Billy, don't be a hero...

You know when you wake up with with a ridiculous song in your head, it's just going to be one of those days.

After writing incoherently into the wee hours of the morning about a military conflict issue, 'Billy Don't Be a Hero' was the annoying song my brain's jukebox of random tunes selected. I haven't heard that song in years...

Clearly, what we struggle with in our conscious mind hangs around for a while in the subconscious, dinging around trying to make sense of it all.

Wonder what the song will be tomorrow, as a new MRI showed that one of the arthritis-induced bone spurs on my ankle snapped off at some point in the last week and hunkered down between the bones in my ankle. Little bugger (maybe the size of a pea) apparently is like Heed - spherical, but quick pointy in parts.

The pointy parts are amassing a nice glob of fluid around them and shredding the neighboring tendons. Nice. Doogie Doc said, "Hell yeah, if I were a tendon I'd be pissed too." I liked him immediately.

So add to my collection of braces a fancy ski-boot-clippy number, all stylish in black and grey.

Now we play the waiting game for six weeks to see if it floats its way on outta there. Hubs is taking the tendon route and is livid that we're not going in immediately and digging it out.

I have a mixed bag of feelings about that, and about the future. Trying to keep up appearances that I am okay with all of this change is becoming more difficult with each new surgery. At least I'd get a chance to wear that cozy Bair Hugger again.

Just as I finish typing, a shiny silver hair drifted onto my screen. That kinda says it all.

Oops! I couldda had a C8!

Dang head stem. If someone told me that my head's not screwed on straight - they'd be right.

My neck decided to go ahead and age 30 years ahead of the rest of my body.

The doc said it's like trying to balance a bowling ball on a -35 degree angled post. Superb analogy, eh?

Here I sit, ol' bowling ball permanently fused forward like I'm waiting for something. Godot?

The problem comes in that the vertebra that is most affected is the C8. Don't worry, I had no idea what that meant either... Just don't ask me to hold your baby or Fabergé egg collection. Definitely not a good option. That little bony bit at the base of my bowling ball pole holds the nerves that control the hands.

Yup, I'm a dropper. Just randomly, the signals coming through the 8 decide to detour to goodness knows where, and my hands just release. Thank God Dexa over at Kowalski's in White Bear Lake just happens to be the Queen of Cool. She barely batted an eye when I dropped my basket containing white-hot Minestrone, a full pint of blueberries and some schmancy expensive homemade Graham crackers into the shiny-new cheese case display she was showing me.

Aside from spilling nearly every glass at the table when we dine out, I can no longer tell which finger is which when putting on gloves. Guess I'll have to make the move to mittens this year... I'm considering getting ones with the string. I always wanted those as a kid - right around the same time I was famous for my Angus Young impression.

The Blue Streak

My new ride arrived today. The irony of the name is not lost on me, nor I'm sure the other rolling souls who travel on The Blue Streak.

One swears up a... Which I did during a practice ride when my thumb and the frame of the simple machine met the solid oak doorframe to our kitchen. The color is, of course, a completely obtrusive bright blue. Chosen, perhaps to be as obvious as possible to others while one streaked down some previously unforeseen hill or HC ramp.

The arrival of the wheelchair has not caused as much internal strife as I imagined. Perhaps because I think it will be only an occasional tool used when absolutely necessary. Even as my new bulging disk and ankle burn sharply through the cocktail of pain meds, denial is still only a river in Egypt.

My mom has taken the news of the chair purchase much harder than I have. Her stubborn German determination keeps her walking on ankles, knees and hips long dry from loss of supportive tissues. She views walking as a gift and boldly refuses use a cane, even though each step causes her to grimace. It is the same determination that my grandfather had as an octagenarian whose heart was only working at 10-15% efficiency in the days before he passed. He insisted he felt fine.

I remember my denial of his impending death during my last visit with him in the hospital, where I even joked that the oxygen mask contraption he was wearing made him look like a frat boy with a bra on his head. We laughed long about that. That is the last living memory I have of my precious Grandpa.

Perhaps denial is a family trait that I have inherited, through a long line of strong German farmers. So you fall and nearly rip your nose off (uncle) - 'tis but a flesh wound - tape it on with duct tape and get back to work. So you have Stage IV breast cancer that will ultimately call you home within the month (aunt) but you still attend the party. Certainly one never talks about the affliction! This is where I peel away from the norm.

With medicine's luck and God's great mercy, the Blue Streak and I will travel many roads together.

We are headed this weekend to the Ren Faire, which ought to be a real trick with the coming rains. The greatest gift that I will have on that trip is my little girlfriend, Analise. A woman far beyond her nine years, she isn't mortified by my limitations. At Game Fair, she held my hand by holding my cane. We hobbled proudly, her hand over mine.

Maybe there is some lesson to be learned in her unconditional kindness and caring. At the sage age of nine, she sees in people what the rest of us have forgotten. Behind every cane, walker and wheelchair there is a person that somebody loves, and isn't ashamed to hold their hand in public.