Did I say give me two weeks? Because apparently I meant a month – give me a month. Sigh.
So it was about two weeks until I got moved, and the overly, ridiculously, crazy-like-a-monkey-wearing-a-bra side of my brain thought things would go like this: 1) move. 2) immediately do the things I like to do, like blogging. Which, as you can obviously already tell, was bra-wearing-monkey crazy. The first week after I moved was all about “how to cram an entire life into a single room plus bathroom.” This was not unlike a life-size version of those puzzles with 8 blocks all being slid around in 9 spaces to make a picture. In this instance a picture of a VERY CRAMMED LITTLE ROOM PLUS BATHROOM.
Oh, and there was also that little thing of finding a new job which, as absolutely everybody in the entire world will tell you (all clever-like), is its own full-time job. Its clever because its true, people: job-hunting is hard, crappy, depressing work. But it’s totally required to actually GET a job – turns out they won’t just give you one.
But even that stuff and the other half dozen little things I’m not whining about would have only tied me up for an extra week or so. The rest of the delay is all about my Dad. My poor, bummed Dad. My Dad who, when I first arrived home, was achy but walking and talking and getting around, albeit slowly and with the occasional “oof!” My Dad who is NOW stuck in bed, in agony despite the HIGH level of brain-melty pain meds coursing through his system, along with almost a dozen other forms of shiny, shiny drugs.
Here’s the highlight reel: He had back pain. He was told “you need to have spinal fusion surgery for two vertebra.” and so he did. He was recovering amazingly well for the first two weeks. Then he had PT and he’s been doomed ever since. It’s inflammation. No, wait – it’s a muscle spasm. Wait, sorry, it’s sciatica. Or possibly, for all we know for sure, it’s gremlins dancing on his spine in stiletto heels. Whatever it is it hurts like a m*therf*cker. The medical geniuses also have him doped up on Valium, so for the first time in my life I have a pretty good idea of what my Dad would have been like if he’d been a heavy, sloppy drunk. (I’m telling you now, I missed NOTHING.)
After over a week of helplessness and misery and frustration and anger I’ve boiled things down to a thick, bubbly bitterness. I have reached the well-informed conclusion that all Doctors are bastards and snake oil salesmen. I’ve forsaken all hope in preference of cynicism and peanut butter sammiches. I’ve even threatened a poor, helpless nurse with handcuffs and a classic Shirley McLaine meltdown. But hey, at least none of it has done any good and we’re all still where we started, so there’s that!
I’m sure there will be more nasty, ill-tempered, growly posts brimming with self pity and loathing – I don’t want to use it all up here! But at least I can say this: I’m back and I’ll be writing. Look for it here!