Regular readers will recognize the foul countenance of Bert, my 1-year-old golden retriever, and his puffy ball, also 1 year old. Bert, as I may have mentioned once or twice, is singlehandedly responsible for having dug the hole into which I innocently plummeted a few months ago, reducing what had once been an award-winning ankle to a mangled tangle of torn and bruised sinew.
Yes, yes, this is old news. But check this out: a couple of X-rays and MRIs later, it turns out that the reason I still can’t traipse hither and yon with my former Astairian élan — though my assiduity in avoiding further holes has been exemplary, I tell you whut — is that there is a loose chunk of something — a moon rock, possibly, or a petrified nugget broken free of my brain — floating around in my ankle joint, mucking shit up. I mention this because in a day or so I’ll be having — you guessed it — more surgery, both to remove the chunk (which is the size of a lima bean), and to reconstruct what’s left of my poor shredded tendon. By which I mean, I may be benched, blog-wise, for another small while. True, the ankle is a long way from my obstreperal lobe, but we’ve all seen the ghastly results of my Vicodin posts, so I’ll be keeping those to minimum this time (pause for cheers and applause), and it’s anybody’s guess when the fog will lift.
It’s funny, the way things work out. If anybody had told me, a year ago, that within the next 12 months I’d be undergoing 5 surgeries, four months of chemo, seven weeks of radiation, five million injections of radioactive goo, baldness, menopause, zits, an unseemly adult-onset dependence on narcotics, and an ankle chunk, I would have taken the next plane to Antarctica — I believe Southwest flies there for $49 one-way — stepped daintily onto the nearest iceberg, and floated off calmly into eternity.
I’m glad I didn’t, though. I would have missed tomato season.