the little cupboard. I bought my red rug over seven years ago. I've never walked on it. Those banker boxes have seen better days. The good? See those crutches? I haven't needed them since the first time. The studio is closer to being ready too. The handmade cork board? Susan's friend Pete gave me all those corks for free, and he didn't even know me. Pete has passed on but he will never be forgotten by this stranger.
The drawers caved from all the paper I'd hoarded. I've begun using it, and I've given some away. JC fixed the sags, reinforced the bottoms, and they're ready for lighter
burdens content. See all the leaning stuff? It leans because I've gotten rid of some goodness, pulled out the Flow Books, tossed old magazines . . . Nothing new comes in until those shelves are almost bare-naked. Those boxes on top? Archived letters! The good that came from archiving? It means I've gotten and answered a whole lot of mail.
What looks like two left feet are actually reasons to sit more and do less. I was measured for a brace yesterday. The good in that? No surgery necessary! We saw a nice, friendly, man with a body so twisted from scoliosis that the idea of the pain he endures made me ashamed of myself for thinking I had pain. I know, it's all relative but still . . .
Today was injection day. Injection one was last week. I didn't feel a thing but I dislike the doctor so much I won't see him again after the the final injection. He was so awful I could not bear to look at him today. I refused to smile. He's a misogynist, and knew to put on a whole other mask after I asked the nurse to have JC come into the exam room with me. He even ticked him off, and JC likes almost everybody.
Where's the good in this? Well, I was polite but couldn't seem to stop myself from blurting out a truth. I didn't see him pick up the brown bottle before he picked up hat long needle. That bottle contains the "freeze it." It numbs the injection site. So I asked if he was going to freeze me first. He chuckled like the good, kindly, unrealistic Marcus Welby and said, "But of course I'm going to freeze it," and looked at JC to see if even he was amused by what the little woman said. Before I could censor myself, I blurted, "Well, I don't trust you."
I wanted to roll off that table! "Oh, you don't trust me now? he asked. Then he hurt me. He pushed medication in too fast too. When I winced, he said, "I'm coming out now. I'm coming out. It's all over." Meaning the needle. Last week I didn't feel a thing. Driving home, JC asked why I said I didn't trust him before the injection, and I tried to explain why I couldn't help it. It just slipped out. I'm often told that it happens a lot when you're over fifty. Self-censorship isn't worth a dang when you're my age. The good here? I could have said, "I don't like you. You're a misogynist. I don't ever have to see you again after next week, thank God. You brown nose JC because you are a coward, and you need lotion on your heels." But I didn't.
I did ask if people ever complained of a bad taste in their mouth after the injections. When I told JC that I tasted wet chicken feathers he told me it was psychosomatic. Weeks earlier I'd Googled non-surgical options, discovered a new treatment. It just so happened cockscombs were involved. The lovely orthopedic surgeon informed me that my insurance does not pay for stem cell therapy. No, they'd rather cut me open because it's cheaper. Dang. I taste wet chicken feathers. Not that I've ever had them in my mouth, but taste and smell are too like the same thing since they're connected. Ugh! Dr. Worm said yes, some people do complain of and odd taste afterward. But who knows if he told the truth? Psychosomatic my ass! Where's the good in that? I haven't found it yet.
Thank you for listening.