Did I Break It ALREADY???

Wednesday marked one full week since my breakup with graduation from OT. One week of being on my own, using my leg pumps daily to replace the 45 minutes of trained leg massage I had been getting twice a week. What could possibly go wrong?

The leg pumps themselves are fairly simple, if you've been given a demonstration by the sales rep, and a couple of crucial tips from your occupational therapist. You pull on the shorts, then the legs. Zip them up so they are snug but not tight. Then plug in SEVEN hoses to the pump, turn it on, and start your hour of treatment.

Here's a picture of the controller/pump. I have it turned on, because there was a glare on the screen when it was black.

OT had told me that one of the #1 hose slots would be blocked off. #1 is for the shorts, which only have one hose. Each leg has three hoses, all coming out from the same hole, which get plugged into their corresponding numbers. They lock in, and you're ready to start.

There they are, all plugged in, in the middle of a session. It doesn't matter which leg's hoses plug into the top or bottom. You can't see it here, but each of the hoses has a number on the connector. It might look like the numbers, but that little white imprint on top of each is just a LOCK sign. They snap down as you put on the duck-bill-looking blue parts, top and bottom. Two clicks.

Anyhoo... on Wednesday, I was all laid back in my OPC (Old People Chair), about 15 minutes into the session, watching TV. There are pockets in the leg sleeves that inflate in a sequence. Like a little ring of squeeziness that pulses up the leg to the trunk/belly area covered by the shorts. The shorts actually start first to clear a pathway for the leg fluids that will be coming. Then the thighs to trunk. Then calves to thighs to trunk. And around 15 minutes in, the feet start. It's actually relaxing. A couple times I've fallen asleep. The pump shuts itself off when the 60-minute cycle is complete.

Anyhoo... on Wednesday, I noticed that my left foot had begun the contractions, but the right did not. Huh. What wasn't normal. I squinted to see if the right foot was blowing up the little air pockets. I didn't think so. OH NOOOOO! I've only had my leg pumps for two weeks! Surely I hadn't broken anything. I'm very careful in putting them on, taking them off, making sure the hoses don't get caught in the moving recliner, and putting them away in a box when I'm done.

Of course I was fretting. But I didn't want to pause. Nothing was hurt. I could finish the cycle, then worry about what was going on. The contractions go faster through the cycle towards the end. With about five minutes left, I noticed a pattern. When the left foot started contracting, the right calf did the same. Then when my right foot was contracting, the left calf contracted.

AHA! The right leg seemed to be in the normal sequence, yet the left leg started at the calf, skipped to the foot, then skipped to the thigh. I had solved the mystery! I must have plugged in the hoses wrong for the left leg.

Indeed, when I was finished, and unplugging the hoses, I saw that I had Hose #3 in the #4 slot, and Hose #4 in the #3 slot. The next day I made sure they were correct, and everything was back to normal. Whew! That was a relief.

If I'm ever surveyed about what the company could do better, I would suggest putting the numbers on the hose connectors on both sides, so they're more visible. When I'm sitting and plugging in, I can't see over the top to where the numbers are located on those blue connectors.

The Pony Is NOT A Long-Distance Physician

The Pony sent me a worried text on Monday afternoon.

"A friend in Germany is at the hospital with suspected rhabdo. [rhabdomyolysis] Ughhh I wish I'd been more specific that it wasn't a general worry when I'd been warning her that she might've overdone it and been hurt."

"Oh no! I've heard of football players getting it."

"She'll be fine since she's there, but it would've saved a bunch of time if I'd pointed out about being weak and sore. It was a 6-7 on the pain scale when we were talking, but now while she's waiting at the hospital it's a 7-9 after the swelling started. She went to the hospital when she had the dark urine symptom."

"I'm glad she's there now."

"Yeah. Me too. She's been working on exercising and did some overly-ambitious ones a few days ago and had the soreness getting worse, like to the point of spending the night at a friend's place instead of walking home yesterday."

"At least she's in the best place now to recover."

"She'll be fine now that she's there. Just the longer it takes for them to actually treat her. The nurses doing intake didn't seem to know what it was. But she'll get seen relatively soon."

"Did she say that's what she thought her symptoms were?"

"She says she did, yeah."

 "It might be a triage thing. Maybe somebody else with a heart attack, or chopped off a finger."

"I mentioned too that not getting rushed in is a good sign, generally."

"I'm sure she'll be okay."

"Yeah. I'm just worried. Trying not to be too harsh on myself for not saying it sounded like it could be something really serious sooner, when I first had the thought."

"You can't be a long distance doctor. She's where she needs to be right now. So that's a relief."

"Yeah. I know! Just should have mentioned it existed since most people don't know."

"Yes. It's not the first thing you'd think of."

"I knew from papers and people at college. Plus as a warning from someone to look out for with going from low activity to really high activity like after the broken ankle or when I started at the post office."

An hour later, there was an update:

"It's definitely rhabdo, but her doctor said it's nowhere near the worst case scenario. Going to be kept in the hospital overnight. She has enough charge on her phone, and her friend can bring her anything she needs if it goes longer than that."

"That's really good news!"

"Yeah. It's a big relief."

The Pony stresses over things like this. Misfortunes of friends that are not anybody's fault. Sometimes, I just have to say, "No matter how much you'd like to help, you can't save the world."

HM's Rumpushole Magnet Makes Her Grumpy

The oppressive heat of the past month has put a damper on Mrs. HM's sunny Pollyanna outlook on life. I have been a bit cranky(er). I do not suffer fools (Farmer H) nor rumpusholes (everyone else in Hillmomba, apparently, save The Pony and Fave and OT) gladly. While I have been able to refrain cutting them with my sharp tongue, they still bear the slices of my honed typing fingers.

Monday it was 101 actual degrees, with a 115 heat index. Stepping out of T-Hoe was like stepping into an oven. Of course there were rumpusholes illegally parked in my rightful handicap spaces at both places I went. Can't say I was shocked...

At the Gas Station Chicken Store, it was a white minivan. I have no idea who was in it, bereft of handicap plate and placard. I did not notice a specific person in the store, though there were a couple milling around in the back by the coolers. No, my attention was not on this specific rumpushole, but the one who garnered more ire.

I had to park in front of the FREE AIR hose. The sun beating down on that blacktop parking lot was intense as I hobbled around the corner of the building and under the roof over the gas pumps. A man was screwing on his gas cap at a pump. I only noticed him out of the corner of my eye. He was heading towards the door, but I got there first. He was a couple steps behind, as the door I shoved open behind me for him as a favor was not grasped at the time I entered. 

I stepped over to stack of beer cases that hold the red-ticket box for the weekly gas drawing, and faced the counter. Obviously waiting my turn. A man was putting his card away after paying.

Rumpushole came through the door. He looked like that actor in Fast Times at Ridgemont High. The customer who wants a refund because it was not the best breakfast he ever ate. The customer who gets Brad fired from his job. (YouTube 1:46). Except he wasn't wearing a suit, just jeans and a t-shirt.

Other Checker looked up to help whoever was next. I pointed to a guy standing by the counter with two sodas sitting in front of him. "He was next." The guy said, no, he was waiting on someone. As I took a step to get to the counter, RUMPUSHOE DASHED IN FRONT OF ME!

"I'm just going to pay for my gas."

He looked at me like, "What are YOU gonna do about it?" Just that kind of challenging look. I gave him the teacher stinkeye, left eyebrow raised. Like, "Seriously, dude? That's a dick move, butting in front of a crippled-up old lady." But neither of us mouthed what our eyes were saying. I shrugged. Not a "Whatever" shrug, but a resigned shrug. A "Can't fight The Man" kind of shrug. Though I would have loved to smack Rumpushole up the side of his balding head.

Rumpushole then turned to belly up to the counter. I was disappointed in Other Checker for serving him. I've seen her put plenty of people in their place, by saying, "There are other people ahead of you, you'll have to wait." Even though she's never done it for ME. Perhaps she mistook my shrug as agreement for Rumpushole to go ahead. Rumpushole paid for his gas and left. He had some kind of accent. Maybe German. 

Wow. He must be SO important. IN HIS OWN MIND! Important enough not to wait his turn like a normal person. It's not like there's an express lane for gas only. When you do business at a convenience store, you sometimes get inconvenienced. Unless you make your own rules, of course. He is a prime example of what Genius calls an Antisocial Monster.

I hate it when people say, "I'm JUST going to pay for my gas." (Or ice cream or soda or hemorrhoid cream, heh, heh!) Why not just say what you're ACTUALLY doing! "I'm just going to cut line."

You know, just in case somebody else might think they had permission. Which I would have granted, had he only asked. I've done it for other people even when they DIDN'T ask. I don't like self-important men taking advantage of old ladies.

Real Tomatoes

Farmer H's "tomato guy" came through on Sunday. Seven tomatoes, from his garden. Farmer H forgot them! He had stopped by the senior apartments on the way home, and then sent me a text that he was going back down to his shop (20 minutes) to get them, and then back home (30 minutes).

Now those are REAL tomatoes! They felt all dusty, and some still had dirt clinging. I don't wash them until we're ready to eat one, because I think getting the skin wet might hasten their spoilage. 

Farmer H had one with his supper of hot dogs and chips, and I had one with my leftover Chinese Chicken and Broccoli. They tasted like REAL tomatoes! 

I hope Farmer H's tomato guy has a big garden!

100-Degree Temps Thaw HM's Cold, Cold Heart

You may recall my dislike for charity-seekers setting up outside of businesses I frequent. They rub me the wrong way. Just last week, I drove off the Casey's parking lot because a middle-aged man had set up a table and a shade tent on the sidewalk between the handicap parking space and the door. Nope! I'm not going to try and walk a tightrope along the edge of the sidewalk to get around him. And I can't just step down and back up with these old complainy knees.

I've donated a dollar to the old man collecting for the Knights of Columbus Tootsie Roll drive for people with intellectual disabilities. But only because he was sitting up against the front wall of the Gas Station Chicken Store, and wasn't pushy. I didn't even take his Tootsie Roll!

I ignore the table of unknown merchandise with three beggars that is often on the far side of the Sis-Town Casey's door. They call after my back as I leave, but I just say, "Not today." I have no idea what they are collecting for. I was particularly annoyed with young baseball players and their moms, taking up the entire sidewalk in front of the Sis-Town Save A Lot, asking for donations to fund a trip to the state tournament. AND I was not pleased the day I saw a tweenager hanging around the front of the Liquor Store selling stuff. That is not an appropriate place for her!

Anyhoo... I must have been addled by the heat on Friday evening. It was SO HOT. I only wanted to dash into 10Box to the lottery machine. I got one of the handicap spaces nearest the door, on the left side. Between me and that door was a young black dude with a TV tray set up. I couldn't tell what was on it, but it was stacked neatly. He was maybe late teens, looking hopeful, but not accosting people as they walked by. I figured I might see what he had, but on the way out, because I wouldn't want to carry anything while scanning in my winners at the lottery machine.

As I left the store, a chubby bald 40-something man was talking to The Dude. It gave me time to pause and look at the sign. It said something about "Young Enterprisers" or something similar. It made me think of the movie Risky Business, where Tom Cruise was working on a project for Future Enterprisers. 

Anyhoo... after the man bought something, I stepped up and said, "What have we got?"

The Dude described his three items, holding up one of each as he did. "I have Chocolate Turtles for $20, and Caramel Apple Candy for $20, and Cookies for $10."

"Oh. I've never seen that Caramel Apple Candy. But my husband would really like the Turtles. I know that for sure. I'll take one of those." I handed him a twenty (from my lottery money!), and he thanked me.

We called them Turtles, because that's the common candy like this which contains pecans rather than cashews.

I don't mind donating to people who are making an effort, not just socializing then pouncing on each person who walks by. The Dude had his merchandise in order. It was like school fundraiser candy. You know it's not worth the price, but I'd always buy something from any kid who came up to ask me. I'm sure The Dude had the store's permission to set up there. They used to have weekends where they'd host a group to carry out bags for tips. I'm pretty sure it was this organization.

I don't begrudge giving The Dude my lottery money. But I made sure Farmer H knew I bought him that candy out of MY money, heh, heh. Farmer H loved the candy. Despite it being in the heat, it was just fine when Farmer H opened it a couple hours after I brought it in the Mansion.

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.