What A Difference A Day Makes. Um, Not Much.

Yesterday I drafted a huge venting post about my parasitic BIL who turned up again at our house at 3 AM Sunday a week past and how three days later we found out he was terminal from his AML which had metastasized.  And now that means we get to take care of him until he dies.  Because his kids hate him and won’t take him in. 


I was really mad about a lot of things about it:  he is unappreciative, pain medication abusive, manipulative, etc.  It was made worse because he had made no moves to pay us back money he owed us-although he was in a position to do so-nor had he offered to pay us something for feeding and sheltering him.  Since we are a household on a fixed income this had made things difficult for us and he seemed totally okay with that. 


Yesterday afternoon he paid my husband back for the money he loaned us and then offered to pay us something for room and board.  Okay, I’m being kind.  He offered to pay us for dinners.  I said to my husband that he does more than just eat dinner with us, you know.  He uses electricity just like the rest of us and plays with the thermostat unless I lock it.  I clean the bathroom he’s using and the rest of the house he has use of.  But not to appear unkind, even if in my head I am totally still ticked off at this guy, I said $50 a week.  Cuz I’m a sucker. 

Anyway, that makes us financially even-steven for now.  So I get to sit and wait for the next really stupid irresponsible thing he does that we get to bail him out of before I can do a venting rant post about him…


Diagnosis is Murder

You may recall that Mrs. Duck was exhibiting strange symptoms over the weekend.  We quarantined her, medicated with a broad spectrum natural remedy, and waited.  She seemed better after a few days and we let her out.  She walked around quacking for a bit and then sat down and did her neck-hangy thingie.  It looks like this: 

From Earthlink, Working With Poultry

Except she’s sitting, not standing.  Unfortunately, if you follow the link, it seems to be a clear case of what they call “limberneck”.  Or in french, “botulism”.  Okay, that’s not french.  Isn’t “limberneck” friendlier?  And happier?  Much. 

But, just in case it is a duck version of Crookneck, which I dealt with in Anti-Squeaky when she was young, we are dosing her with vitamin E and waiting again. 

If it is botulism, she’s had the symptoms for about five days now, although she was acting a bit wonky two days earlier. so all told about a week.  From what I read, she’ll either survive it or she won’t.  I don’t know how she picked it up;  Everyone else is okay. 

Here’s to a happy ending. 


Jamie Sommers did it so much better but she didn’t have chickens

This week has been a roller coaster of emotions.  I wasn’t taking my supplements at the proper levels, forgetting to factor in my recent injuries, and I ended up quite down.  I thought that I would sell my chickens and chop down what is left of my garden and be done with it. 

A day of the proper doses and I was back in fighting trim. 

I do admit to pushing myself to do things and then regretting it later.  I helped a bit with the handrails on the new back steps:

tomato duck 013

In retrospect, probably not the greatest decision.  But it felt so good to be doing something normal.

The tomato plant has finally hit the Ripen button, and we’ve started picking.  Yes, the plants got so big they collapsed on themselves, in spite of the metal cages, and we’ve tied them up like they are circus tents. 

tomato duck 002

But there is sad news in the midst of new steps and new tomatoes.  Mrs. Duck is ill.  I’m not sure what is is.  She is having trouble raising her head and maintaining balance.  We’ve force-fed her Neem, water, some pellets, and put her into quarantine.  We’ll see if she pulls through.  Frankly, she’s too evil to die easily, so there is that in her favor. 

tomato duck 012

“Sometimes that shark, he looks right into you. Right into your eyes. You know the thing about a shark, he’s got… lifeless eyes, black eyes, like a doll’s eye. ” Oh, wait, that’s not about ducks…or is it?

So, The Bionic Homesteader lives to fight another day.  With Ibuprofen in one hand and nothing in the other cuz it would hurt, she presses on.  I hope you will too.

Well, Hello There!

Good Enough Farm is back online.

Mostly to keep me focused and sane.

You see, friends, on May 29, 2014, on our way home from the Kingdom Hall, we were hit by a drunk driver.  All I remember was hearing Ronny say “This is going to hurt” and he was right.  I was in the back seat for some strange reason, a fact I will forever be grateful for since if it had been my son and not I who was injured I would be in jail for murder right now.

The air bags deployed and the front seat occupants were totally physically unharmed.  I, however, was in the back seat and unbuckled.  While this is legal in Virginia, let me assure you it is not without consequence.  We were traveling 50 mph and the drunk driver was accelerating out of a driveway into the wrong lane.  So I hit the back of the front seat at 50 mph and then was tossed back and to the side, a free object in a slow motion disaster.

I only remember being in pain and voices in the dark calling and me asking the EMT to not give me too much morphine as it frightened me.  I had diagnosed myself with a dislocated shoulder and told everyone.  I have since learned you should tell everyone that in fact you are dying and all your bones are broken.  They will not be gentle enough otherwise.  X-Rays showed that my shoulder was dislocated.  And broken at the ball.  They call this a fracture/dislocation of the proximal humerus.  There is nothing humorous about it, so I don’t know why they call it that.

I had to wear a diabolical device called an ‘immobilizer’ for one week, the sole purpose of which was to make sure my arm did not actually fall off while they waited for the swelling to subside enough for surgery.  Because now, I, the Princess who senses the pea or smells the offensive odor through a thousand mattresses and doors, I was now going to have a plate and screws in my body.  While I would love to praise the surgeon and such, I found the whole thing painful beyond measure and it is only Percocet which saw me through.

I started physical therapy two weeks ago and while I have seen progress–I can button buttons and raise my arm away from my side a bit–there are several times a day that I despair, quite literally, that I will ever be truly functional again.

During all this difficulty, which would have been enough for any one family, I think, my brother in law was staying with us while he pretended to be trying to get back on his feet.  After he exhausted our patience and pocketbooks he went back to where he was from, no better off than when he had come to us in the first place.  He called us to tell us he had broken his arm and didn’t have a place to stay and wouldn’t call his son or his daughter;  We gave him the number for a homeless shelter and heard nothing back for a week.  When he finally called again he told us he was in and out of the Wilmington, Delaware VA Hospital and they were helping him.  I hope they have better success than we did.  I think he wanted to come back and stay with us but I have a rule:  only three disabled people per household.  He has children but he must have exhausted their sympathies as well.  I think this is how people end up homeless.  They make no efforts to help themselves and don’t appreciate the efforts other people make in their behalf.  I would feel bad about it but he has carefully crafted exactly this bed his whole life and now, like it or not, it is the only one he has to lie in.

There.  I think I’ve vented enough for today.  I’ve had to stop for a half of a percocet and a hot water bottle during the course of typing–did you notice?  I apologize for all misspelling and grammar errors:  Blame it on the drugs and the limited arm usage, please.