Tuesday, July 17, 2018

The Mug Wiper

Every night when I sit down to dinner, I think of my father.

I don't know when it started with him--long after I left home, I'm sure.  But he decided that instead of using a napkin, he preferred a moist dishrag, which he called a mug wiper.

He was retired by then, had been for a long time, and my mother was working a full time job.  She would come home from work, cook his dinner, set the table and serve him and once in awhile forget the mug wiper.  He always got angry.

Ironically, the mug wiper was the straw that broke the now-fragile back of my parents' marriage.
Over 25 years or so, my mother had worked her way up from a part time typist for the trust department of the Bank of America to a full time trust officer, a very big deal.  

She came home one night and my father and his friend were sitting outside, drinking and my father was saying something like "She has them all fooled.  They think she's so smart.  She's such a big deal, but she's so stupid she can't even remember a simple thing like a mug wiper."

Whatever fragile connection remained between them after my sister's death was killed in that moment, when she realized what he thought of her.  The divorce proceedings started not long after that.

So whenever I sit down at the dinner table and grab a dish towel that I probably left there accidentally, and use it as a napkin, I think of my father and his damn mug wiper.

* * * * *
I slept last night.  I've had a difficult time ever since we got home from Santa Barbara, and while the new recliner is wonderful, it didn't help.

The problem is the ow-ie that I got on my backside during the weekend.

It's positioned just wrong.  No matter how I sit it hurts.  A lot. (Stock market tip:  buy Neosporin stock; I'm supporting the company right now!) If I sit in the recliner (whether my old recliner, the one in Santa Barbara, or the new one), I can position myself so that it's bearable.  But if my body moves at all, you know like breathing or blinking or anything whatsoever that moves it off that sweet spot I finally found, it's like raking an open blister across sand paper.

I  thought the new recliner would help because the seat is not as deep as the old recliner so I can settle myself in the seat before reclining the chair, but the act of reclining moves the body and it hurts like hell.  I then try to reposition myself, but the only thing that helps is standing the chair up again.  Then there I am, half standing, half sitting...comfortable, but trying to slowly inch myself into some place where I can bear the discomfort.

It's getting better.  The Neosporin is working its magic but it's frustratingly slow.  The last couple of nights, I found myself at 3 a.m. in tears, so sleepy and so unable to get to sleep.  When Ned bounds in the house at 9 a.m., happy, energetic and eager to get to work on helping with the house it's all I can do to be civil because I'm so sleep deprived.

But I found a solution last night.

I got the chair half-standing me up, so my backside didn't hurt, but not so far that I was in danger of sliding out, and then I got a TV table and my neck pillow, stuck my head down on the pillow and I was actually able to get a few hours of sleep in.
It wasn't perfect, but I slept.  That's a plus.

Each day the backside gets better, though I will be very happy when it's all healed and I can really start bonding with the new chair!

Each night when I am struggling to get comfortable, I long desperately to lie down.  But I know that if I go to the couch to lie down, I won't be able to get up again.  Part of this "whatever it is" that means I can't lift my body up from a prone position.  I keep thinking that one of these days I'll put Walt on notice after he wakes up and go lie down on the couch and tell him to come back in an hour and see if I'm ready to get up.

When, oh when is this "whatever it is" going to give me back my life?
* * * *
My resolve not to get political here prevents me from discussing #45 and Putin.  But it ain't easy!

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