Tuesday, October 08, 2013

Mowing Lawn/Bad Leg Getting Better

So I was finally forced last week to take in my lawnmower. It's an auto start that is guaranteed for two years but it wouldn't start. I brought it in and the guy told me the problem was my fault but only charged me $38. No sweat.
   The sweat is that it weighs nearly 90 lbs and with the bad leg and no way to pick it up, I creamed myself both putting it on my Ford Ranger and taking it off. No big deal. So I bled into my flesh-eating bacterial wound. At least I'd taken the 15 bags of fetid garbage to the dump before I opened the thing up.
   And the next day it was ready. So I've been mowing my lawn for five days now. Today was the yard over the bridges by the chicken coop and fire pit: 100 feet by 170 feet. Grass and weeds about 2' tall. Pain in the neck, but no one mowed it since I left for Peru in early June. Now to be honest, this isn't all that hard: It's a push mower--the small tractor isn't working--but it has a lever that makes it go into drive mode so that it sort of walks itself, unless you hit an ant hill or a dip or something like that. Still, it's been an hour or hour and a half a day to get five of the seven yards done. And I only raked two of them, so there is some work to do tomorrow with the rake. Which is really hard work. And boring. And you want to quit after ten minutes. But you don't. You just rake harder. Shit. Sucks. One more bag full please.
    Normally, I love physical labor. But since my intestine exploded five years ago and I had those three operations, including the one where they had to cut out my belly button and give me a fake one, my upper and lower bodies have no relationship. I go to run and my upper body leans forward while my legs stand still and I simply fall over. I go to do sit ups and my legs rise uncontrollably while my torso doesn't move. All that changed in January when Ayahuasca put me back together after the three operations and five years. I was falling asleep, leaning forward, took a breath and to my utter surprise my upper torso straightened out, without me thinking about it. She'd told me to be clean--and I was--and told me to pay attention--which I did--and told me to drink a little to let her do her work--which I did--and she told me it would be important that night. But I never expected that present. Wow! That was fantastic.
   Five months later the flesh eating bacteria came and ate my right calf. So much for strength, eh?
   But everything is getting better, slowly: My wound has gone from about 12 by 15 inches of lost flesh to a measly 6 by 7 inches: And we know that because I have the pictures with the rulers in them to prove it. And I'll get a skin graft in a week or two and close that baby up--if it sticks. If not, it will close in a couple of months on its own, as it's been doing.
    But while I'm trying to get out of my spiritual crisis--see last post--by mowing lawn and so forth, I am physically in pain. And I ran out of pain killers nearly a month ago and thought it better to not ask for more. Why? Cause I'm a stupid macho 62-year-old who forgot that pain hurts if you don't have pain killers and if doctors are willing to give them to you for pain, you're an idiot to not take them. I'm the case in point.
    So someone very generous--actually two people--send me medical marijuana. One sent two joints, one sent about half-an-ounce. I put them away. I have no idea who sent them, they just showed up. That was very cool. And they showed up in vacuum pacs  with fake return addresses so that nobody smelled them and I have no idea where they came from.
    So the other day, I was in real pain after lifting the mower into my truck, lifting it off, mowing lawn and raking for an hour or two. Plus carrying rocks that the people building the road on my property have left all over the freaking place. So, no pain killers? I thought, Now is the time to break into that medical mar stash.
   But you know what? It wasn't there. Neither of them. I mean, I'd taped the half ounce to the back of the box in the freezer that is frozen to the freezer floor, and I'd put the two joint baggie into a bag of basil that was sealed in two baggies. I knew I'd need it sooner or later so put it in a place where no one could find it.
   But then it was gone.
   I called my kids in one by one. I called Chepa. "Chep? Did you happen to find a baggie of marijuana in the freezer? I mean, if your friends were over and they were asking for a joint, is there any chance that you said, "maybe Peter has some" and then went and looked and found it and gave it to your friends?"
   She was insulted. "If I wanted a joint, I would ask, cholo. You think I would steal from my husband, even if we are not together the last 12 years? Who do you think I am? Cholo!"
   I asked Madeleina. I told her that there would be no repercussions and that she could say whatever she wanted but to tell me the truth within 24 hours. Nothing bad would happen, just tell me. I know Madeleina doesn't even know what marijuana looks like but sometimes, when I talk about property forfeiture and such she panics and throws out the frozen basil, the frozen strawberries, the frozen grapes, anything she thinks might cost us the house or might be illegal. She said she hadn't done a thing.
    I gave Marco the same deal: No repercussions for answering truthfully to the next question. If you need to lie, no problem, you can rectify it within 24 hours, still no repercussions....Marco, did you happen to find any....
    "I did it, dad."
    I paused. I wasn't ready for that, at least not so quickly.
    "I don't know what I"ve been doing for a few weeks. I feel lost. I looked for it, I found it. I didn't even smoke it. I just took it and then I threw it away."
   "Were you saving me from me?" I asked.
    I thought about it for a minute.
    "Marco, if I have a bottle of wine and you want a glass, you're my kid and you are welcome to it, right? And if I have two trucks working and you need one, you're welcome to it, ritght? Okay. But please never never never again take the whole stash, much less two stashes, without a note saying that you did it, and particularly when you know dad is hurting and needs something and there are no pain medications. Okay?"
     "Sorry dad. I'll try not to do that again."
     "Okay, I said no repercussions for the truth. Don't do it again or I'll kill you. Meanwhile I love you. And I hope it helped you through your own spiritual crisis."
      "I think it did, but I don't want anymore. Let's leave it at that dad. I love you too."
      Sometimes you just can't get angry at the people you most want to get angry with. They are the precious few that matter in the long run, and Marco and I? We've had a 20-year run so far: If I'm gonna go crazy over every little thing, or if he would hold me accountable for every time I was less than a great dad, well, we'd hate each other. But if we forgive, and we do, and if we try to forget, which we also do, well, maybe he and I will have another 20 years, and you know what? The good has outbalanced the anger about 100 to one.
      Thanks for being my kid, kiddo. I love you. Dad.

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