Saturday, March 14, 2009

Going Up The Down Escalator pt.1

You may wonder what keeps transplant girl busy all day. Does she spend most of her time reclining on a Barcalounger, sipping a smoothie, idly perusing the latest issue of Bust? Or does Lady Laura of the Lucky Liver luxuriate in a foamy tub? (Too many alliterations? I'm just giving the gray matter a workout.)

Which reminds me, working out hasn't fit into the daily routine these past 2 weeks. I'm supposed to stretch my scrawny muscles to make up for months of being tied to the hospital bed. (Seriously, I WAS tied to the bed for awhile... don't ask, okay? And if you know, don't tell me yet, I'm not quite ready. And don't mention the word encephalopathy please. EVER.

Changing the subject, the Medic Alert package finally arrived. Gosh, that online shopping really pays off when the postman knocks. It's like Christmas, especially when the gift is a lovely charm bracelet. Mine's lavender, by the way.

Anyway, I HAD been making excellent progress with the stretching until one morning last week. Woke up, leaned over to pick up my slippers, and... crack! No, not the kind that's smoked, and not the sound your breakfast cereal makes in between the snap and the pop. It was the sound of a sad little rib breaking free from it's home. A scary intake of breath and... owww... Pretty lucky for me that the cel phone was on the nightstand, not in the charger where it usually sleeps. Because I...COULD... NOT... MOVE... Thinking that I might have punctured a lung... speed dialing... friend calls 911... says they're on the way... keep trying to breathe... hear the ambulance... firemen yelling, banging the door... someone says "Get the Axe!"... (yeah, that's what they do) and a burst of adrenaline gets me off the bed, staggering into the arms of a paramedic as he says, "Lady, you just saved yourself a door."

Well, that's a relief.

Stay tuned for the next installment... 
peace out,

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