Cats and Progress

Coco and I have come to an agreement—she’s allowed to sit on my lap anytime, anywhere she wants and for however long suits her. Negotiations were long and difficult but, in the end, I think we both won the the day.…sort of.

You may think Coco's spoiled but consider our dear Skitter. Now that the weather's definitively cold (and will be for wretched months, eons even), Jen's brought out Skitter's heating pad. Skitter whiles away the hours, when Jen and Oni are at work, soaking up the warmth whilst cuddling her stuffed animals. In contrast, Coco's practically living a life of desperate privation. Honestly.

Meanwhile, what was yesterday's big PT win? Glad you asked! Ten and Judy, my PT, wheeled me down to the seawall where I successfully walked, brace on with walker, 100 feet. I could have done more too. Why didn’t I? Emmm, something about not wanting to overdo (my favorite thing!), knock me out and incite pain. //shrugs//

I’m not yet free to go strolling on my own whenever I want. Something about taking it slow, first steps (no pun and shit) and needing two spotters for this endeavor. Sadly, this means I can only, for now, do the seawall walk with Ten (of course) and the PT or Ten and Jen when she’s home. I can walk up the stairs (first to second floor—13 steps) with just one spotter so that’s what’s on tap for today.

I imagine these sound like impossibly tiny points in the overall battle to regain as much mobility as possible but, for me, it’s significant. I’m now, more or less, back to the recovery/rehab level I was at before the goddamn thoracic spine monster took me out. I can see a glimmer of light on the horizon.

Having said that, I’m more than two months post back surgery and still have daily pain through my chest and under my upper arms. My neurologist says this is residual surgery shit. Huh, STILL? Me? I’m thinking it’s that plus all the daily upper body work needed to offset my weak-ass legs.

Are these obnoxiously pointy, lingering pangs all due to October’s slice up? Could the unending aches also have roots in being old now? OK, OK ‘old’ is in the abused musculature of the beholder. Granted, at 63, I think we can all agree that I’m well past my physically resilient kitten years. Right?

Hmmph!

Jesus-pectoralis major-christ, I’d sell my soul, (if there were any takers and I know there ain’t), for a little NON-chemical relief. A hot tub would come in handy about now. That or a nice float in my Icelandic silica heaven.