Surgeons, Et Al.

My mother likes the surgeon who did her hip replacement, and I do too mostly. But he's a bit of a stereotypical surgeon-type.  A bit socially...something. I don't know. Here's a picture I took of him when he was talking to my mother before her surgery:

He was looking at her paperwork while standing at one of these portable tables set up on the other side of the curtain and so he pushed aside the curtain to talk to her. They could see each other, but I obviously couldn't see anything but his shoe and his hand. I thought that was kind of funny, so I took his picture.

He graduated from medical school about the time I was entering elementary school, so he's been at this a long time.  Before the surgery, he confirmed that they were in agreement about it's being the right side hip he was going to replace and then he took out a sharpie and did this:

That's mother's right shin with the doctor's initials written on it. She thought it was funny. I did too.

He stops by to see her twice a day. Yes, she's still in the hospital--going to be released tomorrow though, surely. Which is good. The hospital has nothing on the DMV, but it's not the most interesting place to be trapped in. And as boring as it is for me, it must be worse for my mother, considering that it is her workplace. Can you imagine spending four and a half days at work, night and day, with your co-workers having to help you go to the toilet and bathe you and bring you food and help you walk? Yeah, me neither.

Aside from chatting with my mother, I've been sitting and reading Maya Angelou's book Mom & Me & Mom, which is appropriate in this situation.  But today when that got boring, I wandered down to the itty-bitty little gift shop that is staffed by an elderly woman with very short white hair. It's filled with lots of things, hand-embroidered baby bibs and bedazzled flip-flops and garish stuffed animals and such. There's also a book cart which I have actually encountered before. I looked over the books--paperbacks twenty-five cents, hardbacks fifty cents. I picked up a Patricia Cornwell novel and the woman said, "Oh, that's a good one. I just brought that in today." I thought I'd buy it. I like Patricia Cornwell in a general kind of way--but then I opened it up and realized that it was a large print book.

Something like this, but large. Larger even. Page after page of this.  I know that I may need it someday, but I knew it might kill me dead to try to read a novel like that this day.

Instead, I bought a Nicholas Sparks novel that I have no intention of reading. None.  But it was a quarter and I felt bad after getting the woman's hope up about the Patricia Cornwell. And I bought a Kit Kat. And that was my foray to the gift shop.

In other news:

Dave texted me a photo tonight of a piece I put in the kiln the day before I left. I had completely forgotten about it.

It's one of the Mod Podge pieces, glazed with blue-purple on the inside and a sponged on layer of clear on the outside. Not bad, huh?