For the last few months I've been obsessed with people who are worse off than me. Being unable to walk for 3 months has convinced me I'm at death's door. And I might be. You don't know. All the plans I had to make this time productive have dissolved into a haze of Vicodins, microwaveable food products and a craving for pie. I was at first pissed at myself for not doing anything of value but then realized I've never been good at doing something of value so why ruin a perfect record?
Since that strange tingling came back in my fingertips, which I haven't mentioned to save myself the agony of reading helpful reader comments like "Well, then just cut them off,' coupled with my life on a scooter slash crutches, I felt assured of the valued pole position at this year's Crippledome. I reluctantly called the scooter people to come pick up my metallic best friend on July 1st, the day after the cast comes off. Then I'll have the black boot and be able to put 20% of my weight on my foot while using crutches. 20%? Haven't we been over my ineptitude with all things math? One fifth of my total weight = what the fuck does that mean. I did a practise run with that contraption that Carson gave me to wear around my neck. Thank God big necklaces are in style right now; maybe people will just mistake it for a very poor fashion choice. You can stick food and drinks in it while hobbling about on crutches. I managed to go 3 feet until I dropped a paper towel and just stood there staring at it because someone forgot to make bendable crutches.
Carson and her friend Charlie came over on Friday for movie night. We watched The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. I was familiar with the story and knew it was brutal and depressing so of course I was very excited to see it. My shrink used to tell me to stop watching the 11:00 pm news because it was too depressing. That's when I started watching the 11:00 news. Diving Bell is the memoir of the French editor of Elle, Jean-Dominique Bauby, who had the rarest form of a stroke, called locked-in syndrome, and could only blink his left eyelid. With that one eye he blinked out an entire memoir. He wrote a book while blinking at the letters his therapists read to him. Whereas I would be staring at a dropped paper towel for the duration of my recovery. I'm half French. Obviously the American half is more dominant.
End of chat.