Almost sounds like I've sold one of my screenplays, doesn't it? I wish I had. Then Becky and I would be reporting to the world from our modest mansion in Beverly Hills. Instead, my issue is with how the near-future was supposed to go and how it's actually going.
I wrote about the hot pink cast yesterday, and how much Becky is enjoying my emasculation/suffering. She can't help but giggle every now and again after simply glancing at the cast. But her dreams of me living a life of humiliation for at least two weeks may be in peril. There's a little problem with the cast...It might be too tight.
When I arrived home yesterday, I noticed that I could feel the pulse in the top of my foot, as one might feel it if a tourniquet was applied. It's not all that bothersome, as diabetic neuropathy keeps many surface sensations from becoming an issue...but then diabetic neuropathy can reduce sensations that are meant to alert me to there being an issue. So if the cast is actually too tight, and my toes start going cold on me due to a lack of circulation, I might not feel that occurring at all.
Because I was still feeling that pulse every now and again today, I called the orthopedic clinic where the cast was put on. I actually got to talk to Cathy, the cast technician who so gleefully put me in an exceedingly bright pink cast. She explained what I basically knew, but wanted to hear from someone professional in nature. Because of all the padding put into the cast, it should loosen up a bit in those places where it feels too tight. Meanwhile, to ensure that I don't have an actually circulation issue, I'm to elevate my foot for an hour and a half when I feel that pulse...pulsating.
I can't begin to tell you all how thrilled I am at the prospect of doing even more nothing. Sitting or lying about, playing video games or writing when I can get my head into it, is all well and good, but not the kind of thing I WANT to be doing. I'd like to be of SOME use around the home. Being a functional fiance, as well as future father/husband would be...well, nice, don't you think? When I'm being told by medical professionals to be in bed, it doesn't bode well for the future.
Picture it: five years from now, Becky gives birth to our first child. She's been working a hectic schedule at that imaginary place I call "the hospital," so when the baby starts crying in the middle of the night, it really should be MY job to get up and address whatever it is that the baby needs. But I have contradictory orders to be in bed, which leads to a scene in which I get up, head off to the baby's room, and return less than a minute later, the baby silent as can be.
Becky: (astonished) That was pretty quick.
Me: I'm just that good with babies in general...although we'll really want to get the baby checked for a concussion tomorrow, as I hit him/her pretty hard to knock her out like that.
My understanding is that that kind of "child care" is frowned upon. She's not even reading this over my shoulder, yet I can sense her scowl in advance. "Concussions in the name of sleep" will likely meet with the same approval as my campaign of "Booze for Babies." (If you don't KNOW that I'm kidding, then you need help.)
Anyway...I can do my usual sit and write, etc., so long as I don't feel my foot pulsating. Once that starts, it's off to bed to elevate the foot for 90 minutes. Becky remains as loving and caring as ever, which only cements my opinion that I'm engaged to the most wonderful woman on the planet...except for the part when she comes over to me to whack me in the head for my ideas about child rearing.
Be well, all, and DFTBA!