by Pa Rock
Mister Sunshine
Gloom, despair, and agony on me . . .
If there was a way to be more miserable than I currently am, the CIA should bottle it for use in their dirty deeds. After falling and breaking my arm on Sunday evening - my dominant right arm - I now find myself sleeping fitfully, and awakening many times during the night moaning in pain. I have lost the pleasure of reading because I can't hold a book, my once-treasured long walks are a thing of the past, I can no longer find solitude and peace in riding the mower, Rosie is concerned that I won't bend over to provide her with attention, I type hunt-and-peck with my left hand, and I have not had a shower since Sunday morning.
Deep dark depression - excessive misery . . .
I managed to wrangle an invitation to the local orthopedic clinic yesterday evening, and they graciously attended to me just 75 minutes after my scheduled appointment time. It's a nice clinic. Many smaller communities have better than average orthopedic clinics to handle the constant stream of football injuries from the local schools.
There were three other patients at the clinic who were wearing face masks, all old farts, and of the twenty-five or so staff members that I saw, only two - a doctor and a nurse - who were masked. (The staff was very thorough in checking out the health and travel history of patients, but left a lot to be desired with regard to their own health protocols.)
I overheard one of the older masked patients ask a staff member why the staff weren't wearing masks. The young woman replied, "Oh sir, we don't have to wear masks, but they did give us permission to wear them if we wanted to."
I felt like my visit should have come with complimentary coronavirus test!
When the doctor finally got to me, her first words were that my arm was broken and that I would be dealing with if for six to nine months. My first words were "Oh, hell!" And in a couple of minutes she was gone and a physical therapist showed up who helped me to get out of the tee shirt that I had first put on Sunday morning. Then he wrapped me ia a girdle device with a couple of velcro rings to hold my arm in place.
And now I can't get it off - and my son won't try because he is afraid that his efforts would hurt me.
If it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all . . .
Today I am trying to secure a home health aide, someone who can get me into the shower. I have made several calls and am on the official merry-go-round with each petty bureaucrat telling me why he or she can't help and referring me on to the next.
I'm a social worker and when I get good and pissed I will go to town and things will happen! I will be good and ripe by the time I get there, so the entire clinic will likely mask-up!
Gloom, despair and agony pn them!
Mister Sunshine
Gloom, despair, and agony on me . . .
If there was a way to be more miserable than I currently am, the CIA should bottle it for use in their dirty deeds. After falling and breaking my arm on Sunday evening - my dominant right arm - I now find myself sleeping fitfully, and awakening many times during the night moaning in pain. I have lost the pleasure of reading because I can't hold a book, my once-treasured long walks are a thing of the past, I can no longer find solitude and peace in riding the mower, Rosie is concerned that I won't bend over to provide her with attention, I type hunt-and-peck with my left hand, and I have not had a shower since Sunday morning.
Deep dark depression - excessive misery . . .
I managed to wrangle an invitation to the local orthopedic clinic yesterday evening, and they graciously attended to me just 75 minutes after my scheduled appointment time. It's a nice clinic. Many smaller communities have better than average orthopedic clinics to handle the constant stream of football injuries from the local schools.
There were three other patients at the clinic who were wearing face masks, all old farts, and of the twenty-five or so staff members that I saw, only two - a doctor and a nurse - who were masked. (The staff was very thorough in checking out the health and travel history of patients, but left a lot to be desired with regard to their own health protocols.)
I overheard one of the older masked patients ask a staff member why the staff weren't wearing masks. The young woman replied, "Oh sir, we don't have to wear masks, but they did give us permission to wear them if we wanted to."
I felt like my visit should have come with complimentary coronavirus test!
When the doctor finally got to me, her first words were that my arm was broken and that I would be dealing with if for six to nine months. My first words were "Oh, hell!" And in a couple of minutes she was gone and a physical therapist showed up who helped me to get out of the tee shirt that I had first put on Sunday morning. Then he wrapped me ia a girdle device with a couple of velcro rings to hold my arm in place.
And now I can't get it off - and my son won't try because he is afraid that his efforts would hurt me.
If it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all . . .
Today I am trying to secure a home health aide, someone who can get me into the shower. I have made several calls and am on the official merry-go-round with each petty bureaucrat telling me why he or she can't help and referring me on to the next.
I'm a social worker and when I get good and pissed I will go to town and things will happen! I will be good and ripe by the time I get there, so the entire clinic will likely mask-up!
Gloom, despair and agony pn them!
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