In the last few months, I’ve taken so many hits that I’m beginning to feel like a “Weeble” and just in case you’ve forgotten what a Weeble is or you’ve never heard of one, they are little oval (egg shaped) toys with rounded heavy bottoms. They are made to look sort of like people and the advert used to be, “Weeble’s wobble, but, they don’t fall down.”
So okay, the heart attack and the resultant surgeries could technically count as “falling down.” But (and a very big one) I did get right back up as quickly as six days later, when I was released from the hospital under my own recognisance. Which in my mind makes me a…
Unfortunately, since the heart attack I feel like all I’ve been doing is wobbling. Getting knocked around and over and getting back up again for another Weeble style pounding.
I can’t say that I really enjoy this pounding. And although I am still getting back up after each and every hit, it is getting harder. I don’t know if that’s because as I lose more weight I am becoming less bottom heavy or if I am just getting disoriented from all this wobbling.
My daughter and I used to love playing with the Weebles. They really did not fall down. You could smack one across the room. Bounce one off of a wall. Or even kick the little Weeble around the place like a tiny bottom heavy football. They would wobble wildly, but they did not fall down.
But to be honest, I’ve been taking Weeble hits since February this year.
13 February this year, I hurt my back at work.
Mid March I go see my personal banker (lower caps because she couldn’t help me) and she says sorry, we can’t help your debt problem.
24 August I go in to get two steroidal injections in my lower back for the pain. The last one hurts clear through the local anaesthesia.
30 August I have my heart attack and then two surgeries. After the second emergency surgery I am told that they made a booboo in my aorta.
24 October I see the specialist who saved my life and find out I’ve got a “man-made” aneurism in my aortic arch. I will have it till I either die or it kills me. Surgery for this problem has such a low percentage of success, it is not an option.
23 November I get a letter from the medical organisation that determines my fitness for work and recommends me for a lower tier ill health retirement. This equals a poverty pay out. Oh and I could be declared as disabled.
This would make the financial plans that have been worked out for me null and void and I won’t be making anywhere near the amount of money that the company based my plan on.
Now as a Weeble, the K.O. will not put me down, just out. I know that I will wobble about for a bit and then once movement has subsided, I’ll brace myself for the next assault. Unfortunately, I’m starting to flinch somewhat uncontrollably.
When I hear the letter flap go on the front door, I wince. As I look at each envelope to see what address is on the back of it, I hold my breath. If it is just junk mail, I let out a sigh of relief that would blow out a fifty candle cake. If, however, it is another Weeble type assault, the air rushes out of me like a punctured tyre.
Now I have not seen a Weeble advert in years on television. I had to Google Weebles on the internet to see if they still made them. To my surprise they still do make them, although they look a bit fancier than the ones my daughter and I played with. I did look at several images of Weebles, but I could not find one that looked like me.
So despite the fact that I feel like a battered and bruised Weeble, I don’t look like one.
As I sit here, wobbling from this last attack on my existence, I think I might market a new toy, “The Meeble.” It would be a combination of a Weeble and a Timex watch. It will never fall down and it can take, “A licking and keep on ticking.”
Or at least it will as long as the battery doesn’t run out.