Dual Thanksgivings

This post is a bit late, but whatchagonnado?

My brother Paul and his partner Becky wanted to have a Thanksgiving that combined our family and hers, and they suggested we all meet at Zehnder's Restaurant up in Frankenmuth. The rest of us were amenable, so off we went!

Frankenmuth is a tourist town in mid-Michigan. The town was deliberately designed with a fairy-tale Bavaria theme. Lots of gingerbread architecture, a water park, Bronner's (a mall-sized store that sells nothing but Christmas stuff), lots and lots of shops, and two major restaurants: the Bavarian Inn and Zehnder's. The latter is most well-known for its family-style chicken dinners, and it serves hundreds and hundreds of them every day. Thanksgiving, of course, is their biggest day of the year.

Paul made reservations, and on Thursday Darwin and I drove up. The weather was amazing warm--50s and breezy--totally not the usual dreary Michigan autumn day! The parking lot at Zehnder's, which rivals those of many shopping malls, was packed, and it took us some time to find parking. Zehnder's itself is HUGE and covers two floors that include multiple banquet halls. The large lobby, which uses queue mazes like an amusement park, was stuffed with people.

We found Paul and Becky right off, and later the rest of the crew arrived. I met Becky's parents, two sons, and daughter, and I was a little startled to learn that my mother and Becky's mother were already well-acquainted. The reservation lady quickly led us to one of the downstairs banquet halls, where a long table was already laid for us.

Zehnder's, you have to understand, is a machine. You sit down, and the process begins. The server does a head count of the people who want dinner (turkey today) and a few minutes later, the food arrives on large platters you pass around the table. Empty plates and platters are whisked away and replaced with full ones, if you want more. It's a good place for Thanksgiving because they're used to big groups and can handle whatever you throw at them.

We talked and ate and ate and talked. It was very convivial and enjoyable. And when it was done, there was no cleanup!

After many good-byes, we drove home, and I continued prep for Thanksgiving II: The Gobbling.

See, on Friday we were having over the boys (who couldn't go to Frankenmuth), and for Darwin's side of the family. I'd already prepped the white potatoes and sweet potatoes, made stuffing from scratch, and baked pies and piragi. Now I had to brine the turkey.

I decided this year to try a dry brine, instead of bath of salt water. This basically meant smearing a mixture of kosher salt, a bit of sugar, and some herbs onto the turkey skin and setting in the garage overnight. It's less messy than wet brining, and would be easier to carve--wet-brined turkey exudes a LOT of juice and makes a big carving mess. This didn't take long, really, which was nice.

I'm experienced at Thanksgiving now, so my stress levels were a lot lower. We were also "only" having about eight people over instead of the usual twenty-some, which brought the stress even lower!

Friday morning, I stuffed the turkey, set it in the oven, and got to work on the rest of the food. Here I discovered a small tactical error--my gas stove cooks a LOT faster than any of the electric stoves I've had, and I miscalculated how long it would take to make the stove-top dishes. The potatoes and carrots were done FAST. Fortunately, my serving stuff is all heated, so everything could stay warm until everyone arrived.

And they did. Max and Aran and Shane and Mary and Noah and Fred (a close friend of Shane). Noah terrorized the cats and rushed about shrieking his excitement at visiting his grandpas until we got him to stop. I co-opted him into the kitchen as my assistant, which gave him a nice distraction. We ate and talked and ate and talked. And then everyone headed out.

Darwin and I cleaned up, and order was restored to the kitchen. It was a lovely holiday!

Shoulder Surgery 24 (The Best Laid Plans)

Last week, I drove up to my new shoulder specialist for the latest. I'd just had an MRI, and we were consulting. The results of the MRI were already loaded to my patient portal and I'd untangled the medical jargon enough to understand that the tendon was still inflamed, which was probably why I was still in pain. My prediction, based on what the doctor had said last time, was that he'd give me a cortisone shot and this would reduce the inflammation enough to end the pain--hopefully for good.

The best laid plans...

I arrived at the clinic well before the appointment, checked in electronically through the patient portal app, and ... waited. And waited. A nurse finally brought me to an examination room, where I waited some more. They were way, way behind. I don't object to this, per se. I know unpredictable stuff happens. But it seems like if they get more than half an hour behind, there should be a way, in this day and age, to send out an automated alert to the rest of the patients that day to say there was no need to rush to the clinic.

At last Dr. P-- came in. He showed me the MRI images and confirmed that the tendon was inflamed. He said he couldn't predict when the problem would end, only that it probably would. Eventually. Some time. This heartening news was followed with, "I don't recommend cortisone. I don't think it'll help much, and it might do some damage." The inflammation, you see, isn't really inflammation; the operation made the tendon rework its own tissue into a different configuration that mimics inflammation. So no shot. Live with the pain.

He also said I need to return to physical therapy.

My shock and dismay must have registered on my face despite the covid mask because Dr. P-- hurried on to say that there were options. I didn't have to go into the PT clinic regularly--I could "just" do the exercises at home and visit the clinic every two or three weeks.

I felt like I'd been punched in the stomach. I hadn't realized how much I'd been anticipating a completely different scenario, one that ended with the pain ending and the words, "Your shoulder will regain strength on its own now--no need for PT." Instead, I was getting the exact opposite--more PT, more time lost, more pain.

I sat rigidly upright to keep myself under control. A while later, my ankles started hurting, and I realized I had hooked them both around the chair legs so hard, I was practically bending the metal. I made them relax.

"What do I do about pain, then?" I asked. "I'm already taking Meloxicam and ibuprofen."

"You shouldn't take more ibuprofen if you're taking Meloxicam. They're both nsaids. Does the Meloxicam work?"

"I don't know. The pain isn't constant unless I move my arm in certain ways, so when the pain fades, I don't know if it's because it just decided to fade or because I took meds."

He had no other recommendations for pain. He also said that I really didn't need to see him anymore--there wasn't much he could do. The physical therapist would be better at handling stuff.

This idea I flatly rejected and said I needed at least a check by the doctor every few months until I was completely healed. I already knew that if I didn't make another appointment right after the current one and tried to call for one if/when I had serious trouble, it would take months and months. Better to have an appointment on the books already. Dr. P-- reluctantly agreed.

"How often should I be doing PT at home?" I pressed.

"Most days," he said.

I didn't bother to ask how long. The answer would only be some version of "fuck if I know." Back at reception, I made another appointment for March and marched out.

It was in the car where I lost it. It seems like I cry and scream in parking lots a great deal.

We're now approaching the one-year anniversary of the surgery. Two days ago, I started the home exercises again. Half an hour of exercises, fifteen minutes of stretches. Yesterday during the planking pushups, I had to stop in mid-push to fight off a wave of anger and frustration.

And now I'm back at it. Again.