Kage Baker believed that the 3rd day of an injury was the worst. She had some logical reason for it, but I think she just figured after 3 days, you reached the nadir of comfort. So she used that excuse to indulge herself in anything that might provide some little crumb of comfort, and thereby convinced herself that she would feel better tomorrow. Alcohol, chocolate, egg creams and war won ton soup figured largely.
I don’t have Kage’s cheerful folksy nonsense view of physiology. I know this is going to hurt for weeks, even before I see the orthopedist. There may yet be surgery in my future, ugly pins and screws and plates and crap. But I don’t really feel too bad about it all. I have a cool sling, and good painkillers, and though I have to type one-handed, at least I can do that. My family is taking good care of me.
The recliner in the living room is comfortable, since I need to sleep sitting up for a week or two. The cats come visit me, and I can hear mockingbirds sing, and breathe the sweet night air flowing through the windows.
Also, about 3 AM this morning, I was treated to the sight of Mike coming into the living room, carrying what I thought was an Erlenmeyer flask in his gauntleted hands, (They are grand gauntlets, elbow-high and very sturdy; he looked like an apprentice alchemist venturing out of the lab.) What he had, though, was a Lego zeppelin balloon, containing Possum Number 4 in our apparently unending stream of young possums. He’d trapped it in the zeppelin, being a make-do kind of fellow – raise your kids at Faires, folks; they can make anything out of nothing, at need – and was evicting it into the dark front garden.
He gave Kimberly and I peeks into the zeppelin – it was a very young, cute little possum, who did not enjoy its novel confinement at all. We heard Mike let it loose in the camellias, muttering, “Fly! Be free!” Then we all sat around for awhile and discussed the improbable Empire of Possums we have going on this summer … Mike was super-adrenalized, as he’d been chasing marsupials through his childhood toys for a hour; and I was just unable to sleep for the amazing pain in my arm. Poor Kimberly fell asleep first, and gradually everyone slowed down and at least dozed.
Tonight, though, Mike has found what we truly hope is the last portal, and has sealed it. I will again be sitting vigil, waiting for the Vicodin to defeat the pain in my shoulder: so we ought to be fairly safe. Man, June has been a hot mess of absurdity so far. Here’s the zeppelin. Imagine it with the tail fins screwed off, the gondola removed, and a possum scrabbling inside.
It’s weird around here right now. More tomorrow, as my traumatized brain and muscles and humerus get a little better.
Sleep well, Dear Readers.