Spring Thaw Piggie

Well, Steve has most of his littlest left toe with him still.

After he was admitted that evening, I came home, got really drunk (which for me is two and a half drinks) and fell a apart. Special and specific people were phoned, and I wrote the previous blog (which I've updated so it makes just a bit more sense) in the in-between times.

Steve was on the 8th Floor this time around, which is not as insane nor crowded and disorienting as on the 10th Floor: the people seem less beholden to the medical data grid but still adhere to the machine built into it all.

The upshot is, they cut out the tiny icky part of the wee-wee toe, loaded him up on antibiotics and I picked him up two days later. The toe's healing nicely and I'm starting to ride him again about building stamina.

To his credit, he's jumped into it when he could have passed, like doing the shopping with me today, which really pushed him, but he recovered quickly. I tossed out the idea of going to Disneyland for a day, shooting for that as a comfortable stamina goal. He didn't seem to balk at the idea, so Cinderella's Castle may be in our near future; more likely: Cars Land.

On the studio front, I sealed the deal with one of the two clients I interviewed with last week (the antiques and artwork collector), and I'm meeting with the second one (a Golden Retriever rescue organization) again this Friday (right after my dental consult in the morning).

And suddenly all of this regurgitation of information seems terribly vulgar, like describing bowel movements to the uncomfortable observer.

But that's kind of the threshold of senior citizenship in our society; that point where health becomes more of a declining concern and less of a gift. You're thinking about diapers and walkers to get through the day once again. But now you're not a baby; you have your own thoughts and prejudices and apprehensions to deal with as well as everyone else's.

The first time you admit at the grocery store that, yes, you do need help out to your car with your groceries, it happens: a bumper sticker on your forehead, adhered for life, which simply says "elderly," and labels you until death.

I saw a woman, probably in her 90s, using two canes to drag herself from the car to the grocery cart at the front of the store. It might have taken her forever, but she's going to the store to get the things she needs to stay alive. If she can't get the help, she'll get there on her own. Or maybe she just doesn't need the help.

I haven't had any kind of  nicotine for about 24 days, by my reckoning. I've had urges to smoke, but I just can't give up being nicotine free. I've decided that's part of the rest of my life.