Closing the Case

I peered through the blinds of my living room window. This time I was dressed and ready, which included wearing my trusty running shoes. They would not get away with their unacceptable behavior again.

Four days ago I had watched as they moved into the house across the street, a man, a woman, two small kids, and a yellow Lab. I cannot say I was displeased to see the old neighbors leave. I had hopes that the new people would cut their grass more often than once a month. Everything looked promising. I thought we might get acquainted, take walks together, maybe even share a meal.

Things went downhill from there. The next morning, Friday, I started my riding mower and proceeded to mow my lawn. I hugged the front yard curb line and turned at the edge of my property to continue. At first the scent was fleetingly foul-smelling since I was driving with the wind. On my second pass I gagged and upon looking behind me I saw the yellow-brownish ooze swirling around and around on my tractor tire. A picture of the yellow Lab came to mind.

I drove over to the outside faucet, shut off the mower, and proceeded to wash off the tire. Then, I dragged the hose out to the curb and squirted out the rest of the poop. I cut the remainder of my grass without another mishap except for the steam pouring out my ears.

Back inside, after calming down, I resolved to make sure of my suspicions before confronting the new neighbors. Probably, I needed to catch them in the act, or rather, Fido in the act.

The next morning after breakfast but still in my pajamas, I carried my coffee to the front window and peeked through the blinds. Fido, on a leash held by his mistress, was in the midst of perpetrating the crime. I rushed back to the kitchen with my coffee and skidded to the front door in my slippers, but I was too late. They were gone. I could see this was not going to be easy.

I Googled catching the owner of a dog pooper and found some interesting stuff. Installing a video camera was out since I was about as technically inclined as Dolly Pardon. DNA of the poop was possible, but how exactly was I to swab the pooch’s cheek for a match?

I would just have to bide my time. And that is how I came to be waiting and peering through my living room window, fully dressed and ready to rock and roll. I contemplated on exactly what I would say when I confronted my neighbor about her malicious mutt and her rude and inconsiderate behavior. But I waited in vain. Dog and mistress never appeared.

Several days went by without seeing anything of the pooper, and I wondered if the neighbor was letting him roam their own backyard without taking him for walks. I decided this must be the case and eventually quit thinking about it. Then, one morning I saw the lady of the house come out, alone, and continue to walk down our neighborhood street. I decided to settle this once and for all and quickly got dressed. I watched through the window until I saw her heading back up the street toward home. I strolled out my front door and down the driveway until we met at my mailbox. I smiled, introduced myself, and asked, “Where is your dog today?”

She laughed and said, “That was my mom’s dog. She was here for a few days helping with the move. She and Clyde have gone back home to New Jersey, but that’s nice of you to ask. I’ll be sure to tell her that Clyde has an admirer.”

I thought to myself better not to disagree, count my blessings and start fresh from today. Maybe Mom would not visit often.

Appointment with a Dexa Scan

Not me, but looks comfy, right?

The young girl in uniform called my last name, and I rose from my waiting room chair. As I looked up, another lady was already following her down the hallway. I thought to myself, there must be two Morrisons here today. I stood still and watched as the uniform turned back to listen to something the other Morrison was saying, and then the imposter turned to the right to enter the blood draw area.

The uniform looked back at me, and I asked, “Constance?”

She nodded. “I’m Dallas and I’ll be doing your dexa scan today.”

“I think you’re the tech who did my scan two years ago,” I replied.

“Yes, I’m sure. I’ve been here seven years.”

“You should be an expert by now,” I said. She didn’t laugh. Maybe she smiled. She had her back to me.

I followed her down the hallway and turned left at the end. We entered a tiny room with an exam table centered under the bone scanning machine, a swivel stool at the table’s end, a shelf above it, an apparatus was attached to the wall to measure height, a cumbersome scale next to it, and in the opposite corner a desk and chair for Dallas’ computer. Free space was at a premium.

“Take off your shoes and back up to the wall so I can get your height.” I complied as Dallas cautioned me not to put any weight on the shelf. I had grabbed it as I slipped off my shoes. “Five feet and ¼,” Dallas read off as she asked me to step away.

“Now for your weight.” I stepped up onto the scale and Dallas played with the sliding weights until the bar stabilized. “146,” she said.

“Do you have any metal in anything you’re wearing?”

I responded with a no since I had read the instructions before coming, but Dallas continued with her questions.

“No zipper in your pants? No metal in your bra?”

“No and no.”

“Okay, lie on your back on the table and we’ll get started.” She placed a wedge under my knees, and sat down at her computer. After a moment or two, the scanner slowly moved over me several times, searching out the secrets of my spine. I was comfy, but it didn’t last. Dallas was removing the wedge, and told me to straighten my legs as she sat back down. That strained my back. Soon the scanner was moving again, back and forth over my hips. As it came to a stop, Dallas turned toward me and said, “Now turn your toes inward as though you are pigeon-toed.” I did what I thought was a perfect performance, but soon heard Dallas say, “Can you turn the left foot in more?” That hurt some more, but apparently it was enough as the scanner began to move again, and after a few more ups and downs, we were finished, and Dallas said I could sit up. I felt as though I had been holding my breath for the entire time.

Dallas asked if I was seeing my doctor to discuss the scan, and I said I had an appointment in just a few minutes so she printed out the results and handed them over to take with me. I slipped on my shoes. She opened the door to let me out, said to turn right at the hallway and have a nice day.

I exited the laboratory’s waiting room, turned right again, and walked down another long hallway to my doctor’s office. I was twenty minutes early. I signed in and to my surprise was quickly called to go back to an exam room where the nurse took my blood pressure and told me the doctor would be in soon. He was. I handed him the scan information, and he pulled up my previous scan to compare. My spine numbers were better, but my hip numbers were either the same or slightly worse. He recommended I continue my same medicine for two more years.

Then I told him about my wrist, how it was painful to move certain ways, and how very painful it was to write. I told him I was a writer and also liked to draw and paint, and my wrist was definitely cramping my style. I asked if it could be carpal tunnel syndrome. He immediately tried to bend it downward, and I winced in pain. “No,” he said. “I believe it’s arthritis. But just to be sure, I’m going to send you to get an x-ray,” something my friends in life history agreed would happen.

Well, to make a long story short, I got the x-ray and a few days later got the call from the doctor’s office that, yes, it was arthritis, no broken bones. I was to do what the doctor had said, apply the over-the-counter arthritis cream twice a day and take a 220 mg of Aleve two times a day for more relief from the pain. I was already using the cream but not on a schedule, and sometimes I take Aleve, when I anticipate a busy day. I believe my wrist is positively responding to the scheduled use of both. I’m moving it more without pain, but writing continues to be difficult. I’m thankful my dexa scan numbers improved, and really appreciated the encouragement and advice from my life history group about my wrist problem which was the topic of my last month’s story. Life is so much better with friends whose life history covers just about everything you could ever imagine.