"And the night shall be filled with music And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away."

Well, here it is--blue Monday. Blue because that's the color of the font I'm using, and blue because I have pain which is not likely to subside for several weeks. Last week my primary care doc told me that the pain in my left side was likely to be a kidney stone, but yesterday, I couldn't handle it anymore, so Rho and I went to the ER at the hospital here. I was amazed that it only took about 20 minutes before I was called in for an analysis. The DO had x-rays taken and shortly thereafter came in with the grand announcement, "You have a broken rib." I was in some kind of mini-shock at that, since I never before had any broken bones that I know of, and I've bumped in to all kinds of hard and unyielding surfaces. This time, I had no idea whatsoever about what could have caused my rib to fracture, with the notable exception of the fact that just a couple of nights ago, Rho & I made passionate and rough sex for 12 seconds. It was exhausting, but I felt no immediate pain afterward. In fact, I felt nothing afterward. Maybe a craving for a Mallomar, but that's it. That kind of exercise at 85 does stimulate the appetite and give rise to hunger--so I've been told. Since I'd like to lose a little weight, perhaps next time I'll cut it down to 10 seconds, and hope the time goes by slowly.

Just returned from the cardiologist's office where I had to go for a "PT" test. Rhoda drove me because I had recently taken a vicodan (sp?) pain killer and my head was spinning like a top. I kept reminding myself that when I went to school, PT was the name of our gym class--physical training. However, this PT was called "Protine" and it has to do with the level of Coumadin in your body. If the PT is too high, you have to cut back on the Coumadin because if you scratch yourself, you could bleed to death. If the blood got on our couch Rho would be very upset, but if you were to die there, you wouldn't be able to understand her anyway. Then she'd have a hissy fit that I wasn't wearing my hearing aids.

It's kind of tough reaching into your 80s. At some point you have to admit that the aging process is grabbing you around the neck (and elsewhere) and squeezing you, and whatever ailments pop up you have to deal with them--and believe me, something pops up every day! And be careful about how you turn over in bed every night, because that's when you could fracture a rib. Or when you go to the bathroom, you suddenly find yourself peeing like you stutter. The thing that really bothers me is getting Rhoda involved in doing things for me that becomes a problem when I try to do them. She's too young to be playing nursemaid to a codger; my brain is as dry as a biscuit after a voyage; I am as a candle, better burn't out.