The phone calls to the powers-that-be regarding the programs I may be eligible for basically went into the dead zone. No one there; in a meeting; no option to leave messages.
Tuned that out on the short drive to the Oyster House and focussed primarily on a pleasant lunch meeting with Barb, celebrating her 71st birthday, and Ron (the Gossip). It was a nice time. Turns out, they both love gossip. No, I won't go there. Never understood gossip.
Am I becoming a social butterfly, or more of a moth to a flame? I am drawn to nice, intimate gatherings like these. Besides, I don't have to be concerned about the damned mask.
The short walk to the car and drive home in the chill, rain, and winds made the Raynaud's visit inevitable. Two fingers on each hand and both thumbs were greenish white with no circulation or feeling whatsoever.
The mailbox produced (among other things) another two envelopes; one from the hospital and yet another from the Division of Health & Social Services. Both were soaking wet and neither was opened. Another envelope larger than the mailbox caused the lid to remain partially open to the elements (as in rain water!) so everything was soaked through. Junk mail was tossed directly into the recycle bin while anything of dubious value was brought in to dry. They remain damp, soggy this morning.
The ache and stinging of the numbed fingers made it impossible to perform even the simplest tasks. Warm water had no effect; there was no change in colour or sensation. Even those chemical hand-warmers from L.L. Bean had no effect. They just burned the other parts of the hands.
Couldn't operate the microwave, the mouse, or feel the keys on the keyboard. My grip was tenuous at best. Frustration, no end.
In desperation, I knocked back a shot of Jameson's then poured a bit into a plastic cup for sipping. Well, guess what? It worked. The shot sent a rush of warmth through my body and within a few minutes, the colour was returning to the extremities. Eventually, the feeling returned, as well.
The effect was nothing short of miraculous and the accompanying buzz was an added bit of lagniappe. It never ceases to amaze that expensive drugs used to relieve the pain and discomfort of diseases like Raynaud's are less effective, or not at all effective, but a bit of Irish Whiskey does the trick - the only side effect is a damned good one.
(The drug initially prescribed for relief caused more damage than anything else: cotton-mouth, swollen ankles and wrists, dizziness and sore throat. I stopped taking it and refused anything else. Not worth the additional discomfort.)
BTW, This is the same Jameson's bottle gifted for Christmas last year by Linda (the wee Irish Lass) and I can't wait to tell her about this episode. Of course, she believes Jameson's can cure anything. Maybe she's right.
Warmed up red beans and rice for a quick winter supper as I spent some time on the creation of the little altar for the tiny cypress tree. The tree now has a large rose quartz candleholder companion. Photos will follow shortly.
The lovely buzz lasted through the meal, and bedtime shower. When I slid under the blanket it was all over. Remember nothing until I woke this morning. I could use more restful nights like that. Thank you very much.
Light snow is forecast for the day, which means we could get several feet. Flakes (present company not included) are beginning to fall. Blood work and another few rounds with the doctor is on tap today, too, but I believe I am up to the challenge.
I must be extra careful not to aggravate the Raynaud's today. Perish the thought of having to ingest another Jameson's shot this afternoon. Teh-heh.
And so it goes.