ProfessorTomoe

You speak truth, good sir, but damn, I've been Jonesing for some good German food lately ...

Nope. Would not be. Damn. I so much want to go to that place over in Colleyville (near the big D/FW airport) and do some serious German sausage/meat/food/whatever shopping. Only problem is Mrs. Prof always schedules either cat volunteer stuff or house cleaning stuff on the weekends, and it would be a good 90-minutes for a round-trip (or for one-way if the traffic is bad).

Ambiguity is all they have to work with in most cases until someone starts cutting and digging around, I guess. My PCP took a lot of that ambiguity away with the Charcot foot warning this morning. We'll see if the podiatrist stays the course tomorrow afternoon.

Would it be wrong for me to say that I envy your sausage? o.O

I think this reply deserves a hearty "No [Redacted] Sherlock" in response. I will take your advice to heart ... and to foot. 4:56 p.m. CDT 20170525. Of course, once a doctor tells both Mrs. Prof and me about something I may be headed toward (i.e., Charcot foot), that's pretty much a green light for me to get all research-y like. I don't like what I'm finding. A lot of my research into the probelm mentions diabetic neuropathy as a cause. However, I could swear that all of my neuropathy tests have been negative. My A1C numbers have been around 6.1 for the last couple of years. Now, last week was an exception—they took my fasting glucose in the hospital, but I was so damned stressed out that it ventured into the mid-130 range, but that's still lower than Mrs. Prof's. I had my blood and urine tested again today to see if my metformin dose needs to be adjusted and/or if I need to start doing daily testing (I haven't for years). Something my doctor told me that I haven't found in the research yet: movement helps get rid of Charcot foot. I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt on this. Only problem is that I'm dealing with Chronic Pain Syndrome with a great deal of it coming from my left ankle, left over from the 2009 dual broken ankle disaster. His comment was that the two are probably intertwined, and that he admitted it's going to be hell trying to get me moving when every step hurts in the best of circumstances. Mrs. Prof (who is taking a nap in the bedroom and just made the rudest of noises) made a suggestion on the way home from the doctor's office—get me into aquatic therapy. Again. God, I hate indoor therapy pools. They're either in cavernous, chlorine-atmosphered echo chambers or in small, noisy, overbooked steam rooms. Both are usually accompanied by freezing cold dressing rooms, with the small ones at least offering one the dignity of being able to lock the changing room door. (Don't even think about mentioning outdoor therapy pools. Read on.) What neither offer is the basic human dignity of not wanting to be seen in a bathing suit, with or without a T-shirt. I am no Charles Atlas. I am more like a World Atlas. Okay, that's an exaggeration, but I'm flabby and weigh around 335 as of today (I'm estimating that by subtracting my approximate steel boot weight from what the scale showed). I don't like to be partially undressed in public anymore. Pool or no pool, indoor or outdoor, whatever the reason. I don't like it. Somehow, I've got to get this across to Mrs. Prof in a way that won't engender a "So?" response from her. I couldn't figure that problem out when she brought up the subject in the Ridgeline on the way home, so I had to end the discussion with a clumsy "Not now." (N.B.: we've been on different wavelengths all day today.) I think I'm going to have to wait until tomorrow after the podiatrist appointment, see if we're communicating better, and try dropping it on her then. Oh, backtracking for a second: remember when I said that my doctor agreed to increase my Abilify from 5 mg to 10 mg? He did it almost happily, without hesitation. He said he could tell that my depression levels are way up compared to my baseline. Something needed to be done, and he was glad to do it. And guess why I'm so depressed lately? (That's a rhetorical question.) P.S.: I almost typed "derpressed" in the above line. Yeah, that's close, but I don't think it's a valid psychiatric diagnosis. Derpression. Maybe it oughta be.

12:35 p.m. CDT 20170525. Mrs. Prof changed her tune after the appointment with my primary care physician. He had apparently read a report from the podiatrist or the hospital, one or the other. In either case, he said what he'd thought were numerous fractures were actually signs of something called Charcot foot, where the bone demineralizes due to a "loss of good capillary flow" to said bone. It would explain the ease of my fracture, the avascular necrosis, and many other problems with my left foot as listed in the report I posted. Very nasty sounding, and not much I can do about it at the moment. It's going to be brought up with my podiatrist at tomorrow's appointment. In addition, he doubled my Abilify dose to 10 mg and wrote a note to get me out of Jury Duty. I'm e-mailing the Jury Duty note shortly.

Oh, man, there's much good to be found in a properly made sardine and shallot (or finely sliced green onion) sandwich with mayo on a good, absorbent bread. Just make sure you drain the sardines properly and make sure both they and the oil they were packed in are both high quality. Om nom nom.

Of course, now that I mentioned the test results to Mrs. Prof, she has gone into full-bore argument mode, wondering why none of my other exams (including a CT-scan) have caught any of this. She has a nasty habit of doing an "anti-freak-out," as it were, acting as though I'm turning into a hypochondriac or something (I've never figured her out on that). Raised voices ensued. I think I've finally got things stopped down, but good grief—I didn't need one of these sessions at this hour of the morning (7:53 a.m. CDT 20170525). Speaking of things I didn't need, I hope I didn't need to stop drinking water after midnight for my blood tests today. The only non-water thing I've taken has been my hydrocodone, and there's no way in HELL I'm going without that again. Once last week was enough, thankyouverymuch.

I got the post-op Three-View X-ray report on my broken toe. There's a lot of medicalese in it, but if you're interested in stuff like that, here it is: Read if you wish. I don't know exactly what it says, but terms like "avascular necrosis" make me wonder if I've got something else going on that might explain my Chronic Pain Syndrome.

He's too dumb to recognize sardines and extra-tasty cat food when he smells them ...

A couple more pictures of the backyard community, gathered today. Mrs. Prof set up the trail camera on a tripod, put it on our patio, and then left for work. I've asked her not to do that again, considering how much of an advertisement it is for someone to come along and take it. Tomorrow's pictures should be coming from inside the greenhouse, if she's set it up properly this time. Anyway, here's picture number one: Yes, we do have cats named Dumb Ass A, Dumb Ass B, and Trouble. Dumb Ass B is the only one who has managed to elude Mrs. Prof's traps so far. And, as you can see, Big Tom, Trouble, and Dumb Ass A seem to get along just fine.

I just finished trying to take my first stand-up shower since my foot surgery last week. I wasn't ready. Dear Lord, I wasn't ready. That frigging HURT. The boot goes back on until my podiatrist says I can take it off.

Just reported to a Facebook friend and family relative that someone was trying to clone their account. With all of the publicity about this, why do people still try to do it? Are there really that many people who haven't heard about the scam yet?

Fortunately, we have no high cliffs or piano moving companies in the Garland area. I think we're safe on that count. Seriously, we are in a borderline area for urban encroachment onto wildlife territory. We see coyotes, skunks, rabbits, possums, raccoons, bobcats, hawks, eagles, and the occasional venomous snake (most of our snakes are of the garter snake variety, thankfully).

But ... but ... Costa Rica!

Just drank a cup of coffee. Now I feel sleepy. WTF?

Well, there have been possums, raccoons, and lord knows how many species of birds. Pre-camera, I know that roving dog packs would pay it a visit. I don't know about local coyotes.

In tonight's trail cam picture, it's time to play Spot the Grackle! Hint: Incoming for a landing ...

Had something surprisingly good last night, from Arby's. Yes, Arby's. Quit laughing, or quit barfing, whichever you're doing. This shocked the hell out of me, too. Their Pork Belly sandwich. Yes, I've looked at the nutritional info. I am unapologetic, since it's a limited-time offer and I probably won't be able to get it again. But damn, it was good. Best fast food I've had in a very, very long time.

It had a very strong "I am cheddar!" presence with a wonderfully sharp edge, balanced in a way only 20 years of aging can do. The cheese's calcium crystals had formed perfectly—just the right amount of crunch to go with its strength. You don't take big bites of the stuff. You nibble a crunchy bite and savor cheddar at its best. It's not something that I'd recommend to a first-timer, but if you're used to well-aged, crunchy cheddars, this would be at the top of the list you should try. My son and I believed I got my $45-per-quarter-pound worth, and Mrs. Prof didn't complain at all, even after she found out how much it cost (a very rare thing). She also definitely got her fair share when we brought it out of the refrigerator. I backed off and let her and my son monopolize what I hadn't already eaten since receiving it earlier in the week. BTW, if you're still interested, it's still available. Choose wisely on the shipping and handle with care when it arrives.

Mrs. Prof and I no longer use a Debit Card for anything but ATM transactions. It's too risky. We use a Visa card with a decent rate and decent rewards (which get used for Christmas gifts) and try to pay it off in full every cycle. Much less liability should it get breached (which it has at least once when someone tried to use it to buy a ton of computer equipment in Germany—the card issuer caught it and allowed us to put the kibosh on it) or stolen. I know everyone can't do that, but Mrs. Prof has worked us into that position and raises hell when I jeopardize it by buying too much crap. (That's why I haven't upgraded my external backup drive for my music composition machine or upgraded it to Native Instruments Komplete 11 yet. I spent my most recent luxury purchase on a 20-year-old chunk of Wisconsin cheddar that I shared with Mrs. Prof and our son when he came over to cook a Mothers' Day dinner (the cheese was pronounced "glorious" by my son).).

Wow. Must be a "learn something new every day" drug. I'm going to probably be reaching toward your level of Abilify dosage, although not coming close to it, after my Thursday appointment with my PCP. Mr. Depression has decided to pay me a visit again after all of the hell of the past week, and he's hanging around this time. My PCP is the one controlling my Abilify dose, not my psychiatrist (they've worked it out between them).