My family has been taking good care of me for the past few days as I recover from my knee surgery. I am frequently fed and watered, and have not fallen down the stairs or collapsed in the shower. Steve has completed all of the laundry, and the Pierson children have been pretty patient and willing to fetch things for me. They are even allowing me to claim half of the sectional, flagrantly disobeying Steve's rule that each person is allotted only one couch cushion.
Toby often lays his massive dog head on my bandaged knee. I am convinced that he is displaying doggie empathy. Steve tells me that he just likes to smell open wounds.
All in all, I would say the recovery is going pretty well. I am ready, however, to get on with things.
I am not a very good patient. I am used to doing things for myself, and I find it frustrating that if I leave my glasses in the bedroom, it's not just a quick jaunt up the stairs to retrieve them. It actually requires some thought - should I take the crutches up or just crawl? Shall I impose on someone else to get them, eroding the good will that is still abundant, or should I just squint at the computer screen until I develop a massive headache?
Life sometimes gets reduced to the bare minimum.
I have read three books, worked on a short story for a contest and watched a slew of House Hunters on HGTV. Frankly, I no longer care if the family of four is able to find their perfect house.
So far, that's the way things stand.
Oh, I almost forgot - I figured out how to shave my legs.
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