He is the kind of doctor who looks you in the eye and yells, "You've got cancer," without blinking. It wasn't cancer. It was my shoulder. And the rest. The news was about as bad as I could get. Surgery would probably make it worse, he said. Everything is a mess. We'll try physical therapy.
I'm hoping to be able to put a shirt on without help. Hoping to be able to get off the floor using both hands. Etc.
I'll go at therapy like I'm training for the Olympics.
I haven't whined, but sometimes in the night. . . .
Flawed photographer, flawed photos.
I try making pictures, but nothing is working well. My timing is off, my rhythm, I guess. I'll keep trying.