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.

A Different Kind Of Drive-Off

Several vehicles were at the gas pumps of the Gas Station Chicken Store on Friday afternoon, as I parked T-Hoe in my rightful handicap parking space. By the time I got inside, I was the only customer. Fave was looking out the front window.

"I KNEW they were going to drive off!"

"Was it this black truck? It's pulling around to park right here by the door."

"No. It was a van. It had several military guys. I owe them $18. I was afraid they'd drive off."

"Maybe they'll remember and come back."

"Well, the guy said he couldn't take cash. They pre-paid for their gas with a credit card. I said if the van didn't take it all, to come back in and I'd give them the money back. But the guy said he wasn't allowed to have money. Now I feel bad."

"I guess maybe that's the policy, so people don't charge too much gas and skim the money. So he didn't want to risk his job."

"Maybe. Now what am I supposed to do with the extra $18?"

"Leave it with a note for Woman Owner! So you don't get in trouble for not telling her."

"I guess all I can do is leave it in my drawer."

I hope everything works out. Fave doesn't need to be in trouble for something that's not her fault. Woman Owner runs a tight ship.

Where The (Errand) Day Takes Me

I don't really have anything to talk about today. But that's never stopped me from posting, heh, heh! I'm picking up The Pony at 1:30 for Errand Day, which was thrown off by the trip to cash in the winning scratchers before they expired. We're a day late, and $2000 richer.

Anyhoo... The Pony has a friend coming in from out-of-town, for an afternoon/evening visit. So doesn't want to do all the errand things like bank and gas. We will just do our shopping at Country Mart, then I'll do the rest on my own.

Let's see who can annoy me enough to warrant a story today...

___________________________________________________________________

Welp! Of all the days for things to go relatively my way. Nobody was particularly offensive. So no real story there. Just a wait of 13 minutes at the bank drive-thru, with only one car ahead of me. And when the teller finally returned with my cash and deposit receipt, she said,

"I have everything taken care of." No "Sorry for your wait." Nor any explanation. Taking care of my business is exactly her job. So don't act like you've done me a favor. Very slowly.

The young checker at Country Mart actually used TWO bags instead of cramming everything into one. And grouped items accordingly, with Farmer H's rectangular box of Little Debbie cakes and fake Fig Newtons together with two boxes of my instant oatmeal packets. The deli container of chicken tenders got a bag by itself.

My rightful handicap parking spaces were available everywhere I went. The closest thing to a story was from Fave at the Gas Station Chicken Store.

Coming up tomorrow...