Days 11-15

Day 11

Just as I was thinking about mentioning the delicious and amazingly not too sticky sweet, weird-flavory taste of grinding one part Fresh Direct hazelnut Pure Water Process Decaf (I only buy favored coffee in decaf as most favored regular coffee is disgusting) with one part Starbucks Organic Shade Grown Mexico Mild (and I hate Starbucks coffee; this was a surprisingly decent gift otherwise known as something someone got at a conference that they didn’t want to squeeze into their luggage), my coffee pot lost a king-of-the-dish rack tussle with a metal pot and hit the floor where it broke into piece too many to get without the vacuum, something I am certain I am not supposed to be lifting and using.

The SPD3 4-cup replacement decanter is, of course, out-of-stock at Mr. Coffee They are going to e-mail me when it’s available. This will now be my answer when the next person asks what they can do for me. Or, I can be smart and get it from a better stocked online retailer...go to: 4-Cup Coffeemaker.

I stayed in bed late today and didn’t have a banana with my 4oz of cottage cheese so didn’t want to take a pill. I waited a few hours then boiled water for Bruno spinach and cheese ravioli. I wouldn’t normally have near back-to-back pasta meals but it had been about 17 hours and I wasn’t quite ready for the salad stuff in my fridge.

Impatience won. Needing a destination to continue my late afternoon stroll, I went to the hardware store and bought a Krups Cafe Express Black Replacement Carafe 4 Cup and it fits perfectly. $6 more than Mr. Coffee and, worse, exactly what I gave to Goodwill last year when I moved (some idiot broke my coffee-maker and Krups discontinued the model), but will be worth it when brewing tomorrow’s pot.

Hill Diner’s portabello mushroom sandwich (grilled with brie, carmelized onions and pesto, on French bread) with some fries and salad completed the day’s eating. This is another great standing spot, also great for sitting and take-out. At home I made a Jacques Torres Wicked Hot Chocolate, with milk, because 60-degrees outside is still about 45 inside. Thick hooded sweatshirt, cords and soccer slippers required.

It’s clear to me now that this injury, though I'm convinced a residual of (or somehow initiated by) The Unbelievable Bicycle Accident of 2003, is really related to my sedentary work life. Though considered thoroughly unimportant in the office, I am tied to my desk, chained to the phones. While others get up for meetings, I sit and sit. Unless I have to use the bathroom or venture all the way across the street for a snack or lunch, I sit for eight, nine or more hours every day, not including my 45-minute-plus commute.

The thread that connected me to semi-health was my old apartment, less than an hour’s walk away, a trip I made a few times a week. With each new injury (and my move) that thread shredded as I stayed away from the gym and the tennis court. I never exercise, not even a little. Every month I age 17 years (as I told my doctor). It’s horrible. I have to quit my job to save my life. More on that another time. Like when I’m off disability.

Best news of the day: CNN finally got smart and pulled Aaron Brown from the show they gave him as reward for his “reporting” stamina during/following September 11^th.

Day 12

I wouldn’t ordinarily put pomegranate in a salad but they’re in season. I have been known to add orange slices but this will add additional crunch to an already crunchy salad. Sadaf cheese, I now know, is like a funky feta, no cholesterol and low fat. Substitute feta if you wish. If tomatoes weren’t dry and white now I’d add some; maybe grape tomatoes if you have them, but you don’t need. With all this extra stuff, you can take a pill with salad!

On second thought this salad might be better without the olives but maybe that’s because it’s the first thing I ate today. I’m craving pizza and the best pizza in my neighborhood recently closed. It’s being replaced by a Dunkin’ Donuts. That makes me want to cry. I mean, I get that I am part of the gentrification of the area but Come On, this is thin crust, brick oven pizza. I’m going to have to go to New Haven now to get my fix and I Can’t Get Into A Car because I Can’t Sit.

At PT the therapist told me my right buttock is noticeably swollen.  Made B check it all weekend until he finally gave in and said, "Yeah, I guess it is a little fat on one side." I needed the verification.

Then the PT hooked me up to a scary machine that shocked my spine with electricity for 15 minutes. "Everybody likes it," she said as she placed a little bell by my hand "in case something goes wrong or I need someone." Great. I, obviously, am not everybody.

Great News: if you find a safe corner (upstairs, away from crowds), and have recently napped, seeing a show at Irving Plaza is another good standing activity. Oh, and, Super Diamond rocks. I'm getting hyperlink crazy. Maybe because it's a somewhat new concept to me. Or maybe just because I know how to do it.

Did get my pizza, and was able to stand and eat, and everyone with me felt bad so they stood too at PIE. It's not the best but it's good and there's variety.

Day 13

I was craving Chinese (see Day 16). We planned to order from one of my favorite places, which I thought was called Empire Sichuan but I guess is Grand Sichuan, either way, it's excellent but I was suddenly craving Peking duck so we got China Fun, which is hit or miss and not at all authentic. Some duck, roast pork, and General Tso's tofu with broccoli later, I felt disgusting, but the pills and everything else stayed down.

This is what The Washington Post has to teach us about General Tso...click.

In case you're wondering if my day was all sugary, heavy MSG'd food, it wasn't. Earlier I had a sandwich from Lenny's. For some reason it's now called the "Diet" something but I'm sure it used to be a "Veggie" something: cheddar, alpine lace, and a bunch of crunchy, thinly-sliced vegetables. Perfect for a pill and perfect with a bag of chips.

Day 14

A piece of wheat bread and an Energy Vitamin Water, while enough for a Vicodin, are not the way to avoid stomach bleeding so the Naproxen had to wait until we had lunch at Burger Joint. And nothing makes you feel more like a crippled loser slob than chowing down a hamburger with the works (lettuce, tomato, onion, pickle, mustard, ketchup) and french fries while surrounded by a bunch of people with those aluminum (or whatever) blankets signifying completion of the marathon. Sheesh. Topped off with half a brownie you can take enough medication to sedate a, well, beagle.

p.s. I prefer Burger Joint to Good Burger because I like the grill/char taste; B feels the opposite.

The Hirschfield Gallery (the margo feiden, actually) is the perfect size for the walking ill; temporary distraction but not too much to absorb. Food Emporium, on the other hand, at 5:30pm, even with a companion, is overwhelming to the max. And then they forget to put the cheese and butter in your bag and you don't realize it until your elbows have hit the boiling water.

Day 15

One normal-sized (cereal) bowl of Crispex with 2% milk and a glass of water and my stomach loves me!

Alt: (also proven to work): one-half ham and jack on a hard roll with mustard and lettuce.

"It's a dull, constant pain," I say to the PT. "In no way excruciating. In fact, I hardly take any Vicodin anymore, but it's always there and it's definitely not right."

"Lift your head," she says.

Somehow this command doesn't make sense to me, I've lost my ability to follow simple directions.

"Lift it off the pillow," she says. Oh. "Now turn this way," she says, gesturing.

"Oh yeah," I say. "It's right there."

Her eyes widen. It's something bad. I'm pregnant with a pouch full of roaches. My appendix is going to burst. My liver is fatty. I can never have another drink. A mouse got in there.

"It's your abdominal muscle," she says.

Oh. I'm relieved but sense I shouldn't be.

She teaches me a few new stretches. Again I can hardly do what is asked of me.

Healthy people fantasize that PT is one co-paid luxurious massage, but it's not. I dread the massage. Ten minutes of torture. Every muscle she touches is horrifyingly tender.

"You know," I say between flinching and wincing and involuntarily kicking. "I had a massage, shiatsu, about a week before this injury happened. My doctor said it wasn't connected but I'm now remembering, with this pain deja vu, that the masseuse spent a disproportionate amount of time on my lower right side. Right where you are, where it hurts."

"She must have felt it," says the PT.

"Where's the actual spasm?"

"There are many.

"What's the name of the muscle?" I ask. She tells me two. I'm pretty sure one of them was Quadrilateral Triangle but maybe that's the GRE in my head. Not that I've studied in weeks, or read anything longer than two paragraphs. My poor brain.

"It feels like you're digging into my organs," I say, as an observation, not complaint.

She laughs, kindly. "I'm not," she says. "You're thin but your organs are protected in there.

"I can't stop thinking how stupid it was that they didn't teach me physiology in high school," I say.

"And anatomy," she says.

"Exactly," I say. "Physics has done nothing for me."

She laughs again then hooks me up to the scariest machine in the place (like day 12) - the electric (electronic / electrical) stimulator.

"Everyone loves it," they all say, shocked when I mention I hate it.

I was in the room with the window, sun heating the space, causing me to drift and drool while attached to god knows how many watts of electricity. Unable to move, escape or even wipe away the little pool, I thought of the time the LILCO guys, in their work boots and Carthardts, visited my elementary school. According to them, pretty much everything you did that involved electricity could, a likely would, result in you becoming a "Minus One!"

Rows of kids sitting Indian-style on the carpeted floor listened and watched the main guy, the biggest one, as he listed problematic scenarios, all ending in crescendo, the sound of death, the meeting of his giant hands in a warning Bam!

"And that's how you become a - Bam! - Minus One!"

The one thing I know for sure is, when a giant power line falls on your car, especially if it's been raining or the road is simply flooded, you need to find a piece of plywood to step on when you exit the vehicle or you will become a - Bam! - Minus One! Hardly a comforting memory when your butting is getting zapped. It's like a light-touch tattoo. A little needle tapping your back, but none of the nasty scraping, not that I have a tattoo, or maybe that's another story.

On the genius suggestion of my friend F, I got some clogs, the furry chocolate suede Merrills. They rule. Finally I don't have to feel sad about not having the chance to wear my new chocolate suede Sacco boots. And, bonus, the freezing floor of my apartment is finally tolerable.

L, after walking a half gallon of milk to my home, made dinner for T and me tonight. Worked out well as a pill meal. I also had a tall glass of Coke.

Best news of the day: Off the Seychelles, pirates in speedboats went after a bunch of retirees and other on a cruise ship. Pirates.

begin   notes   bike  anatomy   physiology
restaurants   duck   eggplant   contact