Scared? Well, you should be. Terrified even. Or not. I mean, it should be safe enuff as I didn't name it irregularity. So offending bodily fluids aside this should be among the lighter, more family friendly posts. Promise. Pinky swear even, OK?
Let's even call it "E" for Everyone like the games are categorized these days. Funny side story here: My hubby gets the boys some new games the other night. The check-out clerk (flirty I'm sure as they always are with him) says, "You realize these are rated MATURE?" and raises an eyebrow. Like that would stop him. So he gets all tickled telling me this story as if he'd been carded or something. He clears his manly voice and says he told the clerk, "These are for me." That's my gamer, hubby! I love you, baby!
So no "E" then I guess with all this manly voice stuff. How's about a Rated-G like Disney then? Bippety, Boppety, Boo! Nah! Even I can't slather on enuff sugar-coating to earn that rating. And let me tell you I can spread it thick dearies. THICK. Now back to the title. Regularity vs. irregularity. Who am I but an English major to get so hung up on words? I've never been one to go with the flow. I worked so hard to go against it - before different was cool.
Anyways, my mom called me today and asked me to write. She claimed she didn't have anything to read. Yeh, right! This I know to be a complete and utter falsity as I am constantly buying her Dean Koontz and Stephen King books. What an honor to be among such authors.
So I immediately try and think of what it was I last wrote about. I'm admittedly sick of the play by play, but even worse would be to re-hash the already pre-hashed hash. And though I do like my fried taters burnt and my hash browns blackened I much prefer fresh writing material to any overdone. Soooo, enuff of that tangent. I say to my Mom, "I'm not too regular, am I?"
And alas, my latest entry has a title. Now what to do for a subject . . . anyone? Ideas? Awww, hell. Where'd I leave ya? On steroids, right? Check. Still on the little boogers. Hate 'em! Did any of y'all catch my Incredible Hulk analogy? Imagine him hulking out and not being able to walk. Sux. Well that's kinda where I am. And yes, it sux.
Time passed as I begrudgingly took the oral version prescribed to me since "it's no longer our policy to admit for administering of IV steroids" says the prissy little one behind the counter. Remember that jewel? What do they do for MSers suffering an exacerbation. I'm not a roid fiend. I don't call and beg for them with every little symptom.
In fact I'm quite the opposite trying to avoid them at all costs and in any form. And furthermore when I request that I would like to be admitted to the hospital then NEWSFLASH: I'm prolly pretty bad off and scared to boot. The feet have gone eerily purple. Normal? Loss of feeling from the knees down. Normal? Frozen to the touch. Normal? Can't tell cold water from scalding hot water in the shower. Normal? Loss of feeling becomes loss of motion. Normal?
What's this? Drop foot gets worse? I didn't even think this was possible. But I keep on. I don't give up - not completely. Not yet. Sunday I struggle to church. The boys had been to Bible School all week and were to perform some songs they'd learned. And they did. As hard as it was to make it in, I'm so glad I did. Two days of high dose roids plus a sermon geared right at me about not giving up. What more could a girl need? Red Sonja, that's who! Let me explain . . .
To celebrate my niece's performance in front of the church she was gonna come by and swim with us a bit. Yay! I prolly, maybe shouldn't have participated but it's hard to sit and watch the water slosh around the pool all day only to not get in it. So when the sis and her kiddos showed up, guess who was already in the pool waiting on their arrival? Me, me, me, me!
I told Jason I would just try and see how things was going before they got there. Slowly I inched up the small rickedy ladder and jokingly proclaimed, "Screw it! I'm going in!" before flopping forward into the water. Screw the steps to the bottom. Screw 'em. Those, my friends, were my exact thoughts at that exact time. We'd figure out getting out when the time came. Yippee! I was goin' swimmin'! And if hangin out in the water counts - that's just what I did.
An hour passed. Maybe. Maybe not even that long. Heck, prolly not even that long. It was me and my kiddos. My sister and her kiddos. And Jason. I can only speak for myself, of course, but I had a blast however long we were in there. I enjoyed my boys getting along. I enjoyed her two getting braver. Amelia, I enjoyed catching up with. And Jason, I enjoyed Jason, well, just cause I usually always do. But y'all know that already.
On with the story. All swam out the youngest of the crowd are ready to get out. Of course their momma follows. And my youngest whose lips are beginning to turn blue. Brrrrrrr! So then Jason looks to me and says, "You ready?" So was I? Not so much, but boy am I glad I went ahead with a, "Sure thang, Baby!" Begin the end. Per my direction of how I forsaw the very near future going, Jason got out first. I figured if I should find myself teetering atop the ladder I'd rather him be on the outside to catch me vs. the concrete patio. A very wise choice indeed. Who knew?
So here's the lament of the ladder: a not so tall tale. Based on actual events, blah, blah, blah!Until just the previous week my right leg had been my bad one. Not so anymore. At least not right now. At least not until these blasted steroids start working their magic. Anyways, weak right foot first followed by a newly even weaker left foot. First step, done. Yay me! Three to go. Ya with me?
Second rung, same as the first. Repeat, right? Yes. Right first and then left. Barely, but done. Third? Third's a charm, right?! Right up first - very shaky. Beginning to spasm. Damn! Better hurry. What's this? Left ain't goin' no where. Jason to the rescue. From outside the pool Jason reaches in to grab my left leg and help lift/guide it to the next rung. Shew! Thankfully once there the spasming subsided in the ever weakening right leg.
If legs could talk I imagine my right one would have been screaming at this point, "Bitch, pleeeeeaaaaaase! You baby my gimp ass for years and now outta no where are expecting me to lug your 200lb. ass around town? What the hell with all these steps? Didn't we used to live in a 1-story? Daaaaammmmnnn! Know what? I'm quittin' too! This is a bunch of shit!"
And just as I managed to swing her over to straddle the ladder and pool ---- the mouthy bitch quit me! Jerking, thrusting, and kicking like she was having a massive seizure all her own she fell completely limp upon the ball of my right foot meeting with the top rung on the dry side of the ladder.
And where then did that leave my useless lefty? Flailing in the water that's where! I wouldn't even say flailing had it not been for my upper body's protest to the whole ordeal. My hubby grants me permission to sit on the pool wall, (Thanks, Jason!), whilst I take a rung in each hand and attempt to lift my lard ass just enuff to set my bitch right leg free of the perdicament she'd gotten herself in.
Some how or another in all the commotion my leg had become lodged between the outside rungs of the ladder and the outside wall of the pool. Quite a mystery how my sizely thigh (we'll politely call it) actually fit there. And perhaps an even larger mystery was how I was able to be resting on my ass whilst my calve and the underside of my thigh were completely mashed together.
A contortionist friends, I am not. Or at least I thought I wasn't. Didn't know I could cup my right ass cheek with the bottom of my right foot. Guess what? I could. If my hair had been any longer I might could have braided my hair with my toes. Seriously! Maybe even a french braid. Let me just add, "SHIT OUCH!!!"
Then my 6'2" husband, after threatening to call an ambulance, decides he's gonna jump in to get me out. I'm yelling, "No! No! No! No!" And he's carrying on a discussion with my sister perched a ways away from us in the bench swing. She'd just changed her youngest ones diapey and was by this time pretty well nice and dry.
I try to calmly reason all this out and explain why I'd had Asa remain in the pool with me. "Goose," I say, "Can you help push Mommy up enuff that Daddy can reach her better?" Poor guy! He looked damn near traumatized. To keep myself from tearing up at this I began to mock Jason and his high jumping skills. This was not maliciously done, but rather to get Asa and myself laughing.
This mockery, including asking him if he'd been any good at high jumping even 15 years ago, may have even soothed Amelia some. That or she became overly worried that the complete and utter lack of blood flow to my brain might be beginning to harm my senses. Well harm them worse than they'd already been harmed I suppose. Up and over she comes leaving her 1 yr. old and 4 yr. old to handle things themselves.
Bless her soul she does give instructions to watch out for them before she grabs a lawn chair and flops in muddy feet and all to the rescue. THANK YOU GOD FOR MY LITTLE SISTER! But who were these instructions for? Asa was trapped like a rat in the pool with no ladder. Jason was manning me manning the ladder. Awww, yes. That leaves 6 yr. old blue-lipped Abe. He could wrangle the kiddos. Surely. Maybe. Or not.
At this point I have sort of an out of body experience . . . I look up into the sky and ask God to please keep my niece and nephew safe. I even tell Jason in the chaos, "Watch Bubby!" Screw me, right? I'd be o.k, right? Or not? Seeing the look in Amelia's eyes now a little closer to mine than they had been pre-contortion, I may have started to worry a little. Just a little.
Nah. It's all good. But now that she's in, I thought, how are her and Asa ever gonna get out? Another mystery, I tell ya! All the raukas and I can hear Bubby saying, "Ma ma. Ma ma." But it's all good 'cause I can see him and he's all calm. He may have been the only one calm at this point. So whilst Jason and Amelia formulated a gameplan I focused on the baby. Has it been a week since this fiasco and I still haven't written about it? I really must be under the weather. Onward then . . .
So I suggest I get back in the water and rest up. Or not? Whether or not I actually spoke the words -- this is the plan of action that had my vote. But alas, this was no democracy. And who ever gave invalid's the right to vote? So I listened intently as to my sister's and husband's plans. Still my mind wondered. If Asa hadn't been trapped and Amelia had not returned to the pool, welllllll, they could have all loaded up and went out for supper. Or rode off into the sunset. Lived happily ever after, Disney fans! You get the picture, right? Nope! What's this? They'd come to a concensus. They were going to use brute force to heave my ass outta there. "Come Hell or high water," I remember thinking to myself. And silently praying niether would come!
I'm instructed I'm gonna have to help 'em. Yeh, right? Wasn't my just being there enuff? Amelia braces herself as if she is readying to squat thrust a barn. My mind rushes back to all our days of volleyball conditioning and weight training and I fight back the intense urge to strike up a conversation involving Coach Tucker. Ha! If only she'd have been there. She'd have known what to do. Hehehehe. I made myself laugh. In all seriousness, I was laughing at the situation though not the Coach. Two hands on my hip. She pushed. I pulled. And Jason made sure the ladder stayed on the ground. Seems a frivolous task now that I mention it, but with all the strength my sis was using to get me outta the pool she damn near could have sent me, ladder attached, thru the 8 ft. glass doors on the opposite side of the patio.
Now just an aside about my sis. Toe to toe I think she might could kick Red Sonja's ass. I'm not biased, really. Yes the same She-Ra that lifted and carried me down a blue million church steps after I'd fallen at our dear friends wedding. Sorry, Shelley! But did the matron of honor break a sweat in her lovely gown? Of course not! Did she steal the show in all the pics after the ceremony? Of course so! She's an Orth too, ya know! Tuff as nails . . . I'm so blessed to have her. LOVE YA!
OK, enuff's enuff. Back to the pool pest removal. Once high enuff Jason leaned over and attempted to scoop me up. Attempt failed. The ladder was refusing to relinquish it's embrace. Amelia to the rescue again, this time as the handy dandy ladder pryer offer. Ha! I should have t-shirts made. Finally I was no longer a damsel in distress but only a damsel resting in the arms of her prince. Resting, that is, if resting is shivering cold with one leg dead and the other beginning to jerk with throngs of sharp pain jolting about. Awww, yes. Resting.
Both my arms, though they'd grown weak and heavy with all the excitement were clutching Jason's neck. My rear rested atop his chest, with both legs dangling over his vey upper right arm - almost nearly shoulder blade. Awkward I'm sure as he turned to maneuvar the landscaping and attempt to delicately reunite me with the earth. At this delicate transition point I can't help but think the ladder perch had not been nearly as high off the ground as the man perch I had now found myself on. Picky, bitch, aren't I? Not so much really. More of a scared bitch than anything.
Once on solid level concrete patio he leans forward to place me down. More trouble. Can you believe it? My arms fail to unlock the death grip 'round his neck. Laughable, right? We're in love. Rent a room. Right? And my danglers? Won't straighten. Spaghetti, I tell ya. Worthless. Soon I find myself balancing on the jigglers and reaching out for . . . can you guess it? The blasted ladder to steady myself whilst Jason scurries for a chair. Enter chair. Enter ass. And scene. The end.
Well, at least the end of that fiasco. Then we get in. Dry off. Have some icecream. Celebrate the church program. Celebrate my freedom from the pool. And as our guests depart I qwander how the hell I'm ever gonna make it up to my precious bed. And fast forward thru the week. Worsening. Swelling. Throbbing to pain. Have I mentioned steroids suck? Why aren't they working? Please God. Help them to do their job! Amen.
Monday. Sore day of recovery. Tuesday we keep my friend Wendy's son for the day. I say we, but truly as I sat on the couch the three guys entertained themselves. Thank you 3 Amigos! And Wednesday, thank you, God! I may actually be comin' out of this funk. Too soon to brag though, right? And two steps forward - one step waaaaay back. Thursday morning. Trash day, yay! Jason let's me sleep in, just incase we get Wendy's little man back today. Great. The boys get up. I don't. The boys go downstairs. I don't. The boys return upstairs whining, "Mom. You haven't moved." And wellllll, I couldn't.
Enter my super mature, super caring, super sensitive, super kind 9 year old, might as well be thirty something, kiddo. Asa to the rescue! He calmly calls his daddy to report the news of the day and assure his dad he had it all under control 'til he could get home. Such the big man, my Goose! He then helps his little bro get dressed and ready for the day all whilst staying near me should I need anything. And for more on my Thursday . . . close your eyes and enjoy hours of complete silence.
The boys went off to Granny and Pawpaw's for the day and after a horrifically difficult trip to the potty I chugged a couple (or more) Advil and was out. 2:30 or 3 ish Jason returned to check on me. And again immovable 'til 6 or 7 ish when the entire fam returned with supper. And not of the store bought variety mind you. Granny lavished us with delicious roast, taters and carrots and homemade mac and cheese. Dang it was good. Got any more leftovers?
Thankfully I felt better Friday. And what's this? My ankle! I knew I'd left it somewhere. Up we go and down them stairs. Is this a comeback I'm making? One can only hope.