Today is my birthday, and I turn . . .
. . . a year older, dammit!
Pardon my vulgar Latin, but I feel like my Aunt Betty, who being revived from a diabetic coma and being asked "How old are you?" replied:
My Uncle Harlin laughed, relieved that Betty would be her old self again.
But like her, I feel "Too old." In the couple of weeks since my flying fall down the subway steps, I've recovered quite well, but I still wake up every morning with my right arm feeling as though it's going to come apart at its joints.
A week ago, after the splint came off, the doctor wanted me to come in several times for physical therapy. I tried it once and decided once was sufficient. The nurse did three consecutive things:
1. Wrapped my arm in hot towels. (I could do that myself!)
2. Applied electric shocks to my wrist. (To scare the pain away?)
3. Smeared cold cream along my upper forearm. (To undo the benefit of the hot towels?)
No actual physical therapy, you'll note. I'd had enough. The hot towels were pleasant, but I can get the same effect from washing dishes in hot water every evening -- plus the physical therapy of using my arm.
My home remedy seems to be working, but I still wake up every morning feeling my age . . . which -- "Dammit!" -- is now one year older.
In case you're wondering, I'm 138, come from Betelgeuse, and wear a cap to protect my head from cold, heat, and ridicule.
Wish me a happy birthday . . .