On the Cliche to Recovery

This should be my last entry before I start asking everyone to keep an eye out for a tiny self-published collection of broken-leg notes I plan on working up to raise money for the bill.

I'm not even sure how I want to go about this. I still can't put any weight on the knee, but many other things have changed, and for the better. The cat isn't afraid of me anymore, in fact, he gets in my way and doesn't flinch when I need to brandish my crutch at him to get him to move.

I can sleep through the night easy as pie.

At first, sleeping was one of the main things I didn't like. Well, going to sleep. I was stuck in one position in bed, sweating profusely, unable to sleep more than three hours in a row without having to hobble to the bathroom. Even while asleep the time was more like uneasy twilight, where my brain was running through different superhero scenarios, where each scenario was a sleeping position and my leg was the hero. Something like that. Anyway, it always felt like I never got any rest.

Then I started staying up real late, and that mostly fixed it. I could sleep through "the night", which consisted of 3 to 6:30ish. Now I'm good for a regular schedule.

My crutch stamina and palm-ache have been steadily increasing and decreasing, respectively. My lumberjack like beard--with a new segment of hairs encroaching on my left eye--is patiently waiting my brother's sending of my mechanical razor. The crazies are mostly abated, but I did work them in somewhere else, for sure. Made it constructive.

So, here are some pictures detailing my sad triple-fortnight on our big couch.

The first is a proud moment early on--I got pants on for the first time (before that I had been in a towel):

The next is from a few weeks later, as I was losing it. The picture was going to be used for a post, and I still think I'll write the post, but not for a few months, so I'll have time to reflect on the wackyness of the whole thing.

That is Old Spice deodorant, lit on fire...in case you couldn't tell.

The next picture I took from that day we went to the beach and I lounged under the umbrella and tried to read A Wild Sheep Chase. I felt, eh, what the hell...why not take a picture of one of the bastards that started it all.

I don't blame the ship. It was the bike...and me. That bike had a history, yet I rode it anyway.

Here's a shot of the incision with no tape of staples or anything. As I type this it looks even better than here, and sometime later I might include a picture if the scar, but since the pictures don't figure into that little self-published dealy I mentioned, it doesn't really matter.

I did finally finish A Wild Sheep Chase (courtesy of Norm). All I can say is...I love Murakami. If anyone reading this hasn't ever heard of Haruki Murakami, then surprise yourself and check out the great starter novel A Wild Sheep Chase. I also finished Calico Joe (courtesy of my mom). Normally I'm not a John Grisham reader, and I probably would have skipped this had it not been mailed to me, but it was fun and quick and was all about baseball and redemption.

So now I go about my days getting stronger, in the brain and the rest of my corporeal collection.