More life in recovery
Yesterday was not a good day for Mom; all her painkillers are making her itch, so the doctor switched her to Darvocet, which didn't actually kill any pain worth a damn. So now she's back on Dilaudid ("That's the shit that Lindsay Lohan got fucked up on!" "...That's bad"), but the itching is bearable, now that she knows what the alternative is. She's also really frustrated--in part because her physical therapy hurts, but also because she's not making as much progress as she (the overachiever) would like. And also, because the therapist was late, AGAIN.
( The last time I wrote about our non-adventures in recuperation, I was kind of assuming that y'all knew how close we are, but newcomers to the journal may not be as aware of that. Let me put it this way--we have the kind of relationship where I say, "That's the shit that Lindsay Lohan got fucked up on!," and when she says, "That's bad," she's not talking about my language. If I'd been telling you those stories in person, it would have been in a very affectionate tone--one of the reasons I was going on about how depressing Australia looked was because that was making her laugh. So I think my tone came off a bit crankier than I meant.)
So to distract herself, she's been half-watching various movies on cable, intending to keep them in the background while she dozes, but then watching them anyway--possibly because I'm in the room, and she keeps wanting to tell me things (the normal order of things is that she intends to watch the movies and then falls asleep instead). Yesterday was G.I. Jane ("This is one of my favorite movies"), then Behind Enemy Lines ("This is another one of my favorite movies") and then 2012 (one of her new favorite movies). She really likes action and/or suspense (but not horror), the more disasters (including but not limited to shit blowing up real good) the better. I mean, I also like these things, except that I don't like to think about the world ending (I saw a story in the Weekly World News when I was eight about how the world was going to end in six months, so I was terrified for the next six months, because I was eight). Well, and I'm not so interested in the military-themed movies, which she really is. We do have a mutual appreciation of shit blowing up, though. What I'm saying is, we'll watch whatever she wants.
She loves Jodie Foster: Badass Mom movies, so she sees that Panic Room is on this morning, and of course she can't resist it. (I even remember seeing it in the theater with her back in the day.) I think one of the reasons she particularly wanted to watch it again was because she suddenly realized a few weeks ago that--"Bella? That was BELLA? That gawky little kid was BELLA?" (Man, I oughtta put on Goblet of Fire and blow her mind.) So we're sitting here watching it, and I'd forgotten how cool the opening credits are, and I had only half-remembered that it's a David Fincher movie, and then HOWARD SHORE? I LOVE HOWARD SHORE! Man. Now that he's done Eclipse, that right there is a trivia question waiting to happen.
So here's Baby Kristen Stewart, and Mom says, as one might expect, "Look at her!"
"I know, it's--"
"Her eyes were dead even then! Look! There is NO EXPRESSION IN THOSE BLACK ORBS!"
My hand to God, y'all. That is word-for-word. So now she's camped out in bed, her knee being moved up and dowwwwwn, up and dowwwwwn, by a rickety machine created for this purpose, alternately dozing and snarking the movie. I have taught her well.
( The last time I wrote about our non-adventures in recuperation, I was kind of assuming that y'all knew how close we are, but newcomers to the journal may not be as aware of that. Let me put it this way--we have the kind of relationship where I say, "That's the shit that Lindsay Lohan got fucked up on!," and when she says, "That's bad," she's not talking about my language. If I'd been telling you those stories in person, it would have been in a very affectionate tone--one of the reasons I was going on about how depressing Australia looked was because that was making her laugh. So I think my tone came off a bit crankier than I meant.)
So to distract herself, she's been half-watching various movies on cable, intending to keep them in the background while she dozes, but then watching them anyway--possibly because I'm in the room, and she keeps wanting to tell me things (the normal order of things is that she intends to watch the movies and then falls asleep instead). Yesterday was G.I. Jane ("This is one of my favorite movies"), then Behind Enemy Lines ("This is another one of my favorite movies") and then 2012 (one of her new favorite movies). She really likes action and/or suspense (but not horror), the more disasters (including but not limited to shit blowing up real good) the better. I mean, I also like these things, except that I don't like to think about the world ending (I saw a story in the Weekly World News when I was eight about how the world was going to end in six months, so I was terrified for the next six months, because I was eight). Well, and I'm not so interested in the military-themed movies, which she really is. We do have a mutual appreciation of shit blowing up, though. What I'm saying is, we'll watch whatever she wants.
She loves Jodie Foster: Badass Mom movies, so she sees that Panic Room is on this morning, and of course she can't resist it. (I even remember seeing it in the theater with her back in the day.) I think one of the reasons she particularly wanted to watch it again was because she suddenly realized a few weeks ago that--"Bella? That was BELLA? That gawky little kid was BELLA?" (Man, I oughtta put on Goblet of Fire and blow her mind.) So we're sitting here watching it, and I'd forgotten how cool the opening credits are, and I had only half-remembered that it's a David Fincher movie, and then HOWARD SHORE? I LOVE HOWARD SHORE! Man. Now that he's done Eclipse, that right there is a trivia question waiting to happen.
So here's Baby Kristen Stewart, and Mom says, as one might expect, "Look at her!"
"I know, it's--"
"Her eyes were dead even then! Look! There is NO EXPRESSION IN THOSE BLACK ORBS!"
My hand to God, y'all. That is word-for-word. So now she's camped out in bed, her knee being moved up and dowwwwwn, up and dowwwwwn, by a rickety machine created for this purpose, alternately dozing and snarking the movie. I have taught her well.