Parents Write

(Actually, I think seeing my grandkids was the best therapy possible!)

Well, the last 3 flew home yesterday, so this afternoon I called the little ones to get their  opinion on their father's behavior on the plane and a general update on the state of the world. Gavin was busy playing "office" with his stepsisters; they just built a new desk (toybox lid) and were working on chairs. He asked if we'd won the lottery last night (so we can buy a house on the beach), and consoled me when I answered in the negative. Kenna gave me an update on the new baby; she's smiling and holding her head up now.

After our goodbyes, I headed off for my first physical therapy session. My therapist turns out to be a rather animated fellow named Chad. He asked why my first name was June when I was born in May- I considered asking him why his first name wasn't "Idaho", but wisely bit my tongue. Doesn't pay to be sarcastic with the person who's going to torture you.

He pronounced my rotator cuff a "massive tear", and put me in the highest level of therapy. What this translates to is 3 one hour sessions a week with old Chad, doing passive movement only (meaning he lifts my arm in each direction until I sream for mercy) and hooking up the zappy little electrode thing to my shoulder for 20 minutes at a time. I'm not supposed to lift even a pound of weight. I get the feeling me and old CHad are going to be seeing each other for quite some time.

Meanwhile, I am allowed to type as long as I don't move my forearm. My goal is to have the next novel in rough draft form by the time I go back to work- whenever that may be. Since I've only written the prologue and 1 1/2 chapters, that should be motivation, right? I think it'll be really good, as I'm on all kinds of pills and quite loopy.