Tuesday, June 30, 2009

A General Hub-bub

Lots of activity here lately. While I am healing in bed I am surrounded by the sounds of the house being made readied for Mrs Elliott's family reunion, due at the end of July.

There are doors being re-hung, countertops being replaced, the front yard has been re-graded and landscaped with bunches of pretty plants and a nascent lawn, decks being stained, the non-windowed guest bathroom getting a Solatube, a hot water heater getting replaced, garage door opening mechanism being replaced, areas swept of rubbish so as to be made safe for toddlers, the spa being rebuilt so it works, paint going up on eves that have had new gutters installed, revealing the old paint where the old gutters once hung.

It's a fuckin' nightmare of drills and compressors and sawing.

And while all that's going in, Mrs Elliott is preparing to leave this coming Monday to San Diego for a five day conference in which she is exhibiting. Me, cripped up on one leg, unable to drive, will be relying on the kindness of my worthy son and/or Bend Taxi to provide a lift to the local supermarket should I happen to get a hankering for something like maybe a package of Hydrox cookies (sigh, better than Oreos but discontinued years ago).

We just got back from the Dr Jon Lutz, MD (infectious diseases, a delightfully quirky fellow) who confirmed that it is indeed yeast plus a soup├žon of epidermal staph bedeviling my ankle wound.

Yep, yeast -- in its myriad of varieties, some beloved for their wondrous ability to transform flour and water into bread, wheat and hops into beer; other despised for the troubles that bedevil women worldwide ... a yeastie beastie is chewing away at my flesh and possibly bone.

I will be receiving some kind of highly-technical dual isotope nuclear bone scan to detect whether the bone is involved. There are good treatments for such infections, but the worrying part is whether the bug has gotten into the holes alongside the new bolt holding my ankle together. I don't even want to think about it.

So I won't.

I got a Superman sticker at the doctor's office for being a good boy.

Back to beer. Which I deeply wish I could drink right now. But since alcohol does not mix with my meds and most certainly is not good when one has only one working leg and gets around on crutches, beers are not presently on my diet.

1 comment:

  1. Take a sample and brew ya up some Broken Ankle Bock.
    Interesting that all this work wasn't done for the occupants of the home when you moved in, but they're being done now because her family is coming. hehe

    ps: The word verification below is 'milfeers'... that can't be random. :)


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