I once believed I was cast from the same mold as my pointers: lean, fast and neurotic. As the years grow, I feel more kinship to Peter the Elder.
The Grandpa of this joint, the umpire when dog play gets too rough, the nanny who licks all the pointers dry when we get back from runs, Peter may not be able to lope from one end of the farm to the other as he once did, but he can ride coach.
Never leave a man behind. Pippins and I pull him around in the bicycle wagon.
A few months back while Peter was with his physiotherapist, she noted how his front leg lameness was getting worse. Long story short: we had a pinkie cancer scare. The vet school amputated his toe.
So, now when he goes to PT, he gets more therapeutic massages and shorter underwater treadmill activities. I think he's OK with that.
Peter would've been long gone years ago if it hadn't been for the care he gets from his BFF/physiotherapist, Liz. It's all about living your best life. I may not be the speed demon of 7 years ago, but considering how many times I've been sewn back together, I owe a debt of gratitude to the Hughston Orthopedic Hospital and my Drs. Stewart, Jacobson and McDonald for enabling me to live my life to the max.
When the recent surgery to repair my broken finger failed due to infection lysing the bones in my finger, I only had one choice: be like The Peter.
Thanks to my ticker, I remain awake during most surgeries, general anesthesia is too risky. You don't realize how busy an OR is until you're conscious for the procedures. BTW, most surgeons don't appreciate their patients talking to them and asking questions. Want to freak someone out who waltzes into the room? Say good morning to them as the surgeon is busy chopping off your finger. They don't expect a conversant patient. Nerve block, bit of Lidocaine and I was out of there by 9:30 AM.
Protocol is that you can drive yourself to the hospital, but family or friend must pick you up, not even Uber (I tried). So, I had driven my truck and trailer to town at 4:30 AM and I'd hidden them in the bottom of the hospital parking lot. I can play by the rules. Post-surgery, the nurse had me in a wheel chair at the curb and we heard Vannah before seeing her. My Heavy Metal coach swooped in and peeled back out. She drove me a few hundred yards, deposited me at my truck and sped back off to run farm errands. I had farm errands of my own to run and I wasn't about to spend a day being unproductive in bed staring at my nub. First task: get coffee. Do you know that Lidocaine gets in your brain?
One of my jobs was to have the farm trailer evaluated, the coupler had gotten loose and I thought it might be unsafe. Here's where I ended up.
I felt like I'd stepped back into El Salvador. The whole block building was like a fortress with an inner courtyard. Everything painted in bright colors. As I was waiting for my turn, roosters chased me around the truck, then Chiahuahuas darted out to savage me. Lidocaine once again probably responsible for having me think this was hilarious.
Also relished was the thought that I might qualify for a handicap placard now. Don't amputees qualify???
Last errand of the day: picking up our new mower.
Does it hurt? Yeah! But, does it require 30 tablets of opiods and 2 weeks off??? I think not.
The prescription was never filled.
I have too much living to do to lay around feeling sorry for myself. And Vannah had too much grass to cut.
I think they've bonded, she's put miles on the new Zero Turn in the 5 days we've had it..
The next day, Cristian's dad and I tackled the burn pile. Me trying to manage the flame thrower with one hand and Ivan carting around buckets of diesel to light this soaked pile of limbs.
I guess we worried Cristian too much, he took the flame thrower away from me.
Ain't nobody going to stop me, nor Peter. Life is to be seized, not squandered.
My pinkie won't bend anymore, which is an issue since the farm has already claimed the end of it, I'd rather not have the remainder ripped off.
Pinkie physiotherapy. Just like Peter. Except I get no hugs and kisses, just Elvira Mistress of the Dark twisting my freshly cut nub.
And laughter; surround yourself with creative, irreverent nut jobs. My sister in Texas wanted the cut finger to make a birthday candle holder out of the bone, a dear friend wanted it to craft as an amulet, I wanted it because Halloween is around the corner and I already had a dozen practical jokes to play on coworkers and neighbors. Unfortunately, the surgeon refused my request to put it in the baggie I had stashed in my hospital gown.
The best one though is from my neighbor, Scrappy:
Bless his heart, I depend on our texting repartees to keep me sane. Well, I think I'm sane, my dogs do too, they tell me that all the time.
