A strange day. Specifically, everything hurts, and hurts in a different way. I always find the things happening to my body quite fascinating, even when it hurts. "Here, mark this pain. You probably ought to write it down." So I do, in a little "fat" Mead notebook, five and a half by three and a half, water resistant covers, 200 sheets, college ruled. Amazon sells them by the bulk. Everyone should have at least two. I have at least ten!
Neuropathy. Twenty plus years. I remember the beginning very well. It's one of my favorite stories. In my fifties when I could no longer run, I would go to the community pool and swim lengths or laps in the summer, for the deep end of the pool was roped off for such behavior. I would drive down in my swim suit and canvas shoes, show my pass and enter, hoping and praying that the walrus would not be there swimming laps too.
The problem with the walrus was that he was, well, large, and not efficient in his stroke. Instead of bringing his arms up and forward and straight down beside his body, swiftly and efficiently, he would throw them out to the side and around. If two people were swimming in the same lane, sooner or later their hands and arms would smack one another. At first I would watch out for him so as to miss, but the walrus seemed oblivious to his blows. Eventually I got angry and accidentally timed them to inflict as much damage as possible. Well, I was just a kid then, and now I am somewhat ashamed of my retaliation, when I am not enjoying the memory. I suppose my enjoyment of some of my sins may account for my present purgatorial suffering. I have a severe peripheral neuropathy, but I do not have the illness that causes it, diabetes. Two years of testing twenty some years ago, and the conclusion was that there was no discernible cause for it. Well, now we all know, don't we. The Bible says He is like a refiner's fire. Hoo boy.
Well, after I had taken and given as many blows as possible and swam my 50 or 100 laps, I would leave, climb out of the pool, dry off with my towel, put my canvas shoes on and drive home. One day I was walking out when I discovered that I did not have my car keys. I looked around and didn't see them. I always stashed them in my shoe and set the towel on top of them close to where I swam. I do not remember why, but I decided to check the shoes, and there they were. I had been walking on my keys and did not know it; I did not feel them. That got my doctor's attention too. He sent me to a neurologist in Lexington, who transferred me to another neurologist who specialized in neuropathy, who eventually sent me to a pain clinic. No known cause. How interesting to be sick in certain ways. Hmm.
The specialist whom I really liked reduced my visits from every three months to every six months since the visits had become perfunctory, merely holding patterns in a vast and cloudy sky. When that doctor decided to give up his Lexington practice and return to his native Seattle, he and Frasier Crane, we both decided that since the check-ups were mostly routine, they could be handled as easily by my original GP, which is where I am today.
Dr. Schloemer is sort of command central. Every time I develop a new affliction, he sends me out to a new specialist: heart, two specialists, the second to put in the pacemaker, the first to check it regularly; I have outlasted two dermatologists (reoccurring rashes! among other things), and just had five precancerous spots frozen off my body; a bone specialist (for various problems, the last being a broken big toe, how humbling); a foot specialist, podiatrist, whom I get to see every three months as well; the latest addition is a very nice rheumatoid arthritis specialist with several new pills. Command central in Purgatory, and then you die and meet the Boss! Hoo boy!
Actually, when I started tonight, my main subject was going to be cheese, Sara Lee provolone. We had been to Meijers in Richmond to stock up, our monthly grocery run. We do not like it, but that is where the goodies are. So. Once or twice a month, sometimes after a movie even, we screw our courage to the sticking place, and go. They sell half loaves of bread, how handy. The deli sells Khan's baloney, the best, and Sara Lee provolone. I bought eight thin slices of Khan's and three quarters of a pound of thin sliced provolone. I make sandwiches: Klosterman's honey wheat, Kraft's Catalina poured liberally on the turned-up slices of bread, a slice of Sara Lee on top of the bread and Catalina, and Khan's baloney in the middle.
What could be better than such a sandwich, a big chair to sit in, the evening news on TV with Brian Williams, a little black dachshund beside me, mooching my sandwich, and a refillable mug of that Ocean Spray cran grape (I bought 12 large bottles on this Meijers' run; I worry when the count stocked at home drops below 15).
(Actually, several weeks ago I was eating such a sandwich in such and such a place while watching said TV show when the middle of the sandwich became unstable and shot out of my hand and stuck on the wall. All that Catalina makes the middle rather slippery. I looked for the middle on the floor first, thought Frollie or Dexter had gotten it when I couldn't find it down there, then discovered it stuck on the wall. On the wall! Like in a TV sitcom! Simon helped me consume it though, and from now on I quarter my Catalina baloney provolone sandwiches, even though they still have a tendency to squirt out of the bread.)
That is how I deal with the shopping: I think of the end result. This time I unloaded and stored the 12 bottles according to dates. We have polished off all the August, September, and October dates; this time we had about half and half between November and December, the first December bottles. I wrestled the 31 pound bag of dog food into the downstairs laundry/storage room, along with two large cases of Bounty towels from Lowes. I still had two full reusable bags of groceries and a gallon of milk to get up stairs. Cleverly, I decided to do them all at once and save myself a trip. I carefully lifted each container up three steps, moved myself up, and repeated the process until I had everything on the top step. Then I picked up the milk, leaving the two shopping bags sitting on the top step, carried it into the kitchen and put it in the refrigerator.
Next I started unpacking the 15 cups of Yoplait raspberry yogurt and 5 blueberry yogurt, having completely forgotten about the groceries on the top step. Mary, in the front room started yelling. "Where did Frollie get that cheese?" I saw Frollie wrestling with the plastic package, trying to tear it enough to get the remaining 3 (out of about 15) of that wonderful Sara Lee cheese. Mary grabbed the package and saved the remaining three slices and a partially gnawed bit of a fourth. Dag nabit! as some ancient Western hero's sidekick used to say. I yelled "Frollie!" just to make myself feel better, but hers was the most unkindest cut of all. I had bought over three quarters of a pound. Frollie stuck her head in the bag (or bullied Schuster into doing it) and took it out, presumably, since the top of the bag was so conveniently at dog level. And it was my own stupid fault. I left the bags and forgot them immediately, something I have a tendency to do, frequently.
I cannot replace them either, at least not for a while. I was so upset that after I had filed away the new yogurt containers (always raspberry, as much as the store has; blueberry second, for Mary likes them), I made myself a large BP and C sandwich with 2 mugs of cran grape and Fritos Scoops with half a jar of medium hot salsa. Dogs! Dag nabit, Frollie.