Mets Day 411 - little changes

There is little new to report.  I've been taking Imipramine (Tofranil) for about two weeks now.  I have not noticed a dramatic difference.  Perhaps I've been a little less wet each night, but that's hard to measure.  I still wake up several times a night, and a good night's sleep is elusive.  I think that I'll double my dose to 50 mg and see if that makes any difference.  

I rarely go into the office.  I usually scan my work emails daily, but as the chronic sleep deprivation has adversely affected my memory and limited my ability to work, my motivation likewise has slackened.  Instead, I keep myself busy with various tasks at home.  We are rebuilding our deck, and I've been meeting with contractors and trying to decide on how the new deck will be finished.  I've also been mapping out the logistics for our family trip to Europe this summer.  

For the past month I have been having physical therapy for my shoulder.  I made a New Year's resolution to start going to the gym and playing racket ball, and within a month my right shoulder was complaining,  It's been over 20 years since I've played, and I'm not in my 20's any more.  The orthopedist diagnosed it as an inflamed bursa sac and various other angry shoulder parts.  Taking an anti-inflammatory failed to settle it down, so I had two cortisone shots.  I've been going to physical therapy three times a week, and am doing those goofy exercises at home in the meantime.  This experience reinforces my belief that exercise is a conspiracy dreamed up by the industrial health-care complex as a way of providing them with more business.  

This past weekend my son-in-law graduated from law school.  It's a great accomplishment.  He's now studying for the bar, and has a job with the firm that he worked for last summer.  He and my daughter recently moved into our basement, and it's nice having them closer by.  She's busy finishing her third year of medical school, and is showing more as her pregnancy progresses.  They found out it will be a girl, and have a name picked out.  It's fun watching them nest as the anticipation builds.  

On Sunday, Kirsten and I came home from church and decided that we would join the annual Rolling Thunder motorcycle ride that goes from the Pentagon, across the Memorial Bridge, around the Mall, and ends near the Lincoln Memorial.  We had to jump-start my Harley to get it going -- I have not ridden it this year, nor did I last summer, since I was otherwise occupied -- but we finally got the beast chugging.  We rode down the GW Parkway and joined thousands of other bikers parked in the   Pentagon's massive lots.  The start of the ride was delayed, and we were in the third parking lot -- it took hours for the riders in the first two lots to form up and roll out into the ride.  In the meantime we walked around and looked at all the other bikes and people.  I quickly learned that my dusty, dirty old Sportster was the saddest bike in the group (until we saw a Vespa, but at least that was clean).  After waiting a while, I tried to start my bike and found that my battery was completely dead.  Fortunately, a member of the Christian Biker's Association (the ones with the cross tattoos) had jumper cables, so we coaxed my Sporty back to life.  We decided that we didn't want to wait another hour or so, especially with having to keep the bike running, so we went home, never having joined the ride.  But it was the thought that counts, right?