Wednesday, October 25, 2017

Something Wicked This Way Comes

All year long various people have been asking me about taking a vacation. Which is weird, because usually the only people who talk to me about traveling are the few people I actually travel with. Because a vacation implies there is time and money and availability and resources and a shit ton of other factors that magically align. 

With the addition of our new dog this year, I officially wrote off any hope of traveling - let alone 'vacationing'. (I'm sure this reflects poorly on me, but somehow I can't shake the idea of a vacation being something wealthy television characters take in the 1950s. Or in the case of a particular doctor who has asked at each visit this year, multi-week world-tour like expeditions to amazing and exotic locales. 'Cause doesn't everyone go to Australia on a whim for their 5th or 6th trip of the year?)

And then once we rounded summer for the autumn, the urge to see an actual seasonal change starting kicking me in the gut. My family and I talked about the possibility of a brief trip, a there and back again kind of jaunt to one of our favorite fall locations to restock from orchards and delightful treats we've missed. 

And before you could say "Is that your check engine light?" our vehicle was in the shop. My father refers to the kind of known but not-covered-under-warranty issue it was as planned obsolescence - we could make this little tiny valve more durable, but we're not so you've got to buy something from us again AND pay for the labor cost - somewhere in the ballpark of your current monthly car payment.

Ouch.

Okay, but while not ideal it wasn't the worst case scenario. Maybe we could still pull of a quick getaway. 

Ha! Ha ha, I say!

Because a quick run over of the car (confirmed by us after picked up the vehicle) shows we need a new set of tires and brakes. 
He's going to pay $500 for 4 bald tires and a tow. Sounds about right.

(Wheezing choke) Ouch ouch.

For the briefest of moments I wondered if I could still somehow make it work. 

*Crashboombang*

I broke a bone for the first time in my life.  
Gawrsh! That looks painful - and expensive!
I spent most of my childhood wrapped in sports bandages, swollen joints and blood dripping down after falling off bikes. I fell up stairs, I fell down stairs. I tripped over my own feet and over nothing at all. All the grace and coordination of a blindfolded colt born on ice. And nothing, not so much as a hairline fracture until now. 

And I didn't just break something half-way relatively easy to navigate around. Oh no. I broke a bone in a place that will not heal on its own on in my foot. On my dominant side. That pushes the pedals in the car. 

I got to have surgery. My foot is so wrapped up in bandages and packing, topped with an immobilizing boot, that my husband keeps laughing that I should dress up for Halloween as the Wicked Witch and tell kids that Dorothy missed me with the house and it only got my foot. 

I'm completely non-weight bearing for a month and a half at a minimum. The person I despise most at the moment is the WASPy house designer who decided she needed to make popular the idea of adding an extra door to the toilet that is already inside a home bathroom. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to navigate a toilet hidden inside your bathroom so a handful of squeamish people can believe their spouses don't know they poop when you've only got 1 foot to balance on?

I hope you're laughing at that. Seriously. Because I have lost count of the number of times I've burst out laughing when I'm on the verge of crying the past few weeks. We've rounded ridiculous and are sliding into absurd. 

So let me sum this up a bit. I'm supposed to basically be on bed rest (using a little scooter I kneel on when I do need to move) until the bone heals. I take care of a household. I am forever running to the pharmacy or grocery store or doctor's office for a house full of my older folks. But I can't drive. For several weeks. 

In October. 

October is one of the two months my mother's mental illness goes completely bananas and her psychiatrist lets me use her personal cell number to reach her 24/7. And I'm out of commission. Let me clarify that for how my mother views things. I'm not out of commission. I'm getting all the attention. That's 200% how she sees this. And she's not going to stand for that. 

Necessary PSA that not all mental illnesses are the same and this is in no way meant to be derogatory in any way. My mother has more than a few things going on in her brain at the same time as her mental illness - something she's been treated for since before I was born. But at some point in her mind, right around the time I hit puberty, my mom took a very serious look at me and saw A. the bratty baby sister she fought with in her youth and B. competition for attention. I have been fair game for routine hatred ever since. 

A few days ago, my mom tried to convince me that she was the one with the broken bone (she eventually settled on her foot, but for an hour or two she said it was her arm). Later she told me I used to be so sweet to her, but that's mostly gone now. Yesterday and today she's been remarking that she needs to get ready because I'm having people over. A long and winding conversation gives way in the long run for her to make me feel guilty because I have friends and sometimes I go out and do things with them. There's so much more, so many more disheartening things, but you get the basic idea.

What I can't stop wondering though, is what horrible fate awaited me should I have pressed on with my longing thoughts of a fall trip that this was what had to stop me. At this point, I'll settle in with my homemade version of The Exorcist, a stack of books to read and now that I'm shaking the cobwebs of the painkiller out of my brain, writing.


To the End

When I began this blog 5 years ago, it ended up being a catch-all for whatever slogged through my brain, mostly writing and the difficu...