One Twenty Over Seventy Five

I’d jumped the gun a bit that morning, as I had a full day ahead of business to get through.  Mostly entrepreneurial, the paperwork and data entry on my marketing list of to dos had increased the past few months; again, I was always optimistic at the start of any new projects; truth is, I love working them to their entitled fruition.  Unfortunately, I still hadn’t learned just how long it takes me to manage the specifics, especially to this perfectionist’s satisfaction.  Time was going to be all present and all consuming if I had my way.  The goals were challenging but completely doable; I’d just have to scale back my penchant for nitpicking my original attempts and shut my eyes when the effect was completely satisfactory for the immediate need.

I remembered too well what self-employment demanded; thus, I was the last one to convince that I could do this. Promoting my website and self-publishing some memoirs were two tasks that had to be dealt with a modicum of consistency, if I hoped to develop a credible standing with readers.  I had expanded my sights and now included yet another business model of sorts, still entrepreneurial as well, and just as needy of my attention.

I have always been a good organizer, so I would just keep shifting forward, patiently biting my tongue when the inevitable two steps back appeared occasionally; assuring myself it was a good thing My Rogue was entirely supportive, because I was going to have to stop talking to myself, at least in public!

My thoughts were entrepreneurial and about six hours into the day’s schedule.  I was coming back up the stairs with the tray of steaming coffee mugs and some breakfast toast with peanut butter when he caught sight of me and read a screen aloud,

One twenty over seventy five, Honey…

Immediately, I started giggling.  As the designated “nurse” I had forgotten; today was Wednesday; one of the three days I was to check my husband’s vitals.  Normally, I did this before I went downstairs to make the coffee.

I had promised to continue the past year’s ritual to keep a medical calendar.  At the cardiologist’s suggestion, he and my Rogue’s primary care doctor appreciated the detailed notes, especially when my Rogue insisted on questioning so many of the medications that they’d prescribed.  That my husband  disagreed with their medical viewpoints on statin drugs and blood thinners had become a verbal string of jesting tournaments with each office visit, starring The Patient vs. The Doctors; the latter two medical colleagues understood all too well they were dealing with a very insistent and well-read layman; but, a layman never the less.


That was the oxygen count per my patient.

I sat the tray down and walked over to the calendar and recorded both readings before my mind again fast forwarded to afternoon business.

No doubt about it, our morning routines were getting better, especially on days when the former patient felt strong enough to walk down the stairs and make the coffee. Then it was he who returned with the filled mugs and breakfast treats to hold us until mid-morning.

Life in the paycheck lane had stopped about a year ago.  But we were both coming back up to speed; slowly but surely.  There were some days I thought I was regressing; once or twice, the temptation to crash was all too great.  This gal wasn’t cut from any Johnson and Johnson cloth that was for sure!  But necessity is the mother of invention and I had managed – with a willing partner – to shift the necessary gears that our 24/7 marriage now demanded.

Coffee upstairs had become a quiet time of sorts; a new sharing time, despite the radio’s background noise.  My Rogue enjoyed sitting in his sturdy occasional chair while I stretched out, sitting up in bed, checking my laptop for the Dow’s closing from the previous day and any newly emailed jokes that might have arrived from family and friends.  Just as Mom had done years ago with Daddy, I was reading articles of interest and laughingly sharing any political pundits’ recent one liners with my preferred patient.  And, just like Daddy, My Rogue let his own reader know when he’d heard enough.

Time to shift gears and get movin’…