THE DAY AND LIFE OF A CRIP ON THE MEND

Every morning at 7:30, I am summoned downstairs for a breakfast of Kashi's Autumn Wheat cereal, a cup of Lipton hot tea with SweetNLow, and an orange from the farmer's market down the road. This is after I inject myself with Lovenox, which unfortunately does not make me more desirable as the name suggests, but surely prevents blood clots from forming in my atrophied leg.

Meanwhile my father, a dependable chap, follows me as he juggles a tote bag of miscellaneous items, a cushion to prop up my leg, and the commode that provides support when I perform bowel movements. Which is like waiting for Old Faithful to erupt on schedule. Regardless, such performances are very important to record for the visiting nurse, who comes 2-3 times per week.

In the kitchen, my mother is anxious to the pour the milk so I try my best to hobble down the two flights of stairs. Once I arrive, I plop in a large armchair, adjust my leg in an upright position, and turn on the TV. I think Cybill is on Lifetime. Welcome to my new office.




This is not a charmed life, but one of mandatory leisure. I am now subject to bad television, writing poems about pinball machines, and verbose blogging for the Twitter crowd. All under the influence of Vicodin. If I sound like Bea Arthur (RIP), it's because Golden Girls comes on 9am on the Hallmark Channel.