I've gotten some questions as to why she was having surgery in the first place. Rather than link back to May when we went through this the first time, here's a brief overview as I understand it.
What she had was a torn anterior cruciate ligament (ACL) in the stifle joint (canine for knee). If you're a dog, that's some painful stuff, and it's an invitation and wide open door to arthritis.
The problem is best resolved (according to her doctors and a heap of research I've done on my own) through a surgery called Tibial Plateau Leveling Osteotomy (TPLO). TPLO eliminates the need for the ligament. The surgery changes the anatomy of the knee joint by cutting the tibia and placing a plate inside to change the shape of the stifle, resulting in her knee returning to a movement that is more like the hinge that it is, rather than sliding back and forth like a drawer. It also eliminates friction on the ever so precious meniscus (cartilage), thereby retracting the invitation to, and shutting the door on, arthritis.
That concludes today's lesson.
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Homecoming
One minute after ten and I'm pulling into the parking lot. Jackie behind the counter says, you weren't kidding.
On her three good legs, she danced in circles around the reception area when she saw me. It took three of us to calm her down. It took two of us to get her into my car. And it took me and a sling to get her up the stairs.
The happy ending is that she and her turkey leg are back at home, and she's fast asleep at the moment. Happy days.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Flipping the channel from canine surgery to titty bars
You think you know people. Well, maybe not people, per se, as in people in general, but you do assume that you know your friends. And some of that stuff you know about them is very basic stuff. The identifying and quantifying stuff, where they grew up, marital status of parents in childhood, where they went to school, what they studied, what they do for a living, and very importantly for this particular post, what they did for a living, or to say it more clearly, what they wore or didn't wear for a living.
It all fits into the mental file cabinet of classification and categorization. But sometimes, through no fault of your own, you learn that the contents of your files are all wrong.
Tonight was one of those times for me. I learned that some of what I thought I knew about a couple friends is as foggy as an airbrushed photo of an exposed breast. Turns out that one of my friends who referred to those days in her past as her hostess job, actually entertained. And it turns out that another one of my friends who previously was slotted in the 'used to dance' category in fact never set spiked heel on stage, much less bare breast or thonged ass. From what I could gather tonight, she only stepped into a topless bar one time and that was to retrieve a garage door opener from her now ex but at the time her soon-to-be husband's bachelor party. Or so it goes.
Someone interrupted her explanation by saying, But S can't dance! [Name removed to protect her newly reclaimed innocence.] Well, that's the breaker apparently. And it never occurred to me, the dancing skill bit. Because I'm thinking that if you have the body and you just move it like the elusive scent of seduction, then it's not like you're in a dance-off against Kelly Monaco and Alec Mazo that actually requires you to know any one-two, one-two-three sort of skill.
But it doesn't matter what I think because I was made to promise that I would set the record straight tonight - right here. So, for the record, one of you needs to tell the other not to assume that when your mother says that her daughter danced in a topless bar that your mother is speaking about you. And, it has to be said to S, YOU COULD HAVE TOLD US THAT YOU HAVE TWO SISTERS because we knew it wasn't her, so IT HAD TO BE YOU. Oh wait, that's what was said tonight. Well, there you have it.
Still, I said I'd set it straight. So, let me clarify: IT WASN'T HER, okay? If you think you recognize her in line at the dry cleaners or the grocery store... wait, that's way too public for the non-existent job. Ahem. If you're having dinner with her and you're all up in your thinking that you know this dirty little secret of hers, then you need to step back seven or eight years and pull out your bottle of white-out because when you were told that she danced, well that wasn't right. At all. There is no dirty little secret. At least not one that involves pasties and stage names.
But, seriously, apparently all that had to be said (or experienced) was that if you've ever seen her dance, you would have known that something was up with the story from the get-go.
File cabinet. Re-classified and re-filed.
[Personal note to the non-dancer: Yeah, I know. I have to make a set-it-straight phone call to Vermont. I'll get right on that in the morning.]
It all fits into the mental file cabinet of classification and categorization. But sometimes, through no fault of your own, you learn that the contents of your files are all wrong.
Tonight was one of those times for me. I learned that some of what I thought I knew about a couple friends is as foggy as an airbrushed photo of an exposed breast. Turns out that one of my friends who referred to those days in her past as her hostess job, actually entertained. And it turns out that another one of my friends who previously was slotted in the 'used to dance' category in fact never set spiked heel on stage, much less bare breast or thonged ass. From what I could gather tonight, she only stepped into a topless bar one time and that was to retrieve a garage door opener from her now ex but at the time her soon-to-be husband's bachelor party. Or so it goes.
Someone interrupted her explanation by saying, But S can't dance! [Name removed to protect her newly reclaimed innocence.] Well, that's the breaker apparently. And it never occurred to me, the dancing skill bit. Because I'm thinking that if you have the body and you just move it like the elusive scent of seduction, then it's not like you're in a dance-off against Kelly Monaco and Alec Mazo that actually requires you to know any one-two, one-two-three sort of skill.
But it doesn't matter what I think because I was made to promise that I would set the record straight tonight - right here. So, for the record, one of you needs to tell the other not to assume that when your mother says that her daughter danced in a topless bar that your mother is speaking about you. And, it has to be said to S, YOU COULD HAVE TOLD US THAT YOU HAVE TWO SISTERS because we knew it wasn't her, so IT HAD TO BE YOU. Oh wait, that's what was said tonight. Well, there you have it.
Still, I said I'd set it straight. So, let me clarify: IT WASN'T HER, okay? If you think you recognize her in line at the dry cleaners or the grocery store... wait, that's way too public for the non-existent job. Ahem. If you're having dinner with her and you're all up in your thinking that you know this dirty little secret of hers, then you need to step back seven or eight years and pull out your bottle of white-out because when you were told that she danced, well that wasn't right. At all. There is no dirty little secret. At least not one that involves pasties and stage names.
But, seriously, apparently all that had to be said (or experienced) was that if you've ever seen her dance, you would have known that something was up with the story from the get-go.
File cabinet. Re-classified and re-filed.
[Personal note to the non-dancer: Yeah, I know. I have to make a set-it-straight phone call to Vermont. I'll get right on that in the morning.]
Surgeon's Report
The good news: Her meniscus was not damaged at all. Not one bit.
The bad news: Her ligament was completely torn. All the way. Severed. Two pieces.
The best news: She came through surgery like a champ, is resting comfortably, and I can pick her up anytime between 10:00 tomorrow morning and 6:00 tomorrow evening.
That time range is funny, isn't it? I thought so too. I mean, come on. Be serious. This is me. I told him that I'd see him at 10:01 tomorrow morning. Since this is our second time to go through this, he knows I'm not kidding.
The bad news: Her ligament was completely torn. All the way. Severed. Two pieces.
The best news: She came through surgery like a champ, is resting comfortably, and I can pick her up anytime between 10:00 tomorrow morning and 6:00 tomorrow evening.
That time range is funny, isn't it? I thought so too. I mean, come on. Be serious. This is me. I told him that I'd see him at 10:01 tomorrow morning. Since this is our second time to go through this, he knows I'm not kidding.
Ain't no sunshine when she's gone
The shedding machine of my life is in surgery today. It's her right knee this time. When I told the surgeon yesterday that I wasn't exactly thrilled to be seeing him again so soon since we were just here in May, he gave me a little chuckle and said, Well, she only has two hind legs. I made a sour face at him that said loud and clear how little I appreciated his humor.
The house is freakishly still without her. To be honest, it gives me the creeps. Without my little brown shadow there, my time at home is definitely not the same.
The house is freakishly still without her. To be honest, it gives me the creeps. Without my little brown shadow there, my time at home is definitely not the same.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Sunday, blessed Sunday
Saturday, October 15, 2005
From all over Texas
About 50 miles away from Houston is a long way away from drama. My Friday night was spent in a serious game of Scrabble with Mom, my nephew and a boy named Chase. My nephew won by seven. He has a way of doing that, which I try to take in stride.
There's a lot going on in Conroe this weekend. The most important - at least to my fellow guests at this hotel - is the Texas Line Dance Jamboree.
This morning in the hotel's restaurant, I've somehow been adopted by a group of dancing attendees. Marge, Betty, Dorris and Pepper tell me all about it over coffee. Not one of them is a day under 60. I ask, Is this local to the Houston area? Pepper bubbles, Oh no, honey, we're from all over Texas.
Marge offers me a piece of the apple pie they're sharing for breakfast. She baked it Friday morning and brought it with her.
Pepper has the words, Texas, and Dance, in rhinestone pins on her jacket. Silver cowboy boots dangle from her pierced ears. She's wearing pink pants, and a pink jacket over her pink and purple deep cut V-neck top. Marge, Betty and Dorris are wearing the same. These ladies ooze senior citizen sexy.
At another table, there's a group of women in black jeans and t-shirts with gold painted cowboy hats and boots all over them, Little bit country, Lubbock, Texas, in gold puff paint on their backs. And another group in bright blue t-shirts with musical notes and Texas Beat, Sugar Land Sweet printed on the front. Apparently, someone from their group is still upstairs, not feeling too well. One says to another, I gave her some Pepto Bismol, she should be fine in a little while. Another adds, It's just gas. All she needs is Beano.
A woman whose hair perfectly defines frosted comes up to me. She has Line Dance... Line Dance... Line Dance printed on her t-shirt beneath a row of colorful cowboy boots. She eyes my laptop, tells me I did a good job with the music last night, and asks if I'm getting the music ready for today. I explain that I'm not with the Jamboree, I'm in Conroe for other reasons. She's determined though, studies me a minute, and says, What's your name, honey? Maybe I know you.
That's a Southern thing. Who are your people? To what tribe do you belong?
My newfound Pink Lady friends do a line dance demo for me in the lobby. I want to take them home and decorate my life with their punctuation.
They all gather to go. Dorris gives me a hug before they walk out the restaurant and disappear into the day and out of my life.
If I didn't want to spend this Saturday with my nephew so much, I think we all know that faster that you could say Boot Scootin' Boogy, you'd find me spending this afternoon at the Texas Line Dance Jamboree.
There's a lot going on in Conroe this weekend. The most important - at least to my fellow guests at this hotel - is the Texas Line Dance Jamboree.
This morning in the hotel's restaurant, I've somehow been adopted by a group of dancing attendees. Marge, Betty, Dorris and Pepper tell me all about it over coffee. Not one of them is a day under 60. I ask, Is this local to the Houston area? Pepper bubbles, Oh no, honey, we're from all over Texas.
Marge offers me a piece of the apple pie they're sharing for breakfast. She baked it Friday morning and brought it with her.
Pepper has the words, Texas, and Dance, in rhinestone pins on her jacket. Silver cowboy boots dangle from her pierced ears. She's wearing pink pants, and a pink jacket over her pink and purple deep cut V-neck top. Marge, Betty and Dorris are wearing the same. These ladies ooze senior citizen sexy.
At another table, there's a group of women in black jeans and t-shirts with gold painted cowboy hats and boots all over them, Little bit country, Lubbock, Texas, in gold puff paint on their backs. And another group in bright blue t-shirts with musical notes and Texas Beat, Sugar Land Sweet printed on the front. Apparently, someone from their group is still upstairs, not feeling too well. One says to another, I gave her some Pepto Bismol, she should be fine in a little while. Another adds, It's just gas. All she needs is Beano.
A woman whose hair perfectly defines frosted comes up to me. She has Line Dance... Line Dance... Line Dance printed on her t-shirt beneath a row of colorful cowboy boots. She eyes my laptop, tells me I did a good job with the music last night, and asks if I'm getting the music ready for today. I explain that I'm not with the Jamboree, I'm in Conroe for other reasons. She's determined though, studies me a minute, and says, What's your name, honey? Maybe I know you.
That's a Southern thing. Who are your people? To what tribe do you belong?
My newfound Pink Lady friends do a line dance demo for me in the lobby. I want to take them home and decorate my life with their punctuation.
They all gather to go. Dorris gives me a hug before they walk out the restaurant and disappear into the day and out of my life.
If I didn't want to spend this Saturday with my nephew so much, I think we all know that faster that you could say Boot Scootin' Boogy, you'd find me spending this afternoon at the Texas Line Dance Jamboree.
Thursday, October 13, 2005
No one said a word about the sorrow
It's familiar for me to be sad, what I write here, isn't it?
Do you want to trade places? I dare you.
I could sleep through it, but it's too loud. I could ignore it, but the phone keeps ringing. I could walk away from it, but it's faster than me. It sits at the door when I arrive.
If she really meant it, she'd pull that blade up her arm, not across.
If she really meant it, she'd swallow all those pills they keep in the cabinet.
Did she hear it? The years of attempts and ridicule?
She's in the hospital. It's real this time. They had to break the door down.
It's real this time. Over and over in my ears, it's real this time.
This time.
It's the anniversary of hell and I'm here again. It's funny in a sick sort of way, to be here again. The past breeds familiarity in the present.
I know my place. I wait. The phone rings.
I go where I am summoned.
She wasn't successful, not tonight. But she will be if she keeps her goal in mind. It's not the first time, afterall. She's learning from her mistakes.
But not tonight.
It's the drive of what she wants. How can you stop the rain from falling down?
Do you want to trade places? I dare you.
I could sleep through it, but it's too loud. I could ignore it, but the phone keeps ringing. I could walk away from it, but it's faster than me. It sits at the door when I arrive.
If she really meant it, she'd pull that blade up her arm, not across.
If she really meant it, she'd swallow all those pills they keep in the cabinet.
Did she hear it? The years of attempts and ridicule?
She's in the hospital. It's real this time. They had to break the door down.
It's real this time. Over and over in my ears, it's real this time.
This time.
It's the anniversary of hell and I'm here again. It's funny in a sick sort of way, to be here again. The past breeds familiarity in the present.
I know my place. I wait. The phone rings.
I go where I am summoned.
She wasn't successful, not tonight. But she will be if she keeps her goal in mind. It's not the first time, afterall. She's learning from her mistakes.
But not tonight.
It's the drive of what she wants. How can you stop the rain from falling down?
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
On the phone just now
Her: I'm drawing holly leaves on my calendar on Christmas day. Which should I draw on Thanksgiving Day, a Cornucopia or a pilgrim?
Me: Busy day at work?
Me: Busy day at work?
So the good times can roll again
I want to send you somewhere. Yes, you. I want you to spend some time there. Read the words. Stare at the photos. Absorb the story. I discovered it by accident a couple weeks ago, and I return everyday because I'm hypnotized to do so. The current issue of Rolling Stone gives mention of it. It's that good. It's that real. Go there. You'll see.
http://operationeden.blogspot.com/
http://operationeden.blogspot.com/
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