I promise to not lick my bottom
Wednesday, and my world return to near normal. Little pinpricks of irritation grace my nether parts as my smooth shaven bottom regrows the hair that the catherization lab people so deftly removed. Dignity has been restored, and the continual stream of people who paraded into my room to unceremoniously hike the blankets to look at the incision in my groin are a passing memory. Everyone had a peek, it seems, including the janitor. I hung my dignity in the patient closet and stoically endured the indignity.
Kippur the budgie is glad to see me and is rewarding me with chirps, burbles soft squawks and dancing when I ignore her. And sleeping! It has been so long since I had such sound sleep! Total zonk sleep that takes half an hour to rouse completely from. I didn’t know how miserable I was. The symptoms of shortness of breath and lack of energy had so slowly snuck up on me that I just believed that all of that was normal.
Today, I will promptly nap when I yawn, wake when my eyes open, eat when I am hungry, write when I feel like it. It is a recovery day. Mostly. I admit to a tinge of guilt at my sloth, but I am sure to quickly get over it.
Talk radio fills the air, the sun is waxing stronger each day. In spite of the hard freezing, the hardy wildflowers continue to put up greenery in preparation for spring blooming. Still a chilly 37° outside, a warm 75° inside.
A bottomless coffeepot is a perk this morning, though Snookums has expressly forbidden me to walk out on the front porch because of the ice. She took a hard spill there this morning. No. I’ll not be allowed to even de-ice the steps. The back stoop is ice free, and we’ll use that. Yes, ma’am.
The press is telling me everything about the Presidents SOTU speech, whether I want to hear it or not. He sounds in full campaign mode as he tries to salvage the train wreck. I think the smartest thing he can do right now is just shut-up and let the party hacks do the salvage work.
And life returns to its soft day upon day routine …