I have not had coffee. Coffee has been made, but I’ve yet to sit down and enjoy any. I had a sip. Aside from the coffee brewed at gas stations, I have yet to taste worse. Maybe the person having the colonoscopy cocktail should not be charged with making the coffee on the morning of the colonoscopy? I would have made it, but the bed refused to release me with any sort of oomph this morning. My pillow was whispering softly “you don’t want to get up, so why bother?” The answer should have been “because the coffee grinder didn’t sound as chirpy as it usually does and because I can’t smell coffee.”
I don’t blame Dada for not being more enthused about the java this morning, but I also don’t blame myself for needing that jolt on this particular morning. Another batch of coffee, this one infused with as much caffeine, flavor, aroma and emotional comfort as I can put into it, will be made and I -who spent the night making sure a very reluctant and tired man didn’t get dehydrated- will awake.
My kitchen now smells the way it should smell every morning. I’ve made a lovely cup of coffee. I even frothed some milk. Then I set to the task of briskly walking up and down the stairs to start bringing Dada his colonoscopy cocktail every ten minutes. We will both lose weight but through different methods this week, and we will have cleared one of the major hurdles of middle age: the dreaded test that awaits us all if we reach the age of fifty.
J was very happy to see Dada up and about (in the common areas of the house) this morning. In the middle of a routine-shattering planned event, J found a shred of his usual day-to-day. He has segued seamlessly into wearing his red hoodie in the mornings (something he usually balks at while still wearing shorts,) and I think he will soon be more willing to put away his summer wardrobe. His beloved green cargo pants are once more in the closet lined up next to two new pairs of the same model; these, I’m sure, will have to undergo strict beatings-up to reach the same level of beloved-ness, but I am hoping that they will be acceptable stand-ins when the green cargo pants are sidelined by the necessary process of laundering. Perhaps if J has a mound of rocks that he can beat the newer pants against to properly age and deteriorate them?
The shoes I had bought him a few months ago no longer fit him so they came out of the box to be passed on to Dada. This morning, after much analysis and research, I purchased for J a pair of ankle boots (size U.S. 11 and Wide EE) from L.L. Bean that will serve him quite well. They have a zipper on the side, and they are a lovely shade of chocolate brown that is insulated and water-proof. They are very similar to his slippers, and I am hoping he will love them as soon as they arrive. And, yes, remembering last year’s bout with athlete’s foot, I am ready for that development.
Today…the afternoon will be a slippery slope. I have calculated delays and complications into the schedule for the alien-probing (which is what my husband, in his most melodramatic moments, has been calling the colonoscopy) and I am hoping we will be home by 5 P.M. at the latest. I would love to sail out of the hospital at three and come home to let the “victim” relax and to resume our usual routine. This, I am aware, is most optimistic and almost risible…but a girl can dream, can’t she? Even if she’s in her late forties and long-past the “girl” stage?
On the Zelda the Hellion Cat front, J is still getting used to her. Yesterday, after much squealing and screeching, I managed to sternly inform my beloved son that such emoting was unnecessary, and that a simple PLEASE PUT CAT AWAY would do. If she is being held, J is completely fine with her presence. He will pet her, talk to her and even “kiss” the top of her head. If Zelda, however, is frantically bouncing off the walls as she is prone to do when she’s loose, that’s another story. PLEASE PUT CAT AWAY is usually abbreviated to PLEASE CAT, and one of us obliges. Age and maturity, hopefully, will reduce Zelda’s desire to celebrate her newfound freedom, and J will be ok with her navigating the house without a grown-up chasing after her while J says PLEASE CAT rather loudly. The basement-level family room continues to be off-limits for Zelda, and a profound sense of kinship is blossoming between J and Miss Pipa as both consider Zelda’s full name to include the words PEST, MEDDLER, NUISANCE and PAIN IN THE ASS. (A quick round-table discussion between TGG, Dada and myself concluded that had we not been so fond of the name Zelda, we might have taken a page from Young Frankenstein and baptized her Abbie Normal. Yes, Zelda has done quite a few things that have left us scratching our heads, and walking around with a full head of garlic in her mouth is among the least of them.)
All in all, this week of self-inflicted maladies (cat, colonoscopy, visit to attorney,) has gone fairly well. Our wedding vows are intact even if our tomatoes have frequently rolled across the floor and J has climbed on furniture that hasn’t benefitted from the strain. And, by the way, J IS losing weight slowly but steadily, and he is also quite proud of the fact that he has to hitch up his pants more frequently.
And now…the colonoscopy cocktail has been consumed in its entirety and, being mom and wife and home-maker, I am off to take care of those things that -my nurse-duties expended for the time being- require my attention. There are loads of laundry to wash, fold, put away, and a shopping list to finalize before sending TGG to the store. Then I will go to hospital and wait…
Let’s hope for smooth sailing from here until tomorrow morning…