I took my mother to the pain doc yesterday. When he was through with her, I said, "Before we go, may I ask you a question? I know you don't think acupuncture does anything, but what do you think about dry needling?"
"Yes, that can give temporary relief. Why do you ask?"
I told him about the problem in my neck, back, etc.
Long story short, I am scheduled for an MRI. After I agreed to it, I wished I hadn't. He was explaining to me what was the probable cause, which I already knew.
"But what can you do?" I asked with much doubt.
"I can give an injection. I can do an epidural."
Yea. Relief, not a cure. I'd prefer to try dry needling first.
"When you see the images of my neck, you are going to wonder how I function. There is a whole lot of arthritis in there. 'Longhorns' one doctor called the calcium protrusions from my vertebrae."
I told him about my crash injuries, and he got a little bug-eyed when I told him I had flail chest.
"They plated two of my ribs."
My chances of surviving that wreck were minimal. He began explaining to me why that was a good choice. By all measures, I should have suffered a stroke.
"How old are you?" he asked. I told him. He blew some smoke up my ass and told me he'd have guessed me for some impossible age.
"Yea. . . I'm doing pretty well for an old cripple." I'm not. It is just a thing to say.
"Do you need anything for pain?"
"My family doctor gave me hydrocodone."
"Do you want any muscle relaxers."
"No."
"OK. Just don't drink alcohol when you are taking the hydrocodone."
I laughed. "I thought that alcohol just enhanced it."
He chuckled, too. "Yes, it does, but we want you to wake up in the morning."
"I think waking up is way overrated," I said. I'm pretty sure I just screwed the pooch on getting good drugs from him.
It was later than usual when I left my mother's house. She was still dismayed at my leaving. I had on my gym clothes.
"Are you going to the gym?"
"Yes. It is a question of whether it is better to look good or to feel good."
Surprisingly, that made her laugh.
I did a very light workout skipping anything that would impact my neck. When I was finished and ready to go, I was talking to Alain when my new gym friend's husband came over. He's a tall, fit man, an ex-college baseball player. Like his wife, not a dram of fat on him. He is handsome enough, but he has a face that doesn't light up when you talk to him.
"I wanted to introduce myself," he said, sharing his name and holding out his hand. "My wife comes home and talks about her new best friends at the gym, and I wonder how she got into the boy's club."
I shook his hand and said, "She's great. She's one of the guys. Funny. She doesn't have a cliche in her head. She's way outside the box, as they say."
His smile then was more a grimace. "Can you imagine living with that? My son and I get beaten up every day."
I'll bet. We now know where the money comes from. They own a medical company of some sort. Cha-ching.
At least he didn't punch me.
It was afternoon when I got home and showered. Then I had to sit down at the computer and try to figure out how to move the money in an account with one company to another. They don't make that easy, and I have been rebuffed a number of times now, but it has to be done and Izzie ain't the guy to do it, I think. Still, I needed some info, so I called him. As always, right to voicemail. I decided to send him an email, and within minutes, he had replied. I dove into the online transfer form nervously, but eventually, I had something done. I was hoping that it was what I had intended. I feared that my retirement savings might have just been sent to a Nigerian Prince. It will take five to seven days for me to know.
But what the hell--it's only money, right?
It was time to head back to mother's. I called her and asked her if Greek salads and roasted chicken from the Greek place would be alright. "Sure," she said. I saw I had missed a call from T, so I called him back while I drove. I told him he was missed at happy hour, that the judge had wished he was there. He was pleased, but I could hear something in his voice when he said he wished he could have been there. He liked going out here on the town. He is in a rural land now, many miles from anything. Moonshine around a campfire, maybe, but no happy hours on the Boulevard with the homies.
It was my first in many, many, many months.
Back at my mother's with dinner. My mother looked miserable.
"My legs are all swelled up."
"Have you been wearing your compression socks?"
"Yes."
I saw that she had them on.
"I'm going to make a drink before we eat." I took my Negroni to the garage/porch. She usually follows, but she didn't come out this time. I sat and enjoyed the beautiful end of the day. The weather has been gorgeous. When I had finished my drink, I went inside to dine. My mother wasn't there. She had gone to lie down in her bed.
Friday night!!!
I've been dreaming of the pictures I want to make. I know what I want to photograph, but I need a big printer and some dedicated space for chemicals to do what I want to do. It will be better than the old Polaroids, I think. Maybe I can make space in my mother's garage and work on pictures while she watches television. But it will only work if the images are really big.
I tried not taking the narcotic when I went to bed. That was a mistake. I ended up taking it in the middle of the painful night.
Now it's time to make my mother's breakfast. And then. . . .
Here's a song that I was not sure I'd post because it is too reminiscent of the old "smooth jazz" radio stations. Do you remember the whole Smooth Jazz scare? Yea. But I think this has just enough funk in it to save it. If not. . . selavy. I was digging it when it came on the college station.
I just noticed that it is on Blue Note records, so it must be O.K.
No comments:
Post a Comment