Nine

It's nine years away. When I have been in my current place 20 years. And I want to retire. About the right time to start really thinking about this. It's all because of those six weeks off to heal my radius bone. Sleep until I wake. Putter in the garden. A broken bone notwithstanding, I enjoyed the hell out of that time. The idea of that being my life, I want that. Not the idleness, but the time to my own rhythms. Gosh. Yes, please.


I do plan on working some, whatever I'm allowed. But this job is physically challenging. I'm up to doing it a while longer, but there will come a time. And I want to leave with a bit to spare in the tank, rather than flailing the last year or so, empty but for fumes and cranky.

Yesterday, a rep called me Susan. He apologized, but I assured him it was an honest mistake, and I took it as a compliment. He went on to say I had the same calm, reassuring demeanor, squaring and cubing the compliment. An honor. And just a week ago, a surgeon also called me Susan, also apologized, and also reassured that it was no insult to be mistaken for her. Susan was my circulator for my surgery, which I found immensely reassuring when she told me. I knew I was in good hands. Part of the reason, when I asked my anesthesiologist (he only rotates through occasionally, but I remember him as a resident, and a good one) if I'd said anything funny. He said "You were VERY relaxed." Of course I was. I knew everyone and I was at home. Even drugged, I knew where I was, all the right sounds and voices, smells and sights. A scrub staying late says I offered to help clean, and she assured me they had it in hand and I didn't need to help.

The years creep up, and it's fine.



Given time and a choice, Zeppo is very affectionate. Still needs a pedicure, working on it.


A few claws have been de-needled today.

Curious

I sometimes wonder if I have any interests. Because I have so little in common with anyone at work. Not that I've ever had much in common with most of the people around me. Which does act as a strong filter.

Because I'm rather interested in everything, some in the negatives I grant you. I am interested in the controversies around professional team sports, and the harm done to colleges when they idolize male team athletics, TBIs and abuses. This does not go over well with the unthinking sports fans cheering their team, so I say nothing.

History and linguistics, etymologies, crosswords, art of all sorts, music from everywhere except pop manufactured to sell, dance, costume. Gardens, all the bugges and chemistry of it all. Science of all sorts, medical and otherwise.

Nothing really that I DON'T find interesting, to the positive or negative. I think about it all, which is part of what makes it difficult to talk about with fans who adore for shallow and unthinking reasons. Why upset them when I can't really get into why? Or challenge them when I have nothing else to offer? Who am I to tell them they are wrong or foolish, which would certainly be the message they would take, and perhaps that I have? To say it would be unkind. One cannot imbue another with curiosity.

So I must stay open myself. Not that I can stop wondering, it's not in me.

Beginners

Had a little chat with Eleanor, about her being the new household god. Not the new young cat, but her. She should take her place and make this her home. And that she is beloved. She seems a bit irritated and exasperated with the new cat today.

Zeppo settles with every day, he gives us a hard head bump, clearly wanting to love and trust, but not there yet. He seems starved for affection, and afraid of trusting us. So, we let him set the pace.



Starting from scratch. Beginner mind.

Sightlines

Eleanor is sleeping on the bed.

If I back out into the hall, she is still in my line of sight.



I turn, and can see the cat tree.



And a cat?

Yup.




Found a Brown Betty teapot at a yardsale.



And this rather lovely chest, for free, because they couldn't get the mothball smell out of it. We don't mind, it's an evocative aroma of army gear. After all this time, it's more about our early years than anything else.


Finally sorted out the closet turned pantry, and stowed the less used pots and dishes in the high cupboard over the fridge.



Dylan swept under the bed this week, I didn't ask how he kept his sanity in the face of DustbunnyCthulhu.


When we got the cat tree, still on Boston economics, it seemed a reasonable expense. As we readjusted to the lower income, and Moby's disinterest, we beat ourselves up a bit at the extravagance. After all these years, it now seems like a great investment in cat joy, and a bargain. How many cheap carpeted ones would be in shreds now?

Sung

So, Dylan has been watching a u-tyoube video series with Adam Neely who talks Bass and music generally. Theory and suchlike. I'm useless on music theory, and cannot for the life of me manage any instrument, even though I can sing in tune, and dance a bit. Dylan is a guitar player, although he always qualifies this. This series is interesting, above my head by miles, and Dylan says he gets about 10-15% of it. But, he's gotten into art history, that has always interested me, and I've taken a few classes in, so... analogous.


So much stuff I would have liked to have studied in depth. So much time spent at the Detroit Institute of Arts, and so little direction. I tried to take voice lessons, and failed utterly, or my paid instructor did. I had not a clue, couldn't sing over the piano, had not a clue what music to chose. Why didn't he just assign me something? Oh, yeah, he didn't give a crap.

Feeling the years, and how much there could have been when I was young, and it's a lost age.

Nevermind, I have the garden, the cats, I love and am loved.

Sometimes, the early imperative to end it all out of grief and trauma, to resent the love because now I must keep going, is overwhelming. The desire to just burn it down lurks below the surface, always.

The music must be sung.

Bilocation

I want to put some small, sound activated recorder on Zeppo, perhaps on a collar. He has an amazing repertoire of vocalizations, tones and chirps and murmurs, purrs slides and queries. We may have to rename him Mel Blanc. Or Zeppo Baba, because he seems to bilocate See him run off in one direction, he suddenly appears from another. He's very sneaky, when he isn't singing.

Eleanor and Zeppo engaged in a wild, free ranging chase over the past hour, not all of it with each other. Zeppo got stuck in the cloth covering the sofa, his nose pressed out, mewing in frustration. Does my heart good. Zeppo interferes with Eleanor eating, and she's getting more exercise than she's had for a year. She's back to sleeping on us, but not all night. It's all very amusing, no space for a lot of grief.

Dreamed I had to leave House, and the garden. Dylan and cats absent as if they never were. Nurse from work showed me to a spare hotel room, in bright white walls and grey carpet, one room, for me to stay. I kept trying to find a way to perhaps have a lodger and keep the house. The sunflowers were oddly grayish-yellow, all in arching rows facing me. Only after I woke up did I realize I was with Dylan, and it would be alright. Loss and fear dog my dreams, but when I wake, I'm home.

It rained last night, water in the rain barrels, although not full. Garden is greener. I sit here and watch the cats.

Best

Love at home.

This is the best part. They get on. Zeppo getting less nervy day by day. Eleanor dealing better.

Holocaust

So, my father grew up sometimes eating muskrat. This did not bother me as a kid, not the worst story I heard about 'different times' as I was growing up. One day, Aunt Betty cooked muskrat for the family. I was perhaps ten at the time, and although it was very different, and didn't smell appetizing, I was going to try it. Honor my father sort of thing. And I think if they'd made it into a stew, I would have. But the look of the little ribs of the carcass on the plate stopped me. I knew where food came from, although I'd never seen the animal go from alive to dead to dressed for dinner. For a city kid, I think I handled it pretty well. But I couldn't do the corpse eating. I felt a bit bad about it, even at the time, just couldn't do it.

I figure everything eats everything. We've given up cattle/beef, as an environmental impact gesture. Also pork, although I still will when we eat at restaurants. I assume they would eat us, so that aspect doesn't worry me. We are biomes, not individuals, so I don't worry overly about the life around us. I am infinitely more careful at work, because open surgical wounds, which is very different.

At home, I let it all colonize me. There is evidence that leukemia and various auto-immune diseases are strongly linked to hyper-clean early environments.

It's like gardening, you can't just clear something away, you have to replace it. Or weeds will.

We are gardens. Any attempt to eliminate entire microbial species leave us with super-bugges and infections. Like the snails and ivy on the north side of the house. Invasive and tough species will establish a powerful foothold.

We must embrace contamination and invite in the tiny neighbors.

Butt

After an unprecedented gap, Eleanor jumped up on the bed, on me, for her morning cuddle. Followed by Zeppo. She went to jump off, and I held her and scritched her head, and nudged Zeppo away from her with a foot, knee, elbow.

"No, this is her turn. You can only stay if you mind your manners."

Eleanor didn't entirely relax, as I rubbed her head and held her on my abdomen, using an elbow to gently keep Zeppo away from her. He circled, chirowwling and head butting my elbow, eventually flopping and purring his cuteness. I looked at Eleanor and said, "Did you think I would only defend Moby from you? Don't you know I'll defend you as well?"

She didn't stay as long as usual, nor completely relax, but I hope I reassured her a bit. She likes him, but he obviously annoys her as well. So, pretty typical cats.

This is going to be weird and interesting.

Having friends over for Pie and Beer Day.

Adjustments

Eleanor has not been jumping up on the bed and getting her chest cuddle the past few nights. I dreamed she was on my chest last night, maybe she actually was but I was too asleep to do more than register it in my dream. I have set up the lounge chair pad I got a while back to do my therapy on for my shoulder, covered with the runner Moby loved on the sideboard. I'd washed it, but it still has some of his fur. It's now her absolutely favorite spot on top of the dryer.




She has changed over the years, this from her first week with us. She needed a bit of food and some confidence.



Zeppo has been bugging her when we put down food for them, but this morning he politely stuck to his own dish, and let her eat hers. He had been too excited and too interested in her to eat his own food. I was able to clip most of his front claws last night, he wasn't happy about it, but it went fairly well. He hopped up on the bed this morning, very briefly. Given that he's only been here a week, it all seems to be going nicely.

Finding our new balance is going to take time, not rushing it is important, but difficult. Eleanor is changing, too. We still stop and sob, hold each other, and move on. I spent the weekend finally organizing the pantry. Converting the hall closet was good idea that worked even though it was a bit of a botch. I finally cleaned and organized the freezer, the fridge will get the same treatment today. We re-caulked the bathtub edges. Dylan vacuumed the laundry, the first time since it was built. Between Moby and Derecho, not much has been cleaned well in a long time. So, I take a small area and do it up right.

I can lean on my right hand, it's a strain, sometimes quite painful, improving daily. The spouse of my first patient yesterday shook my hand with a strong, hard, jerk. The kind of guy who shows dominance with his handshake. I yelped a bit and pulled back, it hurt. Derecho ached a bit all day. Not damaged, but unnecessarily stressed. Weird thing was I dreamed I'd been strongly pushed around and assaulted by a very strong, short guy with his hands amputated, that morning. Woke rather disturbed, even though in the dream, I'd gotten away from him and put him on the floor. I was more angry that I'd brought him in to security, and they'd ignored me when he went after me the second time and I'd pinned him. I was a bit worried I'd get in trouble for attacking a guy with two amputated hands, still bandaged, but then I remembered there were cameras. Apparently, I don't take no shit in my dreams anymore.



Got called off today, which works as a comp day for everyone else's holiday tomorrow, that I have off anyway since it's Wednesday. The heavy schedules continue, got off at 1830 yesterday, only an hour late, bringing it up to eleven hours. Four shoulders and two elbows in one day is a lot, even with a fast surgeon. The other room was still going when I left.

Keeping the crucial areas of the garden watered in this heat. I use the drippage from the AC, catching it in a bucket, to water also. Fruiting plants and establishing plants only, everything else needs to be able to survive in this environment. With the occasional boost, I admit.


I keep reliving. The vet was here, I met him and told him "They say they tell you when it's time..." And he gave me a sad look, and said he'd get ready and come in. Moby was on the buckwheat yoga pillow he loved to curl in, on the sideboard. I let them in, and took care of the bill, because I knew later would be harder. The vet and his tech were kind and quiet, and I held Moby's head and stroked his back. They gave him versed, the shot a momentary bother, Moby got up, then decided he actually felt better, and laid back down. Stretched out across his pillow, his ruffled fur smoothed, as he relaxed more than he'd done in weeks. The vet prepped the vein in Moby's left hind leg, as I held his head and stroked his back. I was sobbing as quietly as I could. The vet put the stethoscope on Moby's chest, and quietly said "He's gone."

Moby's eyes were still open, and I kissed his head, as I'd done so often. I thanked them as they left, tears unstoppable. I got the basket I had ready, and the piece of wool. Moby always loved wool. And his Totoro toy, that he'd claimed as his own during our first move together. I curled his limp body into the basket, wrapped the wool around him, put Totoro inside the curl of him, closed his eyes. I kept going back, to feel him. He felt still there, like he wasn't sure if he should go, a character trait he'd always shown. I told him, "Go ahead, you can make it."

Then, still sobbing, I dug a place to put him. Dylan finished when he got home. Wrapped in his tiny shroud, Dylan lowered him down. We laid a paving stone he liked sitting on, over the place. I have planted flowers and comfrey, and water it daily. Our neighbor brought us flowers, and we laid them there. We hold each other, and miss his great heart.

Coded

joan


If you want to exchange/get picture post cards, local or strange, send an email, so we can exchange real-mail addresses. Sometime this week, I will gather postcards to send.




attention

Those of your whose addresses I already have... well, let's not assume. I am notoriously bad at losing addresses.


xmission


dorothy




commerce

Postcards

Had the usual gang over last night. Zeppo skitted through once, and hid the rest of the evening. I give him credit for trying. And he gave us a short aria just as our friends were getting ready to leave.

This morning he was on the tree, until he saw me, and apparently decided he wasn't sure if he was allowed there and scurried off. So, I settled in the comfy chair with tea and rice this morning, Eleanor came and sat on the arm, Zeppo watched from the floor. He came over, put a paw up, she jumped off (over him, as she does) and he hopped up for a short cuddle. As if to say "Ok, she was up there, so maybe I'm allowed as well." He watches her closely, and as Crow says, she does seem to be showing him how to be here. She is the senior cat in charge of his orientation.



They also play, short bouts, and not violently. They are definitely becoming good friends.

Both on the tree. Not great video, very backlit. But indicative.


Zeppo is very nervy, with flashes of luxuriant affection, abundant curiosity, and impressive vocal virtuosity. Watching him grow confident, seeing the real personality emerge from the fear, is going to be wonderful. He doesn't seem to be food motivated, like Eleanor always was. Doesn't seem to react to catnip, or my sneezes. Doesn't seem to have a fabric preference, as Moby loved wool, and Eleanor polartech. He's good with being picked up, if he's not in full flee!flee!flee! mode. He's really good at stealth. No biting or scratching tendencies that we've seen. As Dylan says, Zeppo is is own cat.

It is nice to be able to put down throw rugs and bath mats, and not have them immediately soaked with urine. This was not a new thing with Moby, he loved peeing on rugs, from when he was young and we first had him. I kept thinking about the truism of working in a nursing home. Families will take care of grandma, until she starts peeing on the sofa. Well, we took care of Moby as he pissed on every rug, buying extra to put down and keep them washed. It was only when he kept missing all the rugs in the last few days, that we realized how bad he'd gotten. If it hadn't meant his body was shutting down, we'd have just mopped up with the occasional "oh, Moby."

An old memory surfaced, the younger of my elder brothers bugging at me for how I walked. I was perhaps 5 or 6, and was playing with sashaying. He thought this was utterly wrong, and I had to keep my hips level at all times. He was perhaps 14 or 15. We were at Aunt Evelyn's house, playing in her front yard, on the steep sloped grass. To his credit, I think it was intended, in as much as there was any intention, to protect me, in some vague sense. And I felt at the time that he was fundamentally wrong in whatever assumptions he was making. It made me aware of my body movements, self conscious at times.

We've been getting postcards the whole time we've lived here, "We want to buy your house!" Which is not a good deal, because what they do is pay what you owe, and no more. Recently, this has escalated to phone calls. Still no. Nope. Not a chance. But the bubble is expanding frightfully, and our place is valued at nearly twice what we paid (are paying) for it. Which is ridiculous, of course. Which also reminds me of a former cow-orker who thought me silly for cashing in an IRA for the downpayment, all the fees! The lost interest! More than made up for by the appreciation on House. And we have a house to live in. Given how the rents here have skyrocketed it means we have an affordable place to live, and will continue to have one. With a garden. And a place for cats.

So, anyone want to swap postcards?

Weep

Work has been long and trying. I've mostly managed not to cry in front of people. And I have tried to hide how much Derecho still hurts and fails. I'm at about 95%, and the failures are unpredictable. The work still needs doing, and I'm not the only one in pain and grief. Hand is a hand, but not a full fledged RIGHT hand. Adept, but not fully functional, and still painful at odd moments. I try to let people know, get the help I need, but without milking it. Yesterday was the first time in over 13 weeks that I could mop at work without pain. Long days, though, no summer slack as usually happens, but not always and not this year. Everyone is tired, we all struggle. One scrub is still out after shoulder surgery, and not sure when she'll be back.

One of my fellow nurses saved my ass on Thursday.



I'd not been with that particular surgeon for about two years, not as a whole day. The odd lunch or shift over case, enough to know that a lot had changed in how he worked. Fellow RN stepped in, made the whole awful day doable, relieving me for breaks and lunch at critical moments, left me my dignity. I was able to return the respect and care yesterday, as he worked with a surgeon he didn't know well. And I made sure he knew how much I appreciated his oh-so-professional care and respect.

With the two July holidays* on midweek days, we don't even get those in a nice weekend enveloped lump. I looked at my PTO (vacation hours) and requested a day a month off. A personal holiday. I may well get all but Monday off of Thanksgiving week, if my Tuesday request is approved.

Cleaned out the freezer today, and the mud room, and tidied the living room. Put away all Moby's piss rugs, one of those adaptations done with a full heart, but dropped without regret. I would take a healthy Moby back in a moment, even if I had to change throw rugs for him to piss on without hesitation. Since I can't have him, I don't mind not having to wash ammonia scented rugs twice a week. And that was not just an issue of his age and illness, he always loved a nice rug on the floor to pee on.

Zeppo is just as messy getting litter everywhere. Cats. Who can figger 'em?

He's slinking around at high speed this afternoon, Eleanor intrigued.





*4th of July on a Thursday. 24th - Pioneer Day, on Wednesday (my usual day off).

Felt

Getting to know each other. Zeppo was happy to be petted, with a lot of twisting and squirming and face rubs. We have to remind ourselves to be cautious, this is not a cat who has known us and trusted us for fifteen years. Still, so far, so good.

Eleanor seems much happier, as they chased a bit together last night. She's more engaged, and a bit tired out. She's not apparently bothered at sharing her tree, although when she's on the top, Zeppo doesn't stand a chance.

Got him to eat some of the wet food this morning, by mixing in lots of kibble. He kept bothering Eleanor as she had breakfast, so I picked him up. He was just fine with this, even seemed to enjoy it, and gave Eleanor a chance to eat. He was much quieter overnight.


I'm making sure Eleanor gets enough attention. It's all about making sure the people around you feel loved. It's not enough to feel love for them, it needs to feel that way to them.


He's telling us his story, once I'm clearer, I will attempt to put it down here.

Pedi

He's bolder, circled us last evening. Then hopped up on the bed to be petted last night. Today, back to very skittish. Eleanor very engaged, they weave in and out each other's paths. He was VERY vocal last night, with a considerable range of verbal vocabulary. Hopefully he quiets down a bit, and we get used to that much. He's been cooped up quite a while, so hopefully this is a temporary phase of adjustment.

He's got a sleek coat, a very long tail, and needs a pedicure badly.

Wont

We weren't going to introduce cats for another day or two, but Eleanor, as is her wont, had other plans. Only a brief hiss, not sure from which cat, and it's been mellow. Her curiosity satisfied, she's been gently leaving him to hide. He's still under the bed, but he's been out to the cat tree, ran away as soon as Dylan saw him. And to the laundry room, scampers back under when I spotted him. Mewed last night, a high tenor that is distinct from Eleanor's mew. Using litter boxes, not eating - or not much, but moving around when humans are not in view, testing the territory. We listen for different sounds.

But Moby did much the same, hiding under the couch, then the bathroom cabinet, then our bed, for a full week. This is where we earn his trust, by letting him find his own comfort level, not forcing, just being there. We will see the cat who was glad of head scritches in the shelter again. Not unlike putting a seed in the soil and letting it germinate, not try to dig it up to see if it's happening.

Eleanor is obviously happier and more relaxed, she'd also been a caretaker of our elderly and ailing Moby. However much we always miss him, there is still relief in letting all the extra work drop away as well. The intense, gut-punch pain recedes, as we focus on the life ahead.


When in Basic, we knew the footsteps of the Drill Sergeants at night. We knew which one. In the dark intensity, we listened. Our ears are attuned to the varying noises of cats. This one is different, and we will learn him. As he will learn us.

Zeppo

Saturday night, Eleanor stayed on the dryer and looked out the window, only coming in to sit on me for a moment in the morning. Sunday night, she was on me and between us all night. We're making sure she has plenty of attention and affection. She's not eating much, heat and upset will do that.

We drove out to Centerville to see a cat named Jack. Jack did not quite fit. But Bink did. We will not call him that. He's in the back room, as far under the bed as he can be. There is food and water and a litter box, and all the time he needs. Eleanor is nosing around the door, certain that we are up to something.

Provisionally calling him Zeppo, all black, about 2 years old, has moved around a lot. This is his home now.

Photos when he finds the courage to come out from under the bed.

Moby is planted with wildflowers. And we will forever honor him.

Next

We went to the adoption center. An older cat sat on Dylan. At 13, shaved down, it is apparent he had issues. But we have to take into account Eleanor's need for a chase friend. And our own fatigue caring for an ailing cat this year. We'd taken along the carrier, and were prepared if we found the right cat. It was not to be today, though.

I don't think we realized how our own care for Moby's increasingly limited world, making sure he felt safe, has worn on us. We did it all gladly. But now, couldn't face taking on an older cat, not this year. Not for ourselves. And not for Eleanor.

So, we came back home and will await developments. Best not to rush these things.

Soaks

PROMISE OF BLUE HORSES
A blue horse turns into a streak of lightning,
then the sun -
relating the difference between sadness
and the need to praise
that which makes us joyful, I can't calculate
how the earth tips hungrily
toward the sun - then soaks up rain - or the density
of this unbearable need
to be next to you. It's a palpable thing - this earth
philosophy
and familiar in the dark
like your skin under my hand. We are a small earth. It's no
simple thing. Eventually
we will be dust together; can be used to make a house, to stop
a flood or grow food
for those who will never remember who we were, or know
that we loved fiercely.
Laughter and sadness eventually become the same song turning us
toward the nearest star -
a star constructed of eternity and elements of dust barely visible
in the twilight as you travel
east. I run with the blue horses of electricity who surround
the heart
and imagine a promise made when no promise was possible.
- Joy Harjo
How We Became Human


Via Whiskey River.

Magnificat

We took Moby home
Promising our best
Love's responsibilities.

He is at ease now, and we grieve his loss.

We moved here, and found out we could have a cat. One on the Rescue League's website was a black male short-hair named Midnight. We went to see him, and despite not being happy to be picked up, he did not put out his claws. He was not overjoyed to see us, but didn't seem to mind either. We both thought him wonderful. D brought him home a few days later, a very unhappy cat in a box on the Train. He hid a lot. But gradually he came out, and gradually came to find us interesting and kind. We would name him Moby because it just seemed like the right name. Neither of us has a scratch yet. He listens for the ding of the elevator when we are expected.

D is ridiculously sweet about him. Gentle with him. Plays with him. Moby makes him laugh when even I cannot. Moby sleeps on D when he is ill, though he is not a sitting-on-you kind of cat. More like leans-on-you-if-you-are-still. He is a much bigger cat than we realized after we measured him (to his deep annoyance). He is about 12 pounds, about 20" long nose to base of tail. He loves to drag stuff, like a rope he plays with, to the rug, that is now his. He enlivens our home, and warms us. Distracts us when we are moody. Sits most often equidistant from us. Circles us when we come home. He has claimed us, and we have a larger family because of him. One we can take good care of.

Stamina

Hand therapy now focused on strength and stamina, and I did ask for a stepping up. Wow. Stiffer putty just the start. Hammer time. The twisting a pole with a weight, clips on a rod. Then leaning on a large therapy ball and putting pegs in the wall, which brought me to involuntary tears. Pushing off with my right hand has been a big NO for 12 weeks. It is time. Derecho is sore and sad, and proud of herself. Hanging the laundry my continuation of progress. Massaging other people may be a next step.





Sun in fennel.



Peek-a-boo pumpkin flower. I'm hoping for enough to make jack-o-lanterns in October.



Raspberries tied up with ribbons.



"'m not grumpy, just grew that way."




"I got your back..."




Fluffy with a bee.



A gift from RR, hanging out with house until I can find a place on the wall all for the new bit of art.

Waves

More bergamot, also called bee balm.

"Yah, it's a perm, like it?"



Next wave of pink roses.

Backstage

So, I was poking around backstage on the blooger comments, and realized I had a bunch of comments awaiting moderation. Since I don't have moderation turned on, this surprised me. So, if your comment was not published at some point, that is why, and I apologize. I'll keep a closer eye from now on.

To answer one of those questions posed where I hadn't realized I should have looked, a little anatomy.

When my hand hit the ground, I essentially bottle-capped the distal (more distant from the trunk) end of my radius - on the thumb side, breaking off the metaphysis. The ulna was pulled out of position, with a tiny periosteal avulsion fracture, a bit of the covering of the bone pulled up in a flake, that went unnoticed. Not really treatable anyway.



The fracture is healing quite well, but still not entirely solidified. This takes up to two years, and will continue to remodel long after. Bone is living cells.



It's been a long time since anatomy class, although I've kept up, it's very much assumed knowledge at this point. Questions gladly answered.