The Truth Is A Stranger To His Tongue

I called my bank's automated phone line Friday, to balance my checkbook register. Everything checked out just right, except for a debit charge of $66.25. It was on Wednesday. I had made several transactions on Wednesday, but mine were all accounted for. This $66.25 was still "pending," so I couldn't check on that specific amount to hear WHERE it was charged.

Of course I knew it had to be Farmer H. I did NOT know that there would be several parts to this interrogation. Good thing I pay attention to details.

When I left for town, A-Cad was missing from the garage. That was odd. Farmer H always drives SilverRedO, unless he's going to the doctor up north, or down south in Casino Town. Not just to run around town and to his SUS2.5 on Fridays. I didn't see any flat tires on SilverRedO. When he got home, I asked about it.

"Why did you drive A-Cad today? Is something wrong with your truck?"

"No. I still had the guns in there that I got from my supplier in Illinois. So I was taking them to my shop."

Then I asked if he had used the debit card for $66.25. I didn't mention the date.

"Oh. Yeah. That was for gas in the Acadia. For me and Pony to go to the lottery office and cash in your tickets."

"Okay. That was last week. This was on Wednesday."

"Oh. It was for me to go down to Casino Town to my endocrinologist. But I'd also used up gas in the Acadia for your lottery."

"Huh."

I let that info simmer for a while as I scratched my lottery tickets, then made Farmer H's supper. Then a light bulb appeared over my VALedictorian noggin.

"Hey. You said you got $66.25 of gas in A-Cad for the lottery trip, and your doctor trip to Casino Town. But you didn't take the Acadia to Casino Town. You were in your truck that day. I remember, because I was talking to The Pony about it being the hottest day of the year, and I didn't want your truck to break down. BUT I know you took the Acadia to Illinois on Wednesday, because I asked what you were driving, and I gave you the new insurance card for the Acadia. AND you just said that your guns were still in the Acadia from your Illinois trip."

"Well. Yeah..."

"So that gas should not be charged on our debit. It's your responsibility, because it's for your business."

"But I spent MY gas money in my truck, going to the doctor. And the lottery trip DID use up gas in the Acadia..."

"Which is in the Acadia to be used for trips like that to the lottery. Not for your business trips."

"Well, it woulda got put in the Acadia for my doctor trip if I drove the Acadia. I just drove my truck that day. So it's all the same."

Hmm. If it's all the same, why such a roundabout story? And why didn't Farmer H tell me or give me the receipt, instead of waiting for me to find out by listening to the charges on the bank's automated line?

This Circus Might Need Another Ring

The waiting room at therapy on Wednesday was wild. I was only inside 13 minutes before I got called back, but my nerves were frayed. There are many services offered here. Physical therapy for those who need rehab after injuries. Occupational therapy like my lymphedema treatments, and services like speech and behavior modification for kids. The waiting room is always packed just before appointment times. Since mine was usually at 1:00, right after lunch, it was a full house.

The room is rectangular. About 10 feet by 20 feet. As you walk through the front door (hopefully avoiding being whacked by that automatic left door) there is a row of three chairs against the right wall. A row of five chairs backed up to the front wall. A double row of back-to-back chairs (five in each row) down the middle. That's all the seating. The receptionist is behind glass at the left end. The door to the treatment rooms where I go went is on the back wall. The door to the workout machine area is on the right wall.

It's a problem when people bring companions. Not a big deal if it's their first time. They don't know any better. After that, it's just somebody taking up a chair, who doesn't need to be there. A parent is required to stay with each kid. So two seats are gone right there, unless the kid is a lap-sitter. This one old man always brought his wife. I'd think they could stand to be separated for an hour a day, but they didn't think so. Then there are the folks with multiple kids. Or the mom that brings grandma along to keep her company while the kid is in treatment. Sometimes it's standing room only until a therapist comes out and calls a name.

Anyhoo... on Wednesday, I entered at 12:45. I do that so I can get a seat on the row facing my treatment door. Then my back is toward the rest of the room. It's luck of the draw who ends up sitting by you. I'd try to get a space on the end, by the receptionist. That way, I'd only have ONE person sitting beside me. And I wasn't in the middle, splitting up chairs where a couple couldn't sit. Because most single people would take a chair while leaving an empty one between us. 

Anyhoo... on Wednesday, there were already four people inside. They must have been dropped off before I got there, because I didn't see anybody go in, and I was the only car in the patient lot. An old man was in my end seat. He got up for the bathroom as soon as I came out. So I left a chair, and sat in the middle. I didn't want to be a weirdo sitting right next to his seat, with others empty, when he came out.

Well. That old man didn't come out for about ten minutes! That left me alone, in the middle chair. A lady with a 5-year-old boy checked in. She sat in the old man's seat. Her son refused to sit in the chair by me. Most adults will take that chair, and put their kid on the end. Not this one. She put her purse there, and let him prance around in front of it. He was actually a polite little boy, soft-spoken. He kept asking what was for lunch. Then what was for supper. He said they needed to go to the store to get his "special" foods. That made me curious. Until she asked him, "Like what?" and he said, "Pizza. And hot dogs."

A lady with an infant in a carrier checked in, and sat at the chair on the far right of me. The old man came out of the bathroom, and had to walk to the back to find a chair. The little boy and his mom got called back to treatment.

A lady in an ankle cast, struggling as if it was her first time on crutches, checked in, and sat in the old man's seat on the left end. I suppose maybe she was there to learn how to walk with crutches. I can't imagine what else she could have done that day.

The seats behind me had been filling up with random people who didn't seem to be a problem.

A lady came in with four (!) kids, all around seven years old. She told them to sit in the three chairs along the end wall by the door. Then she paraded to the check-in window. WITH A DOG! A big long-haired German Shepherd dog, wearing a Service Dog vest, with a handle. I don't know what kind of service. The lady appeared to have sight. She went back to sit with her four kids.

A lady came in with a red-haired toddler around three years old. I've seen her there before. The lady sat down right next to me, on my right, by the infant mom. Li'l Red made a beeline for the baby. "Yes. It's a LITTLE baby, isn't it. No. You can't touch it." Li'l Red was reaching into the carrier, and had to be pulled away. Red Mom put her on her lap. Where Li'l Red started to scream at the top of her lungs. A scream that pierced my very soul. "Oh. You're vocal today, aren't you?"

A woman came in with a hoodie-wearing tween, who was awed by the dog as she walked past. "Ooh. Is that your service dog? Can I pet it?"

"No! You're not supposed to!"

Well. It was a polite request. A nicer response might have been to say, "No, I'm sorry. The dog has a job to do." Or someway explain how service dogs are working dogs, and not to be distracted.

Meanwhile, Li'l Red was still going strong. Several physical therapists came out to call their people, and had to repeat themselves. Then, miraculously, OT was walking through, saying, "HM? Are you ready?" as she always did.

When I got back in the treatment room, I said, "I have never been more ready in my life!"

"Oh, no! I saw it was 1:01, and I thought, 'I better get out there!'"

"No, I didn't mean that. It was just the SCREAMER sitting right next to me. And the scariest looking service dog I've ever seen in my life. Though it WAS wearing a vest saying it was a service dog. But I guess anybody could just order one of those off the internet."

"Yeah. We had a teenage girl come in her saying her dog was a service dog. It was jumping on people and trying to get through the reception window. We have to be really careful what we ask. You know, we can't ask anything about why she NEEDS a service dog. Finally, after a few visits, she admitted that it was just her dog, and not trained to be a service dog. So she stopped bringing it. Then we had an old man with a little dog. We knew it wasn't a service dog, and he never said it was. But we let it go. Because it was so tiny, and not a problem."

I will really miss OT, but I WILL NOT miss sitting in that waiting room.

Stick A Fork In Me

I'm done! But before you go jabbing me with those tines, let the record show that I mean figuratively to stick a fork in me. Not literally!

Wednesday was my last day of leg therapy. I have been released! Or as OT said, "Now that I kicked you out!" We both agreed, as before, that "graduation" was a better term. OT even said that I could be VALedictorian! Of course it was a response to my direct request. But she proclaimed that I was one of her best students. 

As I was walking out the door for the last (!) time, I said, "I really wish I had a band playing Pomp and Circumstance."

"Sorry about that. I didn't even print a certificate! Sometimes we give them to the kids."

Hm. Does that mean I'm childish? I prefer to think not!

I was given a two-sided page of instructions on how to manage my velcro wraps and leg pumps. OT's email (and she took mine) for when six months go by and I need a new set of velcro compression wraps. I thanked OT for teaching me all about this condition. She said, "I tell people I can only give information. I can't teach compliance. That's why you have done so well. You did everything I told you."

Indeed. Final measurements showed that my right knee had reduced 8 inches in circumference. And the left knee slightly more. OT was quite pleased with her handiwork. And I with my "new" legs.

OT said that I should use my leg pumps for a couple months, and then I could try using them every other day. If that was working, I could try twice a week, and then maybe once a week. If the swelling started to return, then go back to the schedule where it hadn't. That was good news, since the routine is quite time-consuming. The velcro leg wraps are non-negotiable. I must use them, all the time. I'm fine with that.

I only had one regular appointment left, which was for Monday. OT said I could tell the receptionist on the way out that I wouldn't need that appointment. The receptionist was surprised.

"Done? You mean DONE, done?"

"Yes. All done. I'm graduating, heh, heh!"

"Okay. I'll mark that down. I wish you the best."

"Thank you! You've been so nice. I appreciate it."

With that, I walked out into the heat, after my very last appointment, at 1:30 (half the usual time), and now left ready to fend for myself. (!)

Sit A Mile In My Shoes

My "office" is now the kitchen table, since I don't venture down the 13 rail-less steps to the basement where my real office is located. I spend about a third of my day there, innernetting, record-keeping for the flip houses, paying bills, and scratching lottery tickets.

You may recall that Farmer H had put new feet on my kitchen chair. Slippery feet! They got a little better once the newness wore off. But then I lost a foot! The right front chair leg apparently fractured a foot, and then it fell off. Like the screw that held it in the leg sheared off. This made my chair wobble. Three legs the same length, and the fourth an inch shorter.

I told Farmer H that my chair feet needed fixing. Just a new foot would suffice. Get rid of the teetering. Of course he didn't believe me, and went to the kitchen to look for himself.

"I'll have to get more feet."

That was about two weeks ago. The broken foot is still lying on the table, where Farmer H left it, at his seat at the table. He moved his chair over to my position. It doesn't wobble. It doesn't slip. It has another problem. Farmer H's chair had the older generation of feet. The ones we changed out because they mar the linoleum floor, leaving dark spots. Not just spots. The area is about the size of a dessert plate. At each chair foot.

A couple days ago, I told Farmer H that his chair was leaving black marks all over the floor.

"Look what the floor is doing since you moved your chair over. It's all black from the feet."

"That ain't from my chair. It has white feet on it."

"The bottoms of them aren't white! And they're not slippery. They're the old feet. If they're not making those marks, then what IS?"

"It's your shoes!"

Farmer H pointed to my navy blue CROCS, which I've had for at least four years.

"I don't think so! Do I have FOUR FEET? That I squat on to leave those four areas of black?"

Farmer H had no answer for that, other than to shake his head (like I DON'T KNOW NOTHIN'!) and walk away. I'm still waiting for new feet.

Two Wins And A Loss

On Tuesday, the hottest day of the year, Farmer H had to drive to Casino Town for a medical appointment with an endocrinologist. He's been there before concerning his diabetes and testosterone, but just regular referrals for a specialist, not for ongoing problems. 

His latest dealings have been over his thyroid. There were some enlarged areas on a scan a couple years ago. The endocrinologist said the plan was to keep an eye on it, and repeat the scan in a year. There was no change then. This is the second year. Again, no changes. Farmer H said if it stays the same next year, the endocrinologist is going to forget about it, since it seems to be nothing to worry about.

Anyhoo... while in Casino Town, Farmer H went by to visit his Pawn Shop Lady. She had sold one of the bicycles he gave her.

"I made $74 on it. So I took that money to the casino, and had a hamburger there for my lunch. I lost all my bicycle money, though."

Well. That's why it's called gambling. I'd say Farmer H came out ahead for the day. His doctor report was good, and he sold a bicycle. He risked his profit with some recreational gambling, and lost. Two out of three ain't bad.

Jack Gets Peppered

I worry about my little dog Jack. He's 10 years old now. No spring chicken. He's a bit portly, because of  Farmer H over-feeding young Pepper for six months, and Jack getting the leftovers. Only Pepper is svelte and ravenous these days, and Jack should be losing his puppy weight, what with Pepper scarfing up every morsel in sight.

Jack seems to be conserving his energy. When I come down the driveway, he will trot to look over the edge of the carport, but usually does not jump down now to pursue his possum behind the house near the squirrel feeder. He watches Pepper. Pepper gets to the edge of the woods, and looks back for Jack. 

Also, as I go from garage to house, only Pepper is there to greet me. He's become more people-centric since his very special operation. He will come to be petted, though that mostly involves ducking his head, lifting up a paw, and (lightly) chewing the petter's hand.

I call to Jack that we're going to get a treat (not what's making Jack fat, I swear! Only a 1/4 slice of bread), and he comes from under the carport roof to stand on the brick sidewalk. I wonder if it hurts his joints now to scamper up the porch steps. Pepper waits for him expectantly at the top. In fact, he's reluctant to follow me to the door, he's so fixated on Jack. Oh, how sweet. Pepper needs his old buddy to come with him to get a treat.

WAIT A MINUTE!

I suspect that Pepper is actually waiting to bully Jack, playing King of the Stairs, and not let him come up! All day long, I hear thumping and yipping. Pepper wrestles around with Jack. Sometimes blocking his walk to the water bowl around the kitchen windows. Perhaps it's just Pepper's herding half that's wanting practice.

I feel bad for Jack. He's not a spry pup. Sometimes he has to snarl and snap at Pepper to get his point across. Still, I think Jack is happier WITH Pepper than without.

The Pumps, They Are A-Pumpin'

Thursday, we got the furniture rearranged, and my OPC (Old People Chair) brought up those 13 rail-less basement steps. The Pony suffered a very sore back. And hurt feelings, from Farmer H's overbearing attitude. 

Farmer H was at the bottom of the chair, and The Pony up above. Farmer H would command The Pony to lift the chair (just the base, they moved the back separately) up two steps. This necessitated The Pony leaning over to get a grip, then hoist it up while Farmer H pushed from below. Problem was that to balance, The Pony's feet had to be on the edge of the step, and the chair kept settling upon those feet. So then the chair had to be shifted over so The Pony could get free and step up two more stairs, backwards. Farmer H is quick to criticize when things don't go as fast as he wants...

Anyhoo... time ran out that evening, as we all wanted to watch Big Brother, and Farmer H needed to drive The Pony home in time to get back for the show. So my leg pumps didn't get unpacked until Friday evening. I knew what to expect, since I'd had a demonstration from the sales rep on my second therapy visit back in May. And last week, OT had given me two pointers about the controller, and the shorts.

I was amazed everything fit in the box. I have a left leg, a right leg, shorts, and a controller. The material is like a gray canvas. Like a tarp. Heavy material. It has velcro flaps over the length of it, and a zipper from knee to thigh. You get the velcro set so that it fits your leg (barely snug, not tight), then each time you can just slide your foot down in, and use the zipper. I'm still doing little adjustments with parts of the velcro, when I sense how I can feel the contractions. Which come from inflatable tubes embedded in the material. The whole leg reminds me of the shape and material of my dad's hunting gun soft cases, heh, heh. There are even handles to pull them on with.

The shorts have velcro to adjust the legs, which just go to mid-thigh. There is a zipper in front. It only has one clear plastic ribbed hose attached. Each leg has four hoses. The hoses snap onto the controller, and click to lock in. That's NINE hoses I have to connect and disconnect each time. Plus avoid tripping on or closing in my recliner. The controller has a power button to turn on, then a screen that gives a choice of which treatment. I have been told the best selection is the 60 minute leg and trunk. 

So far, I have done three sessions. It gets easier each time, though not necessarily faster. The hardest part is bending my knees to fit into these contraptions, and extract myself. The pumping is not at all unpleasant. It starts with the shorts, clearing out the trunk for lymph fluid to flow from the legs. Once all the clearing contractions are done, there's a sequence from feet to ankle, calf, knee, thigh, and trunk. Not as smooth as OT's overworked hands, but a reasonable alternative.

The second session took me 2:45. That included unwrapping my velcro compressions garments, a shower before beginning, the set-up, pumping, breakdown, and re-wrap. I imagine I can cut a half hour or so off that time as I get more of a routine.

I'm used to going from Wednesday therapy to Monday before seeing OT again. My legs seem to be in a bit better shape than usual. I don't know if it's from the pumps, or from my legs being elevated more throughout the day in my OPC than on the short couch.

I think OT will probably release me on Wednesday. Unless she wants to give it one more week before doing the exit paperwork. I think the pumps are going to work out just fine. I will definitely be using them as directed, because I want to keep all the progress that's been made with my legs.