Sometimes

Sometimes I just don't know what to say. 

Too soon

Aaack, my heart!  My youngest grandson no longer thinks I'm the funniest person in the world. 

I knew this would happen eventually.  But I'm not ready for N The Logical. I haven't yet had my fill of N The  Peurile. Not fair!

A couple of weeks ago I picked him up from school. I employed my usual shtick. He did not laugh. Instead, he replied "Grandma, you don't have to try so hard to make me happy." THAT gave me pause. I don't? What if I want to? He's not the boss of me.

Last week I picked him up again. As he climbed into the back seat I said (with great enthusiasm) "Hello, Punkin!"   He took his seat, buckled his seat belt and said "You know, Grandma, I'm 8 years old now. You really have to stop calling me all those baby names."  

Darn it. I'm not ready to grow up.

Today I am practicing my itsy bitsy spider routine so I can Facetime our great-granddaughter.  I'm SURE I can make her laugh, for years and years.

And hey, look!  A new banana blossom in our yard.

It is still beautiful out there

Essential thoughts

Today we would have headed to the airport to pick up our nephew, his wife, and their toddler. I've never met the toddler. I was looking forward to meeting her. Of course that has been cancelled, But it can be rescheduled.

I keep a fervid eye on my toilet paper rolls. I wonder how many my daughter has, but at the same time, I don't want to know, because there simply isn't any more to buy in the stores. What the hell is THAT all about?

I wake up in the middle of the night worrying about what my picky grandson will eat when they run out of his favorite food. I wonder if our great-granddaughter has enough formula. For crying out loud, get a grip, woman!

I am not complaining, I'm commiserating. We are all going through this together, all around the world. And I have it easy. I can stay home. 

In addition to doctors and nurses, my current heroes are hospital and nursing home janitors and cooks. I'm grateful for the trash collectors I see out there, and the delivery people who bring us goods. I appreciate my postman who continues to bring my mail. I feel for clerks behind counters at grocery stores and pharmacies, underpaid, overexposed, and unable to take time off.  Farm workers! 

We all take pride in our work, but it is humbling to discover just who the "essential service workers" are. 

I read a story about a young father crying in the grocery store, holding his infant. He couldn't find any formula.  Does anyone know how to make your own? Didn't our mothers do that in the 1950's? 

This statue is of a vineyard worker in Napa Valley, California.

Hell has frozen over.

Today's headline in the Orlando Sentinel: 

Disney World, Universal Orlando closing theme parks for rest of March as coronavirus concerns swell

But they are keeping open the free, business areas (Disney Springs, City Walk). I'm trying to figure out how that makes sense. 

Still, closing the parks is the right thing to do and I'm happy they are putting the public health before profits. I was wondering if that would happen.

Update: Sea World is closing, too.

Busy, busy, busy

What a week, right?  We live in exciting times, and I experienced all the highs and lows the unexpected excitement all this profound political frenzy generated.

Pete Buttigieg and Amy Klobuchar dropped out just before Super Tuesday. Elizabeth Warren dropped out a few days later. These were my top three candidates.

When Pete dropped out, I threw a big stinkin' fit. I'm not bragging, I'm just not going to lie.  This is what I posted:



Then Amy dropped out. Sheesh.

I appreciate the self-sacrifice of these two candidates. I am in awe of the swift strategic brilliance of it all. Who knew the Democrats could still pull together and show unity/strength? Anyway, I still had Elizabeth! She was probably the best candidate anyway, right? And I'm sorry, but I really, really, really want women (plural) to be in power. So I posted this:


I got a lot of sh** with that one from angry, threatened men, and women who do not want to appear threatening. They took their best shots. I took it on the chin. I got way more support and sympathy than criticism. 

Then Elizabeth Warren dropped out. I have no illusions about sexism, or misogyny in American politics. I've been a feminist since 1968. My heart no longer breaks. It pounds, hard and loud. Occasionally it spurts blood. Politics are messy. Some battles may never be won, but they still must be fought. 

I'm feeling pretty good today. I can step back and let the two remaining candidates try to convince me. It's almost a relief not having to care so much anymore. 

I'll vote for one of The Men in November.  I won't be excited for either, but I'll vote. If the winner doesn't choose a woman VP, I will feel betrayed and angry, but I won't be surprised.

My passion now will be doing what I can to ensure that the Democrats take over the majority in the Senate. If you can't do one thing, then look around for something else you CAN do. 

Today's fantasy satire alert

Okay, you guys are going to think I'm a complete nut, but for some reason that doesn't bother me.  Here goes my latest fantasy satire alert:

There's a bill that passed both the Florida State House and Florida Senate. It is being forwarded to our moronic Republican governor, Ron DeSatan DeSantis, to approve into law. It is a bill that, if passed, will require girls under 18 years old to get their parents consent before they can get an abortion. 

It does not take into account that a girl child might be raped, or that the father of the baby might be one of her parents or step-parents. Or a sibling. This is not the kind of information a young girl will want to tell her mother, especially if the mother is abusive. Don't kid yourself, some mother's don't take their daughter's side.

My smart aleck counter legislation:  

If this bill goes through, there should be a companion bill automatically giving the father of an underage child's fetus 9 months jail (for statutory rape) or probation time (if the father is an underage boy).  It takes two to tango.

Remember, if you're a good parent your daughter will always feel free to come to you for help. You don't need a law to make that happen, you just need to be a good parent.

I have to laugh

I have to laugh at myself, I am becoming such a stick in the mud. I was just telling one of my granddaughter's I am an extrovert. Now I'm thinking, am I? Did I change in retirement? Because now my preferred days are those when I don't have to leave the house.

The other day I had three things to do (horrors!):

1. Go to physical therapy in the morning
2. Go someplace fun with my daughter and grandson in the afternoon
3. Go to someone's house to celebrate an event in the evening

I woke up in the middle of the night worrying about having so many places to go and things to do the next day. I tossed and I turned. My mind would not stop.

All that worrying and missed sleep for naught. 

1.  PT was simple and straightforward
2. The afternoon with M and N was so much fun.
3. The event celebration was quite enjoyable, and we left early

How many times have we all done this, woken up filled with worry about something that doesn't seem the least bit worrisome the next morning?

What is it about the night that makes anxiety so potent? 

This 9 of swords tarot card image is from the following site: http://www.sacred-texts.com/tarot/xr/index. It is from an original "Pamela-A Deck" version of the Rider-Waite-Smith Deck. My use is for informational purposes only.

The Perfect Man Valentine

I was wandering around our local Publix (the ubiquitous Florida grocery store), looking for something to pick up as a Valentine for my Tom.  He usually buys me candy, so I didn't really want more candy in the house.  Plus, I count on him to help me eat mine. 

Romantic dinner, I thought!  Steak, baked potatoes, salad, wine, maybe grilled asparagus.  "Yeah," I thought to myself, "that's the ticket."

Imagine my delight when I came upon this heart shaped Ribeye steak in the meat cooler:

Happy Valentine's Day, Baby!

Ouch.

Aaack!  My upper arm still hurts, 5 months after that damn fall that broke my patella. When I fell last September, the med team asked if I hurt anything more than my knee. I was on drugs. I felt no pain. I said no.

It wasn't until I was off the strong meds, weeks later, that I realized I'd damaged my upper right arm when I used my arm to block my fall.

I have ignored the soreness for five months because healing the kneecap kind of made everything else pale in comparison. I didn't want to get off the couch. I didn't want to leave the house. I didn't want to see more doctors. Wheelchairs, walkers, ill-fitting braces, keeping my right leg stick-straight, watching The Great British Baking Show - there were SO many good reasons to ignore a sore arm.

My knee is mostly healed, but my arm still hurts every day. I could live with it. I could! Advil takes the pain away in 4 - 5 hour time slots. But pain wakes me up at night, and it hurts when I try to brush the back of my hair, or put on a sweater.  Enough!

I start physical therapy on my arm on Monday. 

Bitch, bitch, moan.  What a pain!

I guess I still have work to do.  

Getting back up

Like so many of you, I am fighting despair after the Senate acquitted Trump. We knew that was going to happen. Still, it sure has hit me hard. How about you?

Despair seems like a normal and reasonable reaction to injustice. We all feel it from time to time. Unfortunately, it is an emotion that will not sustain us. Despair won't make us stronger or happier. Left to it's own devices, despair will consume us. Then we lose. By all that is righteous and good, I want to win.

(I'm trying to give myself a good talking to.)

I've used the boxer analogy before because it is beautiful to me. It is the only sport I might be tempted to watch on TV. The fighters with the most "heart" are the ones who never give up. Sometimes they get knocked out, but there is always the next fight. Who knows what might happen next?

The odds are that 50% of future events will be good ones over a sufficient period of time. Nothing stays the same. History is cyclical. Blah, blah, blah. You know what I mean, those platitudes are actually shorthand for the truth. 

Now I'm going to go read a sword and sorcery fantasy and veg out for today. Maybe I'll make some cookies, or putter around in the garden. I think we all need a little R&R. We should be back to normal soon.

My uncle and my father about 1937

That race is run.

I recently learned two of my father's first cousins died. We weren't "close." However, we shared an interest in family history and I liked them. I hate "losing people."

They were both generous when asked genealogical questions. I received family stories and photos from each via email and snail mail. They solved a number of genealogical mysteries for me, giving me the low down on family rogues and reasons to be proud of some others.  I liked knowing they were still alive.

Ray was a double first cousin to my father. Ray's father was my paternal grandfather's brother. Ray's mother was my paternal grandmother's sister (i.e., 2 sisters married 2 brothers). He was a gentleman, kind and friendly. If curiosity and enthusiasm can be family traits, then I recognized those shared qualities in him. 

I knew Gary better. His father was another of my paternal grandfather's brothers. Gary was a polyglot who went to South Korea in 1964 to teach English and to study Asian languages. He never married, but he fell in love with South Korea. He stayed there for the rest of his life as a hired word-slinger, translating and editing. He had a passion for Esperanto, always hoping it could become a common language. Eventually he gave up his U.S. citizenship to become a citizen of South Korea. He said he had no axe to grind, being a citizen was just easier.

I wish we had corresponded more. There's so much more I want to know, and they were the only ones alive to tell me. I should have thanked them more profusely, and I would like to have had the opportunity to say goodbye. Now that race is run.

Death is so freakin' permanent. 

Evil is as evil does

I read a post on Facebook yesterday that gave me pause. It began: "Today Democracy Died!" I was moved by the strong emotion; however, I don't agree.

We are all disgusted by that sham of a trial in the Senate. We ask ourselves, "How can there be a trial if witnesses are not called, and evidence not presented?" Well, the answer is simple, there can't be. That was not a trial.

When the Senate votes to acquit down party lines, it will  be a vote of shame. History will record it as such. Donald Trump will not be exonerated simply because he was not removed by the Senate. The House impeached him, and that impeachment stands forever. He can never escape that great truth. He was impeached.

We knew the Senate would do this, and that Trump would not be removed from office as a result. This is awful, but not a surprise. The thing we must do is persevere, organize, register voters, and vote to remove him in November.

Call me a political literalist, but Democracy is not something that can die. It is an idea, a political construct, a governmental norm for many enlightened nations. I take comfort in history. Yes, evil exists, but it never triumphs in the end. It only rises to the top when we allow it.

Let's vote for a Democratic nominee who can actually beat him, and who has the ability to bring this country together. Enough with the division and hate that evil thrives upon.

Wednesday, January 29, 2020

We did a last minute, quick trip to St. Petersburg, FL on the Gulf Coast today to take Tom's guitar to a trusted guitar store for repairs.  Photos:

St. Pete's municipal marina

a boat motor

heron

just a sign

antique gumball machines

Guitar store

I think these are slides for a guitar

banjo

Wish I had the nerve to go inside this bar alongside the road

This bad boy jumped up on our table, stole Tom's crackers, and flew away

Dragging it out

As you know, we recently visited our Kentucky family to meet our great grandchild. What you don't know is they took us to a Star Wars themed drag brunch. OMG, was THAT fun.

It's a new world, a better world when your daughter, granddaughter, and future granddaughter-in-law take Grandpa and Grandma to a drag brunch. I had to laugh when R texted me and asked if we'd like to go. My response? "Are ya kiddin'? YES!" For some reason, she wasn't surprised. 

As each one sashayed past our table, we whooped it up and handed them tips. I was overcome with grandmotherly love for all the performers. Since I was sitting at the end of the table I was able to I tell each one either "You are my favorite" or "You look beautiful!"  Okay, make me say it, I threw a few kisses, too. 

Looking and learning

We recently returned from a deeply satisfying trip where we met our gorgeous great granddaughter.

She is only one month old. Like a new puppy, she's just learning to keep her eyes open and look around. When she is awake, she's fully engaged. I get the distinct feeling that with everything she sees, or smells, or hears, or touches, she is actively learning.

Then I wonder how you can possibly learn without language? I'm so used to having language skills dominate my existence, I forget there are other ways to learn. When you are a month old, you learn with all of your senses. Everything is new, and most everything seems wonderful. 

I want to be more like that baby.  

Complete Lives

The majority of people seem to marry and produce children. When researching genealogy I wonder if their lives were meaningful or if they were happy? What's usually missing with genealogy records is the backstory.
Vital records don't tell us is who was a cheapskate, who ran off with the milkman, or who left home and never came back. Every once in a while there are stories that fill in the gaps and gives one pause.

I came across a 5th great grandfather who was a Revolutionary War soldier. He was born in Virginia about 1760, and married in 1780. He had 6 children with his wife.

He left his family prior to 1810, to live with another woman. He seems to have beat his mistress "mercilessly" on more than one occasion. Later court testimony claims she finally warned him if he did it again, she would kill him. Unfortunately, she made the mistake of warning him in front of witnesses. He "drowned" not long afterwards, in 1821.

Or maybe not. Upon examination of the body, the authorities discovered a wound "on the left breast about 3/4 of an inch in a circular form. Whatever it was which the deceased had been wounded with supposed had caused his death, passing between the ribs, none of which were fractured."

The mistress was indicted for his murder. Later she was convicted of second degree murder, and sentenced to 12 years in prison.  

His wife lived until 1840, but I found no information about her. I hope she had a good life after the old man left. 

I have no further information about his mistress, either. I feel sorry for her. A woman of her time living outside of marriage with a brutal man didn't likely have many options. And, of course, she warned him.

Women's lives are nearly invisible. It is kind of sad when only the bad guys leave a trail.

This is just an old photo I found online.  It is labelled "The Absolom Davis family".  I am  not related to this family.  I love it though. You don't often find casual old photos like this. It says a lot about these people's lives.

When (xxxxx) ruins Christmas

Growing up, I had many wonderful Christmases. Unfortunately, the one I remember the most is when my father ruined Christmas by getting drunk and mean. All the glorious anticipation, preparation, money spent, cooking and baking was for naught that year. Daddy ruined Christmas. 

It was a horrible holiday, absolutely traumatic. I was in 5th grade. I have long since forgiven him, but unfortunately it isn't the sort of thing one forgets. Human beings being what they are, trauma sticks. 

So, if you ruined your children or grandchildren's Christmas this year, please get help. You can't change what happened, or wipe it from their memories.  However, you still have time to redeem yourself by getting help with whatever your problem is. Make it your problem to resolve, not their problem to endure.

Christmas Eve Memories

Christmas Eve was the high point in my youth. My large family exchanged presents from siblings on the night before Christmas. We would have a casual but special meal and all the cookies would come out of hiding. We walked in the dark to our parish church for midnight mass. There would be flowers, incense, and angels singing Latin from the choir. Christmas Eve was a celebration of the senses. 

My paternal grandmother came to our house early in the evening with her profound love, mystical kindness, homemade divinity candy, and peanut butter fudge (for crying out loud!). It was exciting to have her in our house. I can still hear her sweet, Tennessee drawl. I continue to feel her steadfast love. I'm not sure a better person ever walked this earth.

Grandpa wouldn't always come with her. Sadly, as he got older he became a cranky old misery guts. Oh well. Somebody's gotta play Scrooge.

She had just walked in.  I didn't even let her take off her coat before I took her picture.

Our first great grandchild

Our new (and first!) great-grandbaby was born a few days ago. All went well, and she is home now. She lives far from us, in the frozen northlands. However, her mother and grandmother keep us posted with photos and videos. I don't think she could be more beautiful, by the way. We fell in love with her long before she was born.

I'm happy to live in the modern world, where photos and videos are quick and easy to share. This beautiful child is in my husband's genealogical line, so I've been busy the last few days going through old photos of his family as far back as I can find. Most roads lead back to Ireland, the UK, and Germany in my husband's family.

I have to wonder about the ancestors who endured their children moving to the U.S. How hard it must have been to wonder and wait long months for a letter informing one that new grandchildren and great grandchildren arrived. 

Here is an article about her 5th great grandmother,     Teresa (Solomon) Enders.  She was born in Deggendorf, Germany in 1825. Although she died in 1910, this article using her photo was published in 1927. 

That lovely boy!

Grandson N (7) is crazy about Monopoly, so we play it often. He wheels and deals with abandon. I fear he’s a natural capitalist, although he is somewhat of a bleeding heart liberal when it comes to his old Grandma. He insists on being the banker, and he WILL slip me money when I start to run out. On the down low, of course. I try VERY hard not to accept his largesse. 

When he and I play alone together, we go by N's rules. He brilliantly proposed that we each start out with a monopoly over one neighborhood on the board so we can immediately start buying houses. It speeds the game up considerably.

We can’t let Grandpa know, because he would disapprove of altering the rules. N refers to Grandpa as “Mr. Play-By-The-Rules Pants.”  N and Grandma disdain “the rules.”

We play on a 40 year-old board.  The same one we played on with his mother.

Walking towards the future

I went to the surgeon the other day.  He told me I could stop using the leg brace.  I'm hobbling around a bit, because so many of those muscles haven't been used in months, and my knee is still a bit wonky.  I'm walking unassisted, though!

We had a good Thanksgiving. Here's a picture of flowers I picked from various places in our yard for the centerpiece.  Life is beautiful right now.  

Yes, I realize the linen tablecloth is wrinkled, but we're all just going to have to get over that.

Roses, dwarf poinciana, a type of impatiens

Thanksgiving 2019

I'm trying to get excited about Thanksgiving. It's a lovely holiday and deserves some of my time and attention. Other people's Thanksgiving posts have helped - many thanks for that. 

I need to break out of this bland and soothing convalescence and start feeling excitement and joy again. What is really motivating me is the realization that Thanksgiving memories at Grandma and Grandpa's for our two youngest grandchildren are up to us, since it is usually at our house. So, I will garner the courage to limp into the garage and unpack the good dishes. Why not?

While I'm at it, maybe I'll make the Christmas fruitcake this weekend.   

I'm thankful for the joy this holiday forces me to remember.  It feels good.

 

Our youngest grandson's "grateful plate" he made at school last year

Thirty percent and counting

I went to the surgeon yesterday for another post-op checkup, and all is going well. He adjusted my brace so I can practice bending my leg by 30%. I can sleep with out the brace, and I can take it off when I’m on the couch, but I still have to wear it when I walk. He wants me to start walking without the walker!!!  Yahoo.

He’s given me new exercises to do, and wants me back in 2 weeks so he can adjust the brace to 60% mobility (or possibly 90% depending on how I do in the meantime.) He expects a full recovery within 6 to 8 months.

I’m so freakin' happy.

Encased but still energized.

It might be a mistake to binge watch The Great British Baking Show during this period of enforced torpidity. It is the only thing I want to watch, and I'm very near the end. It makes me want to eat cake. I'm also dreaming of meat, potato, onions and root veg encased in a hot water, hand raised pastry crust. What an inspired carbohydrate jackpot.

The good news is my husband took me for a walk at a nearby nature preserve yesterday. It's a lovely forest walk on an elevated boardwalk. The preserve borders a large lake, so the walkway keeps one safe from alligators and snakes while still allowing one to experience a bit of the real Florida. The sky was overcast, a rare treat in the Sunshine State. Being there made me insanely happy to be out in the world.

My right foot

Bedpan Politics

Lest you mistake me for a good person, let me confess a sin.

I did something that might be a wrong, or at least not politically right-on. It has to do with hospital bed pan politics. I found the bedpan experience humiliating while I was in the hospital. The nurse who helped me the first time was wonderful, and she joked me through it.

The second time I had to "go" she was off duty and a young male nurse came to help me. I kindly told him I wanted a female nurse to help me with the bedpan. He seemed fine with that, but the female nurse who came in gently scolded me, saying that the male nurse was fully trained and could do these things. I imagine she didn't appreciate the extra work, and I can understand that. However, I tend to think anything that involves another person's involvement with my body is about me, first and foremost.  

Of course he could do that task. He was extremely competent, and very kind. But his technical ability was not the issue, was it? I'm an older woman who has been pricked, prodded, and poked by strange medical men my entire life. I draw the line at going to the bathroom.

Later I apologized to him, and attempted to let him know it wasn't a judgment about his abilities, it was about my still having a choice in a very intimate and private experience. I don't think he was buying it. He was thinking about himself.  I was thinking about myself. Oh well, as long as I am able to speak up for myself, I win.

I'm quite sure I would do the same thing again. I wish I was more open and accepting of these things, but I am not. And for crying out loud, this was about me exerting some semblance of control over my broken body.

If you think I was wrong in doing this, I hope you will feel comfortable telling me in the comments. I don't mind being wrong, and I can take a punch. More than anything, I want to know right from wrong.

How am I doing?

How am I doing?  ("How am I doing?" I quietly mutter and muse to myself.) I am damaged goods, but wasn't I always? The difference is now people can see my brokenness at a glance.

In addition to the patella break, I damaged muscles. They restrung bits in that area to accomplish the repairs. It's complicated; however, not impossible.

I fell September 7th. For repairs to heal properly I won't start physical therapy until early November. I wear a brace and have been admonished not to bend my knee because the healing muscles are the ones that allow me to walk. 

PT will last 6 weeks. The first two they'll try to bend my knee 30%. The second two weeks will hopefully bring it to 60%. The last two shoot for 90%. Then I go back to my surgeon's office where they will do x-rays and "see" if all is well.

I also tore upper arm muscles when my right arm took one for the team to heroically break the fall. I ache on occasion.

Emotionally, I'm adapting and enduring. It's only been 4 weeks. It appears I still have 10 weeks of cruel convalescence to contend with. We'll see if the good Colette can keep the bad Colette in check for that long. I'm giving it the old college "try." No promises.

In summary, I have three modes during this recuperation. 

• I lay on the couch with my right leg extended.  (lay, lie? Come on Robbie, help me out here).  
• I hobble hither and thither with my walker.
• I sit up in my rented wheelchair with the leg extender

My grandson and husband decorated my walker for me.

Knee jerk reactions, part 3: Get out

I was admitted to hospital mid-afternoon on Saturday, Sept 7.  My surgery was 7:30 am Sunday morning. I was released from the hospital, still vomiting from the morphine, at 5:30 pm. It seemed a bit soon.

One of the surgical doctors stopped by the night before surgery to ask if I wanted to be revived if I died on the table. That was interesting. I told him if, for some reason, I was brain dead or if my brain was functional but my body would never move again then please, kill me dead. However, I stressed if the worst was I might never walk again, I wanted to live. I would have loved to talk to him more about life and death, but he wanted to skedaddle, so I waved goodbye as he made his escape.

I understand why some have clergy stop by to talk with them when they are critically ill. Who else would want to listen to one's fears of death? When my time comes, I want to put in an order for a Jesuit. I might be wrong, but I imagine they might be reasonably smart, spooky deep, and would thoughtfully answer my wacked-out questions? But could I trust their answers? There's the rub.

My nurses were outstanding. I was there through the change of a few teams, and each managed me beautifully. Because of them I didn't suffer. They brought me humor and hope, they kept me clean, and they encouraged me to eat full fat foods like biscuits with gravy and macaroni and cheese. Angels they were, and angels they remain.

This sort of reminds me of a leg

Knee jerk reactions: part 2 Get down!

Alone in the ER cubicle with my fractured knee sticking up in the air, I settled in to that "place where there's no space or time." I detached as one might reasonably do to avoid traumatic pain. And by "settling in," I mean settling in for the long haul, the inevitable. There was no quick fix for this.

As reality would have it, a couple of doctors came in and introduced themselves as part of my surgical team. They were there to bring my knee back down.  Shudder.

A doctor is going to want to bring a knee down fast. They know the pain will be excruciating, but they want to minimize the time. Understandable. They began, and I have to tell you it was the worst pain I ever felt. Halfway down, I made them stop.

I looked at one of the doctors and said, "I'm so sorry, but I just don't think I can do this." Hahaha. I really meant it, too.

She wandered off to get even stronger drugs. The other doctor and Tom were on either side of me. I thought, "Forget this, I'm doing it myself." And I did. I didn't ask permission, and I didn't listen to what anyone around me was saying. I used my good foot to push the foot on my bad leg forward slowly, slowly. I followed the path of no pain. If it hurt, I'd push it in a slightly different direction. After a minute or two my whole leg collapsed into a normal extension. I'm not saying there was no pain, but it was minimal compared to what I experienced when they were trying to shove it down in place.

The doctor was amazed. He said "I've never seen anything like this." I was SO overly proud of myself that I pretended I didn't know what he was talking about. Oh, the games I play.