BP, Day Four

The Bell’s Palsy is getting more interesting. My taste buds are affected and I can’t really savor anything. I can ‘sense’ the difference between sweet and salty, but that’s about it. Consistency is tricky, and so is chewing.

I am sipping my coffee through a Safeway Neon Bendable Plastic Straw, in rank disregard of the warning on the package advising me that one should not drink hot beverages through a straw. The BP is bringing out my long-buried rebel instincts.

My excellent writer friend Elouise tells me of her husband’s BP episodes:

He could eat anything he wanted, but didn't want much as it didn't have any flavor and he found the texture he could experience less than pleasing… He did dribble when he ate - especially his favored soups - and his dry cleaning bills increased...  (I now know exactly how he felt - it seems every time we go out to eat, I end up wearing a bit of my meal on my chest.  Full circle, I suppose: from teetering need-a-bib baby to teetering need-a-bib senior citizen bracketing sure-footed serviette-on-the-lap homo erectus.)

That, coupled with his protective eye-patch (black, of course) which was secured with the classic black band circling his head, gave him a slightly piratical look.  It was a bit disreputable but proved to be a sympathy magnet - especially of the female kind.  You know, the "Oohhh, you poor man.  Are you in pain? What happened?" variety. .

His libido wasn't affected at all.  Mmmm...well, maybe increased some.  Perhaps to make up for the pleasure missed in eating? Kissing was a bit strange…

Anyhow, the kids could tell you exactly when the second bout ended.  They were sympathetic to the awkwardness and, at times, embarrassment their father suffered as a result of the palsy, but that didn't stop them watching what he ate - especially when it came to fruit and dessert.  "Look, mom.  Dad didn't dribble anything down his front this time.  Isn't that good?"  And then, "Yeah, but he didn't leave his piece of pie for us to share," and "Now I can't save the extra banana for later.  Dad will eat it." 

So I am drooling, squinting, smiling evilly from one side of my face, slurring my speech. I am told some people may find that alluring but I don’t believe it. Friends will say anything to make one feel better—or at least to shut me up. I have not found a black eye patch, only pink ones unlikely to elicit sympathy. My meds are gut-level depth-bombs. I wake up in the middle of the night and write silly blogs. Altogether not a bad life…