Let's hope it isn't the shoes

I started hearing about these new shoes from Nike about a month ago.

The shoemaker apparently worked with a kid who has cerebral palsy to make shoes that met his needs. And they are a pretty neat engineering feat. There are no laces to do. the back and side zip open to let you slide your foot in.

It's a hightop, and I was looking forward to finding a shoe with more ankle support. I ordered one pair, and it was too small. I ordered another and it didn't fit a whole lot better. It also took my sister jamming my foot in to get the shoe on.

I'm sticking with my Salomons.

Sitting on the floor of the (garage) bay

I have been informed by one who knows me well that one sentence in my last post makes me sound like a "selfish asshole."

The line in question:

And part of me would not want to take any steps to get better but would just want to quit, blow my retirement and die.

I assure you my intent was to show neither selfishness nor asshole-ness.

As I was sitting on the floor off the garage yesterday, waiting for my sister to come home and help me up, I had time to consider this opinion. My bike moved as I was transferring out of it with Mom's help.

The point of the post is that I am feeling crappy, which maybe explains this feeling.

But maybe not.

My sister (who else would call me an "asshole") also threatened to make me watch Dangerous Minds to hear Dylan Thomas' "Do not go gentle into that good night." I do like Michelle Pfieffer, though I prefer Rodney Dangerfield's performance of the poem.

The post points out that only a part of me feels like giving up, and I am not sure that even Ms. Pfieffer's Cat-Woman could get that part of me to regret feeling this.

I rage just about every second I am awake.  It wears you out.

So while I will never, ever, ever give in to this part of me, I am not sure I'll ever not feel it.

Oh, OK, if Cat-Woman asks.

What is my damage?

Writing is hard for me these days.

I don't know if it is Claren's fault (or how long I am allowed to blame my dead dog for things?).

It might be work, which us a little hectic at the moment.

I suppose summer's end is weighing on me, too.

Other issues, too, of course.

When I was waiting to see that GI doctor, I was reading FaceBook and learned a former colleague and friend's husband has colon cancer.

I admit I am a little worried about what they might find in their look from the top and the bottom.

And part of me would not want to take any steps to get better but would just want to quit, blow my retirement and die.

I seem to be coughing more, too, or at least am noticing it more. It happens at work mainly, so I suspect it is because I am eating and drinking while doing something else.  But still ...

Dang that Claren!

I go to the dentist

I went to the dentist Friday, and ever since I have tried to determine if my childhood dentist was the best dentist ever or a sadist of the Marathon Man variety.

I would generally opt for sadist, but he helped my brother through a sledding accident with his teeth, so ...

I grew curious because pretty much every dentist I have had since has kind of glided the pick over my teeth, maybe poking at key spots but nothing major.

Dentist #1 would roll up his sleeves and do his best to find a cavity. And it he found a tiny pit, he saw it as his duty to dig in it until it needed filling.

If he failed to widen it the first time, he also was not ashamed to try again, coming back to a tooth he regarded as questionable.

I guess it worked. I have had few cavities. But if not a sadist, a meanie.

The hard part

I was walking up rolling up the driveway the day we buried Gram with Mom's first cousin the priest. He was saying that now the hard part begins.

He meant that as the adrenaline of the funeral passed and well-wishers went home, the real world would intrude. We would no longer hear Gram asking for dessert ... but just a little piece or utter her little sayings -- I remember mon dieu seigneur.

That is where I am with Claren.

I am no longer saying good night to someone sleeping in my shower, no longer constantly run over and spill her water bowl, no longer tell an impatient someone I'll feed her in a minute.

It doesn't make me feel awful,  just a little sad, and I remind myself that any depressing thoughts are probably because Claren's gone.

PS: I know I sound a little one-trick ponyish lately. I'll get back to falls and jerky people soon.