Mrs. Linklater's Cosmic, er, Comic, Universe

The last roommate I had at the orthopedic rehab center took one look at me and said, "I think I know you."  I didn't have a clue who she was. 

I can't tell you the number of times people have said they know me, but even though they're completely convinced, it always turns out they've got the wrong person.  My sophomore year in college some guy called me up in the dorm and said I sat next to him in English. He was sure I was that girl, because he had taken the time to find my picture in the yearbook. Nope. Wasn't in that class. I asked him to call me back if he ever found the real girl he was pining for.  He did and all I could think was, "Geez, I'm better looking than that."  

Another day, another year, I was walking down Rush Street in Chicago on my way home from work when I was accosted by two young men, shouting, "Sheila!!! Sheila from the beach!!" Based on how thrilled they were to find me, that must have been a great summer threesome. But, sorry guys, I'm not Sheila, I'm Mrs. Linklater. 

So when my new roomie at the home, Janice, claimed she thought she had a past history with me, I warned her that I seem to look like everybody's long lost sorority sister, crazy aunt, worst date, or old girlfriend. Until she said, "Weren't you married to Mr. Linklater?"  And ta-da, turns out we used to socialize during my short period of marriedness at the home of mutual friends. That was more than thirty years ago. 

Acting like a couple of eighth grade girls making crank calls, we called up the mutual friends and left them a voicemail so they could share in the exciting news about our re-connection. Hey, Sharon and Peter, remember us -- Janice and Mrs. Linklater? From a long time ago? We're sharing a room at the local nursing home following our respective hip surgeries. Does life come full circle or what?  Janice even threw in another tidbit -- remember that birthday cake Mrs. L got Peter for his 36th birthday? The one with the sculpted frosting and cake torso of a seriously built babe in a bikini that said, "To Peter: a perfect 36"?  

Surely Sharon and Peter must have jumped for joy when they heard our message. I remember how excited Janice and I were just sitting on our beds in matching compression stockings and open air hospital gowns, tripping merrily down memory lane over the coincidence of it all. Of course, we didn't really expect to hear back right away. Especially after all this time.  But sometimes when the stars and planets line up properly, fate cannot be denied.  

The very next day Janice's son, an attorney, was asked to attend a bar association committee meeting at a large law firm. The last time Peter saw Janice's thirty something kid, the young man was still several weeks from birth. Turns out the meeting Janice's son had to attend was at the same law firm where Peter is a partner. When you consider all the Chicago law firms [hundreds] and all the bar association committee meetings [dozens and dozens], you might expect that the chances of Peter and Janice's son intersecting would be pretty low, especially the day after our reunion after thirty years. But no-o-o-o-o-o. There they were in the same room. Peter and Janice's son. Of course, Janice's son didn't realize who Peter was until after the meeting. So we have to wait to hear Peter's reaction the next time they meet. 

But still and all. Cosmic.  

Miss

Life in a "Skilled Nursing Care" Facility

Remember when you were potty training your kids and every little poop de doop they evacuated was met with rock star applause?

Now imagine that same little tyke is now 67 years old, weights 340 pounds, just had a knee replacement, and finally ended his bout of surgery induced constipation on the toilet in the room next to yours.

The applause was so loud I thought Elvis had flushed the building.

My days here in orthopedic rehab are filled with the squeezing of butt cheeks, the taking of blood, the swallowing of pills, the eating of food, the exercising of limbs, the squeaking of walkers, the hobnobbing of canes, the whining of patients, the arrival of flowers, the departure of ambulances, and the occasional, accidental view of your roommate's exposed derriere on the way to the bathroom.

To fill in the rest of the time, I have been assigned to my own personal physical therapist, a strapping blond woman from Poland who goes by the name of Danuta. She arrives at the crack of 8:00 AM each day with the glee of a prison guard who can't wait for a cavity search. Smiling like a hyena, she shouts, "Goot Mornink Mrs. Linklater!" and orders me to get up and walk to the "gym" for the first of two one hour sessions designed to make me wish I were dead.

Based on how I feel at the end of the day, I think it's working.

Despite all my work, I don't seem to be recovering as fast as some of the other folks. My first roommate, Selma, who was 75 years old, arrived at the facility about ten minutes ahead of me following her hip surgery and she got sent home last Friday, still barely able to get her clothes on and push her walker to the bathroom.

I can not only dress myself, but I can go up and down the stairs -- ta da!! Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. None of this one foot at a time stuff for me. As long as I hold onto the railing of course. But here it is, Monday, three days since Selma's departure, and there has been no mention of my release any time soon. Helloooo?!!

Meanwhile, to suck up to management about how enthusiastic I am about the programs here, I attended a master class in How To Fall. The young, agile, and very trim therapist demonstrated the latest in hip and knee replacement wipeouts to a crowd of surgically repaired old farts, some of whom had been overserved at the pig trough a few too many times. She dropped to the floor and lay there, motionless, to simulate what the proper execution of a fall-down-and-go-boom should look like. It was like an F-14 trying to teach a bunch of 747s how to do nightlandings on a carrier.

Looking up from her spot on the floor at the forest of wheelchairs, walkers, and canes surrounding her, she pointedly asked the many widebodied members of the group, "What should you do next?"

I said, "Stay away from the chocolate."

Something tells me that I probably added another week to my stay.