The Weekend Rollup
For those of you (ok, most of you who read this) out there who really and truly give more of a shit about how Di is doing so far, this post will scratch your itch (Di fell on her head doing a cartwheel and crushed her C5/C6 disk, and we’re now dealing… and damn lucky). In the event you will be wanting another hilarious rant – well, I will try. For random readers, scroll down for funny and nonpersonal shit if you feel uncomfortable or just don’t care. There is funny shit in here, trust me.
Problem is this: I’m fucking tired. Really. F-ing. Tired. “But Mr. Awesome And Amazing Army Dude,” you say, “How can this be so? Are you not in fact an Army of One? Are you not Army Strong?”
<insert insane-sounding laughter here>
Ok, so the answer to these anticipated questions are, in short: Don’t know but ‘cartwheel’ sounds like the right response, Yes, and Yes qualified with a big ‘but’ … and yeah I’m strong in the body-odor sense of the word. Ask Di, her sense of smell is unimpaired.
The main problem I’m experiencing in trying to be Di’s hands and one leg around the house is that I have limited talent and only a few hours of productive time during the day. This means that while I can successfully execute shocking and awesome laundry operations, create chef-level culinary creations from hell, and carry virtually everything, I completely FAIL at noticing the amount of crunchy shit and bits accumulating on the kitchen floor (mainly because my thick sole calluses prevent it), the orange (wtf??) rings inside the toilet bowls, and the layer of dust building up on … well, ok, everything. I am sorry, I don’t notice dust really at all. It’s so … small. What I notice is: ‘hungry,’ ‘sleepy,’ ‘uh oh, poo,’ and ‘uh oh, pee pee.’ Oh and don’t forget ‘uh oh beer containing device is empty.’ In reality there is a bachelor inside all men no matter what their marital status. Ladies, give me a “pound.”
Please don’t get me wrong here, because my higher lump functions (lump = my brain equivalent, composed mainly of starch, air and pork fat) do in fact include such stunning realizations as: ‘ooooh, Di looks pretty,’ ‘I love my wife just because,’ and ‘Di is mad, hurry/do/function.’
I’ve been maintaining a super attitude so far in spite of the growing gap in things that need done vice those that have been done. I can give myself credit for these certain things: we have not yet starved to death; we wear clean clothes; we have virtually clean (Hmm) dishes to eat from, and I’m doing enough work for the Army to decide to keep paying me (rated Highly Important by nine of ten Army Dudes who enjoy things like eating and driving). But knowing that I’m failing at something as simple as cleaning is bugging… really… f-ing… bugging.
For those of you who only want to know how Di is doing, I understand. I had to make you read something for your payoff, didn’t I?? No? Oh ok then go away and STFU. *ahem* Ok, so on Di’s progress, she’s actually walking more normally now in spite of the jacked-up nerve between her hip and ankle, and touching things with her sensitive fingers is slowly (real damn slowly!) creeping downward toward her four concerned fingertips… which is good. She is attacking her therapy and apparently it is paying off – her symptoms are retreating like… well, the French. She spent a day in bed yesterday with a migraine, out of the blue, and I personally suspect it was a side-effect of the several meds and associated by-products built up in her… not that watching her suffer 3/4 of the day with that theory made me not suffer with her as well. But what the hell do I know… I’m a tanker, not a doctor, Jim. More frustrating than not keeping up with simple chores is not being able to do anything to fix Di except be here for her.
The good news is things are looking up and Di is getting better every day. We appreciate your thoughts and support. I know I do.