I am not venturing out on my bike or on foot, and my bus line’s not running, either. Not that I’m upset to work from home, on my tiny laptop/netbook.
This week: grey, rain, rain, rain, grey. With recently broken bones and my still-smashed right hand, I’m tempted to sound like one of those people who acts like crappy weather was invented just for suffering and just for their suffering at that. It doesn’t feel good.
However, in search of better times and making the best of what’s left of autumn, Mrs. P. and I will venture to our very favorite bookstore and perhaps have dinner somewhere in Charles Village, Hampden or Roland Park. I will have a waterproof messenger bag, so treasures will make it home unscathed. At least it’s going to be in the upper 50s/lower 60s. I hate when it rains just shy of the freezing point. Unless I’m cycling. I do get a kick out of that.
Curiously, Normal’s is on 31st Street, where I blew a spoke last Sunday and had to miss the ride I’d spent so much time helping to plan. Much better tidings today, I think.
My bike is out of commission currently. Yes, breaking a rear spoke on the drive side can make your wheel no longer turn without hitting the frame. No, this does not, as has been suggested, make me a wimp or perfectionist. It’s a matter of my understanding bike wheels, at least a little bit. Plus, there’s the empirical smack-your-ass part where my wheel literally does not turn. The shop will take care of it; it’s under warranty. It’s a good excuse to visit my favorite bike shop.
I need to get some new books and spend quality time with the Mrs. and our little belly/Baby. As if it’s not obvious, I’m growing increasingly less patient with people’s bullshit. A nice walk usually helps a lot.
My new apartment has a lot of big windows. Nine. Most I’ve ever had in an apartment. Even with the ACs in, there are lots of windows left for catching a breeze. One in the kitchen and two in the living room face my street, with a nice view of cyclists and traffic. The other two in the living room, the one in the spare bedroom, the one in the bathroom and the two in the bedroom all face the pretty roof of the building next-door and lots of enormous trees. When you look over the roof, you can see the lights of the big apartment buildings further down University Parkway, near JHU. It’s like a quiet little spot in the city.
Yes, they all stick like crazy because the building is old and because they are wooden. But I’m at peace with it. It’s worth it. The rents here are pretty reasonable, and it’s close to everything without needing a car. Indeed, to talk to my neighbors, parking here is, to be sure, a real bitch. I don’t care at all.
First take-out tonight at new apartment. First shower. Soon, first sleep. We moved nextdoor. But, you know. Moving is tiring, and my limbs are still not fully functional. We’ve only hung curtains in the potty so far. Only put together one thing from Ikea. Got a new couch that is the color of poo. Poo. It’s very heavy, too, and our elevator was out all weekend.
You can move the apartment number literally up one integer in your address book if you have it.
So. Saw Mr. Foot doctor today. Rather, first another doctor (not PA or RN, a Doctor) came in and mistook me for someone else who had just had leg surgery. Then he told me about my toe after he looked at my “film”. Fragmented bone. Too small to screw in like they would normally do. Should heal Okay. But if not, they’d cut out the bone fragment. That if that didn’t work, they’d “fuse” my joint. Forever. Best they could do. What?
Then I went to X-ray and had time to think about what he said. I have to admit that I was freaking out a little over the prospect of a permanent procedure on my foot, when I get around the world almost entirely with my feet — and double angry that it’s all because of one single person.
Then my real foot doctor came in, looked at the new X-rays. Turns out that I don’t have one broken bone, but two. And there are, apparently, several fragments of bone from them. He examined my foot, too, and he said I could get off the crutches now. Don’t really have to go back unless I have problems. That it’s too small to do anything, and we just have to let it heal the best it can. Okay.
That would feel like good news, I guess, after the scary shit the other guy was talking about. I was told I should expect my foot to be swollen for a year. Could be worse, right? But still. I’m probably going to get arthritis in this toe. And I already have a trick toe. My baby toe on my other foot has a split bone in it (funny story), and it hurts fairly often. On a rainy night like tonight or in the cold, I can literally feel that shit in my bones. The best I can hope for with my big toe now is chronic pain and/or surgery because some lady couldn’t watch where she was driving her fucking car? And she paid so little attention that she was on my foot for a while?
On top of it, her insurance company won’t return our calls. So we’re hiring a lawyer, something I really hoped to avoid. This is turning into a very unpleasant situation.
But tonight we got to see our new apartment, and it’s lovely. And baby-trying time is coming fast. My heart is light after spending my entire day being furious, frustrated and forlorn over my inability to deal with things I can’t control (like that, despite the shitty way it happened, my toe’s already smashed). It has a cute little bathroom that you enter from either bedroom, and a little kitchen window like downstairs used to have.
Fatherhood
