AN ANGRY LIMB

So for most of the week my right leg has felt like it belonged to a daemon tormenting me.
To the point that yesterday by mid-day it was unbearable. Of course I bore it. No choice. Damned thing is part of me.

The question "how are you today?" necessarily means the answer "I can't complain". Even if I actually can. Did I mention my right leg? What I actually mean is that I won't complain, as it won't do any good. You cannot do anything about it, complaining will not solve the problem, and the leg will continue to be an issue.

One of the regulars asked me if my gout was bothering me again. Gout sounds impressive. Classy. An excess of oysters and rich meats. Plus port, pastries, and expensive cigars.

This is pedestrian. Merely poor circulation in the area where the big toe joins the rest of the foot, which was irritated or strained or something. Various aches communicated to the ankle and calf by what I will call "nerve sympathy", meaning that there is more than enough pain there to go around, and consequently body parts not immediately affected start hurting also, till by the end of the day everything between the floor and hip on that side has become a royal pain in the ...

I was profoundly aware of the irresponsibility of my youthful lifestyle.
Mistakes were made. Should have been more serious.
Kids in hot countries weren't as lucky.

My spirit animal is an old coot rolling around in his wheelchair because he is in pain, nurse Ratched swears at him, and the staff forbid him from lighting his pipe within the confines of the assisted living facility. Instead, they direct him to the nearest municipal garbage dump to commune with the rabid bums and coyotes there, become one with bestial nature. Stink at will, you old lizard. Far away. Yeah, we're not going to push you. Your arms are still good.


One problem is that my apartment mate, despite having many fine qualities, is a complete non-smoker, and consequently tobacco must be enjoyed outside the premises. The upside is that, being quite severely Aspy, she won't have a clue that I'm in pain unless I say something, so I won't have to politely turn down sympathy, attempts to alleviate the throbbing or helpful suggestions to that end. Can she do something for me? No, no she can't. But thank you.
And let's not talk about it. I'm fine, really, fine. Can't complain.


Grumble grumble. Damned leg. Grumble, grumble.


By the way: there is no such thing as unbearable pain if there is no other choice.


This morning it was somewhat better. Smoked a Charatan Prince. Mid-day it was much much better. Dunhill shellbriar bent bulldog ("Rhodesian"). By teatime a hundred times worse. Amphora (E. Gubbels BV) straight bulldog, smooth with a walnut stain.

The ride home on the bus this evening was surreal.



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