[The phyisical therapist has departed and I’ve completed accidental occupational therapy….] The rest of the day proceeds in the usual manner. Lunch, dishes, computer project that takes infinitely longer than anticipated (today, trying to get a calling card to the UK), quick walk to the pharmacist. Beth chums me on the walk to the pharmacist — we’re trying to get a refund to account for not having the insurance card with us when we first picked up the drugs. The weather is unseasonally balmy, the sun is out, and — bonus — I’m feeling steady enough to hold hands as we stroll through Windsor Terrace. Unfortunately, Beth doesn’t have her debit card with her, so they can’t issue the refund, but we have a nice old time, regardless, chatting not unlike the way we do on the balcony, or did on Beth’s old fire escape in Crown Heights.
When we get back to the apartment, the nursing service has changed tactics. Now, it’s ambush, combined with a pincer attack. Finally, the speech therapist is ready and approved to visit, and the occupational therapist is ready for another visit. At the same time, natch. We suggest they put their heads together, so I don’t have to do something dangerous, like swallow and put out a grease fire at the same time, and Speech wins. The charming and polite speech therapist turns up late-afternoon. What is it with speech therapists? They’re all lovely. Must be the quantity theory of niceness, and at the dawn of time, they nicked all the humanity from the lawyers. I’m taken by her as soon as she identifies the Doctor Who toys (I’m sorry, memorabilia) on the shelf above the sofa. She’s happy I’ve passed my speech and memory evaluation once my exhaustive monologue regarding the intricacies of the continuity of the show (1963-89, 1996, 2005-2012) finally winds down, even if I do forget to remind her to call in to the office at the appropriate juncture. The reading test is also interesting, as I respond to the request that I read Christopher Brookmyre’s The Art of Stealing, picked at random from my bookshelves, by asking “Are you sure about that?” and indicating the opening words: “Jesus, fuck.” By the end of the session, though, we’re both happy with the way it’s gone, as the therapist mentions that the nursing service is really just concerned that its patients can function at home. And I can go beyond that and talk the hind legs off any poor bastard that cares to swing round Monahan-Brown Towers.