I thought about not posting tonight rather than feigning cheer, and then I remembered my user name here is ‘Cranky’ and, with a sigh, started typing. It wasn’t a bad day, just a long one again spent catching up on things that were disrupted by illness earlier this month. By the time Crankenstein got home our vacuums were recharging and so were Muriel and I, and together we watched the end of an Eight is Enough Christmas two-parter featuring special guest star Will Geer.*
Grudgingly, Crankenstein and I wiped tears from our eyes as Tommy opened a gift from his late mother, a poetry collection, and read her moving inscription. Four of the people I’ve loved most in my life have shared their favorite poetry with me — my grandfather, Crankenstein, Best Friend, Ex — and so, to paraphrase Joan Bradford’s favorite poet, I carry their hearts in my heart.** It’s hard to imagine a modern-day TV episode ending with 10 characters weeping at a mother’s tender encouragement of her son’s sensitivity, and I’d argue that culturally we’re the poorer for it.
What else? For several hours today I felt a frequent rumbling on the left side of my chest that was a little unnerving. Despite my congestion, it wasn’t a sensation of needing to cough, and I wonder if it might be neurological in nature. Still, I know Crankenstein will make me call the PCP if it happens again later this week, due to our recent Covid infections. Similarly, my shortness of breath seems worse lately and it’s hard to tell whether that’s due to Covid or if it could be related to whatever has caused my esophagus to narrow.
Since the speech therapist and I are already working on breathing, and because we know my blood oxygen saturation’s fine, I’m trying to ignore it for now, but it’s quite uncomfortable at times. I never thought I’d be impatient to have a scope, but I want to know whether esophageal dilation will help with the swallowing issues, which in turn might make it easier to breathe. Having to wait three or four weeks for possible relief is an annoying prospect and I find myself aggravated that the GI’s nurse dropped the ball when informed of the swallow study’s results.
That’s all the griping I’ll do for tonight, though I’m also angry that George Clooney’s name is again being used in fundraising texts, this time for the Harris campaign. Why am I supposed to care what he thinks about any of this? The only Clooney whose marching orders I would’ve followed was Rosemary, whether it was about politics, paper towels or soft, high-quality two-ply bathroom tissue that’s both fashionable (“it comes in pretty prints — one white or colors!”) and economical.
* Would Crankenstein know how many vacuums we own if I asked her, and what each of them is used for? I’m guessing no, and maybe I’ll create a game show about the inner workings of our house and put her knowledge to the test.
** One of the reasons I write here is nestled among their cherished verse: “No stream of greater love advancing now/Than, singing, this mortality alone/Through clay aflow immortality to you.”