January 14, 2010
“I had some surgery on my feet, which has helped my back some ." -Merle Haggard
Before the end of calendar year 2009, I joined numerous others who met their annual deductibles and hurried into the hospital for long-overdue surgery.
In my case, it was my foot.
And yes, my back quit hurting, too, just like Merle Haggard's.
The idea was to use the month of January to recuperate. Stay off the foot for at least four weeks with no weight-bearing whatsoever allowed.
Thus, for the first two weeks I am proud to say I became quite self-sufficient flying around the first-floor kitchen and living room in my wheelchair.
I worked on the computer, which we moved to the dining room table because it was the correct height and more accessible. I accomplished simple household chores with relative ease in all manner of creative ways. Life was good.
Until one day, that is, when I discovered some unpleasant revelations from my low vantage point.
For example, you have no idea how many dust balls one can see from the confines of a wheelchair. It sits low to the ground so every bit of dust along the baseboards jumps out at you as though in 3-D.
"I am becoming our Grandson Halen," I moaned. You see, when the kiddo was two, he crawled around the floor picking up tiny pieces of lint and handing them to us. Now I'm doing that.
And then there are the deceased Chinese beetles and flies one can see "up close and personal" on the floor.
"Todd, where did all these dead flies along the baseboard come from?" I asked my husband.
"I don't' know Margo," he said. "They are probably just living in the attic to stay warm and find their way downstairs," he answered, completely non-plussed.
"Arghh," I said, abandoning the Christmas Vacation vernacular and slipping into Charlie Brown lingo.
I am sorry to admit, dear readers, that what you just read is the most interesting part of my first two weeks of recuperation, except for my morning coffee ritual.
Perhaps, I should tell you about that after all since it is too late to put it in a Christmas letter.
Here's the problem. We live in a two-story house; therefore, I limit my trips up and down to twice a day. This journey requires that I sit on the steps facing down and slide up, one by one, in order to get upstairs at night for bed. In the morning, the method is reversed.
The problem with being stuck on the second floor first thing in the morning is that I am dependent on someone to bring me coffee and fast. I adore my morning coffee, which must be made a certain way and with the particular kind of coffee I like.
OK, so I am a high-maintenance coffee drinker; I admit it.
Still, the hubby cheerfully brings me an early morning breakfast tray with a steaming cup of coffee, for which I am exceedingly grateful.
Unfortunately, I can see the bottom of the cup. Not good for an aficionado of strong coffee like me.
He likes to count the scoops when making coffee so that it's done exactly according to package directions. I, on the other hand, pour the coffee almost to the top of the filter basket and pronounce that close enough. This is not the same thing.
Dutifully, I drank his mild brew for a few days without making much of a fuss.
That is, until yesterday when he came upstairs with the first cup of the day.
"Yuk, what is this?" I asked after tasting it. "Dead Decaf?"
Turned out it was indeed a package of stale decaf coffee he found in the freezer. "I bought this at Café DuMonde in New Orleans ten years ago," I complained.
There are two more weeks to go before I can walk downstairs in the morning and make my own coffee.
Other than that, being housebound is going swimmingly. I'm not complaining, you understand. I am just saying.
