We’re supposed to be in the middle of a blizzard. In actuality, it’s merely chilly and gray. It sprinkled here an hour ago and looks to sprinkle again soon. Nothing I’d call a blizzard, but that’s Arizona for you: a cloud is an overcast; a sprinkle a monsoon; gusty winds a hurricane; snow above 6,000 feet a blizzard. Ah, it just started to sprinkle again … it’s clicking on the windows, so maybe it’s sleet. Let’s call it baseball-sized hail, shall we? Let the hyperbole begin!
I’m cozy inside, thinking about making soup for lunch. Schatzi is curled up on the computer desk, keeping me company. I just finished a home PT session, followed by a very pleasant 15 minutes with my bad leg elevated, a bag of frozen peas on my knee. I’ll do it again around five this afternoon. Yesterday was my first outpatient PT session, which I thought was rather fun, and encouraging too … encouraging in that I wasn’t asked to do anything I couldn’t physically do, that I was up to the exercises my therapist asked me to do, that my leg extension and flexion was measurably better than it was on my initial assessment, a few days after surgery. I want to do more, and am actually looking forward to my PT dates.
Donna called from work to say it’s snowing there, big fat flakes. She works just two miles south of here, and sure enough, here come the first fat flakes. All right, I’ll be an Arizonan and call it a whiteout. Now where are my snowshoes?
For the morbidly curious, here are two photos from this morning’s home PT session on the spare bed. What, you didn’t think I did my exercises on the floor, did you? I’d never be able to get up again!
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Is it painful? Yes, although the word I’d use is ache. A constant, dull ache, one that makes it almost impossible to sleep through the night. I try not to take my narcotic pain relievers during the day, but I do take them before going to bed at night. They last from around 10 PM to 2 AM, and then I’m intermittently awake the rest of the night. I can’t seem to find any position where the bad leg is comfortable, but it’s getting better as I exercise and get my range of motion back, so I just have to keep working at it. Well, enough of that.
Donna’s new dishwasher came last night. The guy from Lowes, upon pulling out our old unit, discovered that a pack rat had been living in a pocket between the insulation and the body of the dishwasher, getting in and out through a two-inch diameter hole in the cabinet wall where the water pipe runs. He said he sees this all the time; pack rats are incredibly clever animals. I’m surprised, though, that our dogs and cats never sniffed the rascal out. We always know when there’s a mouse in the house because the critters are up all night looking for it. Not this one … no one ever suspected a thing.
When you get to the point where the only reason you’re still watching Downton Abbey is to savor Maggie Smith’s zingers, it’s time to move on. What are they going to do in Season Four? Kill Carson? It might be worth it if the elderly Lord Grantham does another of his patented 180-degree personality changes and joins Oswald Mosley’s British Nazi Party, but I don’t think Julian Fellowes has the guts. Enough with your soap opera, sir!
p.s. The “blizzard” lasted about 15 minutes. One for the record books!