Hello, tibia. Hello, fibula. Right back atcha,’ femoral head.
Unfolding from my fetal position among the dogs and husband, today I can feel my thoracic spine, right there at T5. The metacarpal bones of my right hand spent the fretful night reminding me that I am, in fact, right-handed.
This is my life on filgrastim – the stem-cell stimulating drug. I got two shots of it per day for five days leading up to and including the donation – one shot in each chicken wing, among the ample, subcutaneous margins of my triceps.
We lost a wonderful member of our poker group to cancer in May.
Ray was a man who rode jacks to ruin on more than one occasion. He had this crafty smile that crossed his cheeks whenever he was trying to figure out whether you were bluffing. He grilled a wicked Polish sausage and traded naughty barbs about his own Polish sausage, that resulted in a good laugh and a little blushing.
Old men are allowed do that, especially around the card table.
So when I learned of his passing, I called some of the players and proposed an idea that I’d seen on The Wire.
Feet, don’t fail me on Friday… and while you’re at it, keep my knees in line and my hips on the up-and-up. Oh, and the toes, watch out for the toes.
On Friday, May 16, I will be revisiting the site of one of the most triumphal and awful experiences of my life: The Grand Canyon, one of the Seven Natural Wonders of the World, and the place that resulted in my having to have both of my big toenails pulled out with surgical pliers (while I was awake and aware of what was going on).
The trip was to have celebrated the 10th anniversary of our initial crossing, but since I have done my best to wipe the memory of the Dreaded Toenail Incident from my brain, I miscalculated, and my intrepid partner Kellee and I are in fact doing the big traverse on the eight-and-a-halfth anniversary of the big event.
If you are a single male, you missed a rare opportunity to find some hearty, woman-stock of child-bearing age at Tempe Town Lake on May 5.
More than 500 women gathered for the inaugural Esprit de She triathlon and duathlon. Depending on the race they entered, the ladies tallied up to 16 miles’ worth of swimming, biking and running … or running, biking and running … or if you’re me, swimming, biking, running and pissing people off.
Suffice it to say, these women have stamina – and after wearing themselves out (or working themselves into a lather) – they might have lowered their standards and perhaps would have been more amenable to your romantic entreaties. Or not.
Although I wasn’t amenable to (or eligible for) those romantic entreaties, I did survive the inaugural Esprit de She Triathlon in 1 hour, 55 minutes, 23 seconds with my dignity intact (more or less) along with my gangrenous toe. It was not a personal best, not by a long shot.