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User: ChefNeal
Outspoken Podcasting Chef, Sustainability Advocate and Farmer.

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Home » June 2006
Thursday, June 29, 2006
The Fall and Rise of Blue Nealer

As a former carpenter I am no stranger to injury. 10 years in the trade working 14 hours a day--that's well over 30000 hours in which to be hurt. We all know about the final injury which ended my sterling career as a contractor, but that's not for here.

I worked for a small company with very talented workers. We had a great relationship. At some point we began appending "er" after everyone's names--Butch-er, Tom-er, Neal-er. I think Nealer came about after I gave myself a huge bursus on my left knee. Sometimes called preacher's knee if comes from an abrasion at the base of the kneecap which fills with fluid. The size of an egg and painful, it makes life and work difficult for a month or so.

After a while Nealer began to wear a bit thin, but by then Tom-er had decided that the name, and perhaps my attitude towards it reminded him of an Austrailian Blue Healer. So I became Blue. Butch-er became Bubba and our employer was called June Bug a few times. Anything needed doing, shout across the jobsite for Blue. Like some faithful dog in fear of my job I'd come running. Was I finally going to be allowed to do something cool? Had I fucked up? Was it lunch, so soon? No, but the non-watch wearing Tom-er wanted to know what time it was. . .or borrow one of my tools.

In time, Blue became top dog. I got to bark out the orders, second only to the owner of the company. Along the way my left paw was crushed, sliced and in one brilliant moment I tried to saw off my thumb. Working alone finishing some trim on an exterior deck I sliced into my hand with a devilishly sharp saw. Not one to quit I kept working, blood oozing from a firmly clamped hand wrapped with my tee-shirt. At some point I decided I could no longer continue to work without having to call the painters in redo the siding so I drove to the clinic. When the doctor finally unclamped my hand he said it wasn't too bad--no need of stiches. Just some antibiotic cream and a bandage. I asked if the bone was still showing. He said I hadn't cut deep enough to see bone. I had clamped my hand so tight the wound had glued itself together. Three syringes of local anesthetic and two layers of 30 stiches later I returned to the job to clean up and put away my tools.

Perhaps because I have been made more vulnerable, ne fragile, because of my back injury I displayed none of this former stoicism when I took my tumble the other night. Badly shaken and dazen I was sure of the worst--broken collar bone, torn ligaments, physical therapy. The fact I couldn't move my arm just made this diagnosis more convincing. I didn't even know I had other injuries--scraped and bruised knee, and an arm which looks like a leper with track marks. It's a miracle my arm didn't snap in two--I guess those extra helpings of ice cream are doing some good.

After a restless night of searing pain--I don't take medicine any more after being addicted to pain killers whilst recovering the first time from "back strain". They only mask the issue and make things worse--I went to the chiropractor who took one look at me and said, "What have you done this time?" After 5 years of regular visits he knows me only too well. A glutton for punishment, this was the first time I have been hurt and shown right up in his office instead of waiting a week, "to see if I'll get better on my own."

An hour later, after prodding, pressing and adjusting and a nap on a table used for re-aligning neck vertebrae, I left with 80% motion in my arm and a new outlook on the day. Which was a good thing really because I went to town to pick up supplies and I had a full day ahead of me. However, I am sure that 350 pounds of grain, an 10 foot square market tent, a plastic table, groceries, a 65 gallon water tank, bale of straw and other sundries gave my right arm more of a workout than it needed yesterday. I think I'll be fine. . . until the next time.

posted by: ChefNeal at June 29, 2006 07:29 | link | comments |
life, bikes, injury

Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Fall of the Fallen

So there I was, minding my own business, coming home from checking the animals in the upper field when Wham Ass over Teakettle I go, off my bike and onto my right shoulder. Bare arm hit gravel road. Those little sparrows and their stars crowned my head in a lovely halo and it took me a moment to gain my breath.

It's been a long time since I've fallen off a bike. Like 30 years at least. Back then I bounced right back, never a worry. Today I'm off to be checked for broken bones, torn ligaments, or at very least an explanation for the searing pain in my shoulder when I so much as twitch--which actually is all the time because of the searing pain on and on and on in some sort of palsied mobius strip sort of way.

In one deft hiccup is dashed my hopes of an eco friendly mode of transportation. I was already beginning to have doubts about the small frame of the bike--a used ladies model mountain bike gifted to my wife by someone without a hope of ever riding it. I just shelled out for new tires so we could use it to beetle about for farm chores to save on wear and tear and fuel costs for the car. However, either I am the wrong body shape for the bike, or the bike is the wrong shape for me--I don't know which but neither of us worked very well last night.  The loose gravel and soft sand of a country road in ways I will now be more fearful of if I ever get on a bike to ride again.

We will see what happens today. I'm hopefully on the way to the chiropractor at this moment, but it is early morning an I haven't phoned to see if he can fit me in. I need to get to the mainland now if I am to have any hope of being seen later. I also have a lengthy chore list which necessitated driving a stick-shift pickup into town. At 5:30 I was not feeling too confidant, sitting on the edge of the bed in agony, whether I could or should even drive the truck today. But as so often in my past, pig-ignorance one over calm, reflective fear and here I am on the ferry with truck below. Each shift or jounce a wince and groan. If you are reading this now, then I have made it to the coffee shop to post while I calm my already frayed nerves with a mocha. Next stop after that, feed and chiro but possibly not in that order. As they are opposite ends of the county it's challenging enough in a day to make it to both when I feel fine. My next post may detail the exchange. For now I just have to concentrate on my driving. After all, if I can't brush my teeth with my right hand, should I be shifting? Where's a right hand drive car when I need it?

On the plus side the road rash, gravel embedded scaring up and down my right arm should make me look rather hard and tough next time I sport a "wife beater". Either that of tell the unfortunate tale of a pudgy, bald git with some sort of strange arm lesions who shouldn't be fannying about when he is so obviously out of shape.

posted by: ChefNeal at June 28, 2006 07:54 | link | comments (4) |
life, bikes, painful chores