When we first got the news that Mojo -- at the delicate age of maybe a year and a half -- needed surgery for a bum knee, we knew we were in for a tough slog. We were told it would take on the order of 3 months until his body could heal and he could fly free of his leash once again. Like in all things canine, it’s tough to explain to the guy that this too shall pass; that his goofy Elizabethan collar would be temporary; that our joyful forays of chasing one another around the house must be put on hold; and that his weeks long rehab might be fun, sort of. We followed the script and kept him under a proverbial lock and key -- indeed, virtual house arrest -- for the past 2 months. I kept telling the folks, who had become accustomed to seeing Mojo and me in the early morning hours on the beach, that his re-appearance was almost imminent and that I would bring a bottle of champagne to the beach in mid-July to celebrate his rediscovered freedom.
All that was until the other day when I brought Mojo back for some scheduled post-surgery x-rays. The surgeon matter-of-factly advised me that while Mojo’s recovery from the surgery was going swimmingly well, Mojo’s other rear knee was in need of repair as well. He showed me the x-ray and tried to point out in detail the growing fluid on the bad knee and the loss of muscle mass there. To the surgeon, it was not an “if” question, but a “when” question. He opined that the final tearing of the tendon could be in 6 weeks or 6 months, but it was coming as surely as next winter. In a flash, “deflating” had a new poster child. My mind had already been on a schedule that would envision a return to the beach for the rest of Mojo’s life in a matter of weeks. We could get through this unfortunate delay knowing the finish line was looming. Hearing that any such prison break would be, at best, temporary, forced my brain to entertain a mid-course correction of my expectations. It could be done because it has to be done, but I think it’s going to take a while to sell me on it.
And, this does not begin to confront the issue of cost, which, as they say, ain’t chicken feed. As I became fond of telling folks, it’s not as if Blue Cross covers these procedures. I suspect they wouldn’t look too kindly on a bill submission for MCL surgery for a four-legged dependent.
I am taking some comfort -- perhaps as a delusion -- that the angst here is all mine and not Mojo’s. I try to think that dogs don’t appreciate the passage of time -- more specifically, the painfully slow passing of it -- as humans do. They truly live in an “it is what it is” world. Right? I’m clinging some to the notion that notwithstanding the physical discomfort and a replay of the slow rehab process, Mojo is not thinking, as I am, “when the hell can we get back to the beach?” I want to be right about this.
Maybe I’ll age that bottle of champagne a bit more.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Saturday, June 12, 2010
It's Free (Sort Of)
I promised myself I would never do this. Never, ever, ever. For as long as I can remember, I always tossed them out when they came intruding into my mailbox. You know -- those ever so superficially alluring promos from mostly real estate interests of one type or another promising free this or free that if all you would do is come on down and listen to a little spiel about their product. We know, and they know (and they know that we know) that this is a little scam to pry loose thousands of dollars from us all in the name of an “enhanced vacation experience.” I always said to myself, what dummy would actually fall for this thinly veiled mockery?
Well, apparently, I am more of a dummy than I gave myself credit for, or, at least I’ve become one since retiring. So, what happened here? I saw the envelope in the mail: a promise of a free cruise. Even knowing what this was about, I was feeling a bit mischievous and curious, and decided to call the folks just to see what it was like to speak to the devil. The nice lady at the other end of the line asked me only to come to their office in Charleston with Lily (and proper identification, please) where we could pick up our free cruise voucher after a “brief” encounter with company “representatives” who would merely introduce us to a wonderful new product before the voucher could be issued. I laughed and agreed. When I told Lily about this, I told her it would be a hoot to do this and she could count on me to nap through what I figured would be a cutesy video presentation. I encouraged her to bring something to read.
I had no idea what I was talking about. Zero. After being introduced to our personal representative, Shannon, whose job no doubt was to soften the first lines of our resistance, we were ushered in to a large room. Here, the subzero climate they maintained was not the primary distraction only because Mike was. In rolled this large sized man with a voice that knew no volume control. I could be wrong about this, but I think Mike’s last name was Megaphone. And, Lily and I were sitting in the front row within spitting distance of the mammoth air conditioning vent that was actively trying to single-handedly create the new ice age. I felt as if our hair was being bent backwards by the force of the sonic waves coming from Mike’s mouth. With Mike finding it to be presumably an effective selling technique by making his presentation interactive, it sealed the deal that there would be no napping or casual reading while he held us hostage.
As Mike and the air conditioning terrorized us, we were showered -- no, make that inundated -- with facts and figures that made it all sound as if this real estate “time share-like” proposal was indisputably a deal that only an idiot could decline. We’d save thousands, and over the 40 year plan that was on the table we would travel the world for pennies. How could you lose? Although I was wearing a t-shirt, I felt as if I were wearing a shirt and tie that were three sizes too small. I felt that somehow they had managed to artificially increase the air pressure in there far beyond normal bounds. Indeed, the fabulous relentlessness of Mike’s performance, made me feel like I was in the middle of the original Terminator with Arnold Schwarzenegger ruthlessly pursuing me with absolutely no chance for denial or reprieve. Or mercy. I felt some compassion for those facing what they euphemistically call “aggressive questioning” by law enforcement or the military. My head was swimming. I felt hunted.
Almost two hours later, Lily and I managed to fend off Mike and Shannon’s final stabs at our vulnerability and, almost begrudgingly, we were issued our voucher for a free cruise out of Charleston to points South . We were so stressed out, we couldn’t wait to get back home, grab two beach chairs, Mojo, and the largest rum drink I’ve had since my junior year in college. We headed to the beach to watch the last rays of the sun... and decompress.
The funny thing here -- lost in all the combat sequences we had just survived -- was that Lily and I have never thought of ourselves as cruise candidates. Just not our style. Our sense of it is that it’s a place for spandex, coiffed hair and garishly mismatched deck wear. And, of course, a non-stop eating experience where food is available in every nook and cranny of this floating refrigerator.
But we’re going alright. This is our only way to finally defeat Ahhnold.
Well, apparently, I am more of a dummy than I gave myself credit for, or, at least I’ve become one since retiring. So, what happened here? I saw the envelope in the mail: a promise of a free cruise. Even knowing what this was about, I was feeling a bit mischievous and curious, and decided to call the folks just to see what it was like to speak to the devil. The nice lady at the other end of the line asked me only to come to their office in Charleston with Lily (and proper identification, please) where we could pick up our free cruise voucher after a “brief” encounter with company “representatives” who would merely introduce us to a wonderful new product before the voucher could be issued. I laughed and agreed. When I told Lily about this, I told her it would be a hoot to do this and she could count on me to nap through what I figured would be a cutesy video presentation. I encouraged her to bring something to read.
I had no idea what I was talking about. Zero. After being introduced to our personal representative, Shannon, whose job no doubt was to soften the first lines of our resistance, we were ushered in to a large room. Here, the subzero climate they maintained was not the primary distraction only because Mike was. In rolled this large sized man with a voice that knew no volume control. I could be wrong about this, but I think Mike’s last name was Megaphone. And, Lily and I were sitting in the front row within spitting distance of the mammoth air conditioning vent that was actively trying to single-handedly create the new ice age. I felt as if our hair was being bent backwards by the force of the sonic waves coming from Mike’s mouth. With Mike finding it to be presumably an effective selling technique by making his presentation interactive, it sealed the deal that there would be no napping or casual reading while he held us hostage.
As Mike and the air conditioning terrorized us, we were showered -- no, make that inundated -- with facts and figures that made it all sound as if this real estate “time share-like” proposal was indisputably a deal that only an idiot could decline. We’d save thousands, and over the 40 year plan that was on the table we would travel the world for pennies. How could you lose? Although I was wearing a t-shirt, I felt as if I were wearing a shirt and tie that were three sizes too small. I felt that somehow they had managed to artificially increase the air pressure in there far beyond normal bounds. Indeed, the fabulous relentlessness of Mike’s performance, made me feel like I was in the middle of the original Terminator with Arnold Schwarzenegger ruthlessly pursuing me with absolutely no chance for denial or reprieve. Or mercy. I felt some compassion for those facing what they euphemistically call “aggressive questioning” by law enforcement or the military. My head was swimming. I felt hunted.
Almost two hours later, Lily and I managed to fend off Mike and Shannon’s final stabs at our vulnerability and, almost begrudgingly, we were issued our voucher for a free cruise out of Charleston to points South . We were so stressed out, we couldn’t wait to get back home, grab two beach chairs, Mojo, and the largest rum drink I’ve had since my junior year in college. We headed to the beach to watch the last rays of the sun... and decompress.
The funny thing here -- lost in all the combat sequences we had just survived -- was that Lily and I have never thought of ourselves as cruise candidates. Just not our style. Our sense of it is that it’s a place for spandex, coiffed hair and garishly mismatched deck wear. And, of course, a non-stop eating experience where food is available in every nook and cranny of this floating refrigerator.
But we’re going alright. This is our only way to finally defeat Ahhnold.
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