Bag of Broken Bones

As the song goes, what a difference a day makes.  I wish I could have finished my tale yesterday when I was full of piss and vinegar.   And I was.  But the story now takes many twists and turns, one of the most miserable being a visit to the ortho for a gel injection in my knee.  My doc retired, so I saw a new guy.  He wanted new Xrays.  Understandable.  So they did three.  Then they put me in a room where I waited for an hour and a half.  Miserably.  I have a problem with the vitreous humor in my eyes that some people get.  The vitreous humor is the liquid gel-like material that fills the eyeball.  

"Sometimes, as we age. . . ."

It can get "sticky" and start to pull at the lining of the retina and cause tearing.  I've had this for a long time.  At night, sometimes, I see sparks of fireworks in my eye.  This is what happens when the retina tears.  The result is that particles float around in the eyeball.  Floaters.  I have a lot of them, and sitting in a stark, bright room with white walls reminded me of that.  In the hour and a half that I sat there, I got more and more depressed.  I did an inventory of the damage my body has sustained over the years.  I am a bag of broken bones.  I started with my head and worked my way down.  Broken nose, deviated septum, chipped teeth (all from fighting), terrible arthritis in my cervical vertebrae (rear ended in my teens), torn rotator cuffs in both shoulders (falling on an ice climb, dislocation playing basketball, Vespa accident), broken collar bone, several breaks of the left scapula, broken AC joint, and seven broken ribs, two plated (Vespa accident), broken wrist (basketball), compressed discs in my lower back, knees, and two crushed big toes (dropping very big things on them).   By five o'clock, I was wondering if I had been forgotten and everyone had gone home.  

When the doc came in, he barely introduced himself.  Said a few words and picked up the tray with the large needle.  

"Did you look at my Xrays?"

"Yes."

That was it. Yes.  He didn't ask how the knee felt, nothing about my health and wellbeing.  He just said, "You need to start thinking about a replacement."  

He was putting the needle in a part of the knee that the other doc had not.  OK.  I guess there are many ways.  But motherfucker, did this hurt. And when he started the injection, I thought I might pass out.  When I opened my eyes, he made a joke to the two people in lab coats he had brought with him.  I was in too much pain to remember what it was.  He said, "I'll see you in three months," and was gone.  When I stood up to leave, my knee buckled.  I limped out of the office in pain.  My knee hurt during the night.  It hurts now.  I am having trouble walking.  

Now I've only mentioned the mechanical issues.  There are others.  And I've been chewing on them all.  So, I am not full of yesterday's enthusiasm.  And I have to take my mother to the dentist in a bit, so I don't know if I have time to tell my tale.  

And this old computer keyboard isn't working so well anymore. 

I'll have to be quick.  

So I was coming into the Cafe Strange feeling grand.  The parking lot is small, but a car pulled out just as I was pulling in.  I felt like picking six number in the lotto.  When I walked in, the cafe con leche server was working, and when she saw me at the back of the line, she lit up.  

"You cut your hair!"

"Yes. . . I don't know how I feel about it. . . ."

"I like it."  

When I got to the counter after she filled other orders, she grinned and said, "Mimosa?"

"If you are still making them."

"Always for you.  Only for you,"

"You look like you're doing well.  You practically glow."

"Fifty-fifty," she said, and she went to squeeze the oranges. When she came back I asked what was wrong.

"I broke up with my boyfriend.  It was the hardest thing I've ever done in my life.  My heart hurts."

"Why'd you break up with him."

She smiled like a devil. "Because I'm more fun."

"Well!," I exclaimed.  "Did you live together?"

"No, but we live on the same block."

We talked about relationships for a minute.  I told her about the tenant, about Ili, and she said she couldn't stand to see her boyfriend with a new girl.  I told her I'd dated women who were younger, and I certainly wasn't as much fun.  

"I've dated older men," she said, "and they were a lot of fun."

New customers were lining up, so I said I'd let her get back to work.  

"Come see me before you leave," she said. 

When I'd finished the mimosa and the counter was clear, I went to say goodbye.  I try not to fool myself.  There's no fool like. . . you know how it goes.  So what came next floored me.  I'll make it quick. She wanted my phone number.  We are having happy hour cocktails on Wednesday. 

WTF?

Nobody likes that story.  I understand.  So let me skip ahead.  Yesterday I took my mother to a doctor's appointment, and afterwards I asked her if she wanted to go to breakfast.  She said no, so I asked her if she wanted an egg mcmuffin.  Sure, she said.  We ordered, paid, and pulled up to the window where a pretty, young female was working.  She smile hugely and asked, "Did you order the two egg mcmuffins?"

"Yes." 

"Did you order two cokes?

"No."

"I have two right here.  Do you want them?"

Oh, yea. . . I was on a high.  Maybe I wasn't looking so much like Quasimodo as. . . 

"You two are a cute couple," she said.  "How long have you been together?"

I fell a hundred and fifty floors.  Loud thud.  

"Since I was born," I said.  

It took me awhile to see the humor in that one.  More than a minute.  

After breakfast, I went to the gym.  I was not going to tell people about the happy hour date, but man, I couldn't resist pairing it with the McDonald's story.  I told it to the Shock Jock.  He laughed and laughed. After my workout, I was sitting at a table with him when a woman trainer who just won some body contest walked by.  We we are friendly.  She was wearing a pair of leopard skin shorts.  I don't know what got into me, but I hooted.  She didn't respond, and the Shock Jock callee her name. 

"I thought I heard somebody hoot," she said.  

Does your husband know you are wearing those shorts?" I asked.  

"What?  Yea."  She laughed. 

"You know what would look good with those?"

"What?" 

"High heels."

Then I told her the story.  She looked concerned at the first part then laughed hard at the second.  Yes, people much prefer to hear the second part.  Nobody likes the first. 

So I sat in the doctor's office and counted my miseries and thought about Wednesday Happy Hour.  I shouldn't go.  She probably wants me to lend her money or something equivalent.  I'm old, but I'm not a fool.  

But I'd like to have somebody to drive the car while I take pictures.  That would be nice. 

Well now. . . it's time to take my mother.  I told the tale too quickly, but what can I do?  My life is not my own.  And I'm down in the dumps about my knee.  I don't have time to go back and check my grammar, look for repeated words or phrases, none of it, so I will have to once again post the draft.  

Selah.