Oh, the progress I have made since Dr. Collins gave me a new knee…..

I have been home since Thursday afternoon, and every day finds me improved.  I am more independent; I can sashay with a cane, took two forbidden showers with the help of Press n Seal, and learned to take pain killers without nausea.  My blood has see sawed from too thick to too thin, but that is typical.  The bruises that represent blood draws and anesthesia have morphed from purple to yellow.  I have abandoned my first floor couch and returned to my bed to sleep.  (Last night my ice bag leaked through all the bedding- I am not sure if Steve welcomes me back)  I am overjoyed that the ruins are in the repair mode.  I am sad that the scale tells me that a diet of broth and jello resulted in a net loss of…..NO, a net gain of 1.2 pounds.  My plan to get skinny via reduced appetite has run into a cruel reality- as a blob, I will not lose any weight.  There will be no positive cosmetic side effects to this surgery.  I will have to diet and exercise myself into a decent Mother of the Groom appearance by August 21.  That just stinks.

What I am is fragmented.  I have a “to do” list that is simple; it includes rote tasks like thank you notes, physical therapy, book club reading, phone calls and a few Village obligations. I feel good enough to write Mother’s Day cards to my sisters, but I cannot find them.  I would like to blame the medicine, but I think it is my basic character to flutter rather than settle.  I am bugging myself.  

These are things that I am fixating on this week:
Ernie Harwell’s death.  He was the voice of the Tigers, and therefore an audio thread connected to my gawky years.  I add the smell of Tiger Stadium to my memory box, and I am back in time. We would drag the radio out to the patio and listen to him call the game.  If we were lucky, neighbor boys would hang out, their ten speed bikes leaning against the fence.  Summertime…..   We all wear out, but Ernie did it with grace and kindness.  Detroit gets stereotyped as a grimy mess, and it is true that the Motor City lacks the popping culture we take for granted here.  But perhaps because there are fewer attractions, friendships and family form the social order.  It creates a rich life. Ernie was family to us, part of the richness.     
He was treasured and will be missed.  
The shooting on the Stevenson.  This is my route home from the city. I am haunted that rage persisted across so many miles.  I am shocked at the deep disregard for life. Monday night a couple of friends went to a Sox game and had drinks at the Spy Bar.  And then they had an altercation that migrated 15 miles to a shootout on the expressway.  How can a human being fail to process the consequences of aiming a gun at a car ?  One dead, one near death.  Children   orphaned. The car could have careened into others, killing innocents.   I cannot grasp the hate that ignites this action.  The usual suspects of alcohol and guns play their stock roles. I worry about my boys, with their party moods and  liquor-induced abandon.  Innocent revelers are not a match for a baseball bat wielding idiot, or worse, a gun toting criminal.  As long as taxis and trains can carry celebrants home, there is no incentive to stay competent.  Frat style drinking persists much longer here than in other places.    Late closings conspire to turn smart people into babbling puddles.  We need to think before we drink.  
Physical Therapy:  I need it, I hate it.  I try not to cry, and I yelp.  My therapist comes to the house, has a lovely demeanor, and then forces me to push the knee beyond any kind of comfort.   As soon as she leaves, I celebrate.  Then I ice, elevate and baby myself.  The babying is a mistake.  No pain, no gain.  
She just called me and will be here in 45 minutes. I have to close, and take prophylactic pain meds.  Think of me.  Pray for me.  
More fixations later….if I survive physical therapy.

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