Aftermarket Parts

It's three and a half weeks since M had the surgery. Lot of pain remains and the move from walker to cane is happening in its time. Isaiah said in his language: בעיתא אחישנה ... a paradoxical phrase "In its time, I will hurry it." The medieval commentaries waiting for better times, themselves, argued that if the People were Worthy, Better Times would be Hurried Along by their god. If not, they were Screwed ... Waiting in this Exile or Another. Frankly, I always liked Malachi's view that the Better Times would be recognizable by the fact that the Generations would learn to treat each other with dignity and kindness. והישיב לב אבות על בנים ... and the Hearts of the Parents would be returned to the Children and vice-versa or else all kinds of shit would rain down from Above. 

Well, I am pleased to report that M and I have survived these first 25 days, in spite of the possibility of antipathy between Nurse and Patient. The Nurse's humor has been accepted as just that and the Nurse has accepted that the Patient's recovery will, indeed, come "in its own time."

For instance:

Last night, M didn't much sleep but at 2:50 reported a Dream in which I (aka Nurse Hatchet) invited some 60 people over to a Superbowl party, including my now-long-gone Mother-in-Law. I hadn't bought enough food and nothing was ready. Nevermind the fact that in the first 3+ Quarters of life, I've never attended a football game ... and she had ... with her Dad who died nearly twenty years ago. See. I told you she gives the Nurse a C-!

I responded with:

I love you in spite of your growing list of aftermarket parts. (ISYGLOAP)

Maybe that's among the major accomodations required for being married to the same unreasonable person for Fifty+ years: 

Take things personally, if you like, but never seriously;

Be Almost Always Agreeable (Triple-A Rating -- describes me to a T 😇);

When your spouse asks for something easy -- just say "yes;"

Do stand-up, even when you're horizontal; and, always, I say always ...

Give your Primary Other the Presumption of Good Intentions.

It has been -- dare I say -- an experience not without its blessings. The surgery went fine ... Mother and New Knee both doing well. Terri and Ya'aKov, Ruth, Carol and Jon, Dov and Barbara, Ralph and Deb, and Reba and David brought over foods for us to eat; and JR brought a box of Chocolates. Our kids brought lots of foods and our eldest grand-spawn brought a Vegan Cheese Cake. Good stuff and full of kindness and love. Sickness does come along with the possibility that you'll learn that others do love you. Or, if you're a schmuck (sorry, Donald: a Schlonnnng -- god ... what a schmuck he is!), you'll misread it.

They don't believe I can cook.

No, Howard, they're just being kind and loving.

M and I went out 5 times, including our anniversary on Tuesday, two snacks, a trip to visit our friends, Milt and Ruth, and a trip to Dr. Frankenstein's Office; I managed to work; PT's, OT's, RN's got in without being mauled by GuntherDog; we watched a couple of bad movies and one good one; we ate pretty well; and Life is Good, if full of pain.

As to that pain? M reports hers being mostly down to a 3 on a 10 point scale and she's moving towards OTC pain-relievers, though walking obviously adds to the pain considerably. Moi? M told me not to do some work in the office, advice which I ignored and I managed to inflame my carpal tunnel but the new floor in the office is done and, most importantly, my noncompliance didn't inflame M. 

And Global Warming is grand ... Temps have been in the 60's and 70's.

The moral? 

One can still Play in the Last Quarter 

even with its expectable forays into discomforts and pains.

Carpe Diem, Baby!

I say: Love thine Enemy (Matthew/On the Mount)

2015 is closing up shop. Those reading likely remember Young Simon and Garfunkel's rendition of Silent Night played to a wartime background. We likely remember, as well, the song from HAIR ... "Three Hundred and Fifty Six Viet Nam captured." And South Pacific's "You have to be taught to hate."

The cacophonies in our heads are different, these days. One of the Prez Candidates -- the Cruz Missile -- talks of "Carpet Bombing the Shit Out of Them." He should try some Dulcolax and see if he can get relief some other way. Another makes fun of people and excuses it as an antidote to Verbal Kindness or Christian solicitude or what the Jews call גמילת חסד (g'milas chessed) and the Muslims have a name for it, as well, ra'ufun rahirn. I have no doubt that Buddhists and Bahai's and Hindus and Sufis have similar mandates for the faithful. This latter Clown (above) calls it Political Correctness.

But, as I leave the year, I know that there are parts, too, of my aged Self that cannot meet ideals. If nothing else, my dreaming mind (my unbewusste, in Freud's lingo) tells me otherwise.

It was just last week that I dreamed that I had Forrest Trump the Simpleton in a choke hold and broke his neck. I was then left holding him and realizing he had flesh  like the Pillsbury Doughboy ... white and untoned flesh without substance. I woke up amused. Maybe more? I woke up pleased. 

I don't kill even if I recognize a shadowy part of my mind that realizes that, as an animal, I have the capacity to hate and maybe even to kill ... and, need I add, a capacity to not kill.

God. The day before the one on which nearly 2 Billion people celebrate the birth of a baby and buy, if they have the means, for their own babies gifts to tell them just how much their birth meant and means to them ... On such a day, I confess a selection from my Sins of Hate.

Dear God ...

I have hatred in my heart for those who gratuitously murder.

I have venom for those, like Jeroboam ben Nvat, 

who would not only Sin 

but bring others to Sin.

I have contempt for anyone who would seek to disturb a suckling at its Mother's breast.

I revile those who would dare disturb that Mother in her ministrations.

I resent those who abuse children and innocent animals,

or who abuse me, for that matter.

I have loathing for all who would put "a stumbling block before the blind 

or who would curse the deaf."

I find abominable those who seek to humiliate others

with their obsequious bullshit.

I have contempt for all who would seek profit from others' pain.

I have no stomach for those 

who while and by denying their malevolence towards others,

do them great harm.

Dear Sleeping God who has forgotten Me and My Fellow Creatures ... Let me rouse you with my confession. 

The non-thought is, truly, Father to the Deed. I am no Prince of Peace ... 

I am full of anger and rancor and resentment for those who hurt others 

and, yet, my hatred, itself -- even here and now in the Last Quarter of my Life -- 

must sully your Creation ... just as the actions I hate do. Forgive me! 

I have a sign on a kitchen cabinet in the original biblical script that I teach to my grandchildren:

..... בנפול אויביך אל תשמח

In the falling/failing of your enemies, rejoice not.

And in his stumblings, let your heart not revel. (somewhere in Proverbs).

Aspirational goals, only? I suppose so ... at least, considering my Dream of doing-in the arguably Foulmouthed Philandering Fool who would be Leader of the Free World.

Good that Dreams are just that ... Dreams.

Merry, Merry!

"Teach Your Children Well" ... Maybe, It's the Arithmetic

Yesterday, M and I went out to lunch commemorating 50 years since a clergy-person -- actually a snarky middle-aged man who was an ordained clergyman -- declared us married. Fifty years? Those of us who have stayed married for many years can whip up some quips as to what our secret is ... Like the Old Person who is asked: What's your secret for long-life.

"I get up each morning."

I do feel blessed to have met M way back then in the Mid-to-Early Sixties ... talking to a religious youth conference about traditional attitudes towards pre-Marital sex. Funny, now that I think about what I seem to remember saying that day in late February. How does the Ipinima song go:

Tall and Dark and Tan and Slender.

M showed up ... day after returning with a Florida Suntan ... One only knows that life would have been different otherwise. So much is encapsulated in the ability to embrace and cherish what is. Neurotics fret that they could've done better. They rarely think of all that wouldn't have been or what coulda been worse.

Any case ... M tried transitioning from a walker to a cane, yesterday ... some success. Exhausted after such excursions, she napped after our luncheon frolic ...

Emile Coue would have the visitors who travelled to see him from around the World sit in circles and recite:

Tous les jours a tous points de vue

je vais de mieux en mieux.

Each Day and in Every Way

We get Better and Better.

I suppose we'd say, now 21 Days after M's surgery:

Fake it until you make it!

So much counting in life ... 

When You're Old and Grey

16 days post-op. M is improving but exhausted from the pain of surgery and the (I suppose necessarily) sadistic tortures provided by visiting PT's and OT's. The Physical Therapists, in particular, have their measuring tools ... "gotta get to 100 degrees" on bending the newly-born knee towards kicking yourself in the ass. I have a secret theory ... Kind of like the old Kung Fu bit with Carridine ... 

"Grasshopper! When you can kick yourself or PT in ass, you must leave!"

or

"If you meet the PT on the road? Kill her!"

Actually, the visiting PT, OT and RN are great but each day with therapy becomes exhausting and pain-filled for M. And, not to complain (I did get 50 years out of M before her parts wore out ... used to be a transmission was rarely good for more than 40,000 miles ... Lord knows, how many miles are on M's chassis!). But, shit! Why not complain? This Blog started as a Kvetching Platform for Old Foagies ... well? for me! and anyone else who dares write in about the vagaries of aging in the Age of Donald to-the-dump-to-the-dump-to-the-dump-dump-DUMP.

Yesterday, Howard the Nurse cooked from 430 to 630 AM for 6PM incoming Spawn and Grandspawn ... saw 8 hours of visitors in office. Monitored the crazy barking Gdog while professionals were with M (not the Vet! the Vet wasn't there to see M) and coordinated through PT/OT/Visiting Vet (for failing Pretty Girl le Chat), serving dinner with guests and not sleeping. 

It's no longer a stale/impersonal feeling for me in worrying about Caretakers. Poor Howard! (LOL)

Found myself humming a rather nasty Tom Lehrer dittie about spousal aging:

Since I still appreciate you,

Let's find love while we may.

Because I know I'll hate you

When you are old and gray.

So say you love me here and now,

I'll make the most of that.

Say you love and trust me,

For I know you'll disgust me

When you're old and getting fat.

An awful debility,

A lessened utility,

A loss of mobility

Is a strong possibility.

In all probability

I'll lose my virility

And you your fertility

And desirability,

And this liability

Of total sterility

Will lead to hostility

And a sense of futility,

So let's act with agility

While we still have facility,

For we'll soon reach senility

And lose the ability.

Your teeth will start to go, dear,

Your waist will start to spread.

In twenty years or so, dear,

I'll wish that you were dead.

I'll never love you then at all

The way I do today.

So please remember,

When I leave in december,

I told you so in may.

We're coming on our 50th and 51st Anniversary, depending on how we count. Still, I think both M and I thought Old Tom was kidding when as a relative youngster in the early 60's, I suppose, he penned and sang these words. Check it out, Oh, Ye Players in the Last Quarter ... you'll soon be humming along, too ... maybe a duet?

                                                   www.youtube.com/watch?v=8NOZH0y7VxE

Hats off to your prescience, Tom!

"Something in the Way She Moves"

Watching your spouse learning how to walk, again?

As a Nurse? Grade? ... C-

Alas ...

They Say It Ain't Easy

I'm sitting next to my sleeping wife's bed in the hospital. After 50 years of marriage, she has apparently given birth to a new knee. She is giving Mother Sarah a run for her money, in terms of later life additions. Both Mother and Knee seem to be doing as well as one has any right to expect. Still, who would have thought in 1965 that M's (or my) parts would begin to wear out.

M has her first Physical Therapy session in just a half hour ... She seems frightened, as I suspect anyone would be. The Doctor came in earlier ... Vlad the Impailer's younger brother ... dressed in his Civies -- tie and jacket -- and full of good humor. Truthfully, we both like him ... and, still ....

The Fourth Quarter not only witnesses one's own challenges but, if one is fortunate enough, the pains of one's other.

My mind is pretty empty, right now. Worried ... remember one of Munch's paintings. Not The Scream, though there have been times. More the one where a Mother is leaning over a sick child, laying in bed.

To care and to be cared for!