I can hear you saying. She says she’s back and then whoosh, she’s gone again!
Just when I thought things were leveling out at home, Doc lost his balance and fell, fracturing his spine, or so we thought. So we’re in the second of two hospitals this week, and I’m writing this after he had a bone scan prior to an operation to follow either tomorrow or Monday. Good thing they did this scan, too, as the spine ultimately wasn’t fractured…his pelvis is, which doesn’t require surgery. So I must give up my nice bed and two- TV room(Yes, TWO TV’s in the room) and head back in a day or so to the land of rural hospitals and pretzel-inducing chairs for a week before heading home.
To say Doc is pissed frustrated would be such a gross understatement I shouldn’t even go there. The surgery would have relieved this new lower back pain, which now will take its own six weeks to heal. The med center we are at, however, has the neurosurgery and orthopedics floor in the newest wing, so instead of sleeping in a lounger curled up like a pretzel, I’ve been stretching out in this chair thing that opens each night almost to the size of a twin bed. And since he’s getting IV meds with the two points of pain now, he’s out for the count and we’re both getting the best rest we’ve had in 12 weeks. Plus they have wireless here. . .
So when he’s gorked out resting, I’ve managed to read a Reginald Hill I’d missed.
The Roar of the Butterflies is one of Hill’s Joe Sixsmith series, the black, balding and middle-aged guileless PI who solves crime with his common sense and more than a stroke of luck. He is the Everyman of crime, hopelessly in sex with a hot nurse who lives near him, and somehow managing to eke out a living solving crime.
This one centers around a poncey golf club, and is worth reading just to hear a main character try to describe the game to non-player Joe. Different from Hill’s Dalziel and Pascoe series, the sly wit and crafty plotting remain. A delicious treat all around.