“To every season, turn, turn, turn” sang the Byrds and that seems to be the theme of the past few weeks if not months. You pick up the pieces and move on, and if you’re lucky it’s onward and upward.
September 15, 2015
Ellen/Reid: It’s a good thing Emma and her sister don’t get a look at their grandfather just now. They’d scream and run the other way (at least Georgia might try to crawl). The left side of my face looks like I got blind sided by Mike Tyson. My left eye is completely shut and the cheek is swollen all the way to my jaw. But this is as the surgeon predicted and it’s just one of the by-products of the process. It’ll go away soon enough, one would hope. Icing a few minutes each hour seems to help somewhat.
Your dad really got off lucky. The ordeal began at 7:15 – I went in truly confident – and my room was reserved until 4 p.m. (they scrape and test and each pathology test takes about 45 minutes) but after the first go-round they said the margins were clear and they’d sew me up. That lightened the mood considerably. I told the surgeon and his assistant they had a nice bedside manner.
There are 10 stitches under the surface and 15 on the top. These are the dissolvable kind so no need to go back in to have the sutures removed. At least Tim could remove yours, Ellen. When I left the office about 9:15 I could see people who weren’t quite so fortunate. There but for the grace of God go I.
There will be a lasting 1.5” scar that the doc said might take eight to 12 months to truly subside but will always remain visible and that’s okay. It’ll just add a little experience to my face. He suggested I could tell people it was the result of a bar room brawl but no one would believe it. Next up is the bruising but that should go away in due time, too. I have a golf buddy, Doug, who’s been through this very recently and his counsel and support has been great to have. If nothing else, it just means you need to slather Emma and Georgia with sunscreen (this goes for you, too, Reid) from here on out. There’s hell to pay for sun during your formative years.
So, Ellen, you guys are thinking about building? Your grandfather would be proud since he was a huge proponent of that. But be sure to take patience pills since it’s a gigantic stressor from start to finish. Building from scratch was never in the cards for me but you and Tim are planners. That neighborhood is a fabulous one. Put your dough into the things you touch and see; counters, fixtures, hardware, etc. The builder will have a certain way of construction so there’s not much to be done about those basics. Do you have an architect? Once the construction is underway, you might hire an interior designer for a few number hours to help you or validate your design/decor direction.
The one thing I wouldn’t necessarily suggest is to abandon the public schools out there should you move to Stillwater. No doubt the private schools have an edge but you’ve been around the public school block and that’s the sort of education we ought to support. You get out of it what you put into it. That’s all I’m saying.
The Harley is now on Craig’s List although there have been no offers. I’m not sure how you tell if there are been any viewers but at any rate there’s been no discernible activity. But I’m committed to selling it and am okay with the decision.
In a lot of ways it’s a relief since the end of my biker days were coming into sight down the road anyway. I wish I’d kept the Heritage Softail, Reid, since it was a such a pretty ride. But it’s somewhere else now and not in the garage.
Just finished, Reid, is the 29 page, single space journal from our trip to the Bridger Wilderness. Tom got a hand delivered copy along with instructions to correct me on anything. Once he has, I’ll print and mail hard copies to the lot of you. No need to read it online. I’ll post it, too, sometime in the next few weeks on my blog if for no other reason that to archive the experience. I know you’ve got some photos, so send me a half dozen or 15 so those can go along with the copy. That would add a little spice to things, don’t you think?