See you next fall

January 1st and I have what you might call a tumultuous relationship. Oh sure, I'm always happy when it comes around, but then something inevitably happens to break the mood.

For example last New Year's Day, I found myself in the ER with my blood pressure somewhere between steam coming out of a pressure cooker and a lovely hillside view. That was because at the time, I'd been prescribed a new med which, come to find out, funny thing, I was deathly allergic to. Doctors, amIrite?

Anyway, this new year the tradition continued. We got home from a lovely time at our annual January 1st brunch with the usual suspects. I was in the kitchen by the fabulous new farmer's sink we put in during our remodel a couple years ago, and turned around to walk back into the living room.

Unbeknownced to me, my teeny, tiny, virtually invisible 90-lb. German Shepherd had stealthily snuck up behind me and was standing there. When I turned to go, I went ass-over-teakettle (hence the picture) into a wall, the refrigerator and finally landed face down on the kitchen floor like a bag of rocks.

Physical comedy was never my strong suit.

My son happened to be sitting in a chair that faces our open kitchen and saw the entire event. He quickly came over to ask if I was ok, which I was. Besides my knee, arm, back and cheek, the only thing that was injured was my pride. And my until then perfect tour en l'air (look it up).

So bruised but undaunted, I continue into the new year with a brand new resolution—to try to be more careful and aware of my surroundings every January 1st.

And look both ways while crossing the kitchen.

I'm screwed

I have a fairly sizable scar on my right forearm. When people see it, they always ask what happened. And every time, depending on the mood I'm in, they get a different story.

Sometimes it's the one where I was scuba diving off Catalina and a baby shark bit my arm. Other times, it's the guy who pulled a knife on me so I shot him. Rarely is it what really happened: a bad auto accident.

Decades ago, a guy in a Monte Carlo decided to run a red light just as I was going through the intersection at Crescent Heights and San Vicente (for you Angelenos). I was driving an orange '71 Super Beetle. He t-boned me, and because I wasn't wearing a seat belt (which the police said probably saved my life) I flew out of the car, wound up sanding the asphalt with my face and breaking my right radius in three places.

I know, stay out of those places.

And unlike the kind I'm used to making from jobs and relationships, it wasn't a clean break. So in order to set it properly, they had to put in the steel plate you see here.

Now when I think of medical equipment, I think of hi-tech, thin, durable composite whammy-jammy that can stay in my body unnoticed for eternity. What I don't think of is a door hinge with five screws in it.

There were some interesting things about it. When I ran my thumb over the scar, I could feel the five screw heads. I used to always set off the metal detectors at the airport. And when the weather would turn damp or cold, my arm would ache like a sonofabitch.

Eventually the arm healed. But then, in a moment of over-confidence and feeling thin, I had to go play volleyball one day with my then girlfriend, now wife, and repeatedly smack my arm until it swelled up three times its size.

That was the minute I decided I was going to have the plate taken out. I wasn't looking for a second surgery, but the arm muscles (yes, I have them) rubbing over the plate and screws all the time was just too irritating.

After the plate was removed, it took about seven months for the five holes from the screws to completely heal.

So it's all good. I have a nice souvenir and a good story. Plus now I can walk down alleys at midnight with my sleeves rolled up and no one bothers me.

It's because of the scar, you know, the one I got when I was sky-diving and my arm caught the door just as I jumped.

Grandma got screwed

And now for an update on the patient.

You'll remember back in October I published this post talking about how my mother-in-law had fallen on our top step, broken her arm and was about to have surgery. Well, a lot's happened since that post.

For starters, as you can see by her x-ray, grandma got screwed good and hard four times right after her fall. Given her age and the position she was in, it was exactly what she needed.

Yeah, I'm making sexual innuendos at the expense of an 85-year old woman. Deal with it.

At her recent doctor visit, he was very pleased at her progress. Her arm had regained more movement than he would've expected from someone her age so soon.

She's also lost more than twelve pounds since she's been staying with us because she's eating much better thanks to my wife's cooking and not munching on all the chocolate she has lying around her house.

I don't know what the hell my excuse is.

Where she used to walk up our driveway so she didn't have to climb four steps, she, well, she still walks up the driveway. Except when I'm with her I make her walk the steps. She's a bit set in her ways and severely exercise resistant. Going up the steps is good for her. And of course, making an 85 year old woman work harder is just one of life's great joys.

My living room couch is her bed, and she has everything she needs pretty much within arm's reach - the good arm. And while I can't parade around half-dressed as I'm prone to do, I can still watch the flat-screen late into the night because Grandma drifts off fairly early and her hearing isn't what it used to be.

She'll have her driving privileges back soon, and then I imagine she'll be moving back to her house which she visits once a week after church to pick up a bag full of an obscene amount of junk mail I can only hope for the sake of our forests not all seniors are getting.(Yes, that sentence had 54 words - let's see you do it.)

Every once in awhile Grandma complains about the unfamiliar ache in her arm. Having had a steel plate and five screws in my arm from an auto accident years ago, I completely understand the feeling. It's a unique kind of pain, only made worse when the weather gets chilly or it rains. But it does have its benefits. I used to love setting off the metal detector at the airport. In a pre-9/11 world it was a lot of fun.

Anyway, I make a point of cutting off her complaining at the pass, because it doesn't help us or her in the long run. Instead, what I do is remind her she's not the first person to have a broken arm and she won't be the last (although this is the first broken bone she's ever had).

What I should do is tell her about the great racehorse Barbaro, and the 27 screws he had to endure. And then tell her in that gentle, compassionate, caring way anyone who knows me knows I have, the four little words that would make it all better.

You got off easy.

Humerus ain't it

The top step strikes again.

When you come visit our house, there's a winding, brick walkway from the sidewalk to our front door. You climb four stairs from the street, then two more at the front door.

Those last two are the ones that get you.

A few years ago I personally tripped on the top step, went flying into the door jamb and cracked my head open. When I got to the ER, because the head is so vascular, I looked like I'd been at the scene of the murder. After a quick exam, the choice the doctor gave me was stitches or staples. I took the staples. I thought it would be some high tech piece of equipment that seamlessly and painlessly stapled the wound together so it could heal quickly. Not so much. It felt like a Swingline from Office Max.

Medical technology isn't nearly as sophisticated as you'd hope.

Anyway, last night, the top step claimed another victim.

My mother-in-law had picked up my daughter and was bringing her home. My daughter went into the house first, and Grandma was behind her when she caught her shoe on the top step and went flying into the door jamb with her full weight propelling her. She hit her right side hard, and broke her humerus bone just above the elbow.

The x-ray above isn't hers, but it's about what her injury looks like.

She's 85 years old, and tomorrow morning she'll have surgery to repair her arm. Then both her and her dog Barnabus will stay with us a bit while she recuperates.

Her outlook is good and she's in good spirits. Her blood pressure is 120/70, and despite her age she's never taken a pill for it a day in her life. Plus her side of the family usually goes to around 100, give or take.

Essentially what I'm saying is the door jamb didn't try hard enough. It's going to take more than surgery, healing and physical therapy afterwards to keep her down. She's going to be around a long, long time.

Which is exactly the way we like it.