Two Months Today: an Amputation in Retrospect
So as of May 1st it’s been two months exactly (roughly to the hour as of this writing, too) since ol’ Misfire McCoy here sent his lower left leg to heaven prematurely with his shotgun, and things are going better than you might expect, barring a lot of waiting and government inefficiency. The county presumably paid for my emergency bills yet now the man is taking weeks at a time to simply look at me, look down at my leg, look back up at my face and say “Yup, definitely not sorcery or a prank. Here’s the paper you need to progress to the American Disability Acts’ Ice Kingdom stage! Beware the dragons!” Is it truly so hard to check your mail, you bureaucratic butt-muppets? But that’s old news.The world still turns and as do my 22″ gold wheelchair rims. I want gold wheelchair rims, Obama! C’mon! All I need is $50,00 in taxpayer money to live kinda like an average dude, but SOMEHOW that’s asking too much. Sheesh…
While I have yet to begin physical therapy/rehab at a clinic due to my benefits, disability coverage and Medicaid STILL being”processed” (nary a single blue handicap parking tag), I have started”Slap Therapy”, a warm-up regimen of sorts for the prosthetic being fit that’s simply just wailing on the bottom of the stump to deaden the nerves and allow me to put all my weight on it with no discomfort and thus learn to walk again. Though I can testify to it making a lot of progress, it’s “Slap Therapy”, a kind of”therapy” you’d usually find at a Cenobite bondage club: smack the end with you hands like it owes money to Grandma until you’re a seething mass of frustration and pain with a “leg” that feels like it got a charley horse while under anesthesia but in a distinctly painful way. Lather, rinse, curse God and repeat until the artificial limb is ready to be attached and first tried out.
That brings me to riveting my peg leg (or however they do it) onto my leg for the coming walk-again-like-a-big-boy classes, as well as the inevitable fall-on-my-damn-face tumble on the pavement that’s sure to occur quickly after I stand up for the first time since the accident and yell “I AM THE HIGHLANDER” to a nurse. The falling is unavoidable and also a part of another entry I’m working on so we’ll discuss that fuckin’ cherry blossom of a time then. For now, I’ll be very frank: I’m stoked as all hell to be a biped with awful posture like before, and I’ve (mostly) accepted the amount of effort and work that goes with the conquest of struttin’ my stuff and believe I’ll either overcome or make up a pithy excuse for what I struggle with. Long road ahead!Walk a mile in my shoes! I’ll stand tall! I could do puns on that for eons. Alas,I must get back to fun-fun-fun work instead.
But for now, I’ll leave you with this little nugget of pun-drenched truth one my friend Bryan Bledsoe told me: “Gimpin’ ain’t easy!” It’s not! But it is something to do, and it’s more productive than playing Resistance 3 on a PS3 all day- just hurts infinitely more. Oh jeez, I almost forgot! Here’s the spent shell of the little bastard that did so much illegal mining in my Tibia, Tarsals and neighboring bones. I’m having the shotgun the aforementioned hell-shell was propelled from repaired and was finally able to pull it out after removing the barrel disassembling it down to the safety spring. Any ideas on what to do with it? Necklace? Reload it as a spooky Voodoo shell? iPhone accessory? If you have something in mind, e-mail me and share it- you could have the honor of seeing me make it! You’ll be so cool at school! Ladies AND men will want you! It will rain Skittles until Thor calls upon a chocolate sex apocalypse! The possibilities are endless!
Love your neighbors and tell your friends,