Hobbling 'Round the Warden's Ire

OK, here is how it went. I got up a little early to get a fresh start on my life, not just day. Decided I had been screwing off too much and that in turn had led to my less than thrilling physical state (a recognition I make about three times a week by the by). So I zip down an anti-nausea medicine, hobble into the kitchen, eat half a bowl of oat meat and rush  for the big bowl at the back of the house. Once done there, I go straight to the old recliner where I am self planted until I feel the wave as has passed. Then into the living room and the new recliner for most of the remainder of the generally feeling like crap not to mention sorry for myself.

One case in point: The new recliner was super last night and every body who came over took the time to step out of their lively conversations with the more ambulatory to at least have some perfunctory words with me. Every thing in yesterday's post went exactly as predicted, but for the sitting in the recliner part. It segregated me from the main spirit of the party. Not a festivity killer by any stretch, but enough to let me know I was somehow on the fringe of things. Didn't like it. Not bit. None. But upon every attempt to abandon it I was soon back in it, doing the best I could.

And this morning, Sadie got out the front door and it was no problem getting her back. The problem was the butt-crawl I had to make back to the porch because I could not raise myself from the that sitting position.

And so, like a thumb-sucking child, I just retreated. Back in the recliner, only forcing myself to move once, and that to take Jeb for a short drive (I know, I know, should have been a short walk.). And the swollen legs hurt like hell, going to the potty was still a massive effort and just trying to write was an repulsive effort.

So Sherry comes in about dark and asks what I want for dinner. I shrug. Nothing really.. She says, "Want to know why you are so weak? You aren't eating anything. Maybe a thousand calories a day. In effect you are starving yourself."

"Not true," I reply.

"So when you wake up dead one morning will you call me in to say you are sorry or just be dead are you going to call me and say that I was right or will you just be dead."

"Deprive you of giving me a bit more hell."

"No point giving a dead man hell, sugar. Oh and you are terrible about taking your medicines."

"Am not," Yes, I am pouting.

"Did you take your appetite medicine,? Did you?

"Uh, no."

"Why not."

Didn't feel like."

She sat back with a smug. "Case closed."

And this the same woman who was waiting on me hand a foot two days earlier.

So just to prove this issue one way or the other, I hobbled into the kitchen and made a grilled cheese sandwich. It was delicious. Five minutes later we are chatting away beside the fire and then I decide to write this post, and answer today's emails and work on story. Oh and commit to taking the appetite come the morrow.

Ha. What does the Warden really know.

Comments

[Manuel]

Dave don't you know yet the Warden is always right? Just ask her. Hang in there my friend.

[Mary]

Trust me the warden knows. You have to learn to listen. Happy Holidays David, Sherry and the family.