Blue-Footed Musings

On the day of my appointment with the orthopedist, my husband had some errands to run. He took my car, promising he’d bring it back a half hour before my appointment time, which would give me enough time to get there. Ultimately he returned 25 minutes later than promised, and the look I gave him as I walked up to the car will, he said, cause him lasting trauma. And when I reached the car, I screamed at him, lashing out like the wounded animal that I am.

Luckily for him, I was in a hurry and couldn’t waste a lot of time yelling at him. And luckily for both of us, I made surprisingly good time driving across town and was only about 12 minutes late for my appointment, which was not late enough for them to send me packing. Whew!

When I got home, I found that he’d cleaned the kitchen, fixed the broken screen door, and watered the piano. I had already forgiven him when he called me on my cell phone to apologize, but I really appreciated those extra touches. He’d made a mistake, but then he made amends. You can’t ask for more than that.

But damn, he set the bar high when he did those extra things! Now we both gotta be careful not to make any mistakes. ;P

The orthopedist said that my shoulder pain is likely caused by a torn rotator cuff. Her “prescription” was a cortisone shot, which she gave me then and there, and Aleve daily for any continuing pain. She also recommended I try a topical product, such as Icy Hot. She said to come back in four weeks for a reevaluation and, if necessary, she’d send me for an MRI at that point.

After getting the shot, I accidentally fell asleep while watching TV and woke up in excruciating pain. I figured the extra pain was the shot taking its toll, so I iced my shoulder and took some Aleve. My pain returned to its usual level the following day and has not changed in the intervening week+, so I don’t think the cortisone shot worked. I called the doctor’s office and left a message asking that we move the MRI up.

Aleve, by the way, didn’t do anything for me, at least not in the quantity I was willing to take. And as for the Icy Hot, what a joke. I’d purchased the nighttime healing version, and I tried it for three nights, each time using a little more of the product, hoping it would have some effect. But each time it felt barely cool, let alone icy, and it was never hot. It also never provided any kind of pain relief. What it did do was practically burn out my nasal passages with its mentholated smell. Not recommended.

I’ve discovered, though, that if I sleep with a pillow next to me and drape my arm over it at a particular angle, I’m less likely to wake up in screaming agony. The only problem is that the pillow tends to fall off the bed, at which time I revert to my usual sleeping position and pain ensues. So, next step: figure out how to keep the pillow from falling.

Last Wednesday I went for a physical therapy session. The therapist and I agreed that, since I would be in a holding pattern until the MRI, I could continue my exercises on my own at home. That’s good and will save me a lot of money. But it also meant that I had to say good-bye to her and ask her to say good-bye to the other therapists for me. I enjoyed their company and will miss them. I should send them a card. (I probably won’t, but I really should.).

Actor James Van Der Beek died this month at age 48. He was a good-looking, talented, and seemingly decent guy, and his death strikes me as yet another example of how unfair the world is. Why should he be taken and not certain other, awful people without whom this world would be so much better off? It also strikes me as yet another indictment of this country’s healthcare system. He couldn’t afford his cancer treatments, and he ended up not only selling his Dawson’s Creek memorabilia, but also resorting to crowdfunding. That’s not how it should be. Shame on this country’s corrupt politicians, its rapacious corporations and greedy shareholders!

Van Der Beek’s hometown was, incidentally, not far from my own, making us members of the same granfalloon: a meaningless commonality that nonetheless seems important, in this case my feeling being that we came from the same place. And then there’s Eric Dane, who just died from ALS at age 53. He’s in a granfalloon with me, too. Not one of place, but of time.

I know that the lesson I ought to take from their deaths–indeed, from all deaths–is that tomorrow is never guaranteed. I am in a place mentally and emotionally where I don’t care much, if I’m being honest. Chronic pain makes gratitude difficult. But I think that if I were to be diagnosed with a terminal illness that I would probably care then and regret not having spent my time better. A terminal illness gives one a known (roughly) deadline, and deadlines are powerful. What is hard to wrap one’s mind around is the fact that the deadline is always there, whether we know it or not. To live a full life, we should assume our personal deadline is right around the corner and act accordingly.

I want to take that lesson to heart and apply it. A real zest for life is out of reach for me right now, I think. But I may be able to muster some “fake it ’til you make it” energy. I’m trying, anyway.

This is the coldest, snowiest winter we’ve had in a long time. There’s been snow on the ground for weeks (over a month, my Mom says. I haven’t been keeping track, but I’ll take her word for it). Every few days we get a little more snow. A few inches here, a dusting there. And the unusually cold temperatures have kept the snow from melting.

Today we’re preparing for a blizzard that could bring up to two feet more. In other circumstances I might be looking forward to it. I do so love a good snowstorm. But in this case I am uneasy. There are too many problems that can arise from having too much snow in the same place at the same time.

There’s nothing to be done about it, though. The weather will do whatever it wants. The only thing I can control is my level of preparedness and my attitude about the situation. So, I’ll set up my supplies of water, make sure my flashlights are handy, and so forth. And I am resolved to enjoy the storm as much as I can and to worry as little as possible. If there is no other bright side, the kids will at least be happy to have their February vacation extended by a day or two.

• When we applied for our passports, we got them almost immediately (I think it was under three weeks for all of them, even the one that took longest to arrive). It was incredible. Similarly, I renewed my car registration online on a Sunday and received the stickers by mail within the week. Wow! Is the country experiencing a red tape shortage or something?
• BTW, car registration has gotten really expensive. The fee was 10% higher than the last time. That’s a big increase. I paid it. Whatever. But every time I’m hit with a higher bill–and that’s often–I can’t help wondering how long everyone can survive this death-by-a-thousand-cuts economy.
• Livia is a teenager, and she and her friends have very teenager-y problems. She comes to me for advice. I am glad she does, but also deeply unsure of my qualifications. I know what it’s like to be a teenager, so empathy is no issue. Wisdom and maturity, however, continue to elude me.
• “English Language” was recently included on a list of the 13 college majors with the highest unemployment rates. Big surprise.
• The Great Valentine’s Debacle of 2026 involved an accidental snooze and a melted candy bar and a very big mess. Life isn’t hard enough now, it seems, and must be made worse–with chocolate. I get the irony and the humor. I just don’t particularly appreciate them at this time. Does the Universe not realize that I haven’t slept properly in months and am too tired for this ish?

The funeral for my father-in-law was awful in all the ways that funerals always are. It was also my first time being in the receiving line. I’d tried to beg off, but my sisters-in-law wouldn’t let me, so I had no choice but to pretend that I can actually handle social situations. As people came by to offer me their condolences, I very deliberately looked them in the eye and thanked them in my “I really mean it” voice. If they seemed like they wanted to hug, I hugged them. If they seemed like the wanted to shake my hand, I reached for theirs.

Unfortunately, there came a point at which they were flying by so fast that I lost my careful thread of attention and missed some cues. As a result, I may have hugged some shakers and shaken some huggers. But I figure that some awkwardness is to be expected at funerals. You can’t expect grieving people to be at their best, and I was certainly not at my best.

By the end my arm was bothering me so much that it hurt to shake hands, and I could only hug with my left arm. And somehow, after the interminable church service that followed, I found myself at the head of the exit line. That was not where I wanted to be. I felt as if I were leading the people from the church, and it was weird.

The whole day was weird, though. It had a surreal tinge around it and still does. Partly it’s having had to manage so many unusual engagements and situations while being too tired and sad to process them properly. But mostly I think it’s that I still can’t believe my father-in-law is gone. His death was expected yet still shocking. It is something unbearable that we nonetheless have to bear. These things cannot be reconciled, and perhaps a thing that cannot be reconciled can also never quite feel real.