For Nancy….

I was feeling particularly poetic or witty today, so I’ll exercise a littler brevity (what? you think you’re at the wrong blog? Yup, this really Patches). Some days my head feels too heavy to write, and today is one of those days.

I had been thinking about Nancy recently, and her quest for sunnier days. The Missus cut the grass and bagged leaves, this morning so it was the perfect time to capture postcards of spring, because by tomorrow, the wind will blow it all to hell again. Since I can’t package up spring and mail it to you Nancy, here are a few images of the palette and warmth that will be coming your way soon (though, maybe not in a timely manner).

Clicking on any of the thumbnails below will give you a larger view.

Poetry Friday: Melt

Patience has persevered and Friday is finally upon us. Yah! Once again Mona has provided an opportunity to talk trash using adjectives, memories or creative media of choice via Poetry Friday! This week’s word has been supplied by the lovely Maggie.

Sometimes I get really suspicious about my stream of consciousness. I attempted three different poems for the word, “melt”, and all three executions read like adolescent wet dreams. Maybe I should submit them for consideration to an erotic anthology, then I can use the proceeds to get a life. Well, anywhoo, I chose the lesser of three evils to illustrate. Maybe next week will find me less preoccupied.

Giving

Sometimes we find ourselves accidentally stumbling into someone else’s moment. We aren’t always to blame. It can be innocent like finding a quiet corner to read in, and being invaded by someone yelling into a cell phone. One moment you’re minding your own business, and then damn Skippy! Before you know it, they’ve sucked you into their drama because they’re too emotional to control the volume of their speaking voice. Meh.

When we accidentally bump into someone else’s moment, we’re cognizant enough to slowly back away, covering your blushing face with a hand, stumbling over apologies. It’s like when you’re a teenager and you get home from school early because some enterprising sophomore called in a bomb threat because he wasn’t prepared for a history test, so there you are surprising your parents having a nooner in the kitchen. Does it get any more uncomfortable than that?

Yes, and sometimes you just can’t back away. Saturday, when the Mister and the Missus were waiting in the hospital lobby, he spotted their next door neighbor, a local radiologist, and called out to him. Innocently the Mister inquired about how things were going and Dr. X broke down and shed a few tears. Dr. X has been coping with the rigors of prostate cancer for eight months or so. He has always been very candid and open about discussing the nature of his illness. His medical credentials in addition to his personal experience have made him quite knowledgeable about the disease and its prevention. His candor is evident by his willingness to testify to other men in the neighborhood. The Mister and Misses know Dr. X on a casual basis, but they have an intimate knowledge of his crotch.

Dr. X walked over and said a mass showed up his hip during his last scan. He was going to have a biopsy Monday to determine if it was a tumor or an infection. With a few stray tears running down his cheek he said, “This isn’t fair. I’m forty-six-year-old man and this is an old man’s disease.” then paused a breath before asking,”What are you guys doing here?”

The Mister explained his mother was in surgery for a hip replacement. It was like flipping a switch, for Dr. X. He immediately turned off his tears, and turned on his physician, offering consolations about the Mister’s Mother. He spoke with authority about the importance of getting her up and walking to prevent blood clots, and how important physical therapy was. After exchanging a few pleasantries, he shook hands and walked away fully composed.

When Dr. X was gone Missus Chica turned to the Mister and said,”It’s too soon for something bad to happen, he has too much left to give.”

Fits of Madness…

All tongue biting and no quipping make Missus Chica a dull daughter-in-law (though probably a more desirable one). Life moves one in spite of the ball-busting, so Missus Chica has opted to move on too.

Fits of madness are pretty frequent here. Dirty Girl and I take turns chasing each other up the stairs for no discernible reason other than, it’s Wednesday. I like to spin around on the kitchen barstool until I get queasy , because I get lots of attention. Dirty Girl likes to sliding on the doormats, because she thinks its funny when the folks trip over them. We aren’t the only residents prone to insanity here. I’ve almost been stepped on before as Mister Hombre chased Missus Chica around the coffee table, but that may be T.M.I.

The Missus seems to experience her fits of madness after periods or duress. Take this hospital business. It can wear a person down, but the Missus refuses to be suppressed. Saturday, as they awaited the surgery results the family took advantage of the slightly more comfortable than rock seating in the hospital lobby. The procedure and recovery exceeded three hours. After the first hour past conversation was largely exhausted, and everyone had already taken the turn with the AARP magazine, which I might add was the ONLY magazine in the whole place. One by one, members of the family dosed off. Then one by one, they all started to snore. Three cups of coffee in her stomach, the Missus was in no danger of falling asleep. The symphony of snoring made it difficult not to snicker and wake everyone up.

In a moment of inspiration, the Missus decided she should document this disorderly public napping for posterity, and she proceeded to photograph the family using the built in i-camera on her laptop. Be careful, where you dose, you wouldn’t want to be caught catching flies.

Feel free to submit captions.

Jekyll & Hyde

Missus Chica doesn’t like hospitals. When she was twenty, she listened as medical staff bagged her father and tried to jump-start his heart. It was a small hospital, the exam rooms were less than thirty feet from the waiting area. In their haste to save his life, paramedics neglected to close the door. After he passed, she could still hear the rhythmic wheeze of the cpr bag.

The Mister’s family likes to see how many visitors they can fit into the patient’s room. I like to think of it as the octogenarian version of “How many kids can fit in a phone booth?”. Think about it, if the college students were willing to dislocate a hip, they could totally beat the seniors….For the Mister’s family, the number of visitors is directly proportionate to how much you are loved. Based on that theory, hip replacement surgery rates more love than a bladder stretch, but less than internal bleeding.

The Missus prefers to keep vigil in the lobby. She feels like she’s in the way if she spends too much time in the room. The atmosphere is solemn, like a wake with no liquor and no corpse. Patients don’t feel their best. It’s painful to watch three grown men adjust things that don’t need adjusting and ignoring less glamorous attentions that do. Missus Chica checks on the family at regular intervals, but tries not to overstay her welcome. She’s conveniently located in the lobby with a cup of coffee, and her computer, should Mister Hombre need her.

Monday morning was difficult for Mrs. One Eye and she simply wasn’t herself. She was hyper-sensitve to light and touch, walking a tightrope between lucidity and total madness. She thrashed in the bed, she saw bugs that did not exist, and she constantly read her I.D. band to remind herself who she was. At one point she called Missus Chica a witch, regained control of herself, giggled nervously apologized and then called her a witch again. The Missus was in a zen kind of state and she just flashed a smile at the Mister. Witch or not, it was really just a question of semantics. It was difficult to witness. Watching her spin inconsolably out of control. It was on par with the episode that had her admitted to the hospital in January.

In a moment of grace, the sedative and pain medication kicked in, and Mrs. One Eye slowly floated down to earth. It was a Jekyll & Hyde transformation. She was almost relaxed.

Later she received her first session of physical therapy. The therapist showed her exercises to strengthen her legs, sat her up in the bed, coached on walker techniques, and then had her walk to the door assisted. The PT was impressed with her progress and noted how strong and determined Mrs. One Eye is.

Once the PT discovered Mrs. One Eye was “praise driven” , she took advantage converting the family members into cheerleaders. The more praise she received, the more she showed off. She is determined to improve, and her strength and stubborn streak will be assets, but her dementia will make it difficult to commit the proper techniques to memory. Wednesday, she will be transfered to the physical therapy floor. For now, it’s all good.