If only falling apart meant missing pieces
If falling apart meant pieces of flesh would inexplicably fall off my body, I’d be skinny.
With a capital S.
That sounds yucky, all right, but if things keep going the way they are, I could be skinny by the Fourth of July. Then there’d be a real reason to shoot off fireworks.
It’s like this. There’s something in my left eye. I have no idea what that something is, but it feels like a moon rock. I can’t blink without irritation and that side of my face actually hurts. I tried using Refresh, but dropping liquid into my eye is a little like forcing rain through cement.
A friend tried looking into my eye to see what she could see, but she couldn’t see anything because she couldn’t open my eye. I tried thinking soft thoughts, but you can’t push open a steel trap with a feather.
So far I’ve used half a bottle of that stuff – and I’ve used it only twice. It cleaned the heck out of my nose, though.
Just before Christmas I had carpal tunnel surgery on my left hand. My fingers are still stiff, sore and dead. Well, nearly dead. The palm of my hand, where he cut, is almost OK, but the heel of my hand aches like crazy.
I can’t carry anything more than a letter without ache. I can’t twist off the lid of a new jar of peanut butter. Any jar, I would suppose, but I’ve tried just the peanut butter. My left thumb won’t reach across my palm to touch my little finger.
Then there’s the natural – well, people call it natural – lowering of body parts that have no right to slide down as they do, and feet that cramp so much I sometimes pick up a heavy object with my left hand just to get the pain there instead.
Yet none of this comes close to the problem that hit my friend Linda Darland, of Clarion, just because she wanted to wear a specific pair of shoes.
“I reached for a pair of shoes and tore my right bicep,” she said. “Within an hour I was black and blue from my shoulder to my elbow and I still can’t lift it very high. The ortho surgeon said if it tears again we’ll have to operate. Great!”
No, the shoes weren’t glued to the floor. They were on a high shelf. So I suggested they build a lower shelf, but it seems there are already lower shelves full of shoes.
“My husband said ‘I told you you had too many shoes,'” she said. “Whatever that had to do with it.”
But she has to have that many shoes – something has to match the purses she collects.
All this information came through the little chat bars while we played Scrabble late one night. We talked so much and so fast, we barely had time to play.
And now my fingers ache from so much typing.
See, I am falling apart. But I could get skinny.
So long friends, until the next time when we’re together.
Sandy Mickelson, retired lifestyle editor of The Messenger, may be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.