This FB memory from August 2018 is the follow-up to the one I re-posted yesterday, but check back later this afternoon for a fresh TIE O’ THE DAY post. It will be the first in a series I’ll be posting about me and my lifelong relationship with books. That topic might not sound exciting enough to be worthy of even one post—let alone a series of posts—but I think you’ll be sufficiently entertained when you read about my myriad o’ book ramblings.
But for now, check out the following re-post, written a few weeks after my very first Cranky Hanky Panky surgery:
AND THEN THE SCHOOL YEAR STARTED
Bow Tie o’ the Day and I got approved and educated in Farmington today. At my doc appointment, I got the okey-dokey to take my torso with me on vacation in a couple of weeks. It’s allowed to fly with me on an airplane. The little piece of my pancreas that’s left in me was so excited about being able to go that it clapped. Really, it did. I heard it and felt it. And I know what my Hanky Panky’s capable of, better than anyone else does. (I’ve gotta change Panky’s name since what’s left of it seems to be working sufficiently. Hmmm.)
I learned a new word while the doc was pushing and poking at my belly with his hands: “crepitus.” Doc said he was checking to see if he could feel or hear any of this crepitus thing. And then I said, “That word sounds captivating. What is it?” I so much wanted him to tell me I have crepitus, so I could tell everybody I have crepitus, so I could have an excuse to say crepitus over and over. Crepitus, crepitus, crepitus. And even after the doc defined “crepitus” and told me it isn’t something anyone wants to have, I still wished I had some of it.
Doc told me the short version. Crepitus is air bubbles under your skin or in subcutaneous tissues. It’s a sign of air leaking from/to somewhere it shouldn’t. (After surgery, it can occur on rare occasions.) What he said next is what made me want it. Apparently, the crepitus bubbles feel like Rice Krispies when you’re feeling around, and they sound like Rice Crispies doing their snap, crackle, pop. Sometimes the sound can be heard with the naked ear– or in my case, the naked hearing aid. No stethoscope necessary. Who in their daring, right mind wouldn’t want to be full of crepitation? Alas, I have no Rice Krispies traveling in my innards. Looking at and listening to a bowl of the cereal can’t be the same as having the things move around under your skin. Dang.
After being educated about this new word, I felt compelled to honor public education. To do it, I drove past Farmington High School on my way home. It is FHS’s inaugural year. Brand spanking new. Bow Tie and I stopped to snap a photo of the place, and I’m sure you can guess the reason. A pop-out, grab-ya color. Yellow-orange. Now that’s a building that says HERE I AM! COME IN AND LEARN!
I also drove past Canyon Creek Elementary, which is about a mile from FHS. Its colors are not pop-y in the least. The earthy colors are fine, but match-y. I almost didn’t include this second photo on the post because it didn’t look very interesting. But then I saw IT. And I knew you had to see IT too: my hair in the wind. I’m wearing Trump hair!
HERE’S A P.S. FROM THE PREVIOUS RE- POST: The “allergy bee” —the bee whose sting indicated I had developed an allergy to bee stings—stung me in my hand. My entire hand and forearm swelled up like Popeye’s. To ease the throbbing pain of the swelling, I had to hold my hand up and my fingers pointed to the ceiling. The allergy incident occurred on a Saturday, and I was scheduled to give a talk in Sacrament Meeting the next day. It was too painful to let my arm hang down naturally for even the few minutes of my talk. So there I stood on the Sabbath, pontificating from the podium— my engorged Popeye forearm pointed straight up. It appeared as if I was sustaining myself for the entire ten minutes of my talk. Ward members didn’t act like anything weird was going on. I’m sure they thought I was just expressing another one of my eccentricities.