I just took my first fall in two-and-a-half weeks, after the jubilation of finally finding my specialist yesterday.
Maybe I didn’t sleep last night. Maybe I did too much at the gym. Maybe I was stressed after reading the report of the insurance adjuster that my home has more than $10,000 in damage from what I call, “the toilet explosion.”
I tripped. I think I might have misjudged the length of my steps when I tried to step over the industrial fan in my bathroom. I went in to wash the drain cleaner down the drain that I had prepped after my shower.
I fell into the cute submarine toiletry holder I let the teenager when she was a little girl. The smashing plastic sent me over the edge of the tub and I hit my head and my left elbow on the ceramic tile wall on the far side of the tub.
I was trying to protect my left ring finger, the one in the cast. I’m less than three weeks away from getting this cast off. I hope for good. Nine weeks with my finger in plaster.
My head hurts. My elbow hurts. But I think I’m okay.
If you look at the photo, I was crossing over the air mover in the foreground and my ass ended up in the box with all the soap and shampoo.
Since temperatures here have been in the 90s, the impact of that equipment in my small bathroom has made it very dry and very hot, probably 110 degrees. The towel rods melted.
I called it my dry sauna. I would sit there and wrap my cast before you bathed and took a cold shower in the hot room. I loved it.
And downstairs— the fans and dehumidifiers are on 24-hours-a-day. You know when you are in a tunnel? The roar of the exhaust fans? That’s my living space.
But today we got the news— the water did $10,000 in damage. It looks like the floor, subfloor and wall in the bathroom need to be ripped out. And we need some plumbing.
There’s a wall downstairs that will need work, and there will be painting. And a new ceiling.
And my hardwood floors will need repair and the entire floor downstairs will need to be refinished.
I think the insurance company is going a little overboard. But we’ll see what ServePro rips out when they start demolition next week.
But maybe… just maybe… we can move some of these fans tomorrow. No more falls.
It’s been about a year. It’s the end of my birth month. In some ways, I started this journey in December 2020 when I contracted Covid-19.
I remember standing in the Bizzy Hizzy warehouse, at 11:45 p.m., placing the last extra small clothing item in my pick-cart. I leaned against a nearby pole, my joints all screaming.
And I thought to myself, “I’m one month into my job at Stitch Fix. Maybe I can’t do this. Maybe I’m too old and my body can’t take it. Maybe I can’t do anything anymore.”
I was chilly that night, and it was December in the warehouse, so I didn’t think anything of it. Until that moment. Leaning against that pole almost too weak to stand.
I was sweaty. My hands were clammy.
I had a fever. The system at work — the nurse, the temperature checks— had missed it because I normally run low. My fevers don’t numerically look like fevers until they are very high.
And in that moment, I released a breath of relief.
I was probably the only person in America grateful to suspect that I had Covid-19. (And I did.)
Because Covid-19 was easier to deal with than the prospect that I might be too disabled to provide for myself.
I would have to read these blog entries, check my medical portal and review my podcast history to tell you the exact journey of the last year and a half, and if that interests you— I’m considering writing a memoir (Upright! Gravity is a Harsh Mistress). My husband thought of the title.
I listened to disability podcasts (such as A is for Abled, Disability After Dark, Stompers in Love and various titles from the BBC) while working at the Bizzy Hizzy as I grappled with my own identity. Am I disabled? Do I pass as normal? Do I make my body do more than it can? Or should?
These questions, and recovering from Covid, and comorbidities like anemia and weight gain, as my spine and hip problems started to bother me more and more, led me on a journey to recommit to fitness and to gain more knowledge and collect doctors that would be an asset to my medical team as I age.
I have blogged about that entire journey— from my first session at Apex Training to finally finding a local doctor that understands cerebral palsy.
She expanded on my previous diagnosis of spastic cerebral palsy and added the term diplegia, which means it only impacts my legs. She frequently told me that I self-correct very well and added that while my gait was inefficient, it was functional and it was mine… so that makes it beautiful.
My new doctor is a neurological physiatrist— with her initial training in spinal bifida which she then expanded into seeing cerebral palsy patients.
She listened to me, reviewed my x-rays with me, gave me an exam, watched me walk, and studied my shoes as if she were reading my fortune with tea leaves. She described my walk as her fingers traced the wear on my shoes.
She also complimented my “taco Tuesday” days of the week socks.
My recent disability leave from work has improved my fitness and my health greatly, so I had no pain to report. But I told her I was looking to educate myself and to know what doctors to call and when.
And she told me a lot of things I already knew— not to let myself get too tired, for one. And that I need to continue strength training and improve the mobility in my ankles (and today at Back in Line Chiropractic, Dr. Jensen gave those puppies a work out).
I also knew and understood the domino theory of my own health, that injuries like what happened to my ringer finger impact all of me, but she explained why. I’m not sure I have this 100% correct (just like I previously misused hemiplegia, which refers to right or left side of body vs. upper and lower body), but she said my brain tells my lower half not to do anything until given a signal, but as a person, I start walking (for example) and now my legs and my brain aren’t working together.
Because of this, if anything goes wrong in my body— even something as minor as constipation or an ingrown toenails— my entire system can go haywire. So, if I’m having issues, I need to examine my whole self. And if I don’t find the problem, I need to call her.
Cerebral palsy is a static condition, meaning it doesn’t get worse, but as I reasoned earlier, the decades of wear-and-tear on a body not used in the mechanically proper way can create new issues.
So what are my options if I find myself in decline?
First step would be to use muscle relaxers. I currently have a prescription for flexeril, which doesn’t seem to do anything. She would try Baclofen or Tizanidine next.
If that doesn’t help, she would inject Botox into my muscles.
And if I still had issues, she would move to bracing.
But as of right now, I have good muscle tone and self-correct so she doesn’t want to mess with things.
I feel like I found the final link on my medical team.
**this post may contain strong language… no, this post will contain strong language. I plan to drop an “f-bomb” in the first paragraph. But I promise it will be lighthearted and humorous not vulgar and full of rage.
Sometimes I wonder if the process of losing your mother-fucking mind which seems to descend upon a person once your children enter their teens isn’t the cause of dementia. Will the brain fog that accompanies keeping life together as the offspring prepare to leave the nest clear as they depart? Or is it permanent?
I think when you reach the latter half of the forty-somethings, the time you might have spent on hobbies, movies or parties in your youth is replaced by the tedium of home ownership, career, family, parents and medical care (your own, your family, probably even friends). And maybe you just don’t have the patience you used to.
I am currently waiting for the remediation team. If you skip back to Tuesday’s blog, you’ll recall that my 50- or 60-year-old toilet exploded and damaged my dining room ceiling. The plumber came Tuesday and installed a new toilet, and the teenager gave me shit. Not only does she not like the new toilet (as the plumber warned me) but she also had beef with the plumber for taking her old toilet.
I asked the teenager, “what on earth would you do with an old broken toilet?”
And, of course, the teenager told me. She wanted to take the ancient pink ceramic toilet and use it as a planter in our front yard next to our pink rose bush.
“It would look so cool,” she said.
And it probably would. But I did not go to college and embark on all the adventures I have to place a broken toilet in my front yard.
The scheduler for the insurance adjuster called Wednesday morning, about 29 hours after the incident, and scheduled the adjuster for Wednesday June 1. I asked the teenager if she could handle letting him into the house. She agreed. The scheduler called again and moved it to Tuesday. Teenager agreed again. Scheduler called a third time to ask if we had had a remediation company come to check if we had any or were in danger of collecting any mold. I said no. She said to call one.
So Wednesday on my lunch break (my first day back after a month of medical leave), I emailed ServePro because I didn’t have the time or the quiet to talk on the phone. They called, and after about three difficult phone calls with them, (the person on the other end couldn’t hear me well. I was wearing a mask, using one AirPod and working in a noisy warehouse.) they said they would confirm an appointment for Thursday or Friday by the end of the day.
[note: this is a pause in the blog post as the remediation team arrived.]
The remediation scheduler called about 4:30 p.m. Thursday, which was about 60 hours after I turned the water off to the toilet and started mopping up the damage. My appointment was for 1 p.m. Friday, about 80 hours after the original accident.
But at least I made myself a nice dinner of fig & ricotta ravioli from Lidl with Alfredo sauce from Hungryroot and vegetables (baby broccoli, red pepper, and peas) cooked in the Cuisinart air fryer toaster oven.
Last night, when the teenager got home from her dad’s, I think I was emptying the dishwasher and I went on a psychotic rant about silverware. You see, when her father and I got married, we registered for Oneida’s Easton flatware in the satin finish. I have always loved that silverware. It was $100 a place setting, and that was in 1999. That’s $20 per utensil. But it’s beautiful, and my husband and I both agreed on it without compromise, and it’s heavy, and we lived in an apartment in downtown Easton, Pennsylvania.
Oneida flatware pattern: Easton (Satin)
And sometime between when teenager two lived with us and now, many pieces of that silverware have disappeared. And it’s melodramatic, but the loss is like a gaping wound. No other silverware feels right in my hand. So I snapped, for the umpteenth time, and shouted at the teenager about my missing silverware.
In that moment, I realized that for some reason, that silverware really means something to me. Eating with it brings me joy. And that silverware looks as new as the day we bought it. Our marriage lasted 20 years, and the silverware may last generations.
“I don’t have the money to replace it,” I screamed.
And then I realized…
I launched a publishing company. I buy myself iced coffee about once a week. I spend almost as much on animal food as I do on people food. So, why can’t I figure out how to pay for new silverware? Especially since I know Replacements.comhas just about every silverware and china pattern ever made (used) at a discount. I think I found my dream pattern. I ordered a few pieces of my silverware, based on cost and what I actually need.
This morning started with a cup of coffee, some cuddly cats, a trip to the chiropractor and a whole lot of cleaning before the remediation team arrived. I made the teenager and I a breakfast of fresh baguette from Lidl, toasted in the Cuisinart oven, buttered, covered a slice of proscuitto and toasted more, and then drizzled with hot honey and sprinkled with herbs de provence. It was as amazing as it sounds.
The teenager had her last high school final exam, the only one she had to take this year, and returned home to find me aflutter with the broom and a mop. I asked her to do something for me. It might have been to move a multipack of paper towels to another room, when she stopped and opened the sunporch window.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
And I thought to myself, she’s not smelling the roses.
And she replied, “I’m smelling the roses.”
“Seriously?” I said. “I ask you to do something and instead you literally stop to smell the roses!”
She then picked a bouquet for the main room downstairs. Eventually, she moved the paper towels.
Once the house was cleaned and the teenager shuffled off to work, I finished Natasha Sizlo’s memoir, All Signs Point to Paris. I received a copy via NetGalley and reviewed it on Goodreads and mentioned it in my Parisian Phoenix blog post that will go live tomorrow. I tried to start P.N. Dedeaux’s Algiers Tomorrow but it offended me beyond rebuke within the first two chapters.
I understand that the book was published in 1993. I also understand that erotica by its nature breaks rules and can feature taboos. But in the first two chapters, we join two bratty rich sixteen year olds nicknamed “Boobs” and “Butt” through a vacation in France. By the end of the chapters, I want them to get murdered. I was hoping for some cheesy references to Algerians with which I could have some Mystery Science Theater 3000-type fun.
chicken vodka pizza
I ordered a chicken pizza with vodka sauce from Nicolosi’s Pizza in Forks Township. It was a custom pizza and I told them to “put whatever on it to make it pizza-y.” They added fresh basil. It smelled amazing. The teenager was picking it up at 2:45 p.m after work.
And don’t you know it, the remediation team was late… They called at 2:55 p.m. and arrived at 3:05 p.m. I had one bite of my scrumptious, piping hot custom pizza. And it was time to find out if my house was wet.
Unfortunately, it is.
ToG monitored the workers
We could lose our bathroom subfloor. Our hardwood floors and walls are damp. We have five industrial air movers in the living area and a massive dehumidifier. And upstairs we have three more air movers in the bathroom and another dehumidifier.
But we’re safe, and sometimes you just have to have faith it will work out.
For those of you who know me or follow me regularly, I performed at 89% today after a month of short-term disability leave.
Short answer to how my day was: good. I felt pretty good and my aches and pains at the end of the day feel pretty normal.
Now, for those who want more detail, let’s start at the beginning.
On April 15, I ruptured a tendon in my left ring finger taking my socks off. The nickname for the injury is “mallet finger” because your finger looks like a mallet or “baseball finger” because if you catch a baseball wrong you can sustain this injury.
I worked with my hand like that for a week at the Bizzy Hizzy folding clothes for Stitch Fix’s clients, performing at a solid 90%. But… I realized I rely on my left side for balance and stability and using my right side to do everything exacerbated problems I was already having with my right hip and spine as complications of my lifelong battle with cerebral palsy. That has been another journey of mine— learning about my body and how I can work with it to age well.
I often wonder what I could accomplish if my body could do what other bodies do.
So I asked my family doctor if I could take a short-term disability leave from work and focus on building core strength and stretching my hips. Because with this silly finger cast, on top of all my other issues, I was falling twice a week.
Today I returned to work— one ten-hour shift in my home department (QC) before the holiday weekend. I work Sunday. We have a paid holiday Monday. And I have a doctor appointment Tuesday afternoon with the neurological physiatrist.
Returning to work today gave me a way to ease back into it, and allows me to gather data on how my body performs. I can give that info to the physiatrist. If I hurt again by Tuesday, it’s a sign that either:
I am moving wrong, or
I shouldn’t be doing this kind of work with my body.
I arrived at work for my 6:30 a.m. shift and friends greeted me that I haven’t seen. At first I went to the wrong table, but caught my mistake, and corrected myself.
I had a right table, good for my hand injury, and one at a good height.
But then they shut the line down and I moved to a left table that was a tad high for me.
For the first 60-90 minutes, I hit all my numbers.
Eventually, I got a text from Mr. Accordion. I hope he doesn’t mind but I’m sharing his photos because:
Mr. Accordion’s ingredients Mr. Accordion at workMr. Accordion’s Halupkis ready to go in the oven
A couple times today, I had to answer phone calls regarding the toilet explosion that happened in my house yesterday. The insurance adjuster will be here Tuesday and meet with the teenager. I am working on getting water remediation people in to make sure everything is dry.
At the end of the day, I have a weird uncomfortable feeling in my left wrist and the kind of typical aches and pains that come from being older than 40 and working in a warehouse ten hours a day.
I attribute some of my success today to my personal trainer Andrew at Apex. We did an exercise yesterday that was something he called a variation of a good morning. This had me holding a weight across the back of my shoulders and “hinging” at the waist while using my hips for most of the motion.
I tried to replicate those techniques when I bent down to get items out of the bottom of my carts.
Then, when I came home, the teenager had dinner in the oven. I received a lovely message from a former editor at The Morning Call’s short-lived weekly editions, Chronicle Newspapers.
He said I was a truly good person (for all my work fostering cats) and that he missed seeing me every day.
I thanked him and said he made my day.
He replied that there were many times when I had made his and my boss’s day.
That was my favorite job ever, and one I was very good at.
Also, I tried the blueberry muffin flavor of ready-to-drink Supercoffee. My initial reaction was that it was gross. Will give a more thorough review later.
It is the final day of my short-term disability leave.
I set my alarm for 4:45 a.m. thinking it would be good practice for returning to work tomorrow.
By some strange circumstance, I woke naturally at 4:15 a.m., the same time I normally get up for work. I cuddled with Louise briefly and got out of bed before 4:30 a.m. I had the lovely vision of writing more of my upcoming novel.
But I heard water.
And it was more than a drip.
So I checked the bathroom, sloshing through several inches of water. I threw down some towels and organized some buckets and bowls.
But when I went downstairs, I saw several heavy drips pouring through the ceiling. And tiles started falling like hail.
I went back upstairs and turned off the water to the toilet. And I called the insurance company.
All before coffee, all before 5 a.m.
I went to my family doctor and he not only released me from my short-term disability leave but told me I’d made good use of my time— going to the gym three times a week and working with a personal trainer, visiting my therapist, resuming my SSRI in an attempt to lower my blood pressure, ease my emotions and hopefully that will help my balance. I went to the dentist, bought new floss and renewed my prescription for fluoride toothpaste. And I rested. I updated my vitamin regimen, added Flonase to my allergy regime, and bought a weekly pill dispenser to keep them all straight.
And that’s when I told him I had also done my follow up bloodwork. That made him, in his words, a happy medical provider.
From there, I went to Apex Training for my session with Andrew. We did a great mix of strength and core and challenging my posture and my mobility in ways that made me feel amazing. I left covered in sweat.
And the plumber came before I had a chance to shower.
We now have a new toilet— the old one was probably 60 years old. And pink. The teenager is upset I didn’t keep the old one. She thinks it would make a great planter next to the rose bush.
The teenager got me a birthday present and it arrived today.
I didn’t expect it to arrive today so I asked her to pick up two items I haven’t tried from Dunkin: the pesto grilled cheese and stuffed bagel bites with chive and onion. Response here.
I found it very cool that product registration for this Cuisineart compact toaster oven air fryer from Target could be completed via text & mobile internet.
My first recipe will be air fried apples & dates.
The dates cooked way faster than the apples so the dog ended up with some charred fruit jerky but the apples were tasty. I would lower the temp for a more even and chewier texture but that could have been due to my cut of the apple wedges.
The machine itself was very quiet while running. It threw a lot of heat— I would even claim it threw off more heat than my traditional oven. It’s size and the recipes that came with it seem the perfect volume for the teenager and I.
Also: Foster Mars wanted you to know it’s going to be a hot one today.
Yesterday was my birthday— I didn’t make any plans as money is tighter than usual with my leave from work and last night was the teenager’s senior prom.
So first the pre-prom photos:
The sky bestowed upon us a thunderstorm, a few booms, the rain itself vacillating between a steady but manageable rate and a deluge.
Our family tradition dictates that every photo occur in from of the rose bush and neighborhood tradition requires a pose in front of Little Dog Sobaka’s rhododendron. But the weather had other plans.
We did, however, improvise.
Joan, who looked even smaller beside the platform-stiletto-clad teenager in red, visited us to enjoy cake (as she has a May birthday too) and to fulfill the teenager’s wish to have her take the official photos.
This is one.
Photo by Joan Zachary
The teenager wanted a mother-daughter shot.
The teenager had ordered a custom dress for prom but it didn’t arrive in time. Instead, she wore a dress that had languished in the back of my closet (never worn) for at least a decade. The dry cleaner had ruined the rhinestone strap so she had her grandmother replace it with black sequins to match the glittery shoes she found in a thrift store years ago.
Our regular nail tech had retired from the industry in deference to professional employment, but the teenager approached her about maybe doing them one last time.
Which the response was yes, and she was kind enough to give the teenager a full set of acrylics and a gel mani on her patio.
The local newspaper had shots posted before the kids even got home.
I spent the evening eating chocolate cake, dabbling in creative writing, responding to birthday wishes (which did not include any from my mother, nor has she responded to any of my texts since May 10), reading and testing new-to-me television programs like Hulu’s Candy and Lifetime’s Mary Kills People.
And I washed it all down with a Fresca. How is that for a middle-aged party of one-plus-dog.
This morning, the start of my new year on planet Earth included a trip to Apex Training.
I have had the pleasure of living in the same neighborhood for almost 20 years, and most of my neighbors have been here for that 20 years.
One of my neighbors exited his house as I left my door at 9:30 a.m. and we had a lovely chat about not falling down, my ruptured tendon and my gym.
The neighbor concluded the conversation by saying “it must be working” as I looked “stronger” but I think he meant healthier— which made me think…
Although I have not lost weight and I have not lost fat or inches, I have gained strength and range of motion. I did a 48 second plank as my baseline today, so I look forward to future growth. And despite my hand injury, I was nailing dumbbell shoulder rows at 25 pounds.
My goals are doable if I get my stress and binge eating under control.
If you read my post from earlier today, then you already know my hand specialist/orthopedic surgeon cut off my cast.
No more man with hat.
This meant I had to schedule an appointment with the very amazing staff at The Institute for Hand and Upper Extremity Rehabilitation for a new cast.
This also meant I had to cancel my session with Andrew at Apex Training.
At the time I should have been sweating, the teenager and I were cruising down the highway.
The staff member who originally wrapped my finger anxiously stood by as a newer staff member removed the temporary splint.
“You look like you’re waiting for someone to open a present,” I said.
She was that excited to see how I was healing.
My finger is straight, which means the tendon is growing in the right direction. It does not have enough tissue to have any strength yet, so another cast was put on.
I was in and out in 15 minutes, including my trip to the bathroom.
FURR Louise
In other news, our remaining two foster who needed shots made it to the vet today. While I was rocking temporary splints.
My soul, although surrounded by so much goodness and spring happy vibes, trembles in stress most of every day.
2022 has challenged me.
And that’s okay.
Today I visited my hand specialist for my first monthly follow-up of my ruptured tendon in my left ring finger, an injury known as “mallet finger” or “baseball finger.”
Here are some of my previous posts about the injury:
My specialist removed my cast tonight and announced my performance at holding my finger up is halfway there.
Then he also announced I’d need a splint or a new cast.
I made the appointment for my follow up at the office close to home only to have him call me and tell me I need to see the hand institute by his office on the other side of the valley. 30 minute drive.
At the end of a very busy week that includes my birthday.
I have to take some foster cats to the vet at 1, and run over to my occupational therapist’s office for a 3:30 appointment. I called from the parking lot of the specialist.
Then I had to come home and crate 3 cats for their vet appointment so now my temporary splint is very fuzzy.
I’ll update later based on what the next phase of treatment is. Whatever it is, I hope we can wash my hands first.
Angel Ackerman 