August 7, 2017
My worst nightmare is coming true. The right leg has to go. From above the knee. Way above the knee.
“See these dark streaks across the thigh? That means the leg is bad. We have to take it off.”
They will put me out and when I wake up it will be gone. What a nightmare, but there is no choice.
Another doctor explains that, in some cultures, they must demonstrate why the leg was bad enough for removal. So they have to cut off the other leg, too, and display them side-by-side, so people can see the difference between the good and bad. I think I’m in one of those cultures. I think that’s what he’s trying to say.
This is such a nightmare. How will I manage? Paul McCartney’s bitch wife danced with the stars, but her leg was cut off below the knee. Makes all the difference, above or below that joint.
Already I miss the joy of a long, vigorous walk. Can I take another one now, is there time? Or will that just make me miss the walks more, having one fresh in my memory? Can I take those fast, pumping walks after the surgery? It is my favorite thing. My only joy.
“I don’t think so,” says my mother. “They can’t make knee joints to do that.”
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I’m on the reception line in the hotel ballroom. The hosts are royalty and exacting. Even though they are not supposed to be royalty—they are Americans and we proudly do not have royalty—they act it just the same. I go through the food line but somehow I missed the cookies. Oh, now I see the king is at the end of the serving tables and managing the cookies. Is it okay to go back and ask him for some? I better not risk it. The royal family is talking about how people don’t know the right way to treat them and they are upset about it. Maybe if I explain I’m waiting for my sister and want cookies for her, too, they will be nicer about it.
I go to visit the daughter in one of the hotel suites. The suite is a small, unfurnished space, but the grand doorways lining the hall imply the rooms behind them are fancy suites. She is snooty because she went to Sarah Lawrence. The recycle bins are in the room. It is a plain, empty space.
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How will I manage my recyclable bottles? I’m in the front passenger seat of the car and my brother is beside me. My sister is in the back seat. We are sad our father has died. I must leave for a while but will my brother understand my absence? I want them both to know I’m sad like them.
I’m worried about giving them my bottles to recycle. The non-salinated drinks have three-cent deposits, but the salinated ones 75 cents. Then I realize that the janitor of my own building surely handles recycled bottles, and I don’t have to make special trips to the hotel with them.
The queen herself does not recognize any environmental concerns. She refuses to recycle and doesn’t think it is necessary. I see a mound of trash and deep inside lie bottles to recycle. She is gradually agreeing to live the way her subjects do, but she is not happy about it. Another royal is elderly and blind from a stroke. I feel bad for her. She is also paralyzed. I wish I could help her. It is not easy being a royal.
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