Function Check

Well, obviously (if you've been following my Fazbuk posts) my function is reduced to that of a middle aged man who has directed but not personally operated wheelchairs. 

There are limits. I can make it into the head, but hop the last 4 steps.  Everywhere else in the place I can reach from the wheelchair.  Can't sautee on the stove, can't push teh buttons on the microwave. Can't carry a goddamn thing that I can't clutch in my crotch, and believe me that's nowhere near as much fun as you might imagine.  Exemplum Gratia, the piss bottle.

This of course means that I eat and drink in front of the refrigerator.  This is not doing great things for my diet, my exercise, or my light bill.  Don't even talk to me about my exercise.

Access to my bedroom is via a set of 2 32" doorways (LR and BR) facing a 28" doorway to the head. By performing a zero radius turn, I can get from bedroom to living room, and also (for a given value) the Kitchen.  Bathroom is a dismount and hop procedure, best planned well in advance.  Don't make me paint you a picture.

I had a "wound vac", a neat device that pulled wet stuff off my wound into a plastic cannister, and required that I carry the damn thing around all the time.  I don't have the vac anymore.  Nurse Nickey came by 3 time a week to swap out the dressings.   Now I do changes of "wet-to-dry" dressings.  Myself.  They are guaranteed to promote weight loss. Lose your breakfast, don't want lunch, and wanting more drugs for dinner.

More fun tomorrow.  I go NPO (nihil per ora, nothing by mouth) Tuesday at midnight.  Skin graft surgery Wed at whothefuckknowswhen, but I'm supposed to be there before dawn.  Scares the living shit out of me.  I've had surgery twice before, and both times it was "NOW dammit!  STAT!"  I'm not enjoying being in the on deck circle, as it were.  Go ahead, call me chickenshit. Bwaak! is what I have to say to that.