I had a doctor's appointment yesterday to discuss an ongoing situation with the pinkie on my left hand. The condition is called Dupuytren's Contracture. It affects the fibrous layer of tissue under the skin in the palm and fingers, causing the finger in question to pull up or constrict, and eventually bend inward toward the palm of your hand. Like many things, I'm finding, skin cancer, for example, this occurs most commonly in people of English, French, or Scandinavian descent with fair complexions and light eyes. Notice my hand raised in the air here (all but my pinkie, naturally, it's pointing towards the floor).

My appointment was situated in a huge medical complex about forty-five minutes from the house. It seems if you live in the sticks such as I do, specialists don't flock to practice here. In spite of the packed waiting room, my name was called before I could finish filling out my new patient paperwork. After answering the usual barrage of personal health questions, the nurse left and the doctor arrived almost simultaneously. Amazing. Was I in an alternate universe?? After examining my pinkie, he told me my case was pretty far advanced, making surgery a little more involved. I explained to him the previous hand surgeon I'd consulted had pretty much patted me on my little blonde head and told me to live with it. There was a bit of tsk, tsk, tsking following that statement, but physicians, like politicians, rarely throw one another under the bus unless their livelihood is in question, so we moved on. Explaining the ins and outs of having surgery turned out to be a bit daunting. The good news, the recovery, though involving six weeks without my left hand, involves minimal discomfort. Sign me up for that. The bad news, they have to put me completely under to perform the procedure, and ten years or so from now the condition is likely to begin to reappear. There are some risks, but statistically a very low percentage of patients experience any problems. Next, he said the most astonishing thing."Some patients opt to have the finger chopped off if it's getting in the way". "What!!" At first I thought this was an attempt at humor, but oh no, he was serious. Thank God I wasn't in there for migraines! Good Lord. Not happening. I don't have an unnatural attachment to my body parts, honestly I don't. However, I prefer them to remain exactly how they were originally placed unless I have absolutely no choice in the matter, and in this case, I do.

Telling the doctor I'd get back to him (not), I snaked my way through the labyrinth of hallways following exit sign after exit sign. Finally, I located the door to the main lobby. It was such a bizarre interaction, I wouldn't have been surprised if Jack Nicholson peeked his head out of one of the endless line of doors, and said "here's Johnny" (for you Shining aficionados). On the way into the examination room prior to my appointment, the route was so convoluted, I asked nurse if they were going to provide a St. Bernard and a keg of bourbon should I get lost on the way back out to the front desk. Those nurses must be in great shape after walking all that acreage every day. Boy, was I glad to be out in the fresh air again. I counted two thumbs and eight fingers for good measure. Life was good. Down the road when things are a bit less fluid in my life, I'll get the surgery but nobody is removing anything when I do.

I need to clean today. After reviewing my schedule it seems I have time between 4:45 and 5:10. Hmmmm. My dust bunnies are reproducing, and you know how prolific rabbits can be. There was a time when I found cleaning cathartic.... that time has passed. People visiting, comment on how tidy it is. That's because they haven't looked under or behind anything, either that, or they aren't wearing their glasses. A couple of weeks ago I was gifted maid service for a day. Two ladies came in and spent a couple of hours doing the deep cleaning I haven't been able to catch up on. What a blessing. They even changed the beds. Dale always says I make a very neat bed. As a kid that was my first chore of the day. I guess I got good at it. My grandmother always told me to make my bed every day before I went down to breakfast. I should have gotten hazard pay for this, because, up until the age of seven, I believed crocodiles lived under my bed. My grandfather would come in my room and he and I would get down on the ground, lift up the covers, and look under my bed it in an effort to convince me nothing lived there but maybe a half an orange crayon or a lost mitten. No matter how many times we performed this ritual, I was convinced the toothy beasts made themselves invisible when he was by my side. When tucking my sheets in each day, I would lean way over while standing on my braided rug so as not to lose any body parts in the process. What can I say? I was a weird little kid.

When my ex-husband and I were on the road with the construction company he was employed with, I took a lot of odd jobs along the way. There wasn't much point in taking a permanent position because we moved around like ants on a sugar cube. While working in Washington state, I worked nearly a year as a motel maid. I have to say that was an education in the human experience. Unbelievable, what people feel comfortable to do in hotel rooms, most of which I can't elaborate on here. Let me just say, some things you can't unsee. Trust me on this.

One room I found particularly interesting had been occupied by a rock band playing in town for a week. Each day I would knock and announce "maid service", and each day a sleepy voice from the other side of the door would respond, "not today". I had to report this to the owner because they were only allowed to go so long without changing the sheets or having the room cleaned. He gained access to the room and after seeing what condition it was in, they were asked to leave. I had to go in and survey the damage once they'd vacated. OMG. I guess there were five occupants in the two beds, plus however many roadies and groupies had passed through during their stay. The toilet had been converted into a makeshift cooler. Now, ewwwwww. Three or four unopened Budweiser cans still floated in the bowl. I don't know what they used as a toilet, and I didn't want to know. When I pulled the blankets back on the bed, one of the sheets was totally covered with what looked to be tortilla chips, and good news, they'd included the salsa and guacamole. The ashtrays were stacked precariously with used butts. They never emptied any of them because the trash cans were full of empty liquor bottles so there wasn't any room. In one of the beds I found two pair of very brief ladies underwear that I'm assuming didn't belong to any of the raggy looking guys I saw exiting the room. They went in the trash with the JD bottles and empty beer cans. Unreal. The bathtub was half full of dirty dishes and someone's laundry, and on one of the mirrors someone had written "bite me" in red lipstick. What a mess.

Another time a family occupied one double room. That particular room had a mini-kitchen and a refrigerator in it which was handy if you have small children, of which they had three. The youngest child, a girl, was probably around three and a half. She rode around on a little pink bike most of the day on the cement walk outside the room. Her parents kept the door open, and could be heard occasionally calling her name or chastising her for something she was doing. I was cleaning the room next to theirs, when I turned to find her seated on her bike behind me. Both chubby little legs were resting on the pedals. Holding tightly to a candy cane in one hand and the bike handle in the other, looked armed and ready to engage. I introduced myself to her, at which point she stood up. Staring straight at me, while straddling the bike seat, she proceeded to urinate on the floor. Hello? Was it something I said? Her mother came in the door just as the performance concluded. With one swift movement, the woman hoisted the little one up by one arm, and whacked her soundly on her behind. The impact was lessened, thankfully, by the fact her bottom was soaked. The act wasn't one I would have encouraged in my children either, but I felt the punishment exceeded the crime. I wasn't sure how to proceed, so I just stood there with my room spray pointed at the lady as if to say, "if you take one more step, I will be forced to deodorize you". That'll show em. Honestly, I wanted to hoist that woman up and give her a good whack. I've often wished I had.

,The following day, they moved on. When I went in the room, I realized immediately they had moved on with half of everything in the room that wasn't screwed to the wall or a piece of furniture. Even the landscape over the bed was gone. Wow. I noticed the pillow on the chair in the corner was sitting at a slant. Picking it up I discovered about a half a box of Fruit Loops, in milk mind you, floating about underneath it. Next to it, was a half eaten candy cane. The Urinator, as I had silently come to refer to her, had left her calling card. Behind the chair someone, most likely one of the older kids by the sophistication of the drawings, had painted a mural in green and red crayon. All bed linen had been stripped and was gone, along with the bedspread and the pillows. Every light bulb had been removed, and all towels and even the bath mat had been confiscated. They even remembered to grab the shower curtain on their way out. My employer called the police and filed a report. The culprits were caught just before they crossed the state line. Apparently, our humble establishment wasn't the only one they'd ripped off along their way, as their van was packed with little shampoo containers, and soaps in wrappers, along with a healthy supply of TP. The children, I was to find out later, had been given to their grandparents for the time being, until it was determined what was to happen to their parents. Probably, this was a good thing. For the children I mean, not the grandparents. I'd met the children.

Working there was interesting. It was very physical and at times mind numbing, but there was a lot of satisfaction in coming into a mess like that and coming out a couple of hours later leaving an immaculate room behind for the next occupant. I've had a lot of variety for sure in my job descriptions. What is it they say, "a Jack of all trades, and a master of none".

Have a great day. Remember how you choose to live helps define you. I will always remember those people, but not for the right reasons.

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